An old soldier trudges through the snow:
The roads are muddy, the night is cold.
A single lantern swings in the distance,
pushing back the dark. He knows it well.
It's the old mill.
Abode of a friend, who's face he'd nearly forgotten
from years of campaign and war.
But now, he's nearly home. After all
of the battles, lost and won,
He's nearly home.
The mill's arms creak in the gentle night breeze.
He knocks on the door, once,
twice. Then suddenly, an answer.
At first, the man doesn't recognize who he is,
but after a brief moment, the two
embrace. The miller, the soldier's friend from
younger days, still runs the mill.
Together they sit and drink the night away sharing stories,
until at last, the soldier moves to go.
The miller stays him with his hand:
"Spend the night under my roof," he says.
But the soldier declines, saying he's eager to get to his home.
"But, it's not safe," says the miller.
And when the soldier asks him why, this is the
tale he told: "We have been cursed by
god. A terrible warlock died in this town.
Now each night, he rises from the grave,
and stalks the village, bringing terror to even
the bravest among us.
In response, the soldier jokes that because,
well, he is a soldier,
he is the Czar's property, and not even a warlock would
dare touch the property of the crown.
And with that,
he bids his friend goodnight, and heads
on down the road
the journey is bitter cold and black in the moonless night
still,
he knows this road well from his youth and presses
on, though he remembers this is the graveyard road
it leads straight past the old cemetery
he crests the hill and is blinded,
one of the graves is open and in it, a fire is blazing
he moves to investigate and sees
the warlock, sitting by the fire and sawing boots
"Privet brother!" cries the soldier as he approaches
"what are you doing?"
the warlock stands, throwing the old boots aside
and takes the soldier by the arm saying:
"there is a wedding tonight,
let us enjoy ourselves"
so together they walked to the village
and stumbled into the wedding celebration
there, they were met with open arms and
offered as much food and drink as they desired
and the warlock drank, and drank
and danced and danced
'till suddently he got angry, he chased the guests out of the wedding halls
and set a deep slumber upon the bride and groom
then he took out
two small viles and an alm.
With it, he pierced the hands
of the two newlyweds, and dripped their blood
into his vials. Then he said to the soldier,
"OK! Let's be off!"
And the soldier, having learned much from his years of war, acted
as though nothing was wrong
and simply asked the warlock as they walked,
"So, why did you steal their blood?"
"Ohhh! So tomorrow, they might die, of course!
When morning comes, none will be able
to wake them, and only I know how
they might be brought back to life!"
"And how would you manage that?"
the soldier asked as they strolled up the road.
"Both bride and groom must have incisions made into
their heels, and some of their own blood must be
poured back into them.
But since I hold the bride's blood in my left pocket,
and the groom's in my right, that will never happen!"
And the warlock began to boast about how he could do
whatever he liked in the village.
So, the soldier said, "Oh!
Then I'm sure it's quite impossible for anyone to
defeat you!"
The warlock laughed, and said, "Of course not!