That First Tale of Tim Half-Shaven Wherein Doth Goode Timothe Earn His Namesake
Long, long ago in a land far, far away there lived one Jim, an sheep herd. Now Jim was a good man, being both kindly and wise, if not much learned after the manner of scholars and mages. However, in such mean matters as the tending of beasts, the sowing of beans, or the mending of thy thatch-roof ye could not ask nor find his better.
One day when came the high summer of Jim’s twentieth year, his wife being with child and that their first, there stood in the field of Jim Sheep-herd an grizzled figure, bent, haggard, and grim. Her face were hooded close about despite the day’s heat, yet could Jim discern her disheveled and dirty hair which hung long and loose and the thin, gnarled, warty hands which gript her walking stick.
“Good woman”, called Jim to her, “Come in mine house and rest thyself from thy weary wandering and the heat of this day.”
“Nay!”, spake she unto Jim. “I am Greyhilda Grim; and am come at the behest of thy foes. I shall take naught of thy blessing, nor of thy board, lest thy welcome blunt the burden they lay against thee by my hand.” Then did she raise aloft one gnarled claw clutching no mean walking stick, but her witching staff and clouds overtake the sun and all colour were draint from the world as she did lay forth curse and malediction. “Hear ye my words Jim Sheep-herd. Bitter are thy foes and many; foes didst thou earn by thy sword in war abroad, and further foes by thy fair fortunes here at home. Bitter also be thy days and woe upon thy son.”
“Bitter bit thy burning blade,
besting betters born to battle.
Bitter brewed thy brooding bane,
thy blasted boon to rattle.
But blessing born of God,
bequeathed upon thy brow,
beleaguers blight belligerence bought
from me bestowing now.”
“Worse still would be my words against thee, were not the favor of thy God set upon thee, restraining my dark power. Thus shall I decree that thy son, thy firstborn son, Tim shall he be callt and left handed shall he be all his days–”
Then interjected Jim, grin on his face and glint in his eye, “That seems to me not so bad, and much ado for naught.”
But continued witch Greyhilda, her eyes dark with malice “…and only upon the right side of his face shall any whisker grow. Ever shall he reach to stroke his beard in thought and grasp only air. Ever shall he reach 3 fingers further than he reckons, and stroke crosswise, looking most foolish indeed.”
At these words was Jim undone indeed. His knees were turnt to water and sat he upon a stone there in his field. “Half a beard, my son, to stoke his thought. Shall he count only half his sheep or reckon only half his silver? Shall he be but half a man, doing half his deeds? And what woman shall he wed who loves but half a beard?”
Then laughs Bruna, wife of Jim, who had stood by through all this display. “Greyhilda Grim, bound be thou indeed, and great the grace of God above if this be the borders of thy baneful blast.”
“Jim Sheep-herd, silly art thou, more silly indeed than shall seem our half-shaven son if thou thinkest I love thee for thy beard or that thou reckon by thy whiskers. Tis but your vanity and Tim’s which shall suffer any blow by this curse. And a curse to vanity is blessing indeed, ‘for the Lord is near unto the broken-hearted and saveth the contrite in spirit. But pride goeth before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction.’ And so all that curse which your foes would lay upon you, the hand of the Lord has turnt to the good of thy son. Glory be to His name.”
At these words did Jim recover himself and light were in his eyes and laughter in his voice, “Well hast thou spoken good wife Bruna and even so hast thou namest our son, ‘Tim Half-Shaven’.”
“I say again to you Greyhilda Good-heart, come in and sup with us. Rest thyself. Surely thou art spent from thy long walk and thy witchings upon my heir. Surely also do I owe thee some recompense for blessing bestowt upon my son.”
Then Greyhilda was wroth and spat upon the ground.
“Kindly it is of thee to water the fields which feed my sheep. When rain is short shall I call thee to pace my land watering as thou goest. Come now and sup, my best beer and mutton will I set before thee and mayhaps thou shalt stagger home in better heart than that wherein thou walkest in.”
Then were all six of Greyhilda’s teeth set in a vicious snarl against Jim. For she was come to curse, was paid to curse, and was not accustomed to mirth. But her strength was measured and could not conjure against these who enjoyed Jehovah’s jurisdiction. Rather would she wait, and her masters, to see if these Sheep-herds might not be baited beyond the borders of blessedness. In silent fury did she smite the ground with the point of her witching stick. And there it stood straight though she held it not. Biting her left forefinger upon a broken tooth, she drew forth her own blood and toucht the drop to her standing staff. Then did it spin ferociously, churning the air about. And Greyhilda were dissolvt like a mist before them and drawn into the whirling vortex.
Gone was she, and cloak, and staff,
then bright shone sun upon the grass.
A divot in the field of Jim Sheep-herd,
which made witch Greyhilda without a word.
In size no more than one’s cupped hand,
black and smooth like glass-burnt sand.
Ne’er again would grass grow there
and sheep lickt not that spot for it were bare.
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The First Tale of Tim Half-Shaven Wherein Doth Good Timothe Earn His Namesake