A very long time ago, a girl was kidnapped by a witch. Nobody knew the girl’s real name, but they called her Prunella. For you see, each day, while on her way to school, the girl would collect three pieces of fruit from a wild plum tree.
The tree was appreciative of Prunella. Not only because the girl would leave a few wildflowers and kind words in exchange for plums, but because an entire season of ripe fruit was a heavy burden to carry.
Prunella was considerate but naïve, unaware that her beloved plum tree was rooted to enchanted ground. One day (a day that appeared no different than any other day), the girl spotted the biggest, ripest plum she had ever seen. But no sooner had she plucked the fruit from its stem, did the plum transform into a witch and drag Prunella into the woods.
The witch imprisoned the girl in her house, where she would remain until she worked off her debt from ‘stealing’ plums.
Time passed slowly for Prunella while at the witch’s house, but she always managed to complete whatever task was demanded of her. Soon, despite the unfortunate circumstances, Prunella blossomed into a young woman—a transformation that only seeded more hate within her captor’s heart.
One morning, the witch decided to get rid of the girl once and for all, so she gave Prunella an old basket and sent her to the river to fetch some water. She didn’t bid the girl farewell or offer any words of advice, just a warning—complete this simple task or burn in the fire.
Prunella eyed the witch’s hearth fire, which was always lit. She was a determined young woman, one that would do anything to stay far away from the witch’s next meal, but she also knew of the old woman’s tricks.
Prunella’s suspicions were realized when she dipped the basket into the river. Each time she pulled the basket (which was riddled with holes) from the stream, water poured onto her feet. Prunella wept at her misfortune, convinced that the witch had finally outsmarted her. She cried so hard that tears flooded her eyes and created a salty waterfall that flowed into the river.
“Prunella, why are you crying?”
Prunella jumped to her feet, “Who’s there?” she said, peering into the river.
“It is me, Bensiabel, son of the witch who’s imprisoned you.”
“What do you want?” asked Prunella. “Tell me quickly, although I have little to offer. The witch has taken everything from me. I no longer have family, food, or even a basket in which to fetch water.”
“That’s alright,” said Bensiabel, “because all I ask for is a kiss. If you grant me a kiss, I will fill the basket with water and save you from my mother’s spiteful whims.”
“No,” said Prunella. “I shall never kiss the son of a witch.”
“So be it,” said Bensiabel sadly. “But I shall fill the basket anyways.”
True to his word, Bensiabel filled the basket with water, and Prunella went on her way. When she arrived home and handed over the basket, the witch was instantly suspicious.
But the girl said nothing.
The next day, the witch gave Prunella a bag of wheat. She told the girl that when she returned, she had better see nine loaves of bread cooling on the windowsill. Same as before, the witch didn’t bid Prunella farewell or offer any words of advice, just a warning—complete this simple task, or burn in the fire.
Although she knew this was an impossible task, Prunella set to work straight away. But as the minutes ticked by, tears poured down her cheeks, making the dough wet and sticky.
It was then that the girl heard Bensiabel’s voice. “Prunella, save your tears. If you grant me a kiss, I will make the bread, and you will be saved.”
But Prunella declined, insisting that a girl knows better than to kiss the son of a witch.
Bensiabel sighed, and Prunella felt the heaviness in his heart. She watched as he silently ground the wheat, worked the dough, and placed nine mounds in the oven. When the old woman returned home, the freshly-baked loaves were cooling on the windowsill.
The witch was furious. “I know this is the work of Bensiabel!” she shrieked.
But the girl said nothing.
The next day, the witch sent Prunella on a new mission. The girl was to travel across the mountains to collect a casket from the witch’s sister. Prunella was thrilled to be out of the house and was not at all worried when Bensiabel appeared at her side and asked to accompany her.
Because he had proven himself to be a valuable companion, Prunella accepted his offer. When Bensiabel inquired where the young woman was headed, she explained that she was on her way to his aunt’s house. Prunella’s tone was hopeful, and she wondered aloud if perhaps this might be the person to rescue her from the cruel witch.
Bensiabel frowned. He explained that his aunt was even more spiteful than his mother, but if Prunella were to grant him a kiss, he would give her everything she needed to survive the trip.
Just like before, and the time before that, Prunella declined. “No good will come from kissing the son of a witch,” she said.
“Regardless, I will tell you what to do,” said Bensiabel. “For I love you, Prunella. And so long as I live, I will be by your side.”
And so Bensiabel gave Prunella a canister of oil, a loaf of bread, a rope, and a broom. He explained that if she wished to survive, she would oil the hinges on the front door and feed the bread to the dog. Next, while the dog was eating, she should walk into the courtyard and hand the rope to a woman trying to fetch water from the well. Then, she should find a second woman in the kitchen and offer her the broom.
Only after Prunella completed these four tasks would the casket appear. Bensiabel explained that as soon as she spotted the casket, she must grab it and flee through the same door through which she entered.
Prunella listened carefully, and when she arrived at the sister’s house, she did exactly as Bensiabel said. She oiled the hinges on the front door, which allowed her to enter without startling the slumbering dog. She placed the loaf in front of his nose while he slept, luring him out of dreamland with the promise of a long-overdue meal. When Prunella saw the woman in the courtyard trying to fetch water from a well by tying her braided hair to a bucket, she gave her the rope. And in the kitchen, she found a woman cleaning the hearth with her tongue, and kindly offered her the broom.
And just like Bensiabel said, as if by magick, the casket appeared atop the kitchen table. Prunella wasted no time. She snatched the casket and sprinted towards the door.
She was only a few steps from the threshold when she heard the sister cry, “Stop the girl!” She called to the front door hinges, the guard dog, the girl by the well, and the woman cleaning the hearth, demanding that they catch the thieving Prunella.
But the hinges refused to hold the door shut, for Prunella heeded their cries instead of watching them become paralyzed from rust.
The guard dog also refused the woman, because for once, his aching belly was full, and he was able to sleep soundly.
When the woman told the girl with the long hair to throw Prunella down the well, she too dismissed the sister. She would no longer overlook the kindness of strangers.
And not surprisingly, the woman cleaning the hearth also ignored the sister’s cries. Because why would a person inflict harm upon someone who had showered them with kindness?
When Prunella returned home with the casket, the witch was furious. She screamed in a language that Prunella did not understand. Even Bensiabel, who was used to his mother’s outbursts, was so frightened that he slept beneath Prunella’s bed, just in case.
No sooner had Prunella fallen asleep, did the witch appear outside her door with another impossible request.
“I have four roosters,” said the witch. “One is white, one is yellow, one is red, and one is black. Tell me which one will crow first?”
The girl hesitated, trembling in fear.
“It will be the white rooster,” whispered Bensiabel from beneath the bed.
“The white rooster will crow first!” yelled Prunella as the witch paced on the other side of the door.
The old woman stomped her feet in disgust. “Well then, which one will crow second?”
Prunella waited for Bensiabel’s reply and then said, “The red one will crow second!”
The witch howled and banged on the door. “Bensiabel, I know you’re helping the girl, there’s no way she could know these things!”
But the girl said nothing.
“Tell me, Prunella, which rooster will be the third to crow?”
Bensiabel whispered that it would be the black bird to crow next, but Prunella couldn’t hear him over the commotion on the other side of her door.
“This is your last chance!” warned the witch when Prunella didn’t respond. “If you don’t tell me which bird will be the third to crow, you’ll be my next meal!”
Prunella started to cry, assuming that Bensiabel had finally abandoned her. The witch cackled in delight, thinking the same. But just as the door splintered and broke apart beneath the witch’s powerful fists, Bensiabel flew out from beneath the bed and shoved the old woman with all his might.
The witch was caught off-guard. She lost her balance and began to roll. She rolled down the stairs and out the door, past the enchanted plum tree, and through the mountains that bordered Prunella’s childhood village.
She rolled so far and for so long that soon her skin turned purple, and her insides softened. Some suggest that by now, she no longer resembles the hag of the woods, but a piece of perfectly ripened fruit.
But nobody can say with certainty because no one has seen the witch since that day.
Not her sister. Or Prunella. Or even Bensiabel, who was finally rewarded with a kiss from his love, and the promise of many more to come.
This retelling was adapted from the Italian folktale, “Prunella,” by Andrew Lang.
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