This story is one that is still told in the West Country, while families and friends sit around log fires, staring into the flames. It is a tale of the old ways and the old folk that were our ancestors, many years ago.

It began with a hunter, a young man, tall and broad, with a bow in his hand and a quiver of sharp arrows slung across his back. He wandered into the woods one day, seeking a hare for his pot to ease the aching hunger in his gut. The young man was sharp of sight, handsome of face and quick of foot. He was unafraid.

As he strayed deeper into the forest, where the dappled light became gloom, he heard a rustle in the bushes and a swift legged hare sprang out, running down a winding path towards a glade where sunlight filtered onto the grass. The hunter hurried after it, reaching into his quiver, when he saw a young woman in the brightness. Her eyes seemed to catch his for a moment, then she turned, her hair tumbling over one shoulder, and was gone.

The hunter paused for a moment, unsure whether he was chasing the hare or the maid, but his instinct spurred him onwards to the place where the leaves glimmered emerald.

He reached the clearing, looking all around. There was no one to be seen. An eerie stillness clutched the air, waiting like a held breath, and the hunter was puzzled. In the distance, a cliff jutted over the sea like a jagged tooth, a small cottage perched on the rocks as if it might tumble. He wondered if the maid lived there. He could see smoke curling and was the scent of baking meat filled his nostrils. Hunger seized his stomach, and he lurched forward.

The sky darkened and a low cloud burst above him. As icy rain soaked his skin, he rushed towards the tiny cottage and battered the door with his knuckles.

‘Let me in,’ he yelled.

There was no sound except for the whirling wind and the pounding rain. His clothes were so wet they stuck to his body and he trembled.

‘Please, let me inside, for the love of God,’ he cried out, and as if in answer, the heavy door creaked ajar.

The hunter crept inside. The cottage was gloomy. A woodfire glowed in the hearth; the air was filled with wisps of smoke. Beside the fire a small figure huddled in a low chair, watching him with narrowed eyes.

Through the haze, her hair was white like moonlight and she wore a translucent gown. He called, ‘May I shelter a while from the storm? And hunger gnaws…’

The woman lifted a long finger. ‘Come, sit.’ Her voice was the rustle of dead leaves.

The hunter approached and sank into a cushion-filled chair. He stared at the old woman. Her skin was furrowed like rumples of silk, her fingers gnarled like twigs. Her eyes offered the beady stare of a crow.

The hunter reminded himself that he was young and lithe and not frightened. He said, ‘I have not seen you in the woodlands before – nor have I stumbled upon your cottage. And I come from these parts.’

‘I am often invisible,’ the woman murmured.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I have many names, some good, some less so. People call me Mother Earth. Others confuse me with an old man with a beard who lives in the sky. But I am called Chronos, because it is said that I have lived for all time. Many who do not know me simply call me Chrone.’ She smiled.

‘Then – how old are you? I myself am twenty-five years old.’ The hunter’s voice rose arrogantly. ‘You must be a hundred years, more.’

‘I do not know.’ The woman looked away, her expression wistful. ‘Every year, since I have been twenty, I have taken a lover on my birthday. Each man has died in my arms. I have kept the hearts in my cellar below.’ She met his eyes for the first time and the hunter was surprised that he couldn’t look away. ‘If you wish to know my age, go to the cellar below and count the hearts. Then add on twenty years, and you will know.’

‘And when I have done it, will you give me food?’ the hunter asked boldly.

‘You may eat your fill,’ the woman said, inclining her head gracefully. She handed him a silver key. ‘Here. The cellar is at the bottom of the steps.’

The young man clutched the key tightly as he descended stone steps into a cold place where water dripped from the ceiling. He pushed open an oak door and peered inside. Icicles hung from the black roof and he shivered. But it was the sight of rows and rows of glass cages, each holding a ruby heart, that took his breath away.

The hunter reminded himself that he was young, and the old woman upstairs was weak and small. He could snap her neck between his fingers. Then he began to count the cages.

Five hundred hearts. Water spattered from the roof, making him lose his concentration, and he stopped, beginning the counting again. An hour past, two. Fifteen hundred hearts. His eyes were becoming tired. A third hour came and went; the hunter’s fingers were brittle with cold. He had reached two thousand two hundred and twenty-three hearts. Or was it twenty-four? He ought to start again, but his body ached with weariness.

He was bone cold, shivering, sapped of strength. He needed to sit by the fire, to eat. He would return and count again later, when his head had cleared and his strength returned.

He climbed the stone steps, each one echoing beneath his feet. Exhausted, he dragged himself to the warm room where the old woman was waiting, a bowl of steaming soup in her hands. He seized it eagerly and began to eat. He had never felt so hungry.

‘So – did you discover my age?’ she asked in her dry, dusty voice.

‘I will try again later,’ the young man said, swallowing spoonful after spoonful. He wasn’t hungry now. Or cold. A strange new warmth was seeping through his flesh and his eyelids grew heavy.

He sat at the old woman’s feet and murmured, ‘A drowsiness has come upon me. I will sleep. When I wake, I will count the hearts.’

He leaned back, resting against her knees, his head on her lap. He felt her bony fingers tangle in his hair. He gazed up and saw the sweet face of the maiden who he has seen in the glade. He blinked to clear his vision and the old lady loomed above him.

‘I have no idea how old you are…’ he began.

She was smiling.

‘Don’t worry about numbers,’ she murmured, stroking his cheek with her palm. ‘Numbers never stay the same for long. And besides, today is my birthday…’

Judy/ EC Feb 2024