Will-o-the-Wisp (Script) (2006)

WILL-O-THE-WISP
By Ryan Lewis
Ryan Lewis A2 English Lang/Lit NTB4 – Text Transformation
FADE IN:
EXT. OLD TOWN – JUST BEFORE DAWN – BLACK AND WHITE
The edge of the town which appears desolate and very badly damaged.
Any people who are around are drunks, street dwellers and criminals.
The town is made up of concrete tower blocks, crumbling, and dimly
lit streetlamps. There is a scarcity of grass or anything natural,
10other than dirt and grime.
NARRATOR
Once upon a time there was a man who knew many stories, but
they had slipped away from him…
Hidden between two tower blocks there is a small six-sided, stone

cottage, looking rustic and traditional. It has a very small garden,
a large wooden door and a chimney.
20INT. OLD SIX-SIDED COTTAGE – DAWN – COLOUR
The house has a fire burning to the right, beside a bookshelf, while
a middle aged MAN is sitting at his desk. He seems poised to type on
his old-fashioned typewriter but it seems unused in some time. There
is a large window behind him with a sea view and, upon its ledge, a
box of wilted flowers – a rose, red tulips and camellia. A tall lamp
stands to their right.
Beat.
30
Another beat.
MAN
I wonder if my story will ever come back again?
More time passes as the man still sits. Seasons change behind him
and he still sits, waiting for the story to come to him. He reflects
upon how it used to be, reminded by various artefacts (a silver
ribbon, a beech branch, a wrath of thyme) dotted around the room,
40before he begins to stare, unblinkingly, at the door.
MAN
Will it ever knock at my door again?
Still staring the man appears worn and tired as his eyes begin to
falter, bloodshot and aching, then just as it looks like the man has
given up and lost all his energy he quickly leaps up from his chair,
and shouts.
50 MAN
Well then, I will search for it, the old story! Maybe it’s
hidden itself on the outskirts of town, or in a flower - a
flower on one of the great books on my shelf – I’ll find it!
As he walks quickly toward his bookshelf already the mood seems

brighter, the flowers seem more alive. He begins to flick through
‘Danish Myths and Tales’. Then he slams the book shut contemptibly.
MAN
60 Well, I shall believe what I want to believe! There’s no smoke
without fire!
Centre No.: 32217 Bury College Candidate No.: 8013
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He puts the book back in its place and walks over to the fresh
flowers in the window and searches inside them, finding nothing but
hollow centres as they wilt and die again as he inspects them.
CUT TO
EXT. CITY CENTRE STREETS – WINTER - NIGHT
70 MAN
Perhaps the story came but no-one was listening. Perhaps it
knocked but no-one heard. Maybe we’ve got rid of so many great
things we used to love there was nothing left to say “Welcome!”
so it may have just gone away…
People walking by decrepit houses and tower blocks with their heads
down and their hands in their pockets, ignoring beggars at their
feet. Drunks stagger out of pubs, with their faces visibly cut and
swollen. CCTV cameras follow them from every corner of every street.
80Birds can be heard singing beautifully and softly underneath the
ruckus, but no-one pays attention.
CUT TO
INT. OLD SIX-SIDED COTTAGE – SUNSET
The man is by the door, throwing his coat on and eagerly swinging
open the door.
90 MAN
I’ll go and look for it, out in the country - out in the wood!
And he leaves, swinging the door shut quickly behind him.
CUT TO
EXT. COUNTRYSIDE – DAY/NIGHT
The man walks along a country path in wonderment, watching the

100seasons change from spring, to summer, to autumn, to winter, as he
makes his way alongside the fields absorbing the scenery and
listening to the song of the nightingale.
WOMANS VOICE [WISPY]

This is the story of Waldemar Daa and his Daughters… once, many
years ago there was an Old Oak Tree that lived on this very
spot, and this Old Oak Tree had a dream…
As the city in the distance edges its way closer however the hedges
110are replaced with ferns and stinging nettles, sculptures and stone
walls replaced by barbed metal fences and broken stone as the
birdsong is replaced by the sound of police cars speeding by. He
walks his way up a path into a churchyard on a large hill.
CUT TO
EXT. CHURCHYARD - SUNSET
The man stops at a large, elaborate grave adorned with a large

120sculpture of a large family. A butterfly lands upon the base where
it says ‘When Fortune Comes It Comes In a Heap’ and below this there
10 -3-
is a clump of shamrocks growing. The man grabs a large handful and

puts them in his pocket.
MAN
Fortune is as good as gold, but a new story would be better
still…
As the man walks away solemnly sown the hill into the sunset in the
130shadow you can just make out a MOOR-WOMAN brewing in the open air.
She is ugly, very old, grubby and slightly odd looking, almost crazy.
INT. OLD SIX-SIDED COTTAGE – NIGHT
The man looks out of the window with the moonlight shining and a mist
rolling over the meadow giving everything a magical air before he
turns and says proudly.
140 MAN
Yes! Holger Danske will return again!
Something hits the window pane sharply, then the window flies open,
causing the man to turn back around in shock and confusion. The
Moor-Woman is hovering at the window with no visible means of support
with a friendly look in her eyes. She seems completely vacant but
bursts into vibrant life when she speaks.
MAN
150 What do you think you’re doing? Who are you? You’re looking
in my bedroom window! Are you on a ladder?
THE MOOR-WOMAN
You’ve a four leaved shamrock,
Indeed you have seven,
And one of them is a six-leaved one.
MAN
I said who are you?
160
THE MOOR-WOMAN
I’m the Moor Woman,
The Moor Woman who brews,
And it was that I was at last night.
‘Til the imps came out,

All mischievous no doubt,
And the imps pulled my cask’s clack clean out!
170 Threw it in the yard,

It hit my window hard,
And now half of my night’s work is tarred.
MAN
Please, go on, tell me more…
THE MOOR-WOMAN
Yes, wait a little,
I shall be right back soon,
180 I have something I just have to do.
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The man moves to shut the window but, almost immediately, the woman
was back again, a fact which took the man aback.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
I have now returned,
As my respect you’ve earned,
You took a chance most people would spurn!
190 Now you’ve four leaved shamrocks,

Now come you daft soul,

And what seek you to know?
I must get back to my brewing role.
The man edges closer toward her.
200 MAN
You seem wise and well travelled, do you know about the story?
THE MOOR-WOMAN
By the brewing vat,
There it always is at,
But don’t you have stories enough?
The people out there,

All the young, they don’t care;
210 Spend their time on tobacco and snuff.
To listen to stories!
Are you stuck in the past?
My, the time for your stories is passed!
MAN
What do you mean… What do you even know of the world; you’ve
spent too much time inhaling those fumes.
220The woman moves backwards, but ignores his rudeness.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
Yes beware, beware,
Of the Will-o-the-Wisps,
For they’re loose, and they’re out and about!
Come to me in haste,
To my cask brewing base,
In the Moor and you must hear me out!
230
It’s scary you see,
More so to you than me,
If you’re seen by the wisps on their spree,
As you’ve four leaved shamrocks,

CUT TO
240
INTERTITLE – WHITE ON BLACK
-5-
“And the Moor-Woman was gone…”
CUT TO
EXT. CHURCHYARD – NIGHT
The Moor-Woman is brewing where she was before as the man reaches
250her, panting and out of breath. In the distance a car can be heard
screeching off.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
You’ve taken so long,
I thought you’d found wrong,
My, you men you don’t hurry along.
MAN
Well neither do you by the sounds of it! Tell me about the
260 story!
The Moor-Woman walks, almost floating, into the trees, which part for
her, revealing a nice living quarters with a table, chairs, bed,
wardrobe, all of which are made up of trees, and a large fire in the
middle. A velvety, purple sheet covers one corner. Shadowy shapes
can be seen running around among the trees.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
Now just bite your lip,
270 I shall give you a tip,
But can nought else act as your fillip.
The story is old,

Oh, the oldest of all,
But she acts quite as young as yourself.
She gestures to a photo on a cabinet, a photograph of her when she

was in her early twenties.
280 THE MOOR-WOMAN

I once too was young,
I was pretty and bold,
And I danced ‘neath the moon on the wold.
When I met the story,

When she used to run free,
Seen her dancing and sleep in the buds.
MAN
290 You seem to know your stuff…
THE MOOR-WOMAN
I should at least know
Just as much as you do,
Given men and my age now these days.
Stories and poems,

Why, they’re one and the same,
I brew them, yet they do what they please.
300
Oh, once long ago,
Off of Old Bogey’s mom,
I was bequeathed a trav’ling drug store,
20Centre No.: 32217 Bury College Candidate No.: 8013
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A whole cupboard full,

Full of bottles, too full,
Full of poems, and there it stands still.
MAN
You what? This sounds great! You have poetry in bottles!?
310
THE MOOR-WOMAN
Yes, I have poems,
More than you should require,
I’ve consumed much already myself,
All sorts of essence,

That are bitter and sweet,
You can have all from me, all for free!
320 MAN
Please, please let me see!
The Moor-Woman gestures toward a stump-like block of black alder, and

its many doors on all sides pop open, revealing many bottles of all
shapes and sizes. The man quickly rushes towards them and begins
looking through them all.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
The cupboard is open,
330 To both me and to you,
And to all men that know where it stands,
A great work of art,

With its bottles inside,
Full of poems and tales from all lands.
Their spirit removed,

Then distilled and refined,
With genius, with devilry, then corked.
340
MAN
God, there’s all sorts here! What is in this one? And this
other one here?
THE MOOR-WOMAN
That they call ‘may-balm’,
And that I have not tried,
But I must tell you now why you’re here,
350 The Will-o-the-Wisp,

They are loose, wild and free,
And they’re something you mortals should fear!
That’s of more concern,

Than your stories and tales,
And I ought to indeed hold my tongue,
But I have to warn,

Of the Will-o-the-Wisp,
360 These fiery imps they wish you no good!
MAN
I don’t understand what you’re going on about!
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The Moor-Woman herself sits down in a cushioned chair and gestures

toward the alder cupboard. The cupboard doors close. The man moves
to sit down and mist begins to rise up. The man sits and some clouds
of smoke act out the words of the Moor-Woman in the man’s lap.
370 THE MOOR-WOMAN

Now please take a seat,
But do so with care,
And I’ll tell you of the great event.
A great commotion,
And a Christening feast,
Since which there’s been two days ferment.
All Will-o-the-Wisps,
380 They danced across the moor,
Even unimportant species like dog,
Twelve sat on my lap,

As I sat where you are,
Glowing through the misty brewer’s fog.
These Will-o-the Wisp,

My how quickly they grew,
They were soon all as large as their dads,
390
And as old custom gives,
On a night like that night,
All these Wisps the great chance to do bad.
Now I guess you know,

Of the days in year,
That there are just three, six and five,
Those wisps there born,

400 Can command among men,
And behave like mortal girls and guys.
The rest of the year,

All three-six-three days,
Well, the Wisp can do all that it likes,
Possess any man,

Travel land, sea and air,
It has freedom for those days and nights.
410
The Wisp has a task,
And with it great reward,
To breathe flames as the head of Hell’s coach,
If he roams among men,

And then leads one away,
One for each single day of the year.
Should the sprightly Wisp fail,

420 His goal unachieved,
He’ll be trapped forever in dead trees.
The Wisps can’t resist,

Such a great chance as this,
To lead weak men from their noble truth,
30 -8-
Despite good advice,

From the elders and wise,
They rushed out and they didn’t think twice.
430 The Wisps threw a ball,

Invited one and all,
And with gifts they left feeling adored.
Even proud elf-maids,

They danced with them three times,
Then night-raven taught: “goo-goo-good”.
They learned twists and turns,

How to slip through closed doors,
440 And, the owl and the stork… no import.
So the Wisps travelled,

On the Alpas’ back,
Into town now to taint and corrupt,
But of where and how,

Well I’m still not quite sure,
But I’ll learn if my toe still conducts.
450The man jumps up out of his seat causing the bottles to rattle.
MAN
This is some amazing story!
The Moor-Woman gets up and walks towards him, calming him with an arm
around the shoulder. She looks younger, her skin fresher and looks
deep into his eyes.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
460 An amazing story?
But you’ve heard just the start!
Do you know how they tempt you down paths?
MAN
I think you could weave a hell of a tale about these Will-o-the
Wisps; a romance in twelve parts, or even quite a good play
about them.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
470 I’m fine either way,
Let writers write away,
There are things more important than arts.
MAN
Yes, I suppose that’s best, to stay away from the popular
press. They make things worse than it is for the Wisps, to be
trapped in the trees all distressed.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
480 They too may undress,
Not just be as their best,
Yes, the Wisps can be found anywhere.
In speaking chambers,
As an artist, at work,
Even church, they’ll cause trouble if there.
-9-
The Moor-Woman gets up, forcefully making her point.
THE MOOR-WOMAN
490 He’ll ne’er work for good,
And keep silent I should,
But these words they just have to be said!
And I chatter and chatter,

About this mortal matter,
Though due to it I may end up dead,
They cause what trouble they can,
And so for the good of man,
Well, these words they just have to be said!
500
So I’ll tell you a writer,
And you’ll spread the tale wider,
So in town they will all know about,
The Will-o-the-Wisps,
And their devilish wish,
So that man will look on things with doubt.
The man stands up, and grabs bottles from the cupboard, cradling them
510in his arms while running back through the trees and shouting back.
MAN
They’ll not listen to me,
They’ll not take it to heart,
But one thing I do know is this,
I’ll say all over town,

That the Moor-Woman said,
Beware of the Will-o-the-Wisp!
520
FADE OUT TO BLACK
2,596 Words
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COMMENTARY
I have chosen to transform Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘”The Will-o-the-Wisp Is In

the Town”, Says the Moor-Woman’ for two main reasons. Firstly it is not a very well known
text, and is also quite a difficult one to fully comprehend and grasp at the first reading so I felt
it offered me a significant challenge which would allow me to enjoy tackling the
transformation within my coursework.
530 Secondly, I felt that its core moral message of people being blinkered to social
messages within the arts, a moral which is still very much one that should be highlighted
today with the current trend towards manufactured pop and shallow books and cinema. This
is a message I found to be within the piece, and to this end, I felt the text to be highly
appropriate for transformation at this time.
The base text is rather dialogue heavy and this is something I worked on a great deal
towards the beginning of the piece where I was able to add a lot more description to set the
scene and get the mood of the piece right, as it was imperative to ensure that the longing of
the man was easily to pick up, along with the world around him being something of a moral
wasteland. This is something I believed I achieved by referring to the man ‘(reflecting) upon
540how it used to be’ and by showing a large amount of time passing through the constant
changing of the seasons and lighting.
I decided to try to contrast the age of the short story by transforming it into a film
script, a much younger form of media. This meant incorporating film specific terms into the
script (like ‘EXT.’ and ‘INT.’ to indicate internal and external shots for example) and
ensuring the graphology was correct by using, line numbering and appropriate text
alignments.
Another essential thing for the transformation was how information was given, to the
audience. It was imperative that a characters description was given straight away upon their
first appearance, and that a setting was also described in the same way. It was also important
550to try and keep the instructions regarding how lines were to be delivered to a minimum in
order to allow the actors the freedom to interpret them, and their characters, themselves. The
same also applies to the specific instructions regarding movements and the details of the
scenery as they need to leave enough to allow the director to make his own mark on
transferring the text to the screen.
To this end there is a large amount of descriptive language within the text,
particularly at the beginning in which I try to create pathos by showing the man’s isolation
and longing in order to create some empathy from the audience for the character. Lines 15-17
(“Hidden between two tower blocks there is a small six-sided, stone cottage, looking rustic
and traditional. It has a very small garden, a large wooden door and a chimney.”) are a good
560example as in the space of two sentences eight adjectives are used two describe two buildings.
A lot of declarative sentences are also present in order to convey actions, for example
in line 199 (“the man edges closer toward her”) and 278-9 (“She gestures to a photo on a
cabinet, a photograph of her when she was in her early twenties”).
I felt that, as the message of the text was instrumental to my decision to transform it, I
should also modernise the setting in order to make it clearer and more accessible to a modern
audience, mainly because a period piece would have been based around issues which would
barely raise an eyebrow in modern times. To this end, the first change I made was to update
the speech by turning some of the more old fashioned utterances into more up to date speech
(like “I will go forth and seek it” into “I’ll go and look for it” for example) and also seeking to
570include some modern turns of phrase like ‘there’s no smoke without fire’ and ‘you seem to
know your stuff’ and include more contractions and exclamations within the Man’s dialogue.
In order to made it clear the new setting was a modern one I made references to the
urban landscape and undesirable aspects of city life. The inclusion of the cottage as the man’s
dwelling however stands out and serves as the vehicle in a metaphor, the tenor for which is
the natural beauty lost among the urban dystopia, something that is later referred to more
implicitly with the reference to birds ‘singing beautifully and softly underneath the ruckus’.
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This would also be an example of thematic imagery, highlighting the differences between the
two and how one impacts the other, the cottage acting as his own little Arcadia; a shelter from
the dystopia outside.
580 The inclusion of the cottage also serves to highlight the difference between the man
and the rest of society, he is the only character willing to stay strong and wait for his ambition
(telling tales to the benefit of humanity as a whole) rather than compromising himself and
taking the easy, more selfish, route out through crime or drugs, despite the lesser human
qualities of impatience, and rudeness which I included to show how even good idealists can
be corrupted over time.
The old fashioned house also highlights how he is living in the past, both in terms
of his ideals, and in terms of the story he once had and the writing he used to do. This comes
across in lines 71-4 (“Perhaps the story came but no-one was listening. Perhaps it knocked
but no-one heard. Maybe we’ve got rid of so many great things we used to love there was
590nothing left to say “Welcome!” so it may have just gone away…”) where he uses flamboyant
and figurative language, rather than his usual simple lexis, demonstrating he has some
creative writing ability, despite the dusty old typewriter showing it hasn’t been used
productively recently.
I cut the scene in which the man searches the six-sided cottage and farm in the
transformation. I felt this scene was not essential to my transformation as the search through
nature and everyday things was covered in the scene walking along the country path, and by
making the man’s home the six-sided cottage its symbolism relating to the shamrock is still
present, as well as now also serving as a symbol foreshadowing what is about to happen.
Also by virtue of the fact it is his own home, it could be assumed that he has also searched it
600for the story as well.
There are three reasons why I chose to convert the Moor-Woman’s dialogue into
poetry. Firstly it was to try and give her speech a more enchanting feel, and at the same time
make it more believable that the man, with all his cynicism and impatience, would be taken in
by her story as I felt that if it was just a plain old lady without any intrigue the verisimilitude
of the story would be lost.
This enchantment was created by the repetition of the metre in each verse, with each
line includes more syllables than the last, a metre intended as a metaphor to represent the
winding up of thread on a spool as the Moor-Woman is wrapping the man up in her tale.
Secondly, I felt that by making her speech into verse I helped to express some
610semblance of her age other than the mixture of modern turns of phrase with more dated uses
of language with words like ‘snuff’ and ‘wold’.
There is also a use of technical language where she refers to her “cask’s clack” the
inclusion of which I felt not only gave her more of an air of knowledge by demonstrating a
wider vocabulary but also served to provide alliteration of the c (“cask’s clack clean”) which I
felt put across a noise which could be similar to that of an imp-like creature’s (to whose
misdemeanours she was referring at the time) hooves.
I also decided to overtly indicate her use of the bottled poetry (“I’ve consumed much
already myself”) allowing it to serve as a metaphor for the perils and after effects of over
indulgence, something which ties in with a main theme of the text outlining the social
620problems of drug and alcohol consumption as well as highlighting the length of time she had
been guarding the bottles, creating more cohesion with the base text and rewarding its readers
who would recognise that this transformation is set centuries later. I felt that many people
would look at people speaking in verse as an example of temporal dialect, relating it to such
things as Shakespeare’s plays, and seeing it as a more formal register; appropriate as the
characters within the text have just met.
I also thought, as the base text was dialogue heavy, I felt that by undertaking such a
change I gave myself a much more interesting task with this transformation, and as a result
gave my text a much more interesting and original feel. Having the character speaking in
verse I felt gave her a more quirky and mysterious tone, something which would more
630realistically draw in the man within the diegesis, but also the audience outside of it.
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For the man’s dialogue I had to try to represent real speech much more accurately and
attempted to do so by using clausal ellipsis (e.g. in line 92 “out in the country - out in the
wood!”) and including spoken language features like repetitions (e.g. “or in a flower - a
flower on one of the great books on my shelf”). However, I also too a conscious
decision to try and keep any dialectic features to a minimum in order to make him
more relatable to the audience.
I also decided to show significant convergence of the man’s dialogue towards that of
the Moor-Woman as it shifts into poetry, firstly by adding more rhythm, alliteration,
assonance and half-rhyme into his prose (“Yes, I suppose that’s best, to stay away from the
640popular press. They make things worse than it is for the Wisps, to be trapped in the trees all
distressed”), and then at the end into full verse in order to symbolise how he had been entirely
taken in by the Moor-Woman’s words, and in turn was once again inspired by ‘the story’ he
had been seeking. His rhythm is therefore less of a lulling one but instead one of
determination and resolve.
I chose to include a third person narrator at the start with a “Once upon a time…”
beginning in order to set the scene like a traditional fairy tale, the conventions of which
usually include a strong moral, something I fully intended to put across strongly within my
transformation. I also felt that it was a good idea to put this narrative framework as it created
an alienation effect, making it clearer to the audience that the text is a construct, and as a
650result making them more likely to watch actively and pick up on the subtext.
The sentence types found within the dialogue of this text are quite interesting with the
man using a lot of interrogatives, with numerous examples like “What is in this one and this
other one here?” showing his intrigue and desire for knowledge, and simple sentences,
illustrating how out of practice he is writing, and also the child-like wonder with which he is
seeing new things, something further highlighted by the use of single clauses to convey his
excitement – “Tell me about the story” and “This sounds great” being two examples.
In contrast to the man the Moor-Woman uses a lot of declarative sentences in order to
reply to the man’s questioning and relate her story to him. However, she also takes the lead
role in the conversations due to her superior intellect and age, something that can be seen by
660her also using some directives too (e.g. “Yes, wait a little.”).
The primary purpose of this text as a script; a framework for the crew and performers
of a film to make it based upon their own interpretations. However, once filmed the text will
have its own separate primary audience to appeal to, and the symbolism, sub-text and
dialogue from the script must be able to reach them. The film would be intended for an
educated or academic AB class audience as short films are not widely available to a mass
audience, instead usually only being screened at art house cinemas and film festivals, the
audience for which differs greatly to that of mainstream cinema. Like all fairy tales too, it is
also intended to appeal to children, the floating Moor-Woman and the magical forest dwelling
and the creatures within (see lines 262-6) are elements of the script aimed at the younger
670members of the audience.
As a film its main purpose is to entertain, providing an engaging story and imagery,
and also, for the target audience, a mix of metaphor and referencing of the original text and
fairy tale conventions.
The piece would also have an informative context too, with its sub-text and the
metaphors alluding to society and its problems today, and the lack of art as social
commentary (which the piece itself is serving as). This is certainly something which would
appeal to the academic and politically minded people, again generally regarded as being those
within the higher social class bands. To this end it is somewhat didactic, serving to
persuading the audience that something should be done about modern society, rather than just
680acting as an imaginative and escapist piece.
2,032 words
50 - 13 -
APPENDIX
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BASE TEXT
“The Will-O-The Wisp Is In The Town”, Says The Moor Woman
by Hans Christian Andersen
There was a man who once knew many stories, but they had slipped away from him– so he
said. The Story that used to visit him of its own accord no longer came and knocked at his
door. And why did it come no longer? It is true enough that for days and years the man had
690not thought of it, had not expected it to come and knock; and if he had expected it, it would
certainly not have come; for without there was war, and within was the care and sorrow that
war brings with it.
The stork and the swallows came back from their long journey, for they thought of no danger;
and, behold, when they arrived, the nest was burnt, the habitations of men were burnt, the
hedges were all in disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the enemy's horses were
stamping in the old graves. Those were hard, gloomy times, but they came to an end.
And now they were past and gone– so people said; yet no Story came and knocked at the
door, or gave any tidings of its presence.
“I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with many other things,” said the man.
700But the story never dies. And more than a whole year went by, and he longed– oh, so very
much!– for the Story.
“I wonder if the Story will ever come back again and knock?”
And he remembered it so well in all the various forms in which it had come to him,
sometimes young and charming, like spring itself, sometimes as a beautiful maiden, with a
wreath of thyme in her hair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and with eyes that gleamed
like deep woodland lakes in the bright sunshine.
Sometimes it had come to him in the guise of a peddler, and had opened its box and let silver
ribbon come fluttering out, with verses and inscriptions of old remembrances.
But it was most charming of all when it came as an old grandmother, with silvery hair, and
710such large, sensible eyes. She knew so well how to tell about the oldest times, long before the
princesses spun with the golden spindles, and the dragons lay outside the castles, guarding
them. She told with such an air of truth, that black spots danced before the eyes of all who
heard her, and the floor became black with human blood; terrible to see and to hear, and yet
so entertaining, because such a long time had passed since it all happened.
“Will it ever knock at my door again?” said the man, and he gazed at the door, so that black
spots came before his eyes and upon the floor; he did not know if it was blood, or mourning
crape from the dark heavy days.
And as he sat thus, the thought came upon him whether the Story might not have hidden
itself, like the princess in the old tale. And he would now go in search of it; if he found it, it
720would beam in new splendor, lovelier than ever.
- 15 -
“Who knows? Perhaps it has hidden itself in the straw that balances on the margin of the well.
Carefully, carefully! Perhaps it lies hidden in a certain flower– that flower in one of the great
books on the book-shelf.”
And the man went and opened one of the newest books, to gain information on this point; but
there was no flower to be found. There he read about Holger Danske; and the man read that
the tale had been invented and put together by a monk in France, that it was a romance,
‘translated into Danish and printed in that language;’ that Holger Danske had never really
lived, and consequently could never come again, as we have sung, and have been so glad to
believe. And William Tell was treated just like Holger Danske. These were all only myths–
730nothing on which we could depend; and yet it is all written in a very learned book.
“Well, I shall believe what I believe!” said the man. “There grows no plantain where no foot
has trod.”
And he closed the book and put it back in its place, and went to the fresh flowers at the
window. Perhaps the Story might have hidden itself in the red tulips, with the golden yellow
edges, or in the fresh rose, or in the beaming camellia. The sunshine lay among the flowers,
but no Story.
“The flowers which had been here in the dark troublous time had been much more beautiful;
but they had been cut off, one after another, to be woven into wreaths and placed in coffins,
and the flag had waved over them! Perhaps the Story had been buried with the flowers; but
740then the flowers would have known of it, and the coffin would have heard it, and every little
blade of grass that shot forth would have told of it. The Story never dies.
Perhaps it has been here once, and has knocked; but who had eyes or ears for it in those
times? People looked darkly, gloomily, and almost angrily at the sunshine of spring, at the
twittering birds, and all the cheerful green; the tongue could not even bear the old merry,
popular songs, and they were laid in the coffin with so much that our heart held dear. The
Story may have knocked without obtaining a hearing; there was none to bid it welcome, and
so it may have gone away.
I will go forth and seek it. Out in the country! out in the wood! and on the open sea beach!”
Out in the country lies an old manor house, with red walls, pointed gables, and a red flag that
750floats on the tower. The nightingale sings among the finely-fringed beech-leaves, looking at
the blooming apple trees of the garden, and thinking that they bear roses. Here the bees are
mightily busy in the summer-time, and hover round their queen with their humming song.
The autumn has much to tell of the wild chase, of the leaves of the trees, and of the races of
men that are passing away together. The wild swans sing at Christmas-time on the open
water, while in the old hall the guests by the fireside gladly listen to songs and to old legends.
Down into the old part of the garden, where the great avenue of wild chestnut trees lures the
wanderer to tread its shades, went the man who was in search of the Story; for here the wind
had once murmured something to him of ‘Waldemar Daa and his Daughters.’ The Dryad in
the tree, who was the Story-mother herself, had here told him the ‘Dream of the Old Oak
760Tree.’ Here, in the time of the ancestral mother, had stood clipped hedges, but now only ferns
and stinging nettles grew there, hiding the scattered fragments of old sculptured figures; the
moss is growing in their eyes, but they can see as well as ever, which was more than the man
could do who was in search of the Story, for he could not find that. Where could it be?
The crows flew past him by hundreds across the old trees, and screamed, “Krah! da!– Krah!
da!”
- 16 -
And he went out of the garden and over the grass-plot of the yard, into the alder grove; there
stood a little six-sided house, with a poultry-yard and a duck-yard. In the middle of the room
sat the old woman who had the management of the whole, and who knew accurately about
every egg that was laid, and about every chicken that could creep out of an egg. But she was
770not the Story of which the man was in search; that she could attest with a Christian certificate
of baptism and of vaccination that lay in her drawer.
Without, not far from the house, is a hill covered with red-thorn and broom. Here lies an old
grave-stone, which was brought here many years ago from the churchyard of the provincial
town, a remembrance of one of the most honored councillors of the place; his wife and his
five daughters, all with folded hands and stiff ruffs, stand round him. One could look at them
so long, that it had an effect upon the thoughts, and these reacted upon the stones, as if they
were telling of old times; at least it had been so with the man who was in search of the Story.
As he came nearer, he noticed a living butterfly sitting on the forehead of the sculptured
councillor. The butterfly flapped its wings, and flew a little bit farther, and then returned
780fatigued to sit upon the grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there. Four-leaved shamrocks
grew there; there were seven specimens close to each other. When fortune comes, it comes in
a heap. He plucked the shamrocks and put them in his pocket.
“Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new charming story would be better still,” thought the
man; but he could not find it here.
And the sun went down, round and large; the meadow was covered with vapor. The moor-
woman was at her brewing.
It was evening. He stood alone in his room, and looked out upon the sea, over the meadow,
over moor and coast. The moon shone bright, a mist was over the meadow, making it look
like a great lake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend tells– and in the moonlight the eye
790realizes these myths.
Then the man thought of what he had been reading in the town, that William Tell and Holger
Danske never really lived, but yet live in popular story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence
for such myths. Yes, Holger Danske will return again!
As he stood thus and thought, something beat quite strongly against the window. Was it a
bird, a bat or an owl? Those are not let in, even when they knock. The window flew open of
itself, and an old woman looked in at the man.
“What's your pleasure?” said he. “Who are you? You're looking in at the first floor window.
Are you standing on a ladder?”
“You have a four-leaved shamrock in your pocket,” she replied. “Indeed, you have seven, and
800one of them is a six-leaved one.”
“Who are you?” asked the man again.
“The Moor-woman,” she replied. “The Moor-woman who brews. I was at it. The bung was in
the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled it out in his mischief, and flung it up into the
yard, where it beat against the window; and now the beer's running out of the cask, and that
won't do good to anybody.”
“Pray tell me some more!” said the man.
- 17 -
“Yes, wait a little,” answered the Moor-woman. “I've something else to do just now.” And
she was gone.
The man was going to shut the window, when the woman already stood before him again.
810“Now it's done,” she said; “but I shall have half the beer to brew over again to-morrow, if the
weather is suitable. Well, what have you to ask me? I've come back, for I always keep my
word, and you have seven four-leaved shamrocks in your pocket, and one of them is a six-
leaved one. That inspires respect, for that's an order that grows beside the sandy way; but that
every one does not find. What have you to ask me? Don't stand there like a ridiculous oaf, for
I must go back again directly to my bung and my cask.”
And the man asked about the Story, and inquired if the Moor-woman had met it in her
journeyings.
“By the big brewing-vat!” exclaimed the woman, “haven't you got stories enough? I really
believe that most people have enough of them. Here are other things to take notice of, other
820things to examine. Even the children have gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar, and
the little girl a new crinoline; they like that much better. To listen to stories! No, indeed, there
are more important things to be done here, and other things to notice!”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the man, “and what do you know of the world? You don't
see anything but frogs and Will-o'-the-Wisps!”
“Yes, beware of the Will-o'-the-Wisps,” said the Moor-woman, “for they're out– they're let
loose– that's what we must talk about! Come to me in the moor, where my presence is
necessary, and I will tell you all about it; but you must make haste, and come while your
seven four-leaved shamrocks, for which one has six leaves, are still fresh, and the moon
stands high!”
830And the Moor-woman was gone.
It struck twelve in the town, and before the last stroke had died away, the man was out in the
yard, out in the garden, and stood in the meadow. The mist had vanished, and the Moor-
woman stopped her brewing.
“You've been a long time coming!” said the Moor-woman. “Witches get forward faster than
men, and I'm glad that I belong to the witch folk!”
“What have you to say to me now?” asked the man. “Is it anything about the Story?”
“Can you never get beyond asking about that?” retorted the woman.
“Can you tell me anything about the poetry of the future?” resumed the man.
“Don't get on your stilts,” said the crone, “and I'll answer you. You think of nothing but
840poetry, and only ask about that Story, as if she were the lady of the whole troop. She's the
oldest of us all, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I know her well. I've been young,
too, and she's no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty elf-maiden, and have danced in my
time with the others in the moonlight, and have heard the nightingale, and have gone into the
forest and met the Story-maiden, who was always to be found out there, running about.
Sometimes she took up her night's lodging in a half-blown tulip, or in a field flower;
70 - 18 -
sometimes she would slip into the church, and wrap herself in the mourning crape that hung
down from the candles on the altar.”
“You are capitally well-informed,” said the man.
“I ought at least to know as much as you,” answered the Moor-woman. “Stories and poetry–
850yes, they're like two yards of the same piece of stuff; they can go and lie down where they
like, and one can brew all their prattle, and have it all the better and cheaper. You shall have it
from me for nothing. I have a whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. It makes essences; and
that's the best of it– bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything that people want of poetry, in
bottles, so that I can put a little on my handkerchief, on holidays, to smell.”
“Why, these are wonderful things that you're telling!” said the man. “You have poetry in
bottles?”
“More than you can require,” said the woman. “I suppose you know the history of ‘the Girl
who Trod on the Loaf, so that she might not soil her shoes’? That has been written, and
printed too.”
860“I told that story myself,” said the man.
“Yes, then you must know it; and you must know also that the girl sank into the earth directly,
to the Moor-woman, just as Old Bogey's grandmother was paying her morning visit to inspect
the brewery. She saw the girl gliding down, and asked to have her as a remembrance of her
visit, and got her too; while I received a present that's of no use to me– a travelling druggist's
shop– a whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. Grandmother told me where the cupboard
was to be placed, and there it's standing still. Just look! You've your seven four-leaved
shamrocks in your pocket, one of which is a six-leaved one, and so you will be able to see it.”
And really in the midst of the moor lay something like a great knotted block of alder, and that
was the old grandmother's cupboard. The Moor-woman said that this was always open to her
870and to every one in the land, if they only knew where the cupboard stood. It could be opened
either at the front or at the back, and at every side and corner– a perfect work of art, and yet
only an old alder stump in appearance. The poets of all lands, and especially those of our own
country, had been arranged here; the spirit of them had been extracted, refined, criticised and
renovated, and then stored up in bottles. With what may be called great aptitude, if it was not
genius the grandmother had taken as it were the flavor of this and of that poet, and had added
a little devilry, and then corked up the bottles for use during all future times.
“Pray let me see,” said the man.
“Yes, but there are more important things to hear,” replied the Moor-woman.
“But now we are at the cupboard!” said the man. And he looked in. “Here are bottles of all
880sizes. What is in this one? and what in that one yonder?”
“Here is what they call may-balm,” replied the woman. “I have not tried it myself. But I have
not yet told you the ‘more important’ thing you were to hear. The Will-O'-The-Wisp's In The
Town! That's of much more consequence than poetry and stories. I ought, indeed, to hold my
tongue; but there must be a necessity– a fate– a something that sticks in my throat, and that
wants to come out. Take care, you mortals!”
“I don't understand a word of all this!” cried the man.
- 19 -
“Be kind enough to seat yourself on that cupboard,” she retorted, “but take care you don't fall
through and break the bottles– you know what's inside of them. I must tell of the great event.
It occurred no longer ago than the day before yesterday. It did not happen earlier. It has now
890three hundred and sixty-three days to run about. I suppose you know how many days there are
in a year?”
And this is what the Moor-woman told:
“There was a great commotion yesterday out here in the marsh! There was a christening feast!
A little Will-o'-the-Wisp was born here– in fact, twelve of them were born all together; and
they have permission, if they choose to use it, to go abroad among men, and to move about
and command among them, just as if they were born mortals. That was a great event in the
marsh, and accordingly all the Will-o'-the-Wisps, male and female, went dancing like little
lights across the moor. There are some of them of the dog species, but those are not worth
mentioning. I sat there on the cupboard, and had all the twelve little new-born Will-o'-the-
900Wisps upon my lap. They shone like glow-worms; they already began to hop, and increased
in size every moment, so that before a quarter of an hour had elapsed, each of them looked
just as large as his father or his uncle. Now, it's an old-established regulation and favor, that
when the moon stands just as it did yesterday, and the wind blows just as it blew then, it is
allowed and accorded to all Will-o'-the-Wisps– that is, to all those who are born at that
minute of time– to become mortals, and individually to exert their power for the space of one
year.
The Will-o'-the-Wisp may run about in the country and through the world, if it is not afraid of
falling into the sea, or of being blown out by a heavy storm. It can enter into a person and
speak for him, and make all the movements it pleases. The Will-o'-the-Wisp may take
910whatever form he likes, of man or woman, and can act in their spirit and in their disguise in
such a way that he can effect whatever he wishes to do. But he must manage, in the course of
the year, to lead three hundred and sixty-five people into a bad way, and in a grand style, too.
To lead them away from the right and the truth; and then he reaches the highest point. Such a
Will-o'-the-Wisp can attain to the honor of being a runner before the devil's state coach; and
then he'll wear clothes of fiery yellow, and breathe forth flames out of his throat. That's
enough to make a simple Will-o'-the-Wisp smack his lips. But there's some danger in this, and
a great deal of work for a Will-o'-the-Wisp who aspires to play so distinguished a part. If the
eyes of the man are opened to what he is, and if the man can then blow him away, it's all over
with him, and he must come back into the marsh; or if, before the year is up, the Will-o'-the-
920Wisp is seized with a longing to see his family, and so returns to it and gives the matter up, it
is over with him likewise, and he can no longer burn clear, and soon becomes extinguished,
and cannot be lit up again; and when the year has elapsed, and he has not led three hundred
and sixty-five people away from the truth and from all that is grand and noble, he is
condemned to be imprisoned in decayed wood, and to lie glimmering there, without being
able to move; and that's the most terrible punishment that can be inflicted on a lively Will-o'-
the-Wisp.
Now, all this I know, and all this I told to the twelve little Will-o'-the-Wisps whom I had on
my lap, and who seemed quite crazy with joy.
I told them that the safest and most convenient course was to give up the honor, and do
930nothing at all; but the little flames would not agree to this, and already fancied themselves
clad in fiery yellow clothes, breathing flames from their throats.
‘Stay with us,’ said some of the older ones.
‘Carry on your sport with mortals,’ said the others.

- 20 -
‘The mortals are drying up our meadows; they've taken to draining. What will our successors
do?’
‘We want to flame; we will flame– flame!’ cried the new-born Will-o'the-Wisps.
And thus the affair was settled.
And now a ball was given, a minute long; it could not well be shorter. The little elf-maidens
whirled round three times with the rest, that they might not appear proud, but they preferred
940dancing with one another.
‘And now the sponsors’ gifts were presented, and presents were thrown them. These presents
flew like pebbles across the sea-water. Each of the elf-maidens gave a little piece of her veil.
‘Take that,’ they said, ‘and then you'll know the higher dance, the most difficult turns and
twists– that is to say, if you should find them necessary. You'll know the proper deportment,
and then you can show yourself in the very pick of society.’
The night raven taught each of the young Will-o'-the-Wisps to say, ‘Goo-goo-good,’ and to
say it in the right place; and that's a great gift which brings its own reward.
The owl and the stork– but they said it was not worth mentioning, and so we won't mention it.
King Waldemar's wild chase was just then rushing over the moor, and when the great lords
950heard of the festivities that were going on, they sent a couple of handsome dogs, which hunt
on the spoor of the wind, as a present; and these might carry two or three of the Will-o'-the-
Wisps. A couple of old Alpas, spirits who occupy themselves with Alp-pressing, were also at
the feast; and from these the young Will-o'-the-Wisps learned the art of slipping through
every key-hole, as if the door stood open before them. These Alpas offered to carry the
youngsters to the town, with which they were well acquainted. They usually rode through the
atmosphere on their own back hair, which is fastened into a knot, for they love a hard seat;
but now they sat sideways on the wild hunting dogs, took the young Will-o'-the-Wisps in their
laps, who wanted to go into the town to mislead and entice mortals, and, whisk! away they
were. Now, this is what happened last night. To-day the Will-o'-the-Wisps are in the town,
960and have taken the matter in hand– but where and how? Ah, can you tell me that? Still, I've a
lightning conductor in my great toe, and that will always tell me something.”
“Why, this is a complete story,” exclaimed the man.
“Yes, but it is only the beginning,” replied the woman. “Can you tell me how the Will-o'-the-
Wisps deport themselves, and how they behave? and in what shapes they have aforetime
appeared and led people into crooked paths?”
“I believe,” replied the man, “that one could tell quite a romance about the Will-o'-the-Wisps,
in twelve parts; or, better still, one might make quite a popular play of them.”
“You might write that,” said the woman, “but it's best let alone.”
“Yes, that's better and more agreeable,” the man replied, “for then we shall escape from the
970newspapers, and not be tied up by them, which is just as uncomfortable as for a Will-o'-the-
Wisp to lie in decaying wood, to have to gleam, and not to be able to stir.”
- 21 -
“I don't care about it either way,” cried the woman. “Let the rest write, those who can, and
those who cannot likewise. I'll grant you an old bung from my cask that will open the
cupboard where poetry's kept in bottles, and you may take from that whatever may be
wanting. But you, my good man, seem to have blotted your hands sufficiently with ink, and to
have come to that age of satiety that you need not be running about every year for stories,
especially as there are much more important things to be done. You must have understood
what is going on?”
“The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in town,” said the man. “I've heard it, and I have understood it. But
980what do you think I ought to do? I should be thrashed if I were to go to the people and say,
‘Look, yonder goes a Will-o'-the-Wisp in his best clothes!’”
“They also go in undress,” replied the woman. “The Will-o'-the-Wisp can assume all kinds of
forms, and appear in every place. He goes into the church, but not for the sake of the service;
and perhaps he may enter into one or other of the priests. He speaks in the Parliament, not for
the benefit of the country, but only for himself. He's an artist with the color-pot as well as in
the theatre; but when he gets all the power into his own hands, then the pot's empty! I chatter
and chatter, but it must come out, what's sticking in my throat, to the disadvantage of my own
family. But I must now be the woman that will save a good many people. It is not done with
my good will, or for the sake of a medal. I do the most insane things I possibly can, and then I
990tell a poet about it, and thus the whole town gets to know of it directly.”
“The town will not take that to heart,” observed the man; “that will not disturb a single
person; for they will all think I'm only telling them a story if I say, ‘The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in
the town, says the Moor-woman. Take care of yourselves!’”
- 22 -

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WILL-O-THE-WISP

EXT. OLD TOWN – JUST BEFORE DAWN – BLACK AND WHITE

Hidden between two tower blocks there is a small six-sided, stone

20INT. OLD SIX-SIDED COTTAGE – DAWN – COLOUR

As he walks quickly toward his bookshelf already the mood seems

Centre No.: 32217 Bury College Candidate No.: 8013

EXT. CITY CENTRE STREETS – WINTER - NIGHT

INT. OLD SIX-SIDED COTTAGE – SUNSET

And he leaves, swinging the door shut quickly behind him.

EXT. COUNTRYSIDE – DAY/NIGHT

The man walks along a country path in wonderment, watching the

WOMANS VOICE [WISPY]

EXT. CHURCHYARD - SUNSET

The man stops at a large, elaborate grave adorned with a large

Centre No.: 32217 Bury College Candidate No.: 8013

is a clump of shamrocks growing. The man grabs a large handful and

INT. OLD SIX-SIDED COTTAGE – NIGHT

‘Til the imps came out,

170 Threw it in the yard,

Centre No.: 32217 Bury College Candidate No.: 8013

190 Now you’ve four leaved shamrocks,

Now come you daft soul,

The man edges closer toward her.

The people out there,

220The woman moves backwards, but ignores his rudeness.

As you’ve four leaved shamrocks,

Centre No.: 32217 Bury College Candidate No.: 8013

“And the Moor-Woman was gone…”

EXT. CHURCHYARD – NIGHT

The story is old,

She gestures to a photo on a cabinet, a photograph of her when she

280 THE MOOR-WOMAN

When I met the story,

Stories and poems,

A whole cupboard full,

All sorts of essence,

The Moor-Woman gestures toward a stump-like block of black alder, and

A great work of art,

Their spirit removed,

350 The Will-o-the-Wisp,

That’s of more concern,

But I have to warn,

Centre No.: 32217 Bury College Candidate No.: 8013

The Moor-Woman herself sits down in a cushioned chair and gestures

370 THE MOOR-WOMAN

Twelve sat on my lap,

These Will-o-the Wisp,

Now I guess you know,

Those wisps there born,

The rest of the year,

Possess any man,

If he roams among men,

Should the sprightly Wisp fail,

The Wisps can’t resist,

Despite good advice,

430 The Wisps threw a ball,

Even proud elf-maids,

They learned twists and turns,

So the Wisps travelled,

But of where and how,

The Moor-Woman gets up, forcefully making her point.

And I chatter and chatter,

I’ll say all over town,