“I’m tired of stale bread and moldy cheese for breakfast,” said Tildeg.
The gwelf had lived in his late parents’ house for two years, trying to eke out a living.
“I can’t get a break. I work the fields the same as my dad, yet nothing grows,” the gwelf muttered.
“I might be able to help you with that,” said a tiny voice behind Tildeg.
The gwelf spun around to find a small hairless creature sitting on his bed.
“Who are you?” said Tildeg, glaring in disbelief.
“Who I am is not important. As I was saying, I might be able to make your crops grow like your dad’s,” the imp said.
Tildeg had heard stories of demons offering riches in exchange for your soul.
“I suppose I’ll need to sign my name in blood on a scrap of parchment. Is that what it costs for your help?” questioned the gwelf.
“Nothing so dramatic, my boy. A handshake will do fine,” replied the demon.
Tildeg came up with a way to play along and come out on top.
“I’ll wager you this. For five years, I’ll grow a crop. We take turns harvesting what grows above and below the ground,” said the gwelf.
“And whoever makes the most from their crop is the winner,” finished the imp.
“Agreed. Since it’s my soul, I’ll choose first,” said Tildeg.
“Agreed,” replied the demon.
“I choose the harvest that which grows below ground,” said the gwelf.
The imp stuck out his hand and shook the Tildeg’s hand. “I’ll return on harvest day to see who wins,” said the demon, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
All summer, Tildeg rose early to weed, water, and hoe his garden. At last, the day came to harvest the crop.
“I see the crop is ready for market. Those leaves look mighty scrumptious. I’ll be winning this round,” snickered the imp.
Tildeg stuck his spade deep into the rich black soil and brought up an enormous turnup. With each shovel full of dirt, a golden orb appeared.
“That’s the last of them. I’ve placed your turnip tops on the cart. You can sell them at the market in the morning,” said Tildeg.
The imp smiled and told Tildeg he would return the next morning.
“I don’t understand. No one has bought a single one of my leafy tops. The boy sold all his root balls in no time at all,” mumbled the imp.
Back at the farm, the imp spoke, “You’ve won this year. Next year, I get what grows below,” said the demon with a wry smile.
The following year, Tildeg planted corn. The imps’ roots remained unsold while the gwelf’s corn sold out in minutes.
After that, potatoes, followed by wheat, and finally carrots.
“It seems I have won the wager. You haven’t made a shilling, while I am flush with coin, Tildeg said.
The demon agreed that it was a fair wager.
“You have bested me, boy. I won’t forget you soon,” said the imp, then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Nor I you. Now, about this farm. I’m thinking dairy cows would grow a whole lot better than turnips,” remarked Tildeg.
The following morning, the gwelf bought a herd of cows, which gave the sweetest milk in the land. As the old saying goes, “Nothing tastes as sweet as success.”
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