“Scoot closer,” the teacher said sweetly. “It’s story time.” 

 

All the children listened to her swiftly, taking their places hurriedly on the colourful cushions on the elementary school floor. 

 

They were at the age where listening to stories had not yet become uncool, so when story time came, and it did every Friday, they were still excited, pushing over each other to sit closer to Mrs M. 

 

“Oh none of that,” Mrs M chastised, “Aaron get off of Ace, stop it or I won’t tell the story!” 

 

The children listened immediately, not wanting to jeopardize storytime. Satisfied, Mrs M nodded her head, lit a candle with a lighter no one but she seemed to be able to make work, poured a glass of water –which never seemed to spill when she did so– over the classroom plant, tied her red curls into a bun and began:

 

“How many of you,” she asked, surveying the kids one by one with her blue eyes, “Know the legend of the old well that sits at the city centre?” 

 

Hands went up, “I do!” all of them yelled, “I do! I do!”

 

Mrs M smiled, “All right, all right, settle down,” she said, “Helene, why don’t you tell me?”

 

The little girl beamed with excitement, “Oh Mrs M, my mama told me this story! A very bad witch tried to take our kingdom! But a knight defeated her, right over there near the well and became King! See, see it’s written on the card on the well! See! See!” She pointed eagerly out the window as if anyone could see the plaque all the way from there. Mrs M looked either way, and a single tear swelled up in her eye, which she quickly wiped away. 

 

“Very nice Helene,” Mrs M smiled at her, “That is what’s written in your history books as well, however, that is not what the old legend says. That one is very different from the story you all know, and it starts with a birth.”

 

So Mrs M began to tell her legend, and here is the tale she spun: 

 

Once upon a time, in the land we now call home, lived a king who wished for a son. But not only was his wife so rarely with child, the times she was she could never deliver, except once. The King was ecstatic at the thought of his wife finally bearing a son, but once the midwife revealed the newborn, he saw that his wife had given him a daughter, red of hair.

 

Fueled by rage, he ordered his wife to be hanged before nightfall, swearing that the babe would follow. No one would dare defy the king, except one old and frail maid, who could not bear to see an innocent child pass. As she was making the late queen’s bed, she reached over to the bassinet and grabbed the young princess, rushing out of the castle, knights chasing behind her. 

 

She held the baby to her chest, running through the meadow, eyes closed. She stumbled over a tree root, turning to her back in time in order to protect the baby. She was far too old to get back up, so praying to the Earth Mother that she would be alright, she hid the princess in the hollow of an old oak tree and took her final breath.

 

Legend goes that three sister witches lived in the woods behind the castle, they found the crying baby girl on an expedition two days later. The eldest, Natharia, scooped her up in her arms. When the princess reached out, holding onto the witches’ thumb with her small hands all three were smitten. But mostly Natharia, who declared the baby her daughter from that day on forth. 

 

They raised her as their own, and after the Earth Mother they preyed to, they named her Medora meaning mother’s gift. 

 

Through them, she learned the craft of magic. Some say she could make vines and roots grow out of the Earth, some say she could summon fire as red as her hair. Others recall family tales of the red-haired witch who filled their once dry wells with drinkable water. Artists have painted her controlling the breeze that flew through the woods. And perhaps, she was a bit of all of them or none at all.

 

But alas, no matter her powers, little Medora grew under the three witches' care. She learned to sneak into the village at night and enhance their crops, to leave the patrolling guards food in case they could not afford any, to free the innocent prisoners the King had captured in his childish rage, to lay rest the bodies the King had hanged and left to rot. She learned to love the kingdom she lived in its animals and nature, that her powers meant that she should always help, and become in tune with the forests’ needs. Most importantly, she learned to be compassionate, empathetic and vigilant. 

 

One day, when she was six and twenty of age, a knight knocked on their cottage door. 

 

Natharia took on her best evil crone impression, a facade she had adapted to keep those who dared to come too close away, and opened the door. 

 

“Yeees?” she crooked, smiling wickedly, “What may the old witch do for you, or better yet, do to you?”

 

Furniture started to float around her, swirling around the room. From outside the knights' eyesight, the middle witch, Rhea, cackled and the youngest sister, Odessa screamed. Not wanting to be left out, Medora crashed a few plates to the ground and imitated Rhea’s cackle. At this point, most would have run. But the knight stood strong.

 

“I wish to see the girl,” He declared, chest raised, “Your ward.”

 

Natharia laughed, “Fool,” she hissed, “I have no ward.”  

 

“Yes you do,” the Knight insisted, “She is red of hair like her mother, with eyes of blue like the King.”

 

“The King?” Prompted Odessa, revealing herself. “What does our little Medora have to do with the King? I have no such vision, or perhaps I should consult the Earth Mother.”

 

“Odessa!” Rhea yelled, “Shut your mouth!”

 

But the once well-kept secret was no longer hidden, so Medora stepped into the knight’s view. “I am the child you speak of,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake, “I am Medora of the Forest. What shall I call you?”

 

“Sir Raden.” The Knight answered, kissing her hand instead. 

 

And so Raden told them the tale of Medora’s birth, of the maid who had smuggled her away, of the death of said maid, his Grandmother. He explained how he had been watching how she helped the villagers, how she had always left him dinner when he was on guard duty. 

 

“Now,” Raden finished, “The wicked King grows old with no heir. Take his throne from him, my lady, I beg you, rule in your father’s place.”

 

Medora staggered back into Natharia’s arms, “No,” she said, “I am no princess, I am not the saviour you seek. I have no father, I only have Natharia, Rhea and Odessa, I only have our forest.” 

 

But even she could not deny how the kingdom was rotting under the King’s claws, how hunger and injustice and poverty ravaged the towns, how death and suffering owned the streets. So, with sacrifice and glory in her hearth, she accepted his invitation and sealed her fate.

 

Together the five of them rallied the villagers into a rebellion. Medora led and fed them, Raden planned their attacks, Natharia protected them, Rhea healed them and Odessa gave them visions of the future, one without their tyrannical King. 

 

For the first time, Medora had befriended someone close to her own age, someone who was not the witches who raised her or the animals of her forest. The two became close friends, bonding over their love for the Kingdom, and taught each other their gifts and the graces the Earth Mother had given them. Nevertheless, their idealistic rebellion would not remain so happy for long. 

 

The King, outraged at the sudden appearance of his long-lost daughter, set fire to homes and crops and lives, he ordered the execution of anyone found to associate with the Princess, he raged and raged and raged. And that did no good for his shaky heart. 

 

He grew weak and became more spiteful with every hard breath. He killed and killed and killed as the villagers only grew angrier.

 

“I shall not die until she does!” Declared the King, and he did follow through. No matter how weak he got, the news of his daughter’s rebellion gave him the will to continue the fight, as the villagers lost theirs.

 

“This can not go on,” Medora decided one day after they had lost yet another town. “If I die, so will he. Odessa saw so in a dream, the Earth Mother came to her.” 

 

Raden looked horrified at the thought, “My lady!” he cried, “Do not dare say such things, how can you?”

 

“Raden, for the kingdom, we must,” Medora insisted, “The King must fall, and for that, I must too. It has been decided.” 

 

“My lady.” Raden begged, “You can not, you can not, you can not!”

 

“Oh Raden,” Medora soothed, “Do not tell me that you have grown to love me more than you love this kingdom.”

 

The knight shook his head, and so they began to form a plan. They were to marry at nightfall, so Raden would have merit to succeed to his wife’s throne. But before the marriage could take place, they had to tell the three witches. 

 

Raden cried as he explained the plan, as they listened so did Natharia, Rhea and Odessa. Medora did not, she refused to. “I do not see why we must,” she said, “This is not a sad thing, we will save the Kingdom this way, we will put Raden on the throne.” 

 

They found a priestess of the Earth Mother willing to marry them. Under the tree where Medora had been found, as the moon shone above them, the couple said their vows and swore their eternal love. 

 

The witches said their goodbyes, one by one. 

 

“My daughter,” Natharia cried, “You are my daughter, Medora. I love, love, love you.” 

 

Medora hugged the only mother she had ever known, and shed a single tear. Where her tear fell, a small body of water grew, sparkling with the Earth Mother’s blessed magic. Then, Rhea came. “I shall make sure it does not hurt,” She promised, “And I will heal the injured after we take the castle.” 

 

“I love you too, Aunt Rhea.” Medora smiled, she pointed at Raden, “Look after him too, if you can.”

 

“Of course,” Rhea said, “I shall.”

 

Lastly, it was the youngest sister, Odessa. 

 

“All will be well?” Medora confirmed one last time. 

 

Odessa bit her lip but nodded. “Yes, my dear,” she said finally. 

 

The newlyweds were then left alone, though Rhea’s magic still flowed through Medora’s veins to soothe her pain. 

 

“You do it,” Medora said, “I can not.” 

 

And Raden, unwilling to deny his wife her final wish, grabbed his knife and pushed it through her heart. As she bled and he cried, magic blossomed through the meadow, flowers and crops filling the once-empty land. Medora’s body turned into water in Raden’s hands, the soil swallowed it whole. Where she died, an underground water source was formed. Raden, the good husband he was, built a well. The next morning, the Kingdom awoke to the news of a dead King, and the rebellion having taken his castle. 

 

Raden was known to be a compassionate and well-loved King, who preached the goodness of his first wife every chance he got. Though over the centuries as Christianity grew to be more and more popular, the beloved saviour Princess became the horrid rebel witch. Her memory and her sacrifice forgotten, she is now remembered as nothing more than a curse cast upon this Kingdom for a mere few years, instead of the reason we have our dynasty today. 

 

As Mrs M finished her legend, her students stared at her, horrified at her words. This was nothing like the charming fairy tales she had told in the previous weeks, Mrs M knew. But this story was way more necessary than those. Medora’s tale had to be shared. 

 

“So my Mama lied?” asked Helene. 

 

“No, my sweet,” Mrs M said, “She simply told you what she knew, now you can go and tell everyone the true version, the one you know.” 

 

“But that’s so sad!” bellowed Ace, “Aren’t legends meant to have a happy ending?” 

“Who said it was unhappy?” asked Mrs M, “Medora was not sad with how her story ended, why should we? Didn’t she save her Kingdom, like she wished to? Who's to say her story ended at all?”

 

The students simply nodded their heads, though how much they understood was up to doubt. It was then that her phone rang from the front office.

 

“MRS!” the receptionist shrieked, “There are some officers here to see you, prey to tell, did you truly practice paganism? You better not have in front of those young impressionable children!” 

 

Without feeling the need to answer, Mrs M hung up the phone. 

 

“Mrs!” Aaron asked, visibly shaken, “What does M stand for?” 

 

Mrs M grinned, “Well, Medora of course!” She raised out her hand, and flames glistened atop it. 

 

Her students began to bombard her with questions, “Were you truly a Princess?” “Did you really love King Raden?” “What magic can you use?” “What happened to the three witches?”

 

But most importantly, “HOW DID YOU SURVIVE?” One screamed above the rest of them.  

 

“The water and the Earth Mother kept me preserved, I live to tell my legend,” Medora answered. As the police officers started to bang on the door, she hurried to the window. “Spread my tale children, I love you, may the Earth Mother bless you!” she yelled. 

 

The police officers broke down the door, she jumped out the window, letting the wind carry her.