What follows is a folktale traditionally told at Christmastime in the small town of Heidelberg, Germany. It has been passed down in oral and written form for generations, according to those who dwell in the area. It is unusual in that it is always told in the first person, as if the speaker is meant to embody the folk hero of the story. Though it does touch on the Christian holiday, there are strong pagan roots in the tale. The hero Gunter is regarded as something of a saint in the town, and still venerated today.

- Charles Bakerson, Professor of History at Rutgers University, 1931

My name is Gunter Frieden, who many have called “Gunter the Simple,” for my mind and speech have always been slower than others. My father called me “Gunter the Strong,” for though I lacked intelligence my body was bigger than most. As for my mind, father said my slowness made me patient and gentle, as a counterbalance for my size. Perhaps my nature is what allowed me to witness what I did on the day my father died. 

Though my father has been bones in the ground since the Year of our Lord 1373, I am not alone. The others in the village are kind to me now. For years, I have helped them lift heavy things. I live with Father Wilhelm in his small home behind the church. He reminds me of my true father in many ways, though he is not as quick to anger, or war-like. Father Wilhelm is so kind, he gives me many smiles and good words that lift my heart. While my true father loved me, it was seldom he showed me kindness.

Now it is Christmastide again. My true father called it Yuletide. He lived by the Old Religion, and gave praise to Odin and the other ancient gods. He kept this a secret between us, and taught me of Yule in our home during the long winter nights. I remember his face, half in shadow as we sat before the fire. He told me how Yule is a time when the veil between the worlds is thin. It is when the doomed souls of the Wild Hunt stalk the cold dark beyond our door, as well as the mischievous and cruel fay who stole babies and left doppelgänger in their cribs. 

Father Wilhelm was displeased to learn my father taught me of such things. To the priest, the old gods and the fay are sacrilegious. But during his life, my true father pretended to believe in Christ, and went to Mass, and threatened to whip me bloody if I ever spoke to anyone about Yule. It was only after his death that I revealed the truth, for that is the only way to tell this tale.

At Christmastide, I tell the story of the miraculous things that happened on the day father died. I go to the inn during the long winter nights, and sit by the fire to tell my tale to the children of the village. They are the children of those who once tormented me and called me simple. 

Some may say my story is the fancy of a feeble mind. Yet the sword that cut down my father was real enough. Also, the events I relate cannot be fully disputed because of those who vanished after the fact. So, I sit in a chair by the fire at the inn, in honor of father and Odin and Christ, and tell the children my story.

It begins with the coming of the faerie woman. 

It was in the winter of 1373. The cold was sharp and the snow was deep. The white flakes had come early, coating the autumn leaves that had not yet fallen from the trees. The many layers of wool I wore did little to stop the sharp teeth of the wind that bit me. I kept my head down against the gale, making my way home as quickly as possible. I had gone to the village to sell one of our pigs to the innkeeper. All I could think of was returning to the warmth of our hearthfire, and a bowl of father’s soup. 

My thoughts were broken by the sound of stirring in the trees nearby. I stopped, held very still, and reached for the knife in my belt. The winter often brought with it desperate men with no shelter and empty bellies. These bandits were known to kill for even a meager scrap of food.

Suddenly, a stag burst from the trees. It was huge, with a rack of antlers that spread like the branches of a dead tree. It was old; I could tell from the scars that crossed its hide. The beast stopped for a moment to gaze at me. I could see its powerful muscles rippling under the skin. Then, it bolted down the snow-covered dirt road ahead of me, disappearing around the bend. I heard more crashing through the brush. I thought it might be a doe following the stag.  

What emerged from the forest was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her hair was the dark black of crow feathers. Her eyes were big, and as blue as the summer sky. The dress she wore was red as blood. Despite the cold, she wore nothing on her feet, and no cloak covered her. Yet, she seemed unaffected by the chill. Her face was flushed with color, and she breathed deep of the air as the wind picked up, blowing back her hair and dress so they rippled as if alive.

She was one of the fay, of that I had no doubt. What else could she be, given her bare feet and the fact she wore only a dress? It was as if she were a maiden going to dance at a pagan spring celebration. The land of the fay is a place of eternal summer. She must have carried some of that warmth within her, to brave the cold as she did. 

After a moment, she moved quickly toward me, and I staggered away from her. I was afraid she had come to take me to the Summerland. She stopped close to me, and held out a hand.

“Please, please help me,” the fay woman said. 

“Are you of the Wild Hunt?” I asked her. 

Confusion crossed her face, then she shook her head. “Please, I beg you, help me. Do you live nearby?”

I studied her face, and noticed there seemed to be tears frozen on her cheeks. Her lips were blue and quivering, and now I saw that she was in fact shivering. Perhaps the cold was beginning to overcome the heat of her fay blood.

“Yes, come, my home is not far,” I said. She smiled then, and it was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen. 

Suddenly, there came the sound of a horn. The note was low, long, and deep. It echoed through the trees, and seemed to crack the brittle air. The fay woman’s smile vanished.

The Wild Hunt was coming.

“Please, we must hurry!” She gripped my arm. I fought to control my hammering heart, and nodded at her. She must have been a fugitive from her people, one that had rejected the cruelty of the Hunt. I was sure my father would be able to protect us, with his knowledge of the Old Ways. 

As we ran, slipping on the hard and icy ground, the horn sounded again and again, coming closer and closer. Along with the distant mournful bellow came the baying of hounds. Another sure sign that the Wild Hunt pursued us.

After what seemed an eternity, the humble cottage I shared with my father came into view. A wisp of smoke floated up from the chimney. I’d never been so glad to see the rough-hewn wooden walls of my home. We dwelt in a clearing in the Black Forest, away from the village. My father was ever a lone spirit. At that moment, I feared our isolation would doom us.

The...Continue Reading