Tale of the White-Eyed Witch

Away we went for to wend our way
in the wee morn hours of winter's day;
off to the well-feared dwelling of the witch
we steered our crew through the brush and the pitch.

Into the dark, stark center of the wood,
we trod on our quest to the best that we could,
till we came to the cottage of the bent, black flue
and we knew we'd pursue what we came there to do.

My brothers and I stepped around a black cat
and I rapped on the door with a rat-a-tat-tat.
We waited a minute, maybe more, in our stride,
Then a click and clang and the door sprang wide.

The withered and weathered old crone appeared,
craggy and leathered and all that we feared;
her warts and her wrinkles and her one white eye,
made us shiver and quiver; now our fate was nigh.

"Oh, conjuring queen," I began to explain,
"We have come for a cure for our present-day pain—"
But up went her hand, all bony and bare.
"I know," she replied. "Come inside, if you dare."

And back in the shadows of the cottage she went,
leaving us to follow and be true to our intent.
So with prickling skin, did we step into the hut
and once we were in, the door slammed shut.

Shelves overflowed with
     oceans of potions,
baubles and scrolls,
     notions and lotions,
alchemy bowls,

sigils and satchels,
     chalices and charms,
amulets, crystals,
     bottles of barms,

vials of fluids,
     eyeballs of owl,
talismans, idols,
     offal afoul,

tokens and trinkets,
     runestones and rings,
tonics and tinctures,
     talons and wings,

urns and an orb
     and skeleton strings
and evermore morbid and horrible things.

Every ingredient called for a spell;
all this we saw in this hovel of hell.
"Now," said the great hag, speaking once again.
"State what you want me to conjure for you, then."

"Our mother's unwell from another hard birth;
The doctors all fear she is near leaving earth.
We beg of you a brew to renew her to health,
For it’s ever so true that her love is our wealth.”

"Well," said the witch, voice sharp as a shiv,
“What have you to trade for the aid I can give?”
"We are but three meager tellers of tales,
Might five gold coins do to balance the scales?"

"Material goods in the woods, indeed!
I reap all I need from a spell or a seed.
So keep your coin," the sorceress said,
"And I'll enjoin you to this instead:

First: you must forge a fable designed
Where the witch in the wood is helpful and kind.
She doesn't eat children, she doesn't cause harm,
And good people win with the help of her charm.

Secondly: the youngest of you right here
Shall work off your debt with his sweat once a year,
To blend my mulch and render my seeds,
To tend my tendrils, saplings and weeds.

The rest of the year he may do what he will,
with one mere caveat to your shared skill:
He may still write tales, if he likes, all the same,
But he must use an alias and never know fame."

Ferdinand was mortified, stomach like worms,
but to save his mother, he agreed to the terms.
So the pact was made and the potion was brewed
And we brothers went home in a hopeful mood.

Our mother got well, all hearty and hale
and the witch got her annual aide and her tale:
Ferdy wrote his stories with a clever pseudonym
And all was good, evermore, for the bothers named Grimm.
 

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Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm actual ended up writing at least three stories with helpful witches, the most famous being the tale of Frau Holle.

Ferdinand Grimm provided art and other assistance for his brothers' books and wrote his own collection of tales under various pseudonyms.