Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28428152-20181119060745

This is based upon the poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe by the name of "Erlkonig" (German for Elf-King). It was also made into a famous song by Franz Schubert. Honestly, not really sure if it even stands on its own, or if it's completely a completely pointless adaptation, so I guess tell me what you think. Nontheless, it was quite fun to write, especially once I got to the point where poetic flow began to naturally weave in and out of the story.

Hugo quickly mounted the horse within the dimly-lit stables, with the lantern casting long shadows over their fretful faces. He pulled about his cloak and turned towards the woman next to him, a weather-worn mother wearing an old dirty skirt. She had not even changed into her evening attire.

“Please,” she urged, “hurry, my love, for Günther is fevered and may not last ‘till the ‘morrow.” She picked up a shivering young boy wrapped in blankets and handed him to Hugo, her eyes deep and tearful.

“My love, I shan’t rest until I have reached the court and have medicine for our child. I pray that we return soon, but until then, ask God to watch over our son.”

The father and son then head out away from the cottage and into the distance, the night dark and the wind wild, but the father held the boy tight against his body, keeping him warm and safe from the perils that lurked in the darkness of the fields they passed.

“My father,” the boy rasped, “will they have medicine there?”

“Of course, my son. They will have what you need. Now rest your weary eyes, for we’ve a long, dark road to travel ‘fore we reach town.”

Gunther put his head back against his father’s breast, feeling the beating heart and warmth of his blood as Hugo held him snug. On they went, with the wind biting at the horse’s heels and the darkness soaking their eyes. With the child held in one hand and the reins in the other, Hugo had not been afforded enough arms to carry with them a lamp, nor had he time enough to toil with hanging one from the saddle.

The fields flicked by, and the mist grew thick, glowing under the silver rays of the moon. On they rode, never stopping, with the father and child both perspiring for fear a life be lost that night, taken by the cold pallid hands of Death come in the form of sick.

Hugo noticed once they passed a stream that Gunther had cowered his face against him and groaned against the evils of the night.

“My son,” he asked, “why cover your face in such fear?”

Gunther whimpered and replied, “You see the elf-king, father?”

Hugo cast his eyes about, though he saw nary but fog and grain, and shook his head.

“He’s near!” Gunther cried. “The king of the elves with crown and train!”

Hugo gave a hollow laugh and said, “My son, the mist is on the plain.”

Though he tried to lighten the boy’s heart, he could feel it weighing them down. So, he reached out his hand and pointed to the trees ahead.

“Do you see, my son, the trees so near? There is no need to have fear, for if the elf-king lived in the plains, he would not venture beyond the brush.”

“But my father, would not he flourish in the thickets so lush?”

With this, the father did not respond, but held the boy tighter, to keep his fevered dreams at bay. For that was all they were: hallucinations of the ill.

Past another stream they went, and through the canopy above the moon illuminated the fog-ridden clusters they wound between along the twisting road. The wind whistled in the leaves and echoed between the hills, and Hugo could not help but imagine the wind to be speaking to him in a playful tongue. But no matter how much he tried to shake away this notion, he could not help but imagine words in the wind.

“Sweet lad, o come and join me, do!” the wind crooned. “Such pretty games I will play with you; on the shore gay flowers their color unfold, and my mother has many garments of gold.”

“My father, my father!” Gunther cried with eyes wet and cheeks white. “Can you not hear the promise the elf-king breathes in my ear?”

Hugo shook his head, but his jaw was tight as he replied, “Be calm, stay calm, my child; lie low. In withered leaves the night-winds blow.”

Hugo urged the horse to ride faster, and the trees whipped past and the path grew darker. Up ahead, he could see a cluster of willow trees that shimmered in the moonlight. He couldn’t quite tell, but he could almost see figures dancing about it. The wind began to speak again, and Hugo realized that it almost seemed to sing in his ear, but he remained firm that it was a trick of the hollows.

“Will you, sweet lad, come along with me?” it sang, “My daughters shall care for you tenderly. In the night my daughters, their revelry keep; they’ll rock you and dance you and sing you to sleep.”

“My father! My father! O can you not trace the elf-king’s daughters in that gloomy place?”

The wind nipped at Hugo’s face, but he batted his eyes, failing to repress a shudder from the air. From the corners of his eyes he could see the leaves rustling and racing alongside their steed, who whinnied and snorted with eyes wild and wide.

“My son, my son, I see it clear,” he said, “how grey the ancient willows appear.”

In his arms, Gunther whimpered and wheezed, while the hoofbeats kept pace with their stampeding hearts. Shadows shimmered in the trees, and the wind blew the leaves. The moon seemed to have disappeared, but the branches grew near and caressed their tender faces. Hugo’s cloak flapped in the breeze, and he could almost feel fingers snatching at it to bring him to his knees. The maelstrom of leaves grew about them, and his mind perceived faces and figures within them, but he gave it no heed, for his son was in need of treatment lest he die in his arms that night.

“I love you,” the leaves and shadows moaned, “your comeliness charms me, my boy! And if you’re not willing, my force I’ll employ!”

“My son! My son!” Hugo screamed. “Have heart, for we are near the forest’s extreme!”

He felt the body of his son jerk in his arms, but he held his beloved yet tighter in his grasp, lest Gunther fall and be trampled under the horse’s lash.

“Now father, now father, he’s seizing my arm!” Gunther gasped, his eyes glazing past. “Elf-king has done me a cruel harm.”

Hugo shuddered and suppressed a shriek and wound through the leaves and over the streams, pushing the steed faster than he could think. They broke through the forest wall, and beyond the town could be seen with its buildings so tall. The moonlight glistened and the wind began to fall, while the leaves lied below and not hitherto.

“Gunther, Gunther!” the father yelled, joyous at last. “Look up, for we’ve reached our destination, our troubles have passed! You’ll be sick no longer, now let us go yonder.”

But there came no reply from the child’s lips, and a chill ran down the father’s spine like daggers and sticks.

“Gunther, please, have you slipped into a doze? If so, please awake to let me know.”

Alas, when the father heard not even a sigh, he righted his son and was dreadfully surprised.

For in his arms, the child was dead.

Hugo’s blood ran cold, and he gripped his fingers tight around the blankets. Gunther’s lips were blue, and his green eyes gazed at the sky. Hugo brushed a strand of hair from Gunther’s face and whimpered as his chest heaved. But he’d barely let out a single tear before he heard a chuckle so near.

Turning his head, Hugo saw a small shadow of the dead. Standing above it was a lanky figure stroking its head. The smaller phantom cried and reached out a hand, but the larger one writhed and snatched it away, shooting Hugo eyes of firebrand. Before they disappeared, the father caught a glimpse of the tall spectre’s finger, cold and rotted to the bone.  