The Crone’s Sore Feet – A Magical Tale of Courage and Compassion

Long before our modern world of maps and machines, there existed an ancient age that scholars and scientists have yet to acknowledge—a time lost even to myth. We call it The Age of Magic and Wonder. In those days, the earth overflowed with enchantment. The skies were painted in colors you’ve never seen, and creatures existed that would seem absurd to anyone but the wildest of children.

It was a marvelous time, truly—but not without its dangers. As in any era, light comes with shadow, and joy with peril.

Grace Goodangel and the Miserable Crone

In a small village perched on a rocky plateau above the Great Cold Sea, there lived a girl named Grace Goodangel. Grace was seventeen years old and known across her village for her kindness and patience—especially impressive given the burdens she bore.

Each morning since the age of twelve, Grace rose before dawn to cross the village to her grandmother’s creaky old cottage near the cliffs. Her grandmother, Gertrude Crone, was a woman so spiteful and cruel that the mere mention of her name made children shudder and mothers mutter protective charms under their breath. Rumors claimed she had outlived six husbands, possibly feeding them to her pigs and cats, who roamed her home like cursed guardians.

Grace, however, remained dutiful and respectful, visiting her grandmother every day—even on her birthday.

The Dreaded Morning

On the morning of her seventeenth birthday, Grace overslept.

She sprinted through the village to reach her grandmother’s house before the magical sundial’s shadow reached the hour mark—a shadow that, once crossed, magically alerted her grandmother to her tardiness.

Panting, she knocked with the coded rap she’d memorized years ago. The reply came—a harsh blast from a brass horn inside—and she entered, immediately engulfed in the suffocating scent of stale tobacco, cat urine, and dusty neglect. The curtains remained drawn, bathing everything in a grotesque red glow.

“You’re late!” screeched the old voice from the shadows.

Grace bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Grandmother. But the sundial—”

“Silence! That sundial lies! I know the true time!”

And so began Grace’s day of labor—scrubbing floors, feeding cats with sinister eyes, polishing filthy spittoons, and enduring the barbed words of her grandmother’s wrath.

A “Special” Birthday Surprise

Once the morning chores were done, Gertrude Crone grinned with a mouth full of blackened teeth.

“Ah, your birthday. I haven’t forgotten. I’ve saved a special chore just for you.”

Grace tried not to show her fear.

“My feet,” the crone hissed. “They no longer fit in my slippers. You’ve neglected them. They need tending.”

So Grace fetched a tub of warm water and an old bottle of liquor to sterilize the area, and knelt before her grandmother to remove her slippers.

They wouldn’t budge.

With great effort, she finally wrenched one free—only to be hit by a wave of the most putrid stench imaginable. The foot was rotten and crawling with maggots, the toenail thick and green like mossed-over stone.

Grace gagged but remained calm. “Grandmother, you need a healer.”

“No healers! Just fix them!”

Breaking the Darkness

Grace did as instructed—plucking dozens of maggots and trimming hardened, cursed toenails. But the thick red gloom made it almost impossible to see. She reached for the curtain.

“Don’t!” screamed the grandmother. “The cats can’t bear the light!”

But Grace had reached her breaking point.

“One curtain,” she muttered, and pulled it open.

Light streamed in, and with it came chaos. The cats scattered, shrieking. The house groaned, shuddered… and began to change.

What once had been a decaying hovel transformed—walls shedding like snake skin to reveal crystal windows, marble floors, and sun-drenched halls. Grace stared in disbelief as the very world changed around her.

Her grandmother shrieked in horror. “No! My world! My beautiful, shadowed world!”

The Fall of Gertrude Crone

In her panic, Gertrude Crone bolted through the now-grand foyer, past the lush lawns, and crashed through the fence at the edge of the cliffs.

Grace screamed—but it was too late. Gertrude Crone, followed by a storm of screeching cats, tumbled into the sea.

Silence returned. Then wind. Then sunlight. Grace stood alone, her hands shaking, her eyes wide with sorrow and disbelief.

Despite everything, she wept. After all, for five years, this terrible woman had been her only grandmother—her only reality.

The Truth Revealed

As the breeze stirred her dress, Grace realized something had changed. Her rough clothes were gone, replaced by a golden gown, a jeweled tiara on her brow, and a silver wand in hand.

“Thank you, Grace,” a gentle voice said.

Grace turned. There stood her grandmother—but transformed. No longer bent and bitter, Gertrude Crone was radiant and serene.

“You have freed me from my own curse,” she said. “Long ago, I lost my daughter—the true heir to our kingdom. I cast spells in grief, hoping that one day a child as kind and strong as my own would break the enchantment.”

Grace was stunned. “So… you were testing me?”

“Yes. Every generation failed. But you… you never grew bitter. You endured cruelty with grace—true Grace. Now, you are queen.”

A Kingdom Restored

With those final words, the old queen vanished, her soul released.

Servants arrived—once the cats, now freed from their curse. Villagers gathered, drawn by the magic. Grace’s real parents and grandmothers emerged from the crowd, no longer bound by the spell.

Grace, now Queen Grace Goodangel, stood tall and welcomed them all, ready to begin her reign not with power—but with compassion.

And so, my dear, you may decide for yourself—was this tale real? Or simply the dream of a kind heart rewarded?

Moral of the Story:

True goodness shines brightest in the darkest places. Patience, compassion, and courage can break even the oldest curses.