Jorinda and Joringel

Long ago, there was a deep, dark forest where people rarely walked. In the middle of that forest stood an old castle with tall, cold towers. An enchantress lived there—some called her a witch. By day she could look like a grey cat slipping through shadows, and by night she might be heard as a screech-owl, calling sadly from a branch. She had a cruel magic: if any person came within a hundred paces of her castle, he or she could not move a step farther. The person would stand frozen like a statue, unable to speak or lift a hand. If it happened to be a maiden, the enchantress changed her at once into a bird, most often a nightingale, and hung her in a cage among many, many others.

Not far from that forest lived a young couple who loved each other dearly. The maiden was named Jorinda, and the young man was named Joringel. They were betrothed and liked to walk together through meadows and woods, talking of the day they would be married. Joringel had heard whispers about the castle and the enchantress, and he warned Jorinda often, “We must never go too close to the old castle. People say strange things happen there.” Jorinda would smile and promise, but the forest was so green, and the birdsong so sweet, that one soft evening they strolled deeper than they meant to go.

It was near sunset, when the light turns golden and the shadows grow long. Jorinda and Joringel came to a pretty clearing with tall trees all around. Jorinda sat on a stone and sang a gentle song. Joringel listened happily—until he noticed a dark tower peeking through the trees. His heart thumped. “Jorinda,” he whispered, “listen—the woods are too quiet.” The songbirds went silent. A chill passed over the grass, and the last ray of sunlight slipped away. They had crossed the line—within a hundred paces of the castle.

Suddenly, Joringel could not move. His legs would not take a step. His arms hung heavy at his sides. He could only look and listen, his heart pounding. Jorinda trembled and tried to reach for him, but before she could call his name, an old woman stepped from behind a tree. Her eyes were sharp, and her voice hissed like dry leaves. “So,” she said, “a new little bird for my collection.” She waved a thin hand and murmured a spell. In a blink, Jorinda was gone, and in her place a small, brown nightingale fluttered in the air, singing a frightened song.

The enchantress lifted the tiny bird, stroked its soft feathers, and slipped it into her apron. Joringel wanted to shout, to fight, to beg—but the spell held him silent and still. The enchantress glided away toward the castle. After a little while she returned, spoke a strange word, and Joringel could move again. But Jorinda was gone.

He searched at first in a sorrowful daze, calling her name and wandering until night fell and morning came and night again. At last he left the forest and went to work as a shepherd in a far-off village, though his heart stayed in the shadow of the old castle. One night he dreamed he stood in a sunny meadow. In the grass grew a single flower, deep red as a drop of blood, with a clear dew-bead in its heart like a pearl. In the dream, a voice whispered, “With this flower in your hand, you can break enchantments. With this flower, you can free your love.” Joringel woke with hope burning in his chest.

He set out at once to search for the flower from his dream. He looked in hedges and along brook-banks, over hills and through valleys. He searched for many days, then weeks, then months. He did not give up. Often he thought of Jorinda’s laughter and her kind eyes, and that gave him strength. One early morning, when the sky was still pale and birds were just beginning to sing, he saw a glow in the grass. There it was—the flower from his dream—petals red as a living flame, and at its center a bright, shining drop. Joringel picked it gently and held it close.

He hurried back to the forest and found the path to the old castle. As he stepped beyond the hundredth pace, he felt the spell try to catch his feet—but it slipped away like mist. The flower protected him. He walked right up to the gate, which had always been locked and cold. He touched the iron with the red flower. The heavy gate swung open as if it had been waiting for him. Inside were dark halls and long stairways. The air smelled of dust and feathers.

The enchantress appeared on the stair, her eyes flashing. She snapped a spell at him, but Joringel only held up the flower, and her magic fell silent. She hissed and tried to slip past him as a shadow might, but he stepped by her without fear. Doors that were sealed opened at the flower’s touch. Locks clicked, bars lifted, and keys turned all by themselves.

At last he came to a high room with windows like narrow eyes. The room was filled with cages—hundreds and hundreds of cages—each holding a nightingale. Their tiny hearts beat quickly; their soft songs twined together into one sad, beautiful river of sound. Joringel stood very still and listened. He knew Jorinda’s voice as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat. Through the tangle of music he heard it—one pure note that rose like morning. He followed that note to a small cage in the corner.

Gently, he touched the cage and the bird with the red flower. In a breath, the nightingale fluttered and changed—wings became arms, feathers became a simple dress, and there stood Jorinda, just as she had been, her eyes shining with tears. “Joringel!” she cried, and he gathered her close. For a moment they could only hold each other and listen to the quiet turning back into joy.

The enchantress’s footsteps sounded in the hall, but still the flower’s power did not fade. Joringel and Jorinda moved from cage to cage. Whenever they touched a latch or a bar with the flower, it fell open. Whenever they touched a bird with the blossom, a maiden stood where the nightingale had been. The room filled with grateful voices. The dark castle, so long silent except for the cry of an owl, rang with the chatter and laughter of freed girls.

When the last cage was open, Joringel and Jorinda led everyone out. The enchantress could do nothing. The doors opened before the red flower, and the forest light poured in. The girls found their families; the forest grew safer; and the old castle stood empty and quiet at last.

Jorinda and Joringel went home together and were married as they had promised. They never forgot the path they had walked or the flower that had saved them. And they never forgot what held them safe through the darkest part of the woods: a promise kept, a faithful heart, and love that would not give up.