deepwaterwritingprompts:Text: I leave the window unlocked one night, and something with sharp f

deepwaterwritingprompts:Text: I leave the window unlocked one night, and something with sharp fingers steals my mouth. “You must steal it back at once,” says mother, handing me a knife, “or die starving.”  Once Upon A Time there lived a widow and her daughter in a cottage at the edge of the woods. As her daughter grew, so did her appetite, for bread and honey and milk and porridge, until it seemed she would eat the both of them out of house and home. Worse still, all that sweetness and honey did nothing to temper her daughter’s foul mouth. “Haven’t you eaten already? Don’t you want to watch your figure?” she would say, seeing her daughter ladling herself another bowl of porridge, and in return her daughter would burst into a torrent of wailing and recrimination, bemoaning how hungry she still was, and so their house knew not a day’s peace. Each night, they would go around the cottage locking all the doors and windows, as they lived next to the woods, and in it prowled all manner of dark creature. But one night, the daughter left her window unlocked, and it was then the Knappheit crept in, sharp-fingered and glint-eyed, and stole away the daughter’s mouth. They next day, the daughter woke her mother up distraught, eyes wide and brimming with tears. Where lips had been there was only smooth soft flesh, like cupping her daughter’s cheeks. All through her distress, not a sound escaped the girl, and for the first time in a long time the house knew quiet. “Alas, you left the window open!” her mother said. “And it is the Knappheit who has stolen your mouth away from you. But perhaps we can lure it back through hunger.” And so they spent the morning baking fresh white loaves of bread, and fragrant porridge sugared with honey. They sat at the edge of the woods with their meal, letting the scent of it waft through the air, and though the leaves in the woods quivered, her mouth did not return to them. “This is nothing,” said the mother, who had enjoyed the tranquil breakfast, marveling at the stillness and the birdsong. “We can try something else. And you could stand to miss a few meals anyway.” Her daughter stared down at the porridge and the fresh white loaves, and said nothing. Together they fed the geese, then took the clothes down to the river to be washed, and the woman was amazed at how light the work went without the bickering. “Perhaps we can lure it back through talk,” she said. “You certainly never were one to stay quiet.” And so they spent the afternoon sat at the edge of the woods, the mother expounding on this topic and that, in such a way that surely her daughter’s mouth would speak up against her. But though her words echoed through the woods, and the branches in them quivered, no retort sounded, and her mouth did not return to them. “Well, this was your fault to begin with,” said the mother, who had grown ill at ease with her daughter’s silence. “Who left the window open, even though I warned you? What do you want me to do about it now?”Her daughter stared deep into the hollow woods, and said nothing. With no options left to take, the days passed, and at nights they locked tight all the windows and the doors, the woods bristling outside their walls. As their larder grew more well-stocked, her daughter only grew more quiet and more wan, until she was like a ghost skulking around the cottage. More than once the woman was startled to turn around and see her daughter staring at her, eyes like an owl’s in her pale empty face. “How dare you look at me like that?” she said at last. “Do you think I ever wanted anything bad to happen you? My baby girl? You can’t blame me for everything. I’ve tried everything I can do to help you. Take a little responsibility for yourself for once.” Her daughter stared back with reproachful eyes, and said nothing.“Fine then,” the woman said, and went and fetched a knife from the kitchen. She flung the door open and marched them both out to the edge of the woods. The moon hung high above them. The branches in the woods curled and quivered and howled. “You want your mouth back? Go into the woods and steal it back yourself.” She thrust the knife into her daughter’s hands. “Go! At once. Or starve to death. I don’t care anymore. It’s up to you.”Her daughter stared down at the knife clenched in her hand, and said nothing. When their neighbors came, they found the widow lying at the edge of the woods, her body cut to pieces as if by many sharp fingers. Her daughter was in the cottage, very thin, but eating heartily of the contents of their larder. And though they asked her many questions, and though she spoke freely and offhandedly, they got no answers as to what had happened there last night. —EDITOR’S NOTE: The version of The Knappheit included in this collection may be unfamiliar to some readers. In the more well-known version of the tale, the daughter does indeed set out to steal her mouth back, though her lack of one proves on multiple occasions to be useful on her quest. In one instance, she is unable to scream when a rat startles her, and so avoids giving away her hiding spot; in another, being unable to eat has made her slim enough to squeeze to safety through a crevasse. She confronts the Knappheit, who speaks to her in her voice, and through her silence shames it into submission. Having recovered her mouth, the experience has nonetheless taught her to be “modest in both demeanor and appetite,” and she returns a far more obedient and well-mannered daughter. Though this second version bears hallmarks of the bowdlerization many fairy tales underwent during the 17th and 18th centuries, both versions of the fable appear to have circulated concurrently, and there is no consensus as to which is the original. An early attempt to reconcile the two can be found in Griseld’s Little Faerie Book for Children, which publishes both versions of the story, concluding with the couplet: And one is the story straight from her lips,And one is the story written in her hand, from when there was no one around to hear. -- source link

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