The Crone’s Sore Feet – A Tale of Magic, Patience, and Royal Destiny
By Robert Stribling (Adapted & Enhanced for TaleTreasury.com)
In a faraway land, a very long time ago—so long, in fact, that the age is not recorded in the books of scholars or archaeologists—there existed a world brimming with magic and wonder. This era, which we shall call The Age of Magic and Wonder, was filled with creatures both familiar and strange, the sort of beasts you might see only in the silliest of children’s books, yet in those days, they walked the earth as naturally as birds fly in the sky.
And just as the world sparkled with enchantment, so too did danger lurk in its corners. No age, no matter how blessed, is without its perils. And it is in such a time that our tale unfolds, in a village perched high upon the cliffs overlooking the Great Cold Sea, near the fabled Northern Mountains of Dragons.
There lived a girl named Grace Goodangel, known throughout her town for her kindness and strength. Every morning since the age of twelve, she made the long, half-hour journey to the edge of the village where her grandmother, Gertrude Crone, lived alone in a grim wooden cottage shaded by heavy red curtains and smelling of tobacco and cat urine. Despite her name, Gertrude was anything but sweet. She was a vile old woman who had a sharp tongue for anyone who crossed her path—even Grace’s parents were relieved not to deal with her directly.
Yet Grace, dutiful and kind-hearted, had taken it upon herself to care for her grandmother, enduring five long years of unpleasant chores, harsh commands, and bitter scoldings.
On the day our story begins, Grace turned seventeen—but no one, not even her parents, seemed to remember. She overslept that morning and had to dash across the village, terrified that she’d be late. Her grandmother used a magical sundial that revealed lateness like a tattletale clock, and if she missed the mark, there’d be consequences—painful ones, like de-worming the pigs in the backyard.
Grace arrived breathless and barely made it in time. She knocked the coded rhythm her grandmother demanded and waited for the sharp brass horn reply. Upon entering the suffocating darkness of the home, she was greeted by the familiar, high-pitched screech:
“You’re late!”
Despite her respectful apologies, her grandmother launched into one of her usual tirades, and so the day began—mopping filthy floors, cleaning cat boxes, feeding animals, and scrubbing tobacco-spattered spittoons. Even Grace’s favorite part of the day—making breakfast—was sullied when her grandmother slapped the coffee out of her hands, scalding Grace’s arm.
But then came the “special chore.” Her grandmother, in a sarcastic and unnerving tone, said she hadn’t forgotten Grace’s birthday. She wanted her feet tended to—a “pedicure” for the crone’s swollen, mysterious feet, which she claimed no longer fit into her slippers due to “calluses.”
Grace, though dreading it, agreed.
But what she found when she finally pried off one of the ancient slippers shocked her to her core. The foot underneath was grotesque—rotting, maggot-ridden, and reeking with the stench of decay. The slippers had not simply been shoes; they had been prison guards, holding back the horror beneath.
She pleaded with her grandmother to see a healer. But the old woman refused and insisted that Grace clean and mend her feet.
And Grace did just that.
She soaked her grandmother’s feet in a tub filled with warm water and liquor (the only disinfectant she could find), plucked out dozens of squirming maggots, and trimmed the monstrous, curling toenails with trembling hands. But the red-curtained darkness made it nearly impossible to see, and so she tried to draw back one curtain.
The cats hissed. Her grandmother shrieked. But Grace was determined.
“I’m not going to let you die like this!” she shouted, wrenching open more curtains. Daylight poured in.
That was when the impossible began to happen.
The crumbling cottage shifted, shimmered, and transformed into a magnificent castle bathed in golden light. The cats scattered, hissing in retreat. Her grandmother, in a frenzy, ran from the house screaming and flailing. She burst through the gate and plummeted over the cliff’s edge—followed by her foul cats.
Grace stood, frozen in awe, sorrow, and disbelief. Her cruel, twisted grandmother had vanished. But as the air grew warm and fragrant and the walls of the cottage sparkled with marble and magic, a soft voice spoke behind her.
“Thank you, Grace.”
Grace turned to see a radiant woman—her grandmother, now youthful, glowing, and dressed in white. No longer the cruel crone, she looked peaceful.
Gertrude explained the truth. Long ago, she had been queen, her only daughter meant to inherit the throne. But after the girl died tragically, the queen’s grief twisted her into bitterness. She cursed herself and the village, vowing no ruler would rise unless they passed the test she designed—enduring her cruelty and remaining kind through it all.
Many had failed. But Grace had not.
“You have freed me,” Gertrude said, her voice breaking. “And now you shall rule.”
Grace’s rough clothes transformed into a gown of gold. A silver wand appeared in her hand. A tiara sparkled atop her brow. The castle was hers. The spell was broken.
Servants began to arrive. Villagers approached in awe. And the cursed cats? They too transformed—into kindhearted men and women, loyal and ready to serve their new queen.
Grace, still processing it all, stood tall. She turned to welcome them.
A new age had begun.
Long live Queen Grace Goodangel.
🌟 Moral of the Story:
Even in the darkest of places, compassion can break the deepest curses. True royalty is not born—it is revealed through patience, kindness, and courage.
