The Revolt in Ashdale

The river ran backward on the day the Queen vanished. Word had quickly spread through the entire village.

Anna had experienced it herself. As usual, she had been down by the riverside washing the household laundry. It was hard work, especially in the cool autumn air. Anna was the youngest maid, sent out to earn her own bread and to learn.

She didn’t understand what she was supposed to learn with that family. They were proud and made it clear to the servants that they had no value as people, only as labor. She harbored anger within her, but didn’t let it show.

She had slapped the master’s long undershirt into the water and had worked it vigorously with the washing stick. Always full of stains down the front. She didn’t know what they were and didn’t want to know; sometimes the stains were still damp when she took the shirt from the basket. The first time she noticed, she had sniffed them—a sharp, rancid smell, unfamiliar to her.

She let the shirt soak in the water for a bit to rinse it through. That’s when she noticed the water wasn’t flowing toward the mill as usual. It flowed away from the mill, up toward the lake. It was impossible—something strange was happening.

She plunged her hand into the water, cupped it, and brought it up to her nose. Yes, it smelled just like ordinary river water. Cautiously, she tasted it. It was flat and didn’t taste fresh at all. She spat it out and tried to wipe her tongue on her sleeve.

The laundry wouldn’t smell fresh today. She would be scolded, and worst of all, who would believe her, the youngest maid, that the river flowed the wrong way and the water tasted foul?

She washed and rinsed as best she could and returned to the house. There, she hung the clothes to dry on the line between the pantry and the workshop, hoping the gentle autumn wind would carry away the stale smell. Time would tell. By afternoon, they would be dry, and she would see. She decided not to mention the incident. But things would not go as planned.

She went about her other duties in the house and soon forgot about the backward-flowing river.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the courtyard. The miller’s apprentice, Paul, arrived on his moldy horse. He jumped off, out of breath. Anna didn’t mind the sight of his sweaty shirt, half-buttoned.

He went to the front door and knocked. The door was a broad, heavy oak with large black metal handles and, a little higher up, a peephole that was covered with a flap from the inside.

From the kitchen cellar window, where she was churning butter, Anna could hear the bar on the door being drawn back.

The master opened it and shouted at the boy, asking what he was thinking, knocking on the front door.

“Forgive me, Sir and Master, I was sent by the miller with word that he cannot grind flour today, as, uh, well, the river is flowing the wrong way. No one in the village has seen the like, all stand by the shore, horrified at the sight.”

“What in the blazing hell do you mean? Has the miller gone mad? Or is he his usual lazy self and just trying to find an excuse?”

“No, no, good Master, I swear it’s true. I had to see with my own eyes that the water is indeed flowing the wrong way!”

“Go back to the mill and make yourself useful. We don’t pay your wages for idleness. Tell the miller I’m coming.”

Anna wondered what the master could possibly do about the matter. She would probably have to tell the mistress about how the river had been during the washing. She wanted to be on Paul’s side in this. She did her best to churn, but the cream simply wouldn’t turn to butter. Maybe—Anna thought—there’s a connection. Perhaps the whole valley is bewitched? That must be the explanation.

Finally, she gave up on the butter and poured the now sour-smelling, greenish whey-like liquid out.

Anna went up to the parlour and knocked gently on the door. She had to confess.

The master flung the door open in front of her. “What do you want?”

“I was down by the river washing your clothes, Sir, when I noticed the river’s flow going the wrong way and the water tasted flat. And now I’ve been churning the cream for a long while, but it separates, turns green, and smells foul. It won’t become butter. I just thought you should know, as I don’t know what else to do.” Anna had rushed through it all, afraid the master would interrupt her.

“What are you talking about?” asked the mistress, who had arrived. The master turned to her and relayed what Paul the miller had said and what Anna had just reported.

“It has come to pass,” said the mistress. “The power of witchcraft has taken hold of the valley. An old tale foretells that the day the river flows backward, the Queen will have disappeared, and our food will spoil before our eyes.”

“Do you mean to say we are cursed by witchcraft?” The master sank onto a chair.

“Yes, the old tale says we will perish through hardship and famine unless an innocent woman can break the bonds of the spell.”

“An innocent woman. Nonsense and fairy tales,” the master growled. “Leave, Anna, your ears are not fit to hear such drivel.”

“Yes, Sir, as you command,” she said, curtsied, and hurried down to the kitchen.

There she found the cook and told her about the morning’s events and the master’s words.

“I can well believe your words. I’m cooking soup, and the meat won’t become tender. The carrots are limp, and the cabbage is wilted. No, there’s something to it. I know the old tale, too. The Queen is taken, the river flows backward, and misery and need plague the land. Only an innocent girl can lift the curse.”

Anna felt a chill down her spine. She sensed something calling to her. Was she the innocent one?