Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a tower alone. Every day, a witch climbed up the tower and brought her food and drink.

Now, this girl had very beautiful auburn-brown hair that was so long it spanned three-fourths the entire length of the tower. It was littered with miniature plaits tied with bits of ribbon.

The witch called her Çaetlá.

Çaetlá sat by her window everyday and wathed over the forest. She sang madrigals and verses with the birds and shared food with the raccoons and squirrels.

One day, the witch called out from the foot of the tower.

‚O Çaetlá, lend me a piece of rope

So I may bring up your rapunzel

And you may cook good food.

I see that you have a squirrel

So I have brought a knife.

We shall have a feast

With this little rodent's life.'

Çaetlá, ever so sympathetic with her animal friends, was horrified with the witch's words. She imediately scooped up her pet and put him under the bed. With nimble fingers, she took a length of rope, spanning one and one-fourth the length of the tower, and attached one end of the rope to a tree's branch reaching in from the opposite window. She cautiously let down the rope.

The witch climbed up the tower with the rope. However, the tree branch could not support her weight, so it broke and sent her plummeting to the ground.

Çaetlá peeked out her window, to see the witch's demise. She lay at the foot of the tower, a bloody heap of rapunzel, bread, and broken bones.

Çaetlá was very satisfied with her work. She hurriedly released her pet, who squealed and scampered off.

That night, Çaetlá watched the wolves devour the witch's corpse while eating an apple brought by a squirrel.

Some weeks passed by and the traces of the witch's death had worn off. Even still, Çaetlá was as healthy and happy as ever with her animal companions.

The next day a company of hnters entered the forest. Among them was the prince. He had wandered off and stumbled into the clearing of Çaetlá's tower, where she was singing a cheerful song with the magpies and redbirds and sparrows.

The prince, a lover of cheer and ebullience, was easily captivated by her song. He sang along jovially.

‚And now the witch's feast has come to an

Abrupt end

Therefore, worry no more, my friend

I'll keep you safe with my care

So that anyone who'll dare

Will face a nightmare'

Çaetlá stopped her singing when she heard the prince. She peeked out of her window, a redbird cautiously perched on her left palm. He waved good-naturedly, and Çaetlá, a bit taken aback, shyly returned the gesture. The prince called out:

‚Pretty lass, may I ask your name?

Or have you not heard of my fame?

Then let us play a little guessing game.'

Çaetlá, fascinated, replied:

‚Dear stranger,

Have you not heard of this miser?

No person queerer,

Has made me curioser.

All the more this place is dearer

Young mister.

I will tell you my name

If you win my game.'

The prince laughed brightly at her reply.

‚Very well, young lady

Let me rid you of your misery.'

Çaetlá sat down on the windowsill, her hair trailing down on the stone floor.

‚Firstly dear stranger

Has anything made you curioser?

I will give you a riddle

Pleasanter than a fiddle.

Once their was a witch

Who called me Çaetlá.

Her hair was soft and dark,

And framed her eyes, like a skylark.

Once, she called me Camellia.

A rose brought by a squirrel

And she brought me rapunzel.

She brought a knife

To take my friend's life.

In the midle of this strife

O good tree snapped

And so with a clap

She met her demise.

Tell me,

Are you not surprised?

But that is no more a question

Than a suggestion.

Tell me, dear stranger—

Why did the witch's feast

End not sadder?'

The prince stood in thought, thinking of the strange girl's riddle. He shrugged nonchalantly.

‚Pray tell, dear maiden

May I come back tomorrow?

To not answer to wit's end

Shan't be my sorrow.

My thoughts must not muddle

For me to answer your riddle.'

Çaetlá sang back.

‚Then by all means, come back

To my rundown shack.

This tower

Is no more cover

For a prison.

But you will not be

Charged with treason,

For the warden

Is nowhere near.

So come back, dear mister

For I am always here.'

So the prince rode off on his horse. Everyday he came back, trying to answer Çaetlá's riddle. Meanwhile, news reached her that there were foreign men who were shooting down deer and sparrows and hares.

That afternoon, when the prince arrived, she started weeping.

‚O dear maiden,

Why do you mourn?

Have I become

An object of your scorn?

Say no more, dear maiden

Even though there is no warden

I shall bid farewell

For I only wish your heart well.'

Çaetlá gently wiped a tear off her cheek.

‚You have been faithful, dear stranger

To always visit this miser.

But worry not

Object of my scorn you are but.

Such as the object of my anger

Are someone stranger

Making fauna curioser

Bringing their end nearer.'

The prince looked troubled and shook his head.

‚Alas, fair maiden,

My fear has come.

Pardon us, for the damage done.

For it is my company and I

Who destroy pleasantries of your eye.'

Çaetlá gently peered down onto the prince.

‚Is that so, dear mister?

Very well, this miser

Has truly never

Been curioser.

Even though you have

Not won my game,

I shall tell you my name.

I am Çaetlá.

You have amused me to no end—

Why, you might as well be my friend!

So won't you accept my invitation?

There shall be no other instruction;

Come up this tower

And amuse this prisoner.'

The prince, overjoyed, graciously accepted.

‚Thank thee, dear maiden

You have no warden.

Çaetlá, heart golden,

I am most thankful,

Though sudden.

And now

How may I be useful?'

So Çaetlá fetched a length of rope, one and one-fourth's the length of the whole tower, and attached it to a hook, letting it down for the prince. She then fetched a pair of scissors and held them.

The prince, a fit oyung man, quickly climbed up without difficulty. Once on top, he set light feet on the floor, and was stabbed by a tearful Çaetlá.

‚My heart is not golden!' she wailed.

‚I have killed my warden—

You, stranger,

Have made me curioser.

But nothing will ever be queerer

Than an empty tower.

So pardon me, young mister—

You meet your end, my friend,

In the hands of a prisoner.

You have gained my trust

Though rightly just

You have been faithful,

But you have made

My company fearful.

An dvowed i have

To never forgive

Those whom I grieve.'

So Çaetlá, gently cradled the prince in her arms and sang him a song of death, accompanied by the bluebirds and ravens.

Even now, her song still echoes in the forest.

There you go. So don't ever try to live in a tower and grow your hair to three-fourths the length of it.