The Curse of Sternutation

By Nathan Veyon

Eat your pies and drink your ale and listen well to this story of wonder, of wooing, of weeping, of weddings, of woe—and of some sneezing.

Turnipton was a simple village. The residents preferred it that way. They grew their potatoes and milked their cows. They had their occasional celebration, but no adventures, no heroes, and definitely no one ever going near the hills. The rumors of the hag who lived there had frightened many a youngling into obedience. She had nails like dragon’s teeth, hair like strangling lichen, and eyes of coal. And she smelled worse than farmer Jonkel in the pig pen on sauerkraut Saturdays.

Perchance you dismiss these warnings as old wives’ tales, but one poor soul can attest to the dangers of disturbing the hag in her abode—Treydor, the miller’s son. One day he escaped the watchful eye of his mother and wandered far afield. The following morn, he stumbled into town cursed with a hex most foul. The piteous lad couldn’t go more than a few moments without sneezing. Yet, the consequences of his doom increased as he grew older. No one wanted to buy grain after he’d milled it. He tried smithing, but kept dousing the fire. He had no better luck at hunting, for invariably he announced his entrance at the forest’s edge, and the game scattered like leaves before a gale.

But oh, the tragedy of romance! Treydor was a handsome lad, but no maiden would be courted by him. For indeed, women like very little being covered in spittle.

No matter how hard he tried, every attempt at romance ended in the same way: hiccuping sobs, tears like rain, and angry glares from parents. He’d always found it unfair that girls could be traumatized by a few—admittedly violent—sneezes when he found their sheer amount of tears and snot far more traumatizing. If measured in quantity alone, he was certain most women had him beat by a bucket or two.

Treydor grew to understand that his would not be a normal life. On occasion his sneezing would slow for minutes, hours, even days. He would carefully recreate the events leading up to the respite, but inevitably his curse would return in full. After a particularly long reprieve where he had dutifully stubbed his toe every morning and put his shirt on backward, he realized that nothing he did would help. All his efforts had gained was a week of limping and stretched shirts.

Some pitied him; others were disgusted by him. Many whispered behind his back—though this was largely because no one dared stand in front of him.

Treydor persevered, however, and eventually discovered he had a knack for woodworking. He built a small house on the outskirts of Turnipton and there spent his days honing his craft. In the beginning, each mighty sneeze chipped and dented his work, but he soon learned to pull back in time to preserve his masterpieces. He also rarely had to worry about wood chips and sawdust as they were regularly cleared from his work bench.

The town became aware that there was none better than Treydor to fix a broken plow or fashion a new wagon wheel. To avoid awkward and rainy exchanges, requests and payments were left outside his door.

He’d finally found a place amongst the townspeople, small as it was, but day after day Treydor yearned for freedom from his lonely existence. He would occasionally walk through town when he needed supplies, but only when most had gone in for supper. He enjoyed the sounds of people’s laughter even if he couldn’t join them.

One evening, on the way back from such a trip, he heard a woman’s cry for help. The cry ended so abruptly that he dropped his bag and ran to the edge of town, only sneezing twice on his way there. When he arrived, he saw an overturned wagon and a young woman straining to lift one side.

Treydor rushed to her and asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine… It’s my father… He’s trapped.” Her breath kept catching as she struggled against the weighty wood.

Oh, that dreaded hiccuping again. But in this case he saw no tears, only worried eyes.

Treydor bent and examined the wagon just as his curse returned in full force. Behind him, the woman shrieked.

A solid bump came from under the wagon. “Darilee! Are you okay?” a muffled voice said.

Treydor turned to apologize. Darilee threw herself at him and hugged him tightly. Just as quickly she let go and rushed to the wagon.

“Father, this man has cured me!” she shouted through the wooden slats.

“What?” the muffled voice replied.

“He scared the hiccups right out of me.” She turned around and grabbed Treydor’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Treydor flushed red with embarrassment and a healthy dose of confusion. His curse struck again—a sneeze so mighty it rocked the wagon.

“Ooh.” Darilee giggled. “You don’t need to cure me again.”

He avoided answering by looking for a branch to lift the wagon, but kept an eye on the unpredictable, possibly unstable woman who crouched by the wagon talking too quickly for him to follow. He found a suitable piece of wood and used it to lever the side of the wagon.

A short man clambered out. No sooner had Treydor dropped the branch than he was again being squeezed hard enough to choke off his next sneeze. The father grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m most grateful to you, sir, for curing my daughter’s curse of hiccups. Most grateful indeed. My daughter thinks you would make a wonderful suitor if you are not otherwise taken.”

The only thing Treydor could do, at the moment, was sneeze again.

“Oh my,” the father replied. “I’ll take that as yes.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nathan Veyon grew up reading Tolkien and Lewis. This developed into a lifelong love of science fiction and fantasy. He enjoys computers and science which he also currently teaches. In his spare time he also enjoys working on developing multiple worlds that are slowly being turned into actual books.

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