Stain and Bramble (Patreon)

Another year, another spooky new character.  Hopefully I have enough time to get my annual illustration out for Halloween.

In these lands, we each place a pumpkin on our doorstep every new moon. This tradition goes back many generations, and the tale that I’m about to tell you has been passed down grandfather to grandson for just as long.

Many years ago, tucked away in a dark forest, there was a small village. And although it was small, the people there prospered, for the soil was rich and plants grew tall without water or much care at all. It was as if the earth there had been charmed. The people had no want of comfort and they hardly tended their gardens, for there was no need. During the warm Autumn days, there was no sound of anvils clanging or carts creaking—only the soft breeze and distant birds. However, while the people lay down their gardening tools in idle, there arose a weed.  You see, the Baron had fallen mysteriously ill, and with his death, the village was soon left in the keep of the now-widowed baroness.

The baroness’ name was Lady Belle von Bram. Her face was more beautiful than any flower and her hair flowed like rivers of crimson blood. Even in all her youthfulness and beauty, she was a truly cruel and wicked woman. She seized the people’s land, burned their homes, and ordered that they plant pumpkins in the now-baren soil. You must remember that this was no ordinary soil. The pumpkins grew to be swollen and sweet, and were as dark as the night. They were irresistible, and the selfish baroness demanded a high price for them. As her subjects toiled in the fields, Belle von Bram spent her days in the castle, surrounded by the wealth and luxury that her land had brought.

While discontent spread among the villagers, tales of her great beauty (and great wealth) spread across the lands, and she was approached by suiter after suiter. She would remarry many times, but each time, on the night of the new moon, her newlywed husband would fall ill and die, just as her first husband had. Even so, the allure of the baroness’ beauty and riches was too great to resist, and so, the suiters remained undeterred. Which each passing death, Belle von Bram came into possession of more land.  Her pumpkin fields grew larger and larger—and so too did her wealth.

Soon, there was no more land left to take. The baroness became overwhelmed with grief, for even though she had much, she knew that she would never have enough. How she did despair! Was there nothing more to be had in this life?

At this time, the baroness met a humble woodsman who had lived in the village since he was a small child. With his axe, he had once cut down many trees, and with his hands, he had once built many homes for the village folk. He was handsome and strong, and his wit amused the young baroness. The empty days that she once spent alone in her castle she now spent with him. She had finally found love, and now, nothing was the same. It seemed as if overnight she had grown into an entirely different person. She was now generous and kind, giving freely to the townsfolk and asking nothing in return. Within a month’s time, on the night of the new moon, she was wed to the woodsman.  At last, she was truly happy.

However, that very same night, the villagers banded together with swords and muskets.  They marched through the moonless darkness towards the baroness’ castle, for although she had changed, the townsfolk still despised her for what she’d done. Filled with murderous intent, they would make sure that this night would be her last. Belle and her newlywed husband hid themselves in the cellar, deep beneath the castle. There was no escaping her past. The woman looked to her husband—the one man who she could trust, and perhaps the one man who could forgive her. The candlelight danced on the smooth, pale skin of her cheeks, displaying her full beauty. She reached out for the hand of her lover, and he took it. Then, with his other hand, he reached for his axe and swung it with all his might. From the moment he had first laid eyes on her, this had been the crafty woodsman’s plot. He was the first suiter to survive the new moon.

The villagers plundered the castle, taking the silver and gold furnishings that their toil had brought the baroness. However, although their new riches gleamed and shimmered in the morning sun, the greatest, most beautiful treasure of all was the one that the woodsman presented them: the head of Lady Belle von Bram. What the villagers did with her head, no one knows, but her body they threw out into the pumpkin fields to be picked apart, returned to the earth, and forgotten.

With their vengeance fulfilled, the villagers went back to their old lives of quiet complacency—or at least, they’d have liked to. But they’d tasted the great fortunes of the baroness’ castle, and now they desired nothing less. They no longer saw that land as their old home, but rather, as fields of riches. And so, they were filled with hatred and jealousy, committing vicious and wicked acts against one another. The soil ached, stained by their sins.  You must remember that this was no ordinary soil, and it would have its judgement upon the villagers…

Out in the pumpkin fields, the body of Belle von Bram still lay in the dirt, but would not rot. She could not rest, for the agony of betrayal still burned in her heart. In the darkness of the new moon, she rose like a weed from the fields.

If she could not have her happiness, then she would have her head back. If she could not have her head back, then she would have a new one.

By sunrise, the castle lay silent. Even the cruel new baron (who was usually so early to rise) did not stir, for in the night, his axe had gone missing, and soon after, so did his head. In the night, everyone’s heads had gone missing.

Years have passed in these lands, and all that still exists of that old castle are tales such as this. The fields are long lost, consumed by forest, but deep in the darkness, pumpkins still grow. None dare enter those woods. It is said that in the bramble lurks a headless rider who searches for a new head—but she will never find it, for no head will ever match the beauty of that which was stolen from her.

In these lands, we each place a pumpkin on our doorstep every new moon. In exchange, we keep our heads.