The White Cow

(Image from Public Domain Pictures)

Once, in a land not far from here, but in a time very distant to our own, there lived a poor couple. They were so poor, there were days they only had grass soup to eat. They had but one child, a son, and in him, they were rich indeed. Although he was prone to grumble about the constant hunger, the kind-hearted lad loved his parents and worked hard.

When he was old enough, he would go hunting so his parents would have some meat to flavour their soup. Whatever was left, he sold at market.

One dismal day, he was on his way home, downhearted for hunting had been poor. His stomach growled its annoyance for he had not eaten since that morning. The food he’d traded from his last catch was almost gone, and he worried for his parents. He didn’t know how to tell them he had nothing for their hunger even though they always reassured him they managed well enough with their soup. “But not I,” he said, and his belly grumbled in agreement. Sitting on a boulder, he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes against unwelcome tears.

Presently, he felt something cold nudge him. He jerked his head back and found himself staring into a pair of large brown eyes. With a cry, he fell backwards off the boulder.

The white cow that had been studying him shied away then turned back to him.

His dark eyes gradually widened as did his smile. “Luck is with me,” he whispered. “We’ll have us some milk tonight then I’ll be selling you up at town tomorrow, my lovely.”

On his feet, he carefully approached the cow. She continued to gaze unblinkingly at him. He paused, frowning slightly, for it seemed as if she was taking his measure. Slowly, she turned to present her side to him, and he gasped. Watery blood seeped from an angry red welt that marred the pristine white of her hide.

Words failed him… who would do such a thing? Moving carefully to her side, he laid his hand on her shoulder as he peered closely at the wound. “We best get that cleaned up, my lovely.”

He patted his tunic and trousers, wondering what to use as a rope to lead her. She nudged his arm and took a couple of steps forward then fixed him with an almost expectant gaze. His brow puckered as he looked away then looked back at the cow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was waiting for him. Taking a few tentative steps forward, he gawped as she readily followed him home.

Although pleased, his parents worried for such a pretty creature must surely belong to someone. They stood by as their son washed and cleaned the cow’s wound.

“Don’t sell her, Mirain, my lad,” said his father.

“Now, Pa, she’ll fetch a pretty penny, you know that. And if I don’t sell her, we’ll have nothing.”

“If you sell her and get caught for wrongdoing, we’ll lose everything. At least wait till she’s better.”

“I’ll ask around–”

“No.” His mother’s tears underlined her worry. “How will you know who her true owner is?”

That was true. There was no mark on the cow, and she was so beautiful, he knew there would be any number in town who would say she belonged to them with no proof other than their say-so. He gazed at his reflection in the cow’s gentle eyes and his posture relaxed. “Then we keep her. Any brute who could hurt so pretty a thing surely doesn’t deserve her. At least we’ll have milk–”

“And cheese,” said his father, nodding.

“And butter.” His mother was no longer weeping but smiling.

“Well, I better get to milking her then even though it be late. At least we can have milk before bed.” He led the obligingly docile beast to what passed as the barn, no more than a lean-to, and attempted to milk her.

Instantly, her demeanour changed. She bellowed, stamped her rear legs and did her best to kick him. No matter how many times he tried, her reaction was the same. He lost count of the number of times the bucket went flying. Until finally, it hit him on the head. He shouted a curse as he fell over the second bucket. Rubbing his head, he stomped back to the hut.

“I’m taking the cursed beast to town–no, Ma, I’ll not hear otherwise. What’s the point in keeping a cow that won’t be milked?”

Closing his ears to his parents’ entreaties, he curled up on the straw on the floor that served as his bed, all the while muttering under his breath, wondering if the cow’s injury had been punishment for her unpredictable behaviour.

The next morning, Mirain was up before the birds. He readied himself quietly so as not to wake his parents and went to fetch the cow.

He hung the lamp by the entrance and started readying the rope. “Right then. Let’s get you… tethered…” His voice faded, his mouth hung open, the rope fell from his grasp.

The cow gazed at him, as placid as before. Next to her, the two buckets stood full to the brim with milk so white, it seemed to be tinged with blue.

Slowly turning his back to the cow, he stared out at the still-dark sky. “I’m up and awake, I am, not still dreaming in my bed.” For good measure, he slapped himself across the face.

He turned back to the cow, still gazing at him. Staring at the buckets of milk, he carefully approached them, one eye on the cow as he hadn’t forgotten how she’d been the night before. He dipped his finger in a bucket then popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened then slid shut for it was like no milk he’d ever tasted; creamy with a hint of sweetness.

“I don’t think I’ll be selling you then. Not if this milk has come from you.”

Blinking languidly at him, the cow seemed to be smiling.

Mirain decided it would be best if he did not think at all about how the cow had managed to milk herself. When a blessing was placed so obviously before you, the only thing to do was to be grateful and not question one’s good fortune.

His parents were overjoyed. Such butter and cheese as the mother made from the white cow’s milk they had never tasted before. And, so it would seem, neither had the good people in town. Word spread, and the family could barely keep up with demand for butter and cheese.

The cow, who Mirain decided to name Gwyn, was the first to benefit from their new prosperity. He wasted no time in building her a barn, even before he saw to their own poor home.

But Gwyn only stayed in the barn at night and when the weather was poor. For she was allowed to wander around their land, never failing to return. She always sought out Mirain and would follow him like a great, white dog.

Mirain and his parents treated their good fortune with nothing but gentle kindness. He loved his beautiful cow, and would spend hours talking to her, relating tales of the townsfolk, of the countryside, of stories his parents had told him when he was little. He knew it was a foolish notion, but he secretly believed she enjoyed his stories.

But, as with all good things, a shadow appeared to threaten it. For how can we appreciate the good we have if nothing happens to threaten that happiness?

The threat came in the form of a rough, burly man, a farmer by the looks of him, and his rough, burly son, who carried a bludgeon. They were not familiar to Mirain and his parents.

“You stole me cow,” announced the older man without so much as a greeting.

Mirain’s mother began to wring her hands. His father took a step forward, but Mirain was the faster and strode up to the newcomers. “I stole nothing,” was his bold reply. He suspected they must have heard about the white cow and come to try their luck.

“Liar. She be white–”

“There, Pa,” said his son, pointing to the cow which had emerged from the barn, her jaw moving lazily around the hay she was eating. She started to walk towards them.

“How do I know she’s your cow?” said Mirain.

“Because I said so.”

“That’s no answer. There’s no mark on her or anything.” By now Gwyn was almost by his side.

The farmer’s son darted forward, brandishing his bludgeon. The farmer lunged to grab the cow by her ear. Darting to the side, she lowed in alarm.

Mirain rushed to place himself between the farmer and Gwyn. His mother’s scream hung in the air as the bludgeon slammed into his arm, agonising pain driving him to his knees.

“You fool, who do you think gave her this here mark?” The farmer pointed to the scar that marred Gwyn’s pristine white flank.

Shaking her head from side to side, her eyes wide, Gwyn backed away.

Cradling his arm, struggling to his feet and panting heavily, Mirain said, “She doesn’t like you.”

The farmer and his son stared at one another then burst into loud laughter. “Don’t be daft. What’s liking got to do with anything? It’s nothing but a dumb beast.”

Pain etched on his face, Mirain fought to stand straight. “I won’t let you have her. She belongs here.”

“Lying thief,” said the farmer with a growl.

“You can’t stop us,” said his son. He shoved Mirain who forced his arm up to grapple with him.

Then Mirain’s father was there, pitchfork in hand. “Leave my son. Leave us be and get off my land.” He waved the pitchfork at the farmer as his wife started hitting the farmer’s son with her broom.

Mirain cried out. “Ma, no! Take Gwyn, take her. Run.”

Eyes wide, glistening with tears, the woman half-ran to the cow. It was as if the cow knew what was expected of her. She began to trot forward with the woman.

The farmer wrestled the pitchfork off Mirain’s father and pushed him to the ground, kicking him where he lay.

Mirain’s mother cried out, sobbing, but her husband begged her to keep going.

As the farmer lumbered after her, Mirain broke free of the farmer’s son and ran to his mother. But the farmer got to her first. She stood her ground, bravely facing him with her broom, but he shoved her aside and she fell to the hard ground.

Mirain’s anguished cry was joined by Gwyn’s loud bellow. Swinging around, she kicked the farmer.

Screaming and cursing, he fell, clutching his leg. His son, spouting curses, charged the cow. Raising his bludgeon, he struck Gwyn between the eyes.

A nerve-jangling shriek tore through the air. The farmer’s son dropped to his knees, howling, cradling his shattered hand. The bludgeon lay in fragments around him.

Kneeling by his mother, cradling her still form, Mirain stared through his tears.

Gwyn remained standing, seemingly unhurt. But she was not alone. A woman stood by her; an unnaturally tall woman clothed in robes of green. Her milk-white hair flowed down her back to gather in a pool around her feet. Flanking her were a pair of powerful milk-white hounds. She fixed the farmer and his son with a glacial stare.

“For shame, to treat a blessed beast so badly.” Her deep voice seemed to echo in the bones. “Mend your heartless ways or ruin will dog your steps all your life. That I promise you. Now, begone.”

The farmer, terror in his eyes, hauled his son up and pushed him down the path. The hounds, hackles raised, saliva dripping from their fangs, stalked the unfortunate pair as they dragged themselves away.

The lady in green stroked the cow’s head, then leaned forward and gazed deep into her eyes. Straightening up, she faced Mirain and his parents.

“My dear Cariad tells me you have cared for her in a most loving, gracious manner.”

Mirain wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. The only thing he could think to say was, “It’s only right. Her milk has given us so much.”

“And you put yourself in harm’s way to protect her from that creature who has dared hurt her.” Her long fingers traced the cow’s scar before she glided to them. Kneeling by Mirain’s mother, she took her by the hand. Her smooth, long fingers caressed the woman’s face who slowly came to.

Blinking rapidly, the mother inhaled sharply and sat up.

“Oh, my wife, my dear wife.”

She looked at her husband, on his knees by her side, her hand grasped in both of his. She smiled. “I feel so well.” Then she saw the lady and gasped, her eyes as wide as saucers.

The lady placed her hand on Mirain’s arm, and the pain faded. Slack-jawed, he could do nothing but stare.

Standing once again by the cow, the lady in green said, “I would take my Cariad home with me, but she wishes to stay with you. She has grown very fond of you, all of you.”

“We love our cow,” said the mother as her husband and son helped her to her feet. “She’s become like family. But she’s not ours, is she? I should have known, when I saw such a white cow, tasted such milk, I should have remembered my grandma’s tales of the green women of Lynn Lasach and their milk-white cows.”

The lady’s smile widened. “Not many remember now, but it is always heartening to meet those who do. Sometimes, our kine choose to be here for a time, in your world. And sometimes, though very seldom now, they choose to stay. But, for Cariad to stay, I must ask one thing of you.”

Before the men could answer, the mother stepped forward, eyes shining, hands clasped together. “Anything,” she said.

“You must promise me you will care for Cariad all the days of her life, which will be many indeed.”

“Yes,” said the mother and her husband echoed that one word as he put his arm around her.

Mirain went down on his knees before the cow, looked deep into her intelligent brown eyes, and put his arms around her neck. “I will care for her all my life.”

“Then blessed be your future.” With a parting caress of her cow, the lady turned to go.

“Thank you, lady,” said the mother. “I’ll not be forgetting ever again.”

“Nor will I,” said Mirain softly.

With a chuckle, the lady in green and her milk-white hounds walked away, gradually fading from view.

Mirain and his parents stared in silence. Until, finally, he returned his gaze to Cariad, who would always be Gwyn to him. “So, Gwyn, I think I finally understand now how it is you can milk yourself.”

She raised her head, opened her mouth and licked him across his face.

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This story was inspired by a Welsh legend about a white cow. There was once a band of female elves who were sometimes seen in the area of Llyn Barfog, a lake in the hills by Aberdovey. It was their habit to appear at dusk, clad in green, accompanied by their milk-white hounds. The green ladies of Llyn Barfog also had beautiful milk-white kine called ‘Gwarthe y Llyn’, which means ‘kine of the lake’; ‘kine’ being the archaic plural of cow.