The Redemption of the Wicked Weasel

The wicked weasel weaved his way through the woods under the cover of the night. A storm blew far above, the trees all angling for a fight. Over his head the bats flew close to branches battered by the wind. While below the mice he sought, were gathered safely in. He could not find his prey, by nature he’d been bested. So he looked up high to the trees above, where birds in spring had nested.

The weasel climbed up into the warring trees. There he heard the sound of chirruping chicks carried on the breeze. With barbaric bloodlust he blitzed the creatures within, killing more than he needed, which carries with it a sin. He acted on instinct, that much could be said, though that was not excuse enough for the gone and dead.

As the storm blew he seized on the chaos and killed again, though he needed for nothing more. What a wicked weasel, who found such sport in all this death, this gore. He killed because he could, blinded by bloodlust and fury. The angry and the guilty will always thrive where there is no punishment, no jury.

The night wore on and the weasel killed the young and the old. He was reckless, unafraid, he was bullish, he was bold. But as the storm abated he was seen off by magpies and ravens alike, who sought to protect their homes and their remaining vulnerable mites. Battered and bloodied, the weasel wandered down a lonely track. Soon, he did not know to where he had come or how to get back.

It was there in a dell that the wind appeared to drop and the sounds disappeared, the world it just stopped. Though he could not smell them one thing was clear, he was not alone in the dell, someone else was quite near. He whimpered and weaselled, his heart began to pound. From the air appeared a mist, which gathered into a cloud.

For a cloud it was too small, but it was both thick and quite light. Then from the cloud appeared a face, which gave the weasel a fright. The eyes they were kind but unnerving and strange. And as we all know, fear, well it only breeds rage. The weasel ran toward the ghost but was stopped in his track. He had been caught up in the air, as he would have in a sack.

The weasel writhed within the ghost, clawing in his rage. But it was no good, he was quite stuck now in his invisible cage. So he stopped, this was useless, what should he do? The weasel was getting scared, but his anger, it just grew. The ghost felt sick with the weasel’s fear, and its hate. The two could only seethe in silence, both contemplating their fate.

The ghost, it drifted in the now falling wind. It was bound to the world that the weasel lived within. What should it do here? It had not meant to stay, it was only curious, had only come to play. But though it was trapped here, as a ghost it could live. Alas to the weasel stuck within it, to him food it could not give.

The future looked bleak, the two could not move on. The ghost would be stuck forever, while the weasel would suffer, then be gone. They could not speak, and blaming each other, could not have cared a jot. So the two lived on, in the eternal night, as was the spirit’s lot.

Time ticked on and they strayed far into the endless night, until an artist in her dreams, stumbled on to their weary plight. She gathered the two into her arms and despatched them into the charms of the doctors, twinned in body and in mind. They were smart yet chaotic, above all, they were kind.

These medical men saw in the creatures a need, they administered their magic and the two were finally freed. They were so grateful but perhaps the one most, was the wicked weasel finally out of the ghost. His anger had taught him a terrible lesson, his ego and stomach were sore. In the future he would be kinder, more cautious, taking only what he needed and never more.

The ghost and the weasel looked into each other’s eyes, and acknowledged the strange kinship they had found. But now their ordeal was over, from this place the ghost was unbound. He could finally move on and he bade his farewell, leaving the weasel where he’d met him, in the grassy dell. The weasel bounded off, wicked no more, and his tale of redemption passed into nature’s lore.


This short story was inspired by a drawing by Chloe Cumming, who is a fantastic artist with a great imagination. This particular drawing is of one of Chloe’s inspirations, the Drs van Tulleken, and you can see the original drawing below. You can also follow her @ChloeCumming on Twitter or Instagram, or you can visit her website here.

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