Can We Talk About How The Little Part Where Langa Goes Its Not The Same Clearly Means That He Was Always

White-Bear-King

Valemon

Part 2

Book by Peter Christen Asbjørnsen

illustrated by Svein Solem

“Good day,” said the king’s daughter.

“Have you seen anything of White-Bear-King Valemon?” she asked.

“Were you to have had him, maybe?” said the old woman. That it was. «Why, yes, he rushed by here yesterday, but he went so fast that you won’t catch up with him,” she said.

The little girl was playing about on the floor with a flask, which was such that it poured out whatever they wanted, and wherever the flask was, drink was never lacking.

“But this poor woman, who has to journey so far and on such rough roads, she’ll be thirsty and suffer many other hardships,” said the little girl, and then she asked if she could give her the flask. Why, yes that she could.

So the king’s daughter got the flask, said her thanks, and set out again, walking through the same forest, all that day and night.

On the third morning she came to a cottage, and there were an old woman and a little girl.

“Good day,” said the king’s daughter.

“Have you seen anything of White-Bear-King Valemon?” she asked.

“Were you to have had him, maybe?” said the old woman. That it was. «Why, yes, he rushed by here yesterday, but he went so fast that you won’t catch up with him,” she said.

The little girl was playing on the floor with a cloth that was such that whenever they said to it, “Cloth, spread thyself, and deck thyself with every good dish!” it did so. And wherever the cloth was, good food was never Lacking.

“But this poor old woman, who had to journey so far and on such rough roads, said the little girl,” she may well both starve and suffer many other hardships, so she’ll have more need of this cloth than I,” she said, and then she asked if she could give her the cloth. That she could.

So the king’s daughter took her cloth and said her thanks, and set off. Far, farther than far, through the forest all that day and night she went. In the morning she came to a mountain spur which was as steep as a wall, and so high and so wide that so end could she see. There was a cottage there too, and, when she came in, the first thing she said was:

“Good day, have you seen whether White-Bear-King Valemon has traveled this way?”

“Were you to have had him, maybe?” said the old woman. That it was. “Yes, he rushed by here yesterday, but he went so fast that you won’t catch up with him,” she said.

The cottage was full of little children, and they all clung to their mother’s apron strings and cried for food. The old woman put a kettle full of pebbles on the fire. The king’s daughter asked what was the good of that. They were so poor said the old woman that they could afford neither food nor clothes, and it was so hard to hear the children crying for a bit to eat. But when she put the kettle on the fire, and said,” Now the apples will soon be done,” it seemed to deaden their hunger, and they were patient for a while. It wasn’t long before the king’s daughter got out the cloth and the flask, as you can imagine, and when the children were fed and happy, she clipped out clothing for them with the golden scissors.

“Well, said the old woman of the house, “since you’ve been so heartily kind to me and my children, it would be a shame not to do what we can do to try to help you up the mountain. My husband is really a master smith. Now you just rest until he comes back, and I’ll get him to forge claws for your hands and feet, and then you can try to crawl up”.

When the smith came, he started on the claws right away, and the next morning they were ready. She had no time to wait, but said her thanks, fastened the claws on her hands and crept and crawled up the mountainside the whole day and night, and, just when she was so tired that she didn’t think she could lift her hand again, but felt she would sink to the ground, she got to the top. There was a plain, with fields and meadows so big and wide that she had never imagined anything so broad and so smooth, and close by there was a castle filled with workers of every kind who toiled like ants in an anthill.

“What is going on here?” asked the king’s daughter.

Well, this was where she lived, the Troll-hag, who had bewitched White-Bear-King Valemon and in three days she was to wed him. The king’s daughter asked if she could talk with her. No, not likely! That was out-and-out impossible. So she sat down outside the window, and started clipping with the golden scissors, and velvet and silken clothing flew about like a snowflurry. When the Troll-hag caught sight of that, she wanted to buy the scissors.

“For no matter how the tailors toil, it’s no use,” she said. “There are too many to be clothed.”

The scissors weren’t for sale, said the king’s daughter. But the Troll-hag could have them, if she would let her sleep with her sweetheart tonight. She could certainly do that, said the Troll-hag, but she would lull him to sleep herself, and wake her up herself. When he had gone to bed, she gave him a sleeping potion, so he was in no condition to wake up, for all the king’s daughter shouted and cried.

The next day the king’s daughter went outside the windows again, sat down and started pouring from the flask; it flowed like a brook, both beer and wine, and it never ran dry. When the Troll-hag laid eyes on that, she wanted to buy it.

“For no matter how much they toil at the brewing and distilling, it’s no use. There are too many to drink,” she said.

It wasn’t for sale for money, said the king’s daughter, but if she would let her sleep with her sweetheart tonight, she would give it to her. Yes, that she could certainly do, said the Troll-hag, but she would lull him to sleep herself, and wake him up herself. When he had gone to bed, she gave him a sleeping potion again, so the King’s daughter had no better luck that night either. He couldn’t be awakened, for all she cried and shouted. But that night one of the artisans was working in the room next door. He heard her cry in there, and he guessed what had really happened, and the next day he told the prince that she must have come, the king’s daughter who was to have freed him.

The next day was just like the others – with the cloth as with the scissors and the flask. When it was dinner time, the king’s daughter went outside the castle, pulled out the cloth, and said,” Cloth, spread thyself and deck thyself with every good dish!” Then there was enough food for a hundred men, but the king’s daughter sat down alone. When the Troll-hag caught sight of the cloth, she wanted to buy it.

“For no matter how much they cock and bake, it’s no use. There are too many mouths to feed,” she said.

It wasn’t for sale for money, said the king’s daughter, but if she would let her sleep with her sweetheart tonight, she could have it. She could certainly do that, said the Troll-hag, but she would lull him to sleep herself, and wake him up herself. When he had gone to bed, she came with a sleeping potion, but this time he was on his guard, and fooled her. The Troll-hag didn’t trust him any more than just so far, she didn’t, for she took a darning needle and stuck it right through his arm, to see if he were sleeping soundly enough. But no matter how much it hurt, he didn’t move, and then the king’s daughter was allowed to come in to him.

Now this was all very well, but they must get rid of the Troll-hag before he would be free. So he got the carpenters to make a trap door on the bridge which the bridal procession was to cross, for it was the custom there that the bride should ride first in the procession. When the Troll-hag started across the bridge with all her Troll-hag bridesmaids, the planks under them dropped open and they fell through. Then King Valemon and the the king’s daughter and all the wedding guests rushed back to the castle, and took as much of the Troll-hag’s gold and money as they could carry, and then rushed off to his country to hold the real wedding. But on the way, King Valemon stopped in and fetched the three little girls, and now she found out why he had taken the children from her, it was so that they could help her find him. The end.

MBTI Mysterycore Aesthetics

ISTJ: lab coats and autopsies of the not-quite-human, rows of silver file cabinets, footsteps echoing down cavernous sterile hallways, humming tape recorders, unintelligible whispers from inside the walls. 

ESTJ: dark trench coats and black coffee,  “What we need is evidence,” polaroids on cork board, caution tape, untraceable phone calls, flickering street lights, skepticism,  secret meetings in rainy alleyways.

INFP: black highways stretching into the night, screech-owl calls, baggy brown flannels,  ominous religious billboard,  unexplained cases of arson, a great once-buried force now rising from the earth.

ENFP: off-limit areas in state parks,  rings of glowing mushrooms, cabins filled with faded maps and unsettling taxidermy, caves lined with crystals, walkie talkies, the silhouette of unidentifiable antlers.

ISTP: ominous  cable towers stretching into a blood red sunset, picking locks, beat up converse and scraped knuckles, trespassing in abandoned factories and finding secret tunnels connecting the town.

ESTP: missing person newspaper headlines,  the feeling of being watched in a fluorescent midnight diner, summer storms, shady local politicians with greasy smiles, novelty ties, and bloody secrets. 

ESFJ:  bicycles with baskets, befriending loners who see ghosts, pep-talks and first aid kits, bouquets in graveyards, Ouija board sleepovers, lying hand-in-hand on a blanket  stargazing for signs of UFOs. 

ISFJ: secret treehouses where time is just a little different, shoe-boxes full of old coins no one can identify, saddle shoes, pinkie promises,  rescuing strange animals you found by the train tracks 

INTJ: specimens in formaldehyde and stolen classified documents, telepathic abilities, government surveillance, erasing your old identity, knowing too much, hiding out in a lighthouse until the time is right.

ENTJ: letterman jackets and restlessness, dreaming of flying, meteor crashes, taking home pieces of glowing space debris, calling the press,  “Don’t you understand! This could change everything!”

ISFP:  charcoal sketches of shadowy figures, porcelain dolls, sleepwalking into abandoned buildings, prophetic dreams, cornfields at midnight, attic rooms visible only to you,  “ No one ever believes me.”

ESFP:  eerie late August carnivals, fucking with things that absolutely should not be fucked with and then getting tempted by dark forces, chaotic split-lip grins, breaking curses, standing your ground. 

INFJ: boarded-up Victorian houses consumed by ivy,  gardens of poisonous plants, typewriter keys and piles of unread manuscripts, knowing all of this has happened before, taking secrets to the grave. 

ENFJ: spiral notepads and yellow pencils behind the ear, interviewing local hermits, speaking up at town hall meetings, justice for the restless dead,  making powerful enemies of faceless men in dark suits.

INTP: ‘70s science fiction paperbacks and striped tee-shirts, clay models of alien spacecraft, broken glasses, chalkboard equations, creaking swingset chains,  strange spinning lights above the suburbs. 

ENTP:  abandoned hospitals and EMF meters, notebooks filled with illegible equations, knowing everyone else in town calls you crazy, esoteric texts in dead languages,  portals to other dimensions.

Finland’s new Prime Minister Sanna Marin is 

A woman

A millennial 

Raised by same-sexed parents 

Youngest serving prime minister in the world

This is the utopia I was looking for. Well done, Finland! 

Hello I would like to be kissed on my stupid lips please

Why would you do this, it's so disrespectful

Please tell me dad is gonna help his son!!!!!!!

We Are Here pt 1/?

GUYS LANGA AND JOE HAVEN'T GOTTEN TO REKI YET! with how langas been hes totally gonna be able to see past rekis disguise. What if langa sees him and stops the race!WHAT IF LANGA FALLS FROM SEEING HIM

some of my favourite stills from kiki's delivery service (1/2)

The Not Deer was only ever supposed to be a fun, loose campfire story based on some experiences my friends and I had in a small area, and it's weird seeing it grow so wildly out of control.

It's aggrivating to see people slap appropriated Native American lore onto it when it was never supposed to be that. It's strange seeing people get so heated over a spooky story and try to debunk something that was never meant to be truly "bunked" in the first place.

I have no control over what the internet decides to do with it, of course. It's way out of my hands at this point. But I'd love for more people to know that "OP" does NOT endorse conflating the Not Deer with appropriated Native American folklore and to cut that shit out because it's disrespectful. The Not Deer is his own little guy and I just want people to enjoy his story.