371: Flemish folklore: Stuck

This week, on Myths and Legends, there are two stories from Flemish folklore.

You'll meet Misery and see why she's still hanging around the world, and on the second story, a career-oriented couple finds that they have something missing in their life.

And it's not what you think.

The creature this time is Batman, with apparently very great legs.

This is Myths and Legends, episode 371.

Stuck.

This is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore.

Some are incredibly popular stories you might think you know, but with surprising origins.

Others are tales that might be new to you, but are definitely worth a listen.

Today's stories come from Flanders, a region in the north of Belgium that's largely Dutch-speaking, and that's really where the cultural stuff ends for today's story.

These are mainly fairy fairy tales, so historical context doesn't super matter, and they're only loosely situated in time and place.

Today's stories, though, are about people who are stuck.

Some in a life where they haven't fulfilled their greatest desire, some quite literally.

You'll see.

We'll jump in with Misery, a normal human woman who apparently had very cruel parents.

Misery, the elderly woman, looked out on her apple tree.

She never married, never had children.

Her parents, the ones that named her misery, well, they weren't the most attentive or caring or present.

This apple tree was her joy.

Nurtured since it was a sapling, the apple tree loved her back too, yielding plump, juicy, sweet fruit every summer.

In a world full of disappointment, this was the one relationship where the woman found fulfillment and

those little urchins.

She got the broom.

She's coming.

Hurry, the older woman heard as she thundered through the front door, nearly splintering the jam.

Children from the village spilled from the branches, but the only thing that would be worse for them than falling out of the tree would be getting caught by the old woman, because the ground would only hit you once.

The children scrambled to their feet, shirts full of apples, and they bounded off back to the village, laughing when the woman slowed.

She had no interest in beating up children.

Well, she had no interest in running to beat up children.

Currently, she had to see to her baby, the tree.

She ran her fingers across the torn bark that the little feet had used to hoist themselves higher.

The older woman climbed and saw whole branches splintered and half torn, leaves ripped, soon to be dying.

She hugged her tree.

She didn't know what to do.

The children had been coming since the tree started producing fruit.

It was something of a challenge now, to get away with as many apples as possible without misery catching you.

The challenge drew the children, and they were harder than ever on the tree.

Misery descended and grabbed the broomstick.

Behind her, a crunch on the leaves.

One motion, and the old man was on the ground.

Ow, he said.

Sorry, he was just looking for some bread.

No need to go old Donatello with that broomstick he was leaving.

He found an outstretched hand, though, and misery helped him to rise.

She told him to, come on, come in.

Despite the fact that I was going to beat up children with a broom just now, I'm really not a bad person, Misery smiled.

The old man said he didn't have the context for that statement, but that's okay.

Bread?

Misery lifted up a handkerchief, revealing a half-loaf of bread.

She scooped it up and placed it in the old man's hands.

He looked around the cottage.

That was all she had, wasn't it?

Misery smiled.

For now, she would find a way to get more.

She always did.

He, though, might find himself on the bad end of a broomstick again, at the next house.

So he should stock up now.

Misery winked.

The old man slipped the loaf into his pack and rose.

Well, it was settled then.

He would grant her a wish.

She didn't understand.

Grant her a wish?

The old man said, yeah, he didn't know what was so difficult to understand.

He I mean, it's right there in what he said, literally, he was going to grant a wish for her.

Misery said, yeah, no, she understood that part of the sentence, but he could do that?

Only one way to find out, the man smiled.

Misery paced the room.

Wow, a wish.

You never really know when,

after hitting children with a broom, a stranger will trade wishes for bread.

So really, we should all be ready to go with an answer to that question.

Given that just a few minutes prior, she had been stressing about the only thing she truly loved, she knew her wish.

She opened her mouth to ask that no one would ever take her apples or hurt her tree, but then

thought about it.

No,

she wanted to know who took her apples and hurt her tree.

She knew her wish.

The children were in the tree, but Misery sat back and took another sip of tea.

She would let the afternoon sun do her work for her.

Maybe let the howls of beasts at nightfall soften them up a bit.

Come evening time, as the cries grew, she knew that she wouldn't be getting any sleep if she made them stay.

Leaving her house, Misery smiled.

Children at every level of the tree would have prompted many a broom beating, but now, well, she could only laugh, laugh because they were stuck.

Her wish, as it turned out, was that anyone who touched her apple tree for any amount of time and for any reason would not be able to move until she said it was okay.

So, seeing that the children who went before them didn't come back with beatings and not heeding the words of those already in the tree, The kids climbed.

Waves and waves of kids climbed, and they all became stuck.

It was like a whole third-grade class of apple-thieving interlopers stuck in the branches.

They begged her, please, let them down.

They would never steal apples again.

She said that, well, she knew they wouldn't, because if they ever did, they would stay in that tree forever.

Understand?

The tree nodded in unison.

Good.

Now get out of here, misery said.

And about two dozen children hit the ground.

Word spread quickly, and Misery didn't have any problems after that.

In fact, because her beloved apple tree was safe, she was able to go out into the village and make friends, and even sell bushels of apples.

Years passed, decades more, and her tree grew tall and strong.

Then, one warm morning, Misery, now older, heard a noise outside.

She had a visitor.

A pale, thin man in a black cloak entered her house without being invited, but she knew that this was one visitor who never waited for an invitation.

This

was death.

Misery sipped her tea and closed her book.

She sat back with a smile.

The pale man didn't often meet people who were so ready to greet him.

I've had a long life, a happy one.

I've lived it on my own terms, and I know I've left the world a little better than I found it.

That's all any mortal can really hope for.

The pale man rushed to her side as she struggled to rise.

She held up her hands.

She knew that she was old, but she intended to walk out with dignity under her own strength.

She started packing up and then laughed.

Can't take it with you.

The pale man chuckled too.

Yes, that is a thing people say.

Misery hobbled to the door, then the path outside.

Then she paused.

Death seemed to notice her looking at the tree.

I've been tending to it since I was a girl.

I love it.

Misery managed to smile.

The pale man checked his palm pilot.

Oh, yeah, that's that one's not long for this world either.

As soon as Misery was gone, a horde of angry children and adults were going to tear it, literally, limb from limb.

He was kind of glad she wouldn't be around to see it because it was all going to be very gruesome.

Oh, I kind of wish you hadn't told me that.

Misery grimaced.

Then she pointed.

Did you want an apple?

Her apples were the best, and if it was going to be gone next week anyway, here, she would get him an apple.

Death checked his calculator wristwatch and waited as Misery hobbled slowly to the tree.

He thanked her, but said they really needed to get on the road.

This was the early modern period.

People were dying all over the place.

Doctors still didn't believe in hand washing.

Look, okay.

He would grab an apple, but then they Death reached for the apple, but then couldn't pull his hand away.

Um

he reached with his other hand to pull the apple off, but it became stuck.

He propped one foot on the tree to pull his hands loose, but couldn't move them.

He put his second foot up just for comfort, instead of having it dangle there.

Misery straightened up and smiled.

She tossed the cane into the woods.

Well,

she was feeling a lot better.

By the way, this had nothing to do with him.

She was just faking.

You can't can't do this.

I'm death.

You have to set me free, the pale man shouted, hanging upside down, dangling from the tree.

Um, turns out I don't, Misery shrugged.

Let me down,

Death hissed.

Um

make me?

Misery offered.

No, he couldn't.

How about he change his mind?

Death laughed.

That was impossible.

There was no bargaining with death.

Okay, Misery said, returning to her house.

She shut her door.

Death, not having bargaining experience because of his no-bargaining rule, turned out to not be too good at it.

Now, We're all familiar with that 10-year period in the 17th century when no one died and everyone was functionally immortal.

As the story tells us, and we know from extensive historical records of the time period, people could jump off cliffs and brush themselves off, they could cut off their own heads and carry them at their side, making for super cheap Halloween costumes.

Wars were pointless because people would just fight for days and no side would win, but as we know, it came to an end, and to paraphrase a Mitchell and Webb skit that I linked in the show notes, immortality that wears off is just regular mortality.

So there were a lot of unhappy people and even more dead ones.

Misery was impressed by how long the pale man held out.

In the end, though, she did make an attractive offer, his freedom for her life.

He told her that he would never come for her again if she would please, please let him go.

She agreed, and he dropped to the ground, moving for the first time in a decade.

And death keeps his word.

Most of the time, that's an ominous thing, but for misery, it was pretty great.

She basically kept on as she had been and enjoyed her quiet life in the country.

Every hundred years or so, she collects a seedling from the apple tree and plants it, but people mostly leave her alone.

The story ends by telling us that this is why, until the end of time, misery will always be in the world.

That being said, misery does not seem so bad if you don't go looking for her, because misery, as it turns out, does not love company.

That story was fun.

It definitely has elements from other fairy tales, you know, with death being stuck to something and someone living forever.

But I like how misery doesn't just end up a wandering discontent spirit, but just someone who continued living a great life right there in the forest, kind of always running contrary to her name.

Our next story has an older married couple with one desire, but not that one.

That, however, will be right after this.

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Shoes were the basis for everything.

That was the philosophy.

passed from a father's father and great-grandfather down to the youngest of sons and sons after him.

Years in the making, the cobbler was.

Still, his father's expertise, combined with him being the only cobbler in four villages in any direction, multiplied by the number of feet that worked tirelessly, or rather, were very tired, but the crushing realities of medieval life meant they had to work like they weren't.

Well, for him, life's passion shook hands with job security, and along the way, contentment bloomed.

And why not?

It was, after

shoes that made way for the purchase of wool, which the missus, who came from a long line of spinners, spun into vibrant yarn.

Her wares, in turn, made way for more and better shoe materials that turned into insoles, quarters, and vamps, eyelets, and facings.

The couple sure had a way of crafting, and with such refined skills few had ever seen before.

In their years together, the cobbler and spinner had hammered together quite the cushy dual income situation.

Woven, you mean?

We've woven our lives together.

The spinner often sang to their dinner guests.

She would cast a nod to her wheel in the corner, and then the cobbler would chuckle and toss back a shoemaker pun.

Around and around they would go, their one-ups laced with good humor that warmed the soul.

The dinner guests smiled their usual, strange smiles.

So many puns.

So fun.

The cobbler and spinner were kind of a lot.

Today, however, felt different.

Though bread piled with ham and cheese graced their plates, and their house slash workroom slash storefront remained toasty and inviting, something was yet missing.

So, um,

I've been thinking, the cobbler began.

His hand hooked the curve of his neck as he spoke, and the wrinkle above his brow deepened.

I was, well,

I was hoping to talk to you about something.

The spinner set down her fork.

Is this is good or bad?

I'm not sure, the cobbler admitted.

The table rocked as he pressed into his elbows.

It's just that it's been you and me all these years.

Just the two of us.

The room began to feel heavy.

Oh, they were years full of happiness and wonder, he was quick to add.

His wife's shoulders relaxed.

But yesterday, when the neighbors were sitting around our fire with all their many kids,

the spinner's eyes grew misty.

She started to pick away at a spot of nothing beside her plate.

I know, dear, she murmured.

I've had the same thoughts, to be quite honest.

Brows lifted, drawing a softness into the crevices of the cobbler's face.

His wife felt the same way.

Warmth surged through his chest.

Of course she did, of course.

How united they had become after all these years.

Like the perfect pair of boots, long worn in, but not worn out.

Like a left and right shoe, different, but same and better together.

Did you catch the light in the children's eyes?

And how their parents glowed with those goofy grins?

The spinner wore a fresh grin of her own.

All that joy, that exuberant joy emanating from the family next door as they talked about their pancake breakfasts.

It was their family tradition every weekend.

Why had the crafty couple, the spinner and the cobbler, never had a pancake breakfast?

The neighbors had burst.

That was the hard truth the cobbler had wrestled with all night.

Oh, but the issue of children.

We don't need children to have fluffy golden cloud cakes for breakfast, the spinner said, brightening.

I bet we could freeze the leftovers if we had some.

Ooh, have them on hand right when you need them later, you know?

How old will we freeze leftovers?

It's June.

The cobbler's enthusiasm hit a brief speed bump.

I don't know, a wizard?

That's not what we should be thinking about because, well, what about the topping?

Mr.

Cobbler's eyes reignited.

Toppings, he smiled.

Limitless, my dear.

Limitless.

Flour, eggs, milk.

What else did we need?

What was it the neighbor said?

Vanilla, I think?

And baking powder.

And a pinch of salt.

We have all those things.

Just not a frying pan.

Yes.

Yes, that was the one thing we don't have.

The one thing that's kept us pancakeless all those years.

The couple fell back in their chairs with a whoosh, like kites that lost their wind.

And now the room felt heavier than before.

The toast seemed paler, their ham sweaty.

No, came a voice.

A chair leg scraped across the floor, and the cobbler jumped.

He peered from beneath the excess folds of his lids toward the blur of his wife striding toward the door.

Frying pan, that's all?

A frying pan?

Oh, she'd find a frying pan, and they would have all the pancakes they wanted today.

The cobbler had always thought their house to be the perfect size.

Their single-room cabin nestled beneath ancient pines had more than enough space for a kitchen, a washtub, sleeping quarters, and a nook for a cobbler to cobble and a spinner to spin.

What more did they need?

Counter space!

We need more counter space.

He barked over the clang and sizzle from the kitchen.

The plate across his forearms stung, growing hotter by the second, but there was nowhere to lay it down.

Already, his workbench steamed with towers of flapjacks, leaning inward against one another.

Shoes in all stages of creation had long been demoted to the floor underneath.

And yet it wasn't enough.

The stones of the hearth, the dining table, the dark edges of the room, all were now framed with stacks and stacks of pancakes.

The idea was that the frying pan didn't come around that often.

High-walled pots and mid-sized saucepans, sure, but never a frying pan.

Certainly not a whopping 14-incher of only semi-rusted iron, like this one.

It was such an absolute unit that the cobbler had almost tried to sit in it, just to prove his point.

But of course, being the borrowed frying pan that it was, that was not appropriate.

The missus had brought it back from the neighbors earlier that day.

Borrowed, she said many times over, and again.

It's borrowed, so be careful with it.

Ultimately, the couple agreed that they would milk the pan for all it's worth by the day's end.

They mixed and poured and flipped, round upon round, cooking up enough pancakes to last an entire year, even before mid-afternoon, because once more, who knew when they'd be able to borrow a frying pan again?

Running low on batter, the spinner now called from the stove.

Without a thought, the cobbler dumped his latest pan of hotcakes on their bed and dashed back to the kitchen, platter tucked beneath an arm.

He'd quite mastered the one-handed egg crack by then and hardly felt the need to measure or follow the recipe any longer.

The next batch would be ham.

Yes, ham-flavored pancakes.

That was sure to be a winner and a delightful surprise on some future morning.

Also, he could tuck some solid ham cakes wordplay in his back pocket for a future dinner party.

Plate me, his wife broke in.

Sweat gathered on her brow, bumpy like the back of a toad, and on her spatula, four round pancakes wobbled and steamed.

Take the pancakes, dear, or the rest will burn.

Snapping to, the cobbler produced the platter.

Their last, since all the other plates were now in use.

He let go of the batter bowl and pointed to the skillet.

Pop those done ones on here, and I'll stack them with the others on the bed.

On the bed?

Oh, tell me you put a fresh quilt on there first.

No, why would I do that?

Why would you put food on a dirty quilt?

Well, I didn't have time to change the linens.

The plate was getting hot and the batter running low.

With a scowl, the spinner filled the plate and snatched it away.

Start the next batch while I take care of this.

She hollered over her shoulder.

The cobbler saluted the empty corner and turned to the stove, dragging the batter bowl close to the pan.

His wife would see soon enough how there was no more room in the room.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, he sang to a made-up tune.

Oh, the misses would flip her flapjacks onto the bed just as he had, and there'd be nothing more to say about that.

He started scooping the batter onto the skillet.

That would be that.

That would be that.

Scoop and pour.

Scoop and pour.

Man, hot cakes were so easy to make.

Although this new batch seemed awfully quiet, the last scoop of batter hadn't sizzled at all, and there were no bubbles rising to the surface on any of them.

Oh,

oh, the pan's not on the heat, he said with a chuckle.

His wife must have moved it from the flame before stepping away.

Well, easy fix.

The cast iron pan, however, was heavier than he thought, and more more pressing, also hotter than he imagined.

Not hot enough to sizzle fresh batter, but definitely hot enough to burn the man's hand and make him squeal.

With a shriek, the cobbler dropped the pan, which nicked the edge of the batter bowl, which took to the air and landed upside down on the floor, splattering all over the neighbor's borrowed pans

pans?

Plural?

Oh.

Oh no.

Where there had been one, now there were two, or rather two shattered halves, oozing with batter.

How was this even possible?

The cobbler looked up just as the spinner returned, looking down.

After a beat, their eyes met in the middle.

Well, said the cobbler, looks like you'll have to tell the neighbor.

Wrong.

Wrong response, wrong attitude, wrong assumption.

I'm not telling the neighbor anything, the spinner said behind crossed arms.

You sure about that?

I'm fairly certain the neighbors are going to notice that their 14-inch frying pan is destroyed.

All I see is you standing there holding the pan you broke, making excuses about telling the neighbors what happened.

For a moment, the cobbler could only blink.

And in that time, all became clear.

The spinner had borrowed the pan, so it only made sense that she return it.

Otherwise, it would seem like the cobbler was returning the pan on her behalf, which begged the question, why did the spinner not want to return the pan herself?

Maybe it's because she's busy.

Or maybe it's because she feels bad about breaking the pan.

Or maybe it's because she's busy.

Or maybe the cobbler wasn't sure what else to say, so he did the only thing that came to mind.

What are you doing?

I'm touching my nose.

You're getting batter all over your face.

I'm touching my nose because the last person to touch their nose has to do the thing.

So now I'm touching my nose.

You have to return the pan.

But you're the last one to touch the pan.

Yeah, but also my finger is on my nose.

See?

Yeah, it's practically in it.

What's that?

I said not it.

I'm calling it not it.

So now the nose thing doesn't count.

You can't do that.

You can't-

fine.

But when the cobbler threw his hands in the air, the spinner planted a finger on her nose.

Two could play by that rule.

You broke it, you buy it.

You'll have to tell the neighbors what happened.

It took a good hour and a half for things to cool down at the old dark forest shoe and spinning, and to clean the mess on the floor and bag all the pancakes once they'd cooled.

Somewhere during that time, the cobbler realized that neither he nor his wife had eaten lunch.

We were so busy cooking, he chortled, handing the spinner a ham pancake.

And you know how we get when we're hungry.

I'm sure that's why we fought.

I'm awfully sorry.

They both were.

Their relationship mended.

The couple turned to face the broken frying pan on the table.

Big sighs and pained looks did nothing to remedy the situation, however.

Something,

eventually, would have to be done.

Did the neighbors happen to say when they wanted their fry pan back?

Just when we're done with it.

I figured we'd wash it and return it tomorrow.

Hmm.

Well, then, that makes this a bit easier.

Copler swept up both halves of the pan, flung open a cupboard, and stashed the pieces away.

Obviously, we can't keep the pan forever, so how about this?

The next one of us to speak, to say anything at all, that's the one who has to tell the neighbors.

He studied his wife as she tipped her head.

Part of her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth, as she often did when deep in thought, before she nodded.

Fair enough.

Alrighty, then, let the best spouse win, the cobbler declared, or rather would have, had the contest not begun.

It was on.

We'll see that there's no way that this can possibly go wrong and end up with an angry mob and church intervention, but that will, once again, be right after this.

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Just after breakfast the following day, a knock sounded on the front door.

Neither the husband nor the wife made any motion to answer, and instead remained heads down at their workstations.

It was Saturday, after all, and the shoes had to be finished and the yarn spun to remain on schedule.

Especially after yesterday's day off making pancakes, the cobbler made himself not say.

Neither had so much as looked at the other all morning, lest they accidentally utter a word, and their game of silence continued.

The knock sounded again, backed this time by the neighbor's voice.

It was Saturday, he reminded the couple through the door.

Sunday was the weekend?

Well, not really.

There was no weekend, just like half a day on Saturday and whatever time we get on Sunday after church, but it was still pancake breakfast time with the family, so how about that fry pan?

Guys?

Hello?

Elbow deep in tools and leather, the cobbler froze with bated breath.

His wife was surely doing the same, hoping the neighbor would give up and go home.

Minutes later they were almost in the clear, except one of them had left the front window wide open.

Oh, you are home the neighbor stopped and said through the gap.

The shine of his forehead tipped inside, and he gripped the sill, as though he might start climbing into the kitchen.

Thought you all might be out, but here you are.

So uh can I get my pan back?

You know, I gotta I gotta feed my family.

There was no reply, save for the cobbler's thumping hammer and the whirr of the spinner's wheel.

Smells like ham and hotcakes in here.

He tried again, but the cobbler pounded louder, and the spinner spun faster.

Love a good ham cake.

A trail of sweat dribbled down the cobbler's face, but he ignored it and hunched lower over his work.

Oh, well, it looks like you guys are a little busy, so I'll I'll come back, I guess.

I just need my pan before tomorrow morning, or I'll have to cancel pancake breakfast, and I don't like to do that, you understand.

Our kids outnumber us like five to one, and these are violent times.

Still, the couple gave no response.

As the figure in the window walked away, scratching his head, the cobbler eased back onto his heels.

He set down his edge iron and his hammer, and nearly sighed, too, but caught himself just in time.

Over his shoulder, he noticed the spinning wheel slow to a halt while his wife dabbed her brow.

Her mouth, however, remained as taut as the the drive band of her wheel.

The contest was still on.

A vow of silence can sometimes be a good thing.

It can gift a person time to clear their head or reflect on life at large.

One can search their heart or sift their motivations.

They can grow.

And that's exactly what the couple did those initial days.

In the first week, the cobbler watched himself turn into a new type of man, one that wanted to journal and hike and perhaps grow a beard.

It felt good, even if a bit strange for him.

But in week two, the contest started to get real.

Never mind the transformations taking place inside the cabin.

What about outside?

At the open windows, customers clustered, pressing in with the energy of a mob and surely trampling the perennials in the front beds.

They shouted over one another, waving bigger than their neighbors like concert goers vying for a glance from the main act.

Only neither the cobbler nor the spinner looked away from their work, no matter how much noise the people made.

Scowls rolled in like storm clouds, and still the cobbler hunched and hammered away.

Inside though, he did wonder, why all the unrest?

The people had their shoes, they had their yarn.

What more could they want?

Apparently, everything,

most of the front row elbowing by the open window, was shouting questions about the custom orders, new orders, and pre-orders.

A few in the back grumbled about customer service, and they were always so chatty and friendly here.

What happened?

Say something, talk to us, please.

What will the spring line entail?

A pair in the middle begged.

I'm worried about you, wailed another.

Give me back my fry pan, you terrible neighbors, growled a third.

And these were the words that haunted the cobbler the most, that night as he slept, and the next morning when the mob returned, or maybe it had not been the words, but the speaker's icy glare from the edge of the window, the one presently easing back into view.

Give me my fry pan, give it back The neighbor raised his arm, revealing the bite marks.

Noticing the furtive glances of the cobbler, and filled with the feral rage usually only reserved for his pancakeless four to nine year olds, the neighbor lunged through the window and on to the counter.

The cobbler bent and clanged his tools with such force that he might stifle the whimper in his throat.

In the opposite corner, the spinner's wheel buzzed and whirred like a fan, kicking up dust around the room.

Still, neither uttered a word, not even when the neighbor barked in each of their faces in turn.

A child on a father's shoulders pointed from within the mob.

They looked they look possessed or under a spell, she exclaimed.

The crowd released the sill and backed away, huddling in the shade of the pines.

Possessed?

Could that be true?

And was it was it contagious?

Could

half the mob turned and sprinted away, leaving the other half straining to keep up.

Keep your shoes!

Keep your yarn!

And keep whatever spirits have overtaken you!

The people squealed.

Such sudden silence in the people's absence was almost too much to handle.

Gradually, birdsong returned and patted the stillness.

Only then did the cobbler finally set down his tools.

He looked to his wife and she to him, and still, neither said a word.

The next morning, the cobbler stole a glance through the front window, half expecting to flinch at the mob of customers charging up the path once more.

But there was no one, only birds just beginning their songs of the day.

He took up his position at the bench and started working on a new design.

Already in the opposite corner, the spinner's wheel raced and whirred.

Just before lunch, however, someone knocked on the door.

As before, neither the cobbler nor the spinner made any move to answer, which this time was no problem.

With a thud, a boot exploded through the door, followed by a dark robe, starched collar, and a bucket.

Holy water, it said on the side.

There are spirits here, the intruder announced with a scowl.

He dipped a branch into his bucket, marched right over to the cobbler, and shook it in his face.

Begone, you voice-snatching spirits!

Begone, you unseen forces that overtake this place!

With each breath, the robed man dipped his branch and flung his water across the cobbler, his work, and the bench.

Then the intruder marched over to the spinner and did the same, though she flinched and shielded her eyes.

He did the same in all the corners, around the door, and along the wall.

Speak, he commanded them at last.

Speak, for your house is now clean.

The cobbler looked to his wife and she to him, but neither opened their mouths.

Though the cobbler's latest project was dotted with water spots and the spinner's wheel squeaked, neither made a sound.

Hey, I'm not paying you if you don't fix my neighbors, both heard through the window.

The the neighbor?

He'd hired this robed figure to drive away a bad spirit?

I have performed the rite, which is the standard package, the robed figure replied over a shoulder.

I'm a well-known and well-respected exorcist who always gets his spirit.

Just ask the fine, curse-free citizens of Ogdenville, Brockway, and North Haverbrook.

And I, by the way, I do charge for travel as well.

The neighbor was still not visible, probably because he was afraid of catching whatever bad spirits the couple had that kept them from speaking.

He made it clear, however, that he would not be paying unless the neighborhood was in the clear.

I have children, he grumbled.

The stranger put down his bucket.

He snapped his branch in two, and with a huff and too much effort, he dumped all of the water on the spinner's head.

Like, all of it, at once.

Across the room, the cobbler could hardly believe his eyes.

More importantly, he was relieved that no one heard his gasp.

My yarn.

Look what you did to my yarn.

The spinner shrieked even louder.

She had spoken.

At last, the contest was over.

The cobbler threw down his tools and pumped both fists in the air.

He laughed and did a jig.

He pointed to his wife with glee while she tore at her hair.

That's not fair, she complained, then turned on the stranger.

You have no idea what you've done.

No, you don't, the cobbler said, ducking between them.

He waggled a finger.

Had the tables been turned, my dear, you'd be enforcing the rules.

You know you would.

You spoke first.

You have lost the game.

From the cupboard, he produced the broken fry pan halves, one in each hand.

Oh my gosh, that's my frying pan.

What did you do?

How did you do it?

It's broken.

In the window, the neighbor's shiny face had appeared.

So too, his hands on the sill, and his frown.

You got

you guys are the worst, you know that?

Here I am trying to help you, and you just what are you doing?

Inside, the cobbler had set down the broken pan and now stood with a finger pressed atop his nose.

Across the room, the soaking spinner rushed to do the same.

Both looked to the robes stranger, who, taking one look, dropped his bucket and pressed both fingers to his nose.

What are you doing?

Why are you all doing that?

Stop that, the neighbor fumed.

You have to take the pan, was all the cobbler would say.

Yeah, you're the last one to touch your nose, so you have to take it and tell your family what happened.

Yeah.

It made no sense to the neighbor, but there was nothing he could do.

Full disclosure, this story did not end with a nose-goes thing.

It just said, the good man threw away the shoe he held in his hand and danced for joy.

Which, I mean, he did win, kind of.

Some stories have grand morals, like all the ones from last week.

Sometimes it's just fun to tell a story of a friendly competition that spirals out of control and also has way too many pancakes.

And we did way too much research into early modern shoe repair, spinning, and how exactly, through fluctuation in temperatures and inopportune force, you could actually break a cast iron pot.

Next week, we're back in Greek myth.

telling the stories of Demeter and how she learned to quit worrying and love her siblings.

Well, love is a strong word, a very strong word, and also an incorrect word.

More so, stand to be in their presence, albeit with a seething, abiding hatred.

And also, in a roundabout way, she invented mint juleps.

The creature this time is the Asambansam from the folklore of the Akan.

in southern Ghana and Africa.

Creatures like the Ansimbasam show how archetypal the character of Batman is.

That being said, if Bruce Wayne had modeled his suit after the Ansembosum, he might have been even more effective.

Large, bloodshot eyes, long legs, feet pointing both ways that have iron hooks in them, a 20-foot-wide wingspan, the bright pink skin is a fun little curveball, but the iron teeth more than make up for it.

Like Batman, it has a strong sense of justice, and being a forest dweller, its primary interest is making sure the forest renewal is carried out the way it should be.

Unlike Batman, if you mess with the trees, it will eviscerate you and consume you with its iron claws and teeth.

If you're looking to do some illegal looting in Ghana, first, those are some odd Saturday plans, maybe don't do that.

But if you find yourself in the forest up to no good and you see some long legs dangling from a tree, probably avoid those.

If those legs have hooked iron claws and belong to the pink bat monster watching you intensely, waiting for you to take the bait not sure what the bait is in the situation one version i found just says it dangles the legs in an attempt to attract people up to no good who i guess also have a really specific type if you want to see an artist's depiction of the ensembonsum there's a carving that the british museum um acquired nearly 100 years ago The British Museum is helpfully looking after the artifacts from cultures all over the world, but forever.

The piece is not on display, and British law makes it illegal for the British Museum to send it or other artifacts back to Ghana.

But we can see a picture of it on the internet, which is just as good.

I linked it in the show notes.

That's it for this time.

Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Weiser.

Our theme song is by Broke for Free, and the Creature of the Week music is by Steve Combs.

There are links to even more of the music we used in the show notes.

Thank you so much for listening, and we'll see you next time.

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