The Witch and the Horse Thieves – A Retold Tale of Compassion and New Beginnings

In the peaceful and unassuming kingdom of Dellan, crime was a rarity—especially crimes as brazen as horse thievery. Yet when the Bensens, a roguish but attractive young couple, rode into a small village with seven horses marked by the royal crest and not a single plausible explanation, they raised fewer eyebrows than one might expect. This village had learned not to question too deeply, for years ago, a Witch had taken up residence on its outskirts, and everyone had since adopted a habit of minding their own business.

The Witch, to her mind, was merely a misunderstood healer. She grew herbs, brewed poultices, and treated the villagers when they needed help. She asked for little in return except privacy and peace. But the villagers, frightened by the unknown, whispered behind her back and avoided her gaze, leaving her lonely in her modest cottage by the woods.

When the Bensens built their home right next to hers, the Witch was, at first, delighted. At last, she thought, neighbors—companionship, even! But her hopes were soon dashed. The Bensens argued loudly from dawn till dusk, tossing insults and household objects with equal force. Their days of thieving were far from behind them; soon, villagers noticed trinkets, tools, and coins vanishing whenever the Bensens visited. Though constables tried, the couple slipped in and out of the jailhouse with alarming frequency, always returning home with smirks and new schemes.

Still, they had the sense not to cross the Witch—until Mrs. Bensen became pregnant. Instead of asking for help, Mr. Bensen, under moonlight, crept into the Witch’s garden and stole armfuls of her carefully cultivated vegetables. The Witch, watching from her window, sighed deeply. She let him take them. If the family was truly in need, so be it—but she planned to address the theft come morning.

When she knocked on their door at dawn, Mr. Bensen opened it, took one look at her, and fainted dead away. Mrs. Bensen burst into tears.

“Please don’t curse us!” she begged.

The Witch sighed again. She had grown tired of these assumptions. “I didn’t come to curse you. I came to discuss the vegetables you stole—”

But her words were cut short. Mrs. Bensen groaned and clutched her belly. The baby was coming.

Despite her frustrations, the Witch’s compassion prevailed. She rolled up her sleeves and helped deliver the baby—a tiny, pink girl who wailed weakly upon arrival. Yet as the Witch cleaned the infant, she noticed something troubling. The child’s breathing was shallow, and her skin had an unhealthy pallor.

“May I take a small blood sample?” she asked. “I want to check for any illnesses.”

“Take it, take it, just don’t hex us!” Mr. Bensen stammered, coming to his senses.

The Witch hurried home to her laboratory. Hours later, her tests confirmed her suspicions—the baby’s immune system was dangerously deficient. She gathered masks, gloves, sanitizers, and sterile cloths, then returned to the Bensens’ home, determined to instruct them in the delicate care their child required.

She arrived to find the baby crying on a cold, hard table while the Bensens feasted on stolen vegetables, laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. The Witch wrapped the baby in a clean, warm blanket and bounced her gently.

“She’s sick,” the Witch explained. “She needs careful attention, clean surroundings, and minimal exposure to germs. These masks and gloves will help protect her—”

But the Bensens waved her off.

“No baby of mine could be sick,” Mr. Bensen scoffed.

“She’s just fussy. Babies cry. You’re making a fuss over nothing,” Mrs. Bensen added dismissively.

Before the Witch could argue further, a loud knock rattled the door.

“This is the Royal Police! We have word of horse thieves in this village!”

The Bensens paled.

“If we sneak out the back, we can lose them in the woods,” Mr. Bensen whispered.

“What about the baby?” the Witch demanded.

“She can’t live in the woods. Too much trouble,” Mrs. Bensen muttered. Then, without a shred of remorse, she pushed open the window and climbed out, Mr. Bensen close behind.

The Royal Police burst through the door, but the thieves were already fleeing into the forest.

The Witch pointed wordlessly in their direction, then turned her attention back to the frail child in her arms. Her mind spun—not with anger or revenge, but with resolve. The baby needed her.

She brought the infant home, sterilized every corner of her cottage, and set up a cozy, sterile nursery. She tended to the baby with dedication, reading every medical text she owned, formulating special medicines, and singing lullabies no one had heard from her lips in years.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and the baby grew stronger, her once sickly complexion blooming into healthy pink cheeks. She smiled easily, cooed at the Witch’s songs, and grasped at her long, silver-streaked hair with curious fingers.

The Witch gazed at the child one evening, her heart full.

“I think I’ll call you Rapunzel,” she whispered. “And I’ll make sure you grow up strong, safe, and loved. No matter what the villagers think of me, you’ll know the truth of who I am.”

And so the Witch, once feared and shunned, found her purpose and her joy—not through potions or spells, but through the love of a child who needed her most.

Moral of the Story

Sometimes, family is not defined by blood, but by the care and love we choose to give. True goodness lies in actions, not appearances.