Episode 108 – Fire and Ice – Myths Your Teacher Hated

Episode 108 Show Notes

Source: Danish Folklore

This week on MYTH, we’re celebrating the New Year with a mix of light and darkness that feels appropriate to this time of year. You’ll see that it’s tough to be a door-to-door match salesperson, that there is magic in flames, and that you should be careful of the cold. Then, in Gods and Monsters, out with the old and in with the new – it’s the Little New Year. This is the Myths Your Teacher Hated podcast, where I tell the stories of cultures from around the world in all of their original, bloody, uncensored glory. Modern tellings of these stories have become dry and dusty, but I’ll be trying to breathe new life into them. This is Episode 108, “Fire and Ice”. As always, this episode is not safe for work.
A new year is once again upon us with its usual confusing mix of hope and dread. That theme of looking for light in the darkness is a common one for stories told around the height of winter as one year dies and another is born. This week’s story is very much in this mold and comes to us from the Fairy Tales collection by our old friend Hans Christian Andersen from 1837.
More than anything else, it was cold. The longest night of the year had come and gone and now it was the very last night of the year – New Year’s Eve. The sun had long since set, and most folks were snug and warm inside. Some were abed already while others drank and danced as they waited to ring in the new year. Outside however, in the bitter cold and hungry darkness, walked a poor little girl. She’d been out all day, eyes watering against the chill bite of an icy wind, trying to sell the collection of matchsticks in her thin old apron, a bundle held in one numb hand.
She had no coat to keep her warm, nor even a scarf to keep the thickly falling snowflakes off her neck and out of her curls. She’d had shoes when she set out this morning – a pair of overly large slippers that her mother had used to wear. She’d lost them while trudging through the thickly piled slush. Two horsedrawn carriages had raced down the icy street, far too quickly for the wintery conditions, and she’d had to leap aside to avoid being crushed beneath their wheels. One shoe had vanished into the snow without a trace; the other had been seized by a hungry street urchin, larger and faster than the girl by a lot, especially in bare feet. He carried it away, quite pleased with himself and intending to use it as a cradle when he had a his own children in the not-too-distant future. Thus, the poor little girl had no choice but to soldier on along the frozen roads, bare feet turning red and then blue with cold, cut to ribbons by the sharp ice she fortunately couldn’t feel through the terrible numbness.
Around her, the windows were lighting up with candles and roaring fires, making the winter air feel all the colder. Enticing smells of roast goose wafted out on the breeze, making her starving belly feel all the emptier. Her matches were all she had. Not a single soul had bought a single match from her today, so her pockets were empty of even a farthing she might have used to buy a hot meal next to a warm fire for a little while. No, this poor little girl had no choice but to trudge barefoot through the snow, trembling with cold and hunger, the pitiful thing.
She soon came to a corner between two houses that was mostly blocked from the wind. There was less snow here, sheltered as it was from the storm, and so the little girl sat down on the frozen ground. Tucking her frozen feet up under her ragged dress for what meager comfort they could find there, she thought about her next move. Home lay but a little way farther but she had no intention of going back there tonight. She’d been sent out this morning to sell her matches and she had failed. Her father would not take that well, no he would not. He was a bitter, miserable bastard who would certainly beat the trembling child bloody for the lack of coin in her pockets. It was almost as cold there as it was out here, or at least that’s what she told herself. Her home was as wretched as she was, with a roof that whistled in the wind and walls that were full of cracks and holes poorly stopped up with straw and rags. No, there was no point in going home. She would only add a brutal beating to starving and freezing.
Sheltered from the wind, the little girl thought that she might even be able to light one of her precious matches, get a fire going. Her father wouldn’t remember exactly how many she had been sent out with – he wouldn’t miss just one. Fingers numb and clumsy, she drew a single match out of the bundle still clutched in her frozen fist. Carefully, oh so very carefully, she drew it against the rough wood of the wall she huddled against, holding her breath. With a hiss, the match caught and blazed to life in a burst of golden light.
It was only a single match, but somehow it filled the air with glorious heat. Stretching out her hands as close to the flame as she could, the little girl felt them thaw out. The cold dark night melted away and the little girl saw herself sitting before a great iron stove, a fancy one with burnished brass feet and a little brass ornament on top, blazing with glorious fire. Her shivers calmed as she bathed in the blessed warmth of the stove, and she stretched out her feet to warm up as well. Even as she felt the first kiss of heat in her toes, the flame burned out. The stove vanished in an instant, leaving only the burnt out remains of her matchstick behind.
With the stove gone, the cold and the dark and the hunger rushed back like a terrible wave, crushing the little girl beneath it. Trembling, she pulled out another match and struck it against the wall. Once again, golden light spilled forth, trailing a stream of sparks that fell upon the wall. Where the light fell, wood became transparent, a veil the little girl could easily see through. Inside, the room had been set for dinner with a large table standing at the center. A snow-white tablecloth spread across it without blemish, set with fine porcelain dishes and, in pride of place, a fat roast goose steaming deliciously. Sniffing deeply, she could smell the tang of its apple and dried plum stuffing mixing with the heady smell of roasted meat.
As she stared at it longingly, the roast goose suddenly stood up on its leg stumps and waddled awkwardly off the table, down the chairs, and to the floor. A fork and carving knife still stuck in its breast, it reeled almost drunkely towards the ravenous little girl. It could easily have become a zombie horror show, but instead it came off more like something from an old Warner Brother cartoon with the roast begging the little girl to eat it in a totally sincere and somehow not at all creepy way. It came right up to where she sat but, as she reached out a hand for it, the light died away and the veil dropped down once more, leaving solid wood between the little girl and her feast. Nothing but cold, damp, unyielding wall stood where delicious dinner had been.
Trembling in her haste, the little girl drew out a third match and struck it. Light blazed around her and the match stretched up into a towering fir tree sparkling with countless candless and decked in shimmering garland. It was the most magnificent Christmas tree she had ever seen, bigger and better even than the one she had seen through the glass door of the rich merchant’s house a week ago. Thousands of lights twinkled merrily amongst the lush green branches, with brilliant ornaments dangling between. Brightly painted pictures like she had seen in the shops she’d passed hung above her looking down. Gazing heavenward, the little girl stretched up her hands towards them.
The lights of the Christmas tree towered higher and higher and higher until they sat in the sky itself and became twinkling stars. As she watched, one of them fell away and dropped towards the earth, a long tail burning brilliantly behind it. The little girl gasped. “Someone must have just died!” Her grandmother had told her that. She’d loved her grandmother, and her grandmother had loved her back. She’d been the only person in the whole world who did, but then she’d died and everything had gotten so much darker. Grandmother had said that when a star falls from the sky, a soul ascends to Heaven.
Before it could all fade away, the little girl struck another match, eyes never leaving the beautiful, distant stars above. The light returned and drew her eyes back to the earth. There, standing in the golden halo of the fire’s light stood her grandmother! Her smile was just the way the little girl remembered, soft and sweet and kind and loving. No one had looked at the little girl like that since grandmother had died. She’d been all alone in the cold, dark world.
“Grandmother, take me with you! Please, I can’t lose you when the light fades. When the matches burned out, the stove and the goose and the tree all vanished. You left me once, please don’t leave me again!” The old woman said nothing, but her smile turned just a little bit sad. Desperate, the little girl took the entire bundle of remaining matches and struck them all at once. Surely such a glorious burst of light would keep Grandmother here with her. The combined matches burned with such a dazzling light that the world was lit up like the noonday sun, brighter than that even. Grandmother had never stood so tall before and she’d never looked quite so beautiful, so angelic.
Sobbing, the little girl reached desperately for the phantom of her beloved grandmother and, for once, the vision proved real. Grandmother took the girl’s trembling outstretched hand in her own and lifted her to her feet. Together, they rose up on the very light itself, awash in blissful warmth. The little girl cried, overjoyed to be reunited with her beloved grandmother. As they soared up into the light, she knew that she would never be alone again. They left the cold, dark night far behind.
Of course, the night was still there, and so was the cold. Time passed as it always does and eventually, the pale light of dawn broke across the snow-swept village. As it did, it slowly drove the shadows away from the corner between two houses to reveal a small little girl leaning against the wall. Her smile was huge and glorious but her eyes were empty and dull, her skin pale and cold. The poor thing had succumbed to hypothermia, freezing to death even as the old year died to make way for the new. Her bundle of matches, charred and burnt, were still wedged into the snow in front of her though the others in her apron remained intact. When the people found her, they sighed sadly. The poor thing must have been trying to keep herself warm from the frozen night but hadn’t quite managed it. No one knew of the splendors she had seen in her final moments, and no one knows if any of it was real or just the fevered imagination of a desperate child.
Yeah, ol Hans wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine. Maybe it’s the stress of another year in a world on fire, maybe it’s the seasonal depression getting its claws into me again, or maybe it’s not having had any time off for two years, but this story spoke to me. I have to wonder if he knew that, in extreme cases of hypothermia, people often start to feel paradoxically hot as your blood vessels dilate in a last ditch effort to warm you up. It’s a somber story for a somber season, but it’s also time for Gods and Monsters. This is a segment where I get into a little more detail about the personalities and history of one of the gods or monsters from this week’s pantheon that was not discussed in the main story. This week’s small spot of hope is the Little New Year.
This story comes from Buttercup Gold and Other Stories by Ellen Robena Field from 1894. It’s entirely unique, so let’s just jump right in. There once was a little boy named Maurice who lived in a small village. It was late in the year and the nights were long and dark, so little Maurice was snug in his bed, sleeping soundly. Something roused him from his dreams, so he sat up in bed, blinking in the darkness until it came again: a knocking at the window. The full moon was shining brightly over the sleeping land but ol’ Jack Frost had been busy while Maurice was sleeping, so the boy could barely see out of the thickly frosted windows. The knocking came again, soft and low, but he couldn’t make out who, if anyone, was out there.
Curious, he crept over to the window and threw it open to the chill night air. He didn’t see anyone, so he whispered “who’s there?” From nowhere in particular came a tinkling voice. “I am! It’s me, the little New Year tee hee! I’ve promised the old year that I would bring a blessing to everyone tonight but I’m such a little thing that I don’t know if I can do it on my own. Would you mind helping me spread these New Year’s blessings, Maurice?” The chill night wind blew in through the open window, making Maurice shiver in his warm bedroom. “I dunno, it’s pretty cold out there. Climbing back into my warm bed and going back to sleep sounds pretty nice.”
Even as Maurice spoke, Jack Frost himself sauntered by and tickled the boy under the chin with one of his frosty brushes that painted the world with snow. The young boy shivered again at this fresh chill. “Never mind the cold, Maurice. Please – I need your help. Everyone needs your help.” With a sigh, Maurice went into his room and began to throw on some clothes. He was a good kid and it didn’t feel right to leave the Little New Year to struggle alone under this important burden.
When he entered the yard, Maurice saw a little child standing there, rosy cheeked and even smaller than he was. He was huffing and puffing as he struggled to pull a large cart loaded down with packages that Maurice assumed to be the aforementioned blessings. On the side facing Maurice was painted the word ‘Love’. As he trotted around the other side to help the struggling New Year out, he saw the the word ‘Kindness’ was painted on the other. When the New Year saw Maurice coming up beside him, he smiled hugely. “Thanks, Maurice! Now grab hold ove there and help me pull.”
Together, they were able to get the cart moving and it rumbled down the driveway and out into the road. They pulled it along the icy lanes until the Little New Year stopped in front of a an old shanty. It was a tiny hovel, made as best it could be with the very cheap materials used and it didn’t look like a very nice place to live to Maurice. The house where he lived was very large and well-made for his parents were very rich. He recognized it though. Maurice looked over at the New Year. “That’s where old Joe lives. He’s the old black man who works for us and lives all alone without any family or children.”
The New Year nodded. “It is indeed. He needs my help and he deserves a gift. Grown ups like to be thought of just as much as children do, but not all of them have someone to think of them. I’m going to unload some gifts for Old Joe and take them inside. While I do that, could you shovel out a path down his walkway? It would be nice if he didn’t have to do hard labor before he could come to work for your family tomorrow.” Maurice nodded. He liked Old Joe and he was a good kid, so he was happy to help the sleeping man out. The Little New Year’s gifts turned out not to be packages, or at least not exactly. Some of the packages did indeed disappear from the cart, but not because the New Year was unloading them. Instead, the little child was scampering around the shanty piling up warm clothing that had been freshly cleaned, cutting and stacking firewood, and setting out everything needed for a nice New Year’s dinner.
As they worked, the Little New Year sang:

Oh I am the Little New Year, ho! Ho!

Here I come tripping it over the snow

Shaking my bells with a merry din

So open your door and let me in!”

The sound of this singing woke Old Joe from his exhausted slumber. Coming the to the door, he saw the shoveled driveway, the new clothes, the stacked lumber, and a finer feast than he could possibly have afforded and tears welled up in his eyes. Filled with gratitude, joy, and wonder, Old Joe loaded the things inside and called out his thanks to whoever was out there and had brought these things, be they a helpful neighbor, a friendly spirit, or an angel of the lord.
Maurice and the Little New Year were already back on the road pulling the somehow not at all lighter cart. “Where are we headed next?” The Little New Year gestured to a house ahead at the bottom of a hill. “To bring some flowers to a sick little girl.” Shrugging, Maurice pulled his end of the cart and followed the Little New Year’s lead until they stopped in front of a small white house. Maurice recognized this place as well. “Hey, this is where our sewing girl Betsy lives. You said she was sick? I didn’t know that.” The Little New Year raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing. It wasn’t his fault that his parents didn’t seem to take an interest in the lives of their staff. He gestured to a window that was cracked open. “That’s Betsy’s bedroom window. Grab some of those pink flowers, Maurice, and we can throw them into her room. It will brighten up the place and help her feel a little better when she wakes up, and I think it will bring her some happiness for at least the next few days. I think she deserves that, don’t you?”
Maurice agreed that Betsy did indeed deserve to feel happy. He liked Betsy and he felt bad that he hadn’t realized that she was sick. She must have been working through her illness, which sucked. Once her room was bedecked in flowers, they moved on with their cart. They traveled throughout the town that night, spreading blessings and cheer in their wake to many different people. By the time they had visited every house, Maurice looked up at the cart and was surprised to see that it was stacked every bit as high as it had ever been. “What a marvelous cart you have! We’ve delivered so many good things to so many deserving people and it’s still completely full! Does it ever get empty?” The Little New Year shook his head with a wide smile. “Nope. Love and Kindness are not reduced by spreading them. If anything, you’ll find that there’s more love and kindness in the world after sharing it. This cart will never be empty as long as there are people out there who need my help. If you want, you can come with me every day and help me scatter my blessings to one and all. You’d be surprised how happy that can make you feel all year.”
“Happy New Year!” The voice came from the doorway, startling Maurice. He found himself lying in his own bed in his jammies once more – or maybe he had never left. His sister was standing in the doorway smiling at him. “You looked happy. Were you having a good dream?” Maurice looked around, still disoriented. “Where is the Little New Year? He was right here with me a moment ago.” His sister rolled her eyes at the strange ways of children (being a whole year older, she was practically a grown up in her own mind). “Never mind that. Come to Mama’s room and see what’s waiting for you!”
Hopping out of the bed, he followed his sister to their mother’s room. Standing there in middle was a snow-white cradle with a tiny newborn baby in it – the little brother that Maurice had been hoping for. Maurice was thrilled to finally have a brother, and he felt truly happy. That reminded him of his dream of the Little New Year, and Maurice took the lesson to heart. Maurice went out early that morning to shovel Old Joe’s walkay and to bring some flowers to Betsy to help her feel better. From that day on, Maurice always tried to be helpful to his friends and to people in need of a little kindness, and everyone was always happy to see Maurice coming, spreading his blessings from the Little New Year’s unending cart of goodies.
See, I’m not all doom and gloom, even in this chilly time of year. I think it can be helpful to be reminded that, even when the night is cold and dark and everything feels tough, love and kindness are still out there. Sometimes, all it takes to feel a little happiness is to spread a little kindness to someone else in need. Happy 2023 everyone. May yours be filled with plenty of blessings from the cart of the Little New Year.
That’s it for this episode of Myths Your Teacher Hated. Keep up with new episodes on our Facebook page, on iTunes, on Stitcher, on TuneIn, on Vurbl, and on Spotify, or you can follow us on Twitter as @HardcoreMyth, on Instagram as Myths Your Teacher Hated Pod, and on Tumblr as MythsYourTeacherHated. You can also find news and episodes on our website at myths your teacher hated dot com. If you have any questions, any gods or monsters you’d want to learn about, or any ideas for future stories that you’d like to hear, feel free to drop me a line. I’m trying to pull as much material from as many different cultures as possible, but there are all sorts of stories I’ve never heard, so suggestions are appreciated. The theme music is by Tiny Cheese Puff.

Next time, we’re keeping the new year trend going with a creation myth from a new source – the Yoruba people of western Africa. You’ll see that black cats make good pets, that snail shells can hold more sand than you think, and that there’s a limit to how much gold even gods have. Then, in Gods and Monsters, we’re going back to discover whether a trickster god might have been behind the dress controversy of 2020. That’s all for now. Thanks for listening.