Information

Old Mother
Legacy Name: Old Mother

The

Glacier Fester
Owner:

Bonnibell

Age: 12 years, 1 week, 1 day

Born: April 24th, 2012

Adopted: 11 years, 3 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: January 25th, 2013

Pet Spotlight Winner
August 6th, 2013

Statistics

Level: 5
Strength: 14
Defense: 13
Speed: 12
Health: 13
HP: 13/13
Intelligence: 4
Books Read: 1
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Cleaning Crew

She sprouted where the first one died. The grave would have otherwise gone unmarked, although it wasn't really much of a grave at all. There was, after all, no one to bury the child, left in the harsh Scandinavian winter by the Nisser to die, as humans do.

Her tiny sprout watched over the human child. She watched as the skin – so beautiful and pale – turned blue with death, then purple, then green. She watched as dew formed upon those plump cherub lips and froze as the sun climbed into the sky, its warmth no match for the temperature on the ground. Eventually, she watched as the last bone disappeared from view.

She was a sapling, then, and just developing a personality of her very own.

She tried to talk to the other trees, but they were silent. Dormant. Sleeping forever, none shared the spark that brought her bark to life. So instead, as winter passed, she made talk with the animals. It was a slow process, as trees move and think much slower than the woodland creatures – their lives are too short to slow down, you see – but over time, she managed. Their chatter soon became familiar, and they made their homes in her branches.

A long time later, when her trunk was thick and lined with many rings, humans came to the forest. It was again winter, and at first she took the men for a pair of bears wandering through the blanket of white. They were lined in furs and skins of all kinds and walked on two legs – nothing like any bear she had ever seen.

“Hyldemor,” they called her. Elder Mother.

One man rested his hand upon her trunk and pressed his head to the bark. He said something in a language she didn't know, but the warmth in his eyes expressed all she needed to understand. This man had lost a child in these woods. Lost to the cold, perhaps, or troldfolk. It did not matter. The sense of loss flowed from his freezing fingertips and into her bark, and for the first time, she knew pain.

This was the beginning of her manifestation. She tried many forms – first, a young child, modeled after the very first whose bones were interwoven with her roots. She found this form too small, too naïve. Her next form would be modeled after that of a young woman – no older than twenty years – who was the next to be buried beneath her shadow.

By this time, she had learned their language. In her childish form, she perched high above the small group of men and women as they buried the woman deep in the earth. Her pale eyes took in the dead woman's chiseled features, her high cheekbones and fair hair. Something burned inside her, and she wanted. She felt desire as she'd never known it – the desire to be something so beautiful. The fleeting nature of human life inspired envy in the tree spirit, and for the first time, she knew human greed.

“Watch over her, Mother,” said one of the women. She was not so young as the one in the grave, but too old to be burying one so young. “We ask for your blessing in these troubled times.”

The village grew around her organically. They built their houses and warmed their hearths with wood from her neighboring trees – the soulless ones without voices. But they never touched the Elder tree. Instead, she became the center of their culture, and as she learned about the life these humans led, the more it became apparent what form would be the most appropriate.

One day, a cottage appeared almost overnight. A few in the village questioned it, but not for long. An old woman lived there, with the palest, deepest blue eyes the people had ever seen. Although some would find it unnerving, most found their coolness balanced by the warmth of her smile and the many wrinkles that creased her face.

And she had an answer for every ailment – from stomachache to stab wounds – and she was generous with her antidotes. Everything came from the Elder tree.

Whispers followed wherever she went. “Witch,” they said, though never to her face. Then, they called her “Bedstemor”.

She loved her village and cared for it in every way she knew how. She became part of the community there, although she always denied those who asked her to stay for dinner. While she loved her people, it was not appropriate for her to dine with them.

Of course, during festivals, she just couldn't say no. The winter festivals were her favorite. She had never known such warmth and cheer, and all of the children crowded around her, telling her of Julenisse, who was thought to bring good health and happiness to families across the land, so long as he was fed well. So she learned the customs, for she wanted her village to be happy and healthy, and knew all to well the devious nature of the Nisser. She made risengrød and sang the songs with the children and their families. Julenisse came and went for many years, always happy and well-fed when he came through the village. And the people were happy. Gradually, the beliefs shifted from Julenisse to Julemand, and she changed her ways to accommodate it. She still makes risengrød, but the children of the village much prefer pebernødder. Her sweet tooth agrees with them.

In the spring, she takes the elderberries from her tree and makes jars upon jars of jam, which are then handed it out to the locals. A spoonful of her jam can cure just about anything, she boasts. And for the most part, it is true.

She remains there to this day, watching over her tiny village and standing guard so that nothing might disturb it. She is known for her beautiful gardens, her delicious jam, and her eternal wisdom. When members of the village pass away, they are buried beneath her branches and tended by her roots.

Profile by User not found: vriskaStory and Character by Bonnibell