THE GOATHERD, THE VILA, AND HER DEATH

Far beyond the thrice-tenth kingdom, a young woman lived near the woods and earned her living tending goats. Her work was hard, but she was an honest woman and pretty enough, and so the goatherd had her share of suitors. But however handsome or rich or wise they were, the goatherd never found one to her liking, and so she carried on alone without feeling as though her life lacked anything at all.

This went on until the dawn of her name day, when a stranger appeared at the edge of the woods. The goatherd was struck immediately by the beauty of her visitor: the unknown woman was pale and bright as the morning, with hair finer than the richest silver and eyes tawny as an owl’s. The goatherd was enraptured, and the vila—for such, of course, she was—took advantage of the moment’s weakness to seize the goatherd and whisk her to a palace in the woods, so far and so deep within the tangled trees that no one could hope to find her.

With every passing day, the goatherd pined for her home and her friends and her freedom. But she was clever, and she knew the way to outsmart the vila was not to fight her or outrun her. Instead, she was as sweet a wife as anyone had ever known, and she fawned over the vila when she returned each evening from hunting.

“You’re in a fine mood,” said the vila one night, running her hand through the goatherd’s hair.

The goatherd repressed a flinch at the touch and spoke softly. “I’m only relieved you’re home again, my love. So many beasts live in these woods, and you’d been gone so long I’d begun to think you had been devoured and I would never see you again.”

The vila laughed, the sound high and cold as bells. “Foolish woman, don’t you know my death does not lie with wild beasts? From everything save my ordained death I am as safe in the world as you are here in my palace.”

“But what is your death, then?” the goatherd asked, taking care not to sound too eager.

The vila kissed the goatherd lightly on the temple, as a fond master might pat his dog. “My dear, you need not worry. My death is far, far away. In the sea there is an island, and on that island there is an oak. Dig beneath that oak, and you would find a coffer buried, in which rests the body of a hare. Slit open the hare, and you will find a duck; slit open the duck, and you will find an egg; crack open the egg, and there you would find my death.”

The goatherd feigned joy that the vila’s death was in so distant and secure a place, and like a thoughtful wife saw her captor to bed. But the moment the vila had drifted to sleep, the goatherd climbed through the window, stole the finest horse from the stable, and rode as fast as thought to the sea. The horse was a strong swimmer and soon brought her to the island, and from there it was short work to unearth the coffer, and the hare, and the duck, and at last the egg. The goatherd cradled the little egg in her hands, then cracked it open and swallowed it whole, feeling its slick membrane slide along the walls of her throat. Then, still under cover of darkness, she mounted the fine horse and rode back until the animal was slick with sweat and foam. She was in bed beside the vila before dawn.

When the first rays of sunlight danced across the vila’s fine face, the vila yawned and rolled over, gracing the goatherd with a smile.

“Good morning, little one,” said the vila.

“Good morning,” the goatherd replied, kissing the vila warmly.

The moment the goatherd’s lips touched the vila, the egg began its work. The vila’s fine features tightened and distorted, until her skin resembled tanned leather pulled over a skull. The lovely white hair dried to straw, and the amber eyes flashed with a great burst of light before extinguishing like stars. For one terrible moment, the goatherd was lying in bed beside a desiccated, bleached skeleton, as ancient and grim as the grave. Then the skeleton dissolved into dust, which scattered with the wind that curled through the open window, and nothing remained but the faintest imprint of a woman’s body on the linen sheets.

The goatherd took the horse that had saved her life and rode him back to her house at the edge of the forest, where her friends celebrated her return. She never became rich, and one could argue that she never became happy, but she was free for the rest of her days, even though she never stopped tasting the vila’s death on her tongue.