Jorinde and Joringel

Long ago, there lived a beautiful maiden named Jorinde and a handsome young man named Joringel. They were deeply in love and planned to be married in the autumn when the harvest moon was full.

One summer evening, as they walked hand in hand through the forest, they lost their way among the winding paths. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, when they realized they were far from home.

“Do not worry, my dear Jorinde,” said Joringel gently, squeezing her hand. “We shall find our way back by moonlight.”

But as they wandered deeper into the woods, they came upon a clearing where stood an ancient castle, its walls dark and forbidding. No light shone from its windows, and an eerie silence hung about the place like a shroud.

“We must turn back,” whispered Jorinde, a chill running down her spine. “This place feels cursed.”

But even as she spoke, they found they could not move their feet. Some invisible force held them rooted to the spot, and a terrible fear crept into their hearts.

Suddenly, an old woman emerged from the castle. Her back was bent with age, her gray hair hung in wild tangles, and her eyes glowed like yellow coals in the darkness. She was a witch of great power, and this cursed castle was her domain.

“So, two young lovers have wandered into my territory,” she cackled, her voice like the creaking of old bones. “How delightful! It has been so long since I’ve had visitors.”

The witch raised her gnarled hand and began to chant in a voice that made the very trees tremble:

“When the moon doth shine so bright, Catch the lovers in my sight. Turn the maiden to a bird, By my spell and by my word!”

As she spoke these evil words, Jorinde felt her body growing lighter. Her beautiful hair began to shimmer and change into golden feathers, her arms transformed into delicate wings, and her sweet voice became the trill of a nightingale.

“Jorinde!” cried Joringel in anguish, but he could not move to help her. The witch’s spell held him fast, unable to do anything but watch as his beloved was transformed before his eyes.

The witch scooped up the little nightingale that had been Jorinde and placed her in a wicker cage. “Another pretty bird for my collection,” she said with satisfaction. “I have seven thousand already, all locked away in my castle towers.”

Joringel’s heart was breaking, but his voice would not obey him. He could only stand frozen as the witch carried his beloved away into the dark castle. The last thing he heard was Jorinde’s song, now a nightingale’s call:

“Zeezee, zeezee, zeezee!”

When the moon set and dawn broke over the forest, the spell that bound Joringel was broken. He rushed to the castle walls, calling Jorinde’s name, but the walls were too high and the doors were sealed with magic. No matter how he searched, he could find no way inside.

The old witch appeared at a window high in the tallest tower. “Your little nightingale is mine now,” she taunted. “You’ll never see her again unless you can break my spell. But no one has ever been able to do that!”

Heartbroken but determined, Joringel left the cursed place and wandered the world, searching for some way to rescue his beloved. He visited wise men and learned women, consulted ancient books, and sought out every herb and potion that might have magical properties.

For months he searched, growing thinner and more desperate with each passing day. His clothes became ragged, his face gaunt, but still he did not give up hope.

One night, as autumn arrived and the air grew crisp, Joringel had a vivid dream. He saw himself finding a magnificent flower—a purple bloom with a pearl of morning dew in its center that shone like a star. In the dream, this flower had the power to break any spell.

When he awoke, Joringel felt a surge of hope. He remembered that such a flower was said to grow only on the highest mountain peak, where the first light of dawn touched the earth. It bloomed for just one day each year, on the anniversary of a great sorrow.

Joringel climbed for days until he reached the mountain’s summit. There, as the first rays of the rising sun painted the sky, he found the magical flower exactly as it had appeared in his dream. The purple petals seemed to glow with inner light, and in its center sat a perfect pearl of dew that sparkled like captured starlight.

“This must be the flower that can save my Jorinde,” he said, carefully plucking it from the rocky ground.

With the magic flower in hand, Joringel hurried back through the forest to the witch’s castle. This time, when he approached the dark walls, he felt no fear. The flower seemed to protect him from the witch’s evil magic.

He found the castle’s great door, which had been invisible to him before, and pressed the flower against its iron surface. The door swung open with a deep, resonant tone like a church bell.

Inside, Joringel made his way through winding corridors lined with countless cages. In each cage sat a bird—nightingales, larks, canaries, and doves—all of them maidens who had been transformed by the witch’s cruel magic.

“Jorinde!” he called. “Where are you, my love?”

From high in the tallest tower came the familiar trill: “Zeezee, zeezee, zeezee!”

Joringel climbed the winding stairs, his heart pounding with hope and fear. In the topmost chamber, he found the witch waiting for him, her yellow eyes blazing with fury.

“You cannot have her!” she shrieked, raising her hands to cast another spell.

But when Joringel held up the magical flower, the witch’s power was broken. Her evil incantations died on her lips, and she could only watch helplessly as he approached the cage where his beloved nightingale sat.

“My dear Jorinde,” whispered Joringel, touching the flower to the cage’s silver bars.

The moment the magic blossom touched the cage, it opened of its own accord. The little nightingale hopped onto Joringel’s finger, and as the flower’s power flowed through her, she began to transform back into her human form.

Her golden feathers became golden hair once more, her wings returned to graceful arms, and her bird’s voice became the sweet tones Joringel had missed so desperately.

“Joringel!” cried Jorinde, throwing her arms around his neck. “You came for me! But how did you break the witch’s spell?”

“Love guided me to the one thing that could save you,” he replied, showing her the magical flower. “This bloom has the power to overcome any evil enchantment born of hatred and spite.”

The witch let out a wail of defeat and crumbled into dust, for her power had been broken forever. As she vanished, all the other cages in the castle opened, and hundreds of birds flew out and transformed back into the young women they had once been—sisters, daughters, and sweethearts who had been trapped for years by the witch’s evil magic.

They all flew out of the castle windows as human maidens once more, returning to their homes and families who had mourned them as lost.

Joringel and Jorinde walked out of the castle hand in hand, the magical flower still glowing softly in Joringel’s other hand. As they left, the cursed castle crumbled behind them, its dark stones falling to the earth and becoming covered with beautiful flowering vines.

“We shall be married as we planned,” said Joringel, “when the harvest moon is full.”

“And nothing shall ever part us again,” promised Jorinde.

They returned to their village, where their families welcomed them with tears of joy. The magical flower, its work complete, withered and became common earth, but its deed lived on in the hearts of all who heard their story.

When the autumn moon rose full and bright, Joringel and Jorinde were married beneath its silver light. The celebration lasted three days and three nights, and people came from villages far and wide to wish the brave couple happiness.

And they lived joyfully together for all their days, their love having proven stronger than the darkest magic. Sometimes, when they walked together in the forest where they had first met the witch, nightingales would sing especially sweetly, as if all the birds remembered how one of their kind had been saved by true love.

In their old age, Joringel and Jorinde would tell their grandchildren this tale by the firelight, and the children would listen with wonder at how courage and love had conquered evil magic. And though the witch was gone and her castle fallen, the story lived on as a reminder that no spell is stronger than a heart full of true love and the courage to fight for it.