Asha and Altheda were angry with Amata, who had accidentally brought along the knight.

’Only one can bathe in the Fountain! It will be hard enough to decide which of us it will be, without adding another!’

Now, Sir Luckless, as the knight was known in the land outside the walls, observed that these were witched, and, having no magic, nor any great skill at jousting or duelling with swords, nor anything that distinguished the non-magical man, was sure that he had no hope of beating the three women to the Fountain. He therefore declared his intention of withdrawing outside the walls again.

At this, Amata became angry too.

’Faint heart!’ she chided him. ’Draw your sword, Knight, and help us reach our goal!’

And so the three witches and the forlorn knight ventured forth into the enchanted garden, where rare herbs, fruit and flowers grew in abundance on either side of the sunlit paths. They met no obstacle until they reached the foot of the hill on which the Fountain stood.

There, however, wrapped around the base of the hill, was a monstrous white Worm, bloated an blind. At their approach, it turned a foul face upon them, and uttered the following words:

’Pay me the proof of your pain.’

Sir Luckless drew his proof and attempted to kill the beast, but his blade snapped. Then Altheda cast rocks at the Worm, while Asha and Amata essayed every spell that might subdue or entrance it, but the power of their wands was no more effective that their friend’s stone, or the Knight’s steel: the Worm would not let them pass.

The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, and Asha, deapairing, began to weep.

Then the great Worm placed its face upon her and drank the tears from her cheeks. Its thirst assuaged, the Worm slithered aside, and vanished into a hole in the ground.

Rejoicing at the Worm’s disappearance, the three witches and the knight began to climb the hill, sure that they would reach the Fountain before noon.

Halfway up the steep slope, however, they came across words cut into the ground before them.

Pay me the fruit of tour labours.

Sir Luckless took out his only coin, and placed it upon the grassy hillside, but it rolled away and was lost. The three witches and the knight continued to climb, but though they walked for hours more, they advanced not a step; the summit came no nearer, and still the inscription lay in the earth before them.

All were discouraged as the sum rose over their heads and began to sink towards the far horizon, but Altheda walked faster and harder than any of them, an exhorted the others to follow her example, though she moved no further up the enchanted hill.

’courage, friends, and do not yield!’ she cried, wiping the sweat from her brow.

As the drops fell glittering on to the earth, the inscription blocking their path vanished, and they found that they were able to move upwards once more.

Delighted by the removal of this second obstacle, they hurried towards the summit as fast as they could, until at last they glimpsed the Fountain, glittering like crystal in a bower of flowers an trees.

Before they could reach it, however, they came to a stream that ran round the hilltop, barring their way. In the depths of the clear water lay a smooth stone bearing the words:

Pay me the treasure of your past

Sir Luckless attempted to float across the stream on his shield, but it sank. The three witched pulled him from the water, then tried to leap the brook themselves, but it would not let them cross, and all the while the sun was sinking lower in the sky.

So they fell to pondering the meaning of the stone’s message, and Amata was the first to understand. Taking her wand, she drew from hei mind all the memories of happy time sha had spent with her vanished lover, and dropped them into the rushing waters. The stream swept them away, and stepping stones appeared, and the pass at last on to the summit of the hill.

The Fountain shimmered before them, set amidst herbs and flowers rarer and more beautiful than any they had yet seen. The sky burned ruby, and it was time to decide which of them would bathe.

Before they could make their decision, however, frail Asha fell to the ground. Exhausted by their struggle to the summit, she was close to death.

Her three friends would have carried her to the Fountain, but Asha was in mortal agnoy and begged them not to touch her.

Then Altheda hastened to pick all those herbs she thought most hopeful, and mixed them in Sir Luckless’s gourd of water, and poured the potion into Asha’s mouth.

At once, Asha was able to stand. What was more, all symptoms of her dread malady had vanished.

’I’m cured!’ she cried. ’I have no need of the Fountain - let Altheda bathe!’

But Altheda was busy collecting more herbs in her apron.

’If I can cure this disease, I shall earn gold aplenty! Let Amata bathe!’

Sir Luckless bowed, and gestured Amata towards the Fountain, but she shook her head.
The stream had washed away all regret for her lover, and she saw now that he had been cruel and faithless, and that it was happiness enough to be rid of him.

’Good Sir, you must bathe, as a reward for all you chivalry!’ she told Sir Luckless.

So the knight clanked forth in the last rays of the setting sun, and bathed in the Fountain of Fair Fortune, astonished that he was chosen one of hundreds and giddy with his incredible luck.

As the sun fell below the horizon, Sir Luckless emerged from the waters with the glory of his triumph upon him, and flung himself in his rusted armour at the feet of Amata, who was the kindest and most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. Flushed with success, he begged for her hand and her heart, and Amata, no less delighted, realised that she had found a man worthy of them.

The three witched and the knight set off down hill together, arm in arm, and all four led and happy lives, and none of them ever knew or suspected that the Fountain’s waters carried no enchantment at all.



BY: 汤姆

04.01.2016

P.S. 送给不睡觉汤汤黑巫师的黑童话

我的小汤姆总是每天给我取不同的外号。

这个点居然还被悠悠拿出来夸。。。

明明是巫师的我非要加个黑。

更搞笑的是还给自己取个外号叫 足球 ！！！

终于看完了！

会魔法的汤姆，汤汤不是一个黑巫师。这也不是一个黑童话。

因为坚持，Asha的不治之症痊愈了。
因为善良，Altheda找到了获得更多金子的方法。
因为痴情，Amata终于放下过去那段不堪的爱，迎来了他的真名天子。
而倒霉的骑士，因为他的仗义，最终得到了真爱，谁又敢说这不是他此生最好的运气呢。

泉水是没有魔法的，他们用善良，正义，坚持得到了自己想要的一切。对未来充满的希望心强过任何魔法。

所以啊，无论我们失去什么，被伤害也好，被误解也罢。

都要永远保持着一颗赤子之心。

对不对啊，我那会魔法的小汤姆~

汤汤女王说什么都是对的

明天女巫汤又休假，在家一定很无聊

TO.汤汤

THE WIZARD AND THE HOPPING POT

There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours. Rather than reveal the true source of his power, he pretended that his potions, charms and antidotes sprang ready-made from the little cauldron he called his lucky cooking pot. From miles around people came to him with their troubles, and the wizard was pleased to give his pot a stir and put things right.

This well-beloved wizard lived to a goodly age, then died, leaving all his chattels to his only son. This son was of a very different disposition to his gentle father.
Those who could not work magic were, to the son’s mind, worthless, and he had often quarrelled with his father’s habit of dispensing magical aid to their neighbours.

Upon the father’s death. the son found hidden inside the old cooking pot a small package bearing his name. He opened it, hoping for gold, but found instead a soft, thick slipper, much too small to wear, and with no pair. A fragment of parchment within the slipper bore the words ’In the fond hope, my son, that you will never need it.’

The son cursed his father’s age-soften mind, then threw the slipper back into the cauldron, resolving to use it henceforth as a rubbish pail.

That very night a peasant woman knocked on the front door.

’My granddaughter is afflicted by a crop of warts, Sir,’ she told him. ’Your father used to mix a special poultice in that old cooking pot-’

’Begone!’ cried the son. ’What care I for your brat’s warts?’

And he slammed the door in the old woman’s face.

At once there came o loud clanging and banging from his kitchen. The wizard lit his wand and opened the door, and there, to his amazement, he saw his father’s old cooking pot: it had sprouted a single foot of brass, and was hopping on the spot, in the middle of the floor, making a fearful noise upon the flagstones. The wizard approached it in wonder, but fell back hurriedly when he saw that the whole of the pot’s surface was covered in warts.

’Disgusting object!’ he cried, and he tried firstly to Vanish the pot, then to clean it by magic, and finally to force it out of the house. None of his spell worked, however, and he was unable to prevent the pot hopping after his out of the kitchen, and then following his up to bed, clanging and banging loudly on every wooden stair.

The wizard could not sleep all night for the banging of the warty old pot by his bedside, and next morning the pot insisted upon hopping after him to the breakfast table. Clang, clang, clang , went the brass-footed pot, and the wizard had not even started his porridge when there came another knock on the door.

An old man stood on the doorstep.

’This my old donkey, Sir,’ he explained. ’Lost, she is, or stolen, and without her I cannot take my wares to market, and my family will go hungry tonight.’

’And I am hungry now!’ roared the wizard, and he slammed the door upon the old man.

Clang, clang, clang, went the cooking pot’s single brass foot upon the floor, but now its clamour was mixed with the brays of a donkey and human groans of hunger, echoing from the depth of the pot.

’Be still. Be silent!’ shrieked the wizard, but not all his magical powers could quieten the warty pot, which hopped at his heels all day, braying and groaning and clanging, no matter where he went or what he did.

Thant evening there came a third knock upon the door, and there on the threshold stood a young woman sobbing as though her heart would break.

’My baby is grievously ill,’ she said. ’Won’t you please help us? Your father bade me come if trouble-’

But the wizard slammed the door on her.

And now the tormenting pot filled to the brim with salt water, and slopped tears all over the floor as it hopped, and brayed, and groaned, and sprouted more warts.

Though no more villagers came to seek help at the wizard’s cottage for rest of the week, the pot kept him informed of their many ills. Within a few days, it was not only braying and groaning and slopping and hopping and sprouting warts, it was also choking and retching, crying like a baby, whining like a dog, and spewing out bad cheese and sour milk and a plague of hungry slugs.

The wizard could not sleep or eat with the pot beside him, but the pot refused to leave, and he could not silence it or force it to be still.

At last the wizard could bear it no more.

’Bring me all your problems, all your troubles and your woes!’ he screamed, fleeing into the night, with the pot hopping behind him along the road into the village. ’Come! Let me cure you, mend you and comfort you! I have my father’s cooking pot, and I shall make you well!’

And with the four pot still bounding along behind him, he ran up the street, casting spells in every direction.

Inside one house the little girl’s warts vanished as she slept; the lost donkey was Summoned from a distant briar patch and set down softly in its stable; the sick baby was doused in dittany and woke, well and rosy. At every house of sickness and sorrow, the wizard did his best, and gradually the cooking pot beside him stopped groaning and retching, and became quiet, shiny and clean.

’Well, Pot?’ asked the trembling wizard, as the sun began to rise.

The pot burped out the single slipper he had thrown into it, and permitted him to fit it on to the brass foot. Together, they set off back to the wizard’s house, the pot’s footstep muffled at last. But from that day forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once more.

BY. 汤姆

06.01.2016

P.S. 送给女巫汤的黑童话系列二 >>>有多大的能力就该承担多大的责任,保持乐于助人的善良, Well, Pot?