Origins

“The Twelve Months” (often known in Czech as O dvanácti měsíčkách and in Slovak as Dvanásť mesiačikov) is a Central-European folk wonder tale best loved in the Czech and Slovak traditions, with close cousins throughout the Slavic world and the Balkans. Its bones are simple and durable: a kind, put-upon girl, an ungentle stepfamily, impossible errands set in the dead of winter, and a meeting at a mountain fire where the months of the year sit like old kings, passing a staff from one to another to turn the seasons for a heartbeat. The tale teaches the virtue of patience and the danger of greed, and it honours the proper order of time: each month has its work, and woe to those who would demand strawberries in the snow.

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The Tale

There was once a girl called Maruška—gentle as a spring breeze and as quiet as falling snow. She lived with her stepmother and stepsister, Holena, who thought only of themselves. If there was bread to be sliced, Maruška had the crust; if there was work to be done, it was Maruška who did it. The stepmother would glare and say, “You were born to serve. See that you earn your keep.” Holena would toss her head and add, “And don’t scowl. It spoils my mood.”

One bitter January morning, when the drifts stood higher than the hedges and the wind combed the fields into white waves, Holena gazed at her pale face in the cracked mirror. “How am I to brighten my gown?” she cried, stamping her foot. “I want violets—fresh violets—to pin at my breast. Fetch them, Maruška!”

Maruška stared at the window, where frost had written its ferns. “Sister, violets in this weather? The ground is iron.”

“Don’t answer back!” snapped the stepmother. “You will go and you will bring violets. If you return with empty hands, do not return at all.”

So Maruška wrapped her threadbare shawl about her and stepped into the white world. The snow bit her ankles and the wind bit her cheeks. She walked and walked until her breath came in small hard clouds, and then she saw it: a glow on the shoulder of the mountain, like a coal under ash.

She climbed towards the light and found a great fire ringed by twelve figures, cloaked and hooded. On the highest stone sat a man with a long white beard; the frost on his eyebrow shone like stars. They were the Months.

Maruška dropped a curtsey. “Good evening, good brothers. May I warm myself at your fire?”

“Good evening, maiden,” said the white-bearded one, whose name was January. His voice creaked like an old oak. “What brings you to the mountain in such weather?”

“I am sent for violets,” said Maruška, and her voice shook not with fear but with cold. “My stepmother says I mustn’t come back without them.”

At that, some of the brothers murmured. “Violets? In January?”

But January raised his hand and the wind hushed. “The girl is courteous,” he said. “Let her warm herself.” He looked along the ring. “Brother March, take the seat of honour and do your work.”

January passed the staff to March. The white mane of winter loosened; the fire leapt; the air grew soft as breath. A subtle smell rose from the earth, tender and green. Snowbells chimed unseen. Maruška watched the snow sink, the ground darken, the first brave shoots thrusting up.

“Quickly now,” said March, his eyes bright with rain. “Take what you came for.”

Maruška knelt and gathered a posy of violets—blue as a summer evening—just enough to fill her apron. “Thank you, good brothers,” she said, rising. March gave the staff back to January. The fire quieted; the snow returned, falling soundlessly; winter sat upon the world once more.

At home Holena snatched the violets. “At last,” she cried, pinning them to her dress and preening. But the sweetness of the flowers only soured her heart. By the next morning, envy was gnawing again.

“I’ve a fancy for strawberries,” she announced over the thin porridge. “Big, ripe, wild strawberries. Bring me a basket of them.”

Maruška folded her hands. “Sister, there are no strawberries under snow.”

The stepmother slammed the spoon. “Out with you! If you come back without strawberries, don’t cross this threshold.”

So Maruška went, her breath a prayer in the cold air. Again she climbed to the mountain, and again she found the fire and the twelve brothers.

“Good evening, good brothers,” she said, shivering but smiling. “Might I warm my hands?”

“Good evening, maiden,” said January. “What is wanted now?”

“I am sent for strawberries,” said Maruška, and there was apology but no deceit in her voice.

January looked down the circle. “Brother June,” he said kindly, “take the staff.”

The staff passed from winter’s fist to summer’s palm. The flames danced high; birdsong sketched the air; the smell of pine grew resin-sweet. The mountain blushed with green and heat. In the grass, white flowers bent like little stars, and among the leaves red fruit shone.

“Be quick,” said June, his brow beaded with warm dew. “Take what your apron will hold—no more.”

Maruška gathered the berries—cool, fragrant, the seeds shining like gold dust. She curtseyed again. “Thank you.” The staff returned to January. Summer shut its eyes; snow and stillness folded their wings around the fire.

Holena tore the berries from Maruška’s apron and crushed them between her teeth, red juice staining her lips. “More!” she demanded the next day, as if the taste had sparked a hunger no food could fill. “I want apples now—red as my cheeks, crisp as frost. A basket full.”

“Apples?” whispered Maruška. “Even the trees are sleeping.”

“Go!” barked the stepmother. “And do not come back without them.”

Maruška climbed a third time to the circle on the mountain. “Good evening, good brothers,” she said, her breath thin in her chest. “If you please, I am sent for apples.”

January’s beard glimmered. He seemed almost amused. “Brother September,” he rumbled, “this is your hour.”

The staff passed; the fire crackled as if roasting chestnuts; the snow thinned to a warm gold mist; the scent of orchards drifted by. Maruška heard the busy murmuring of bees grown lazy with late work; she saw a tree, tall and laden with fruit, its leaves already edged with flame.

“Take what you need,” said September. “But remember—only as much as your apron can bear.”

Maruška picked two apples—round, shining, heavy—and set them gently in her apron. “There are so many,” she said, looking up through the branches, “but two are enough.” She thanked the brothers with all her heart, and September smiled a brief, mellow smile as he gave the staff back to January. Winter sealed the world again.

When she came through the door, Holena lunged and snatched both apples. She bit one, then the other, and tossed the cores into the ashes. “Where is the rest?” she demanded. “A basket, I said!”

“It was all I could carry,” Maruška replied softly.

Greed prickled the stepmother’s skin like nettles. “I will fetch them myself,” she said. “Come, Holena. We’ll not be cheated by that simpleton’s apron.”

They wrapped themselves in their finest furs—vain gear for a mountain—and set off, ignoring Maruška’s timid, “Mind the snow, it deepens on the shoulder.”

Up they struggled—Holena sweating and scolding, the stepmother muttering, “Hurry, hurry.” At last they saw, through the veils of falling snow, a glow, and stepped into the circle of light.

“Make room!” cried Holena, pushing forward. “We are here for apples, and plenty of them. Do you hear? Plenty!”

The twelve brothers turned their heads. The fire roared up and then, at a word from January, sank to a hard white core. The old one looked at the women with eyes like ice.

“Good evening,” he said, the courtesy cool as a blade. “Who are you to demand what time will not give?”

“We’ll have apples!” the stepmother snapped. “At once!”

A low murmur went round the circle, the sound of a river under ice. January lifted the staff. “You have forgotten measure,” he said. “Silence.”

At that word the wind rose, a sudden wolfish howl. The fire went dark as a stone. Snow came down in sheets, swirling and blinding. The stepmother clutched at Holena. “Hold fast!” she shrieked, but the world had become a whirling white nothing. They stumbled, struck at shadows, called and were answered only by the wind. No one saw them again when the storm cleared; whether they lost their path and slept under the snow’s cold blanket, or whether the mountain took them and kept its own counsel, the tale does not say. It is enough to know that their cruelty and greed had led them farther than their feet could carry them.

Maruška waited as long as her heart could bear, then longer. When neither stepmother nor sister returned, the neighbours came, and the village took her in. “You are safe now,” the old women said, rubbing her hands before their ovens. “You have done no wrong.” In time Maruška married a kind man and tended a small household where there was always enough to share and none left hungry. Some say that, when she nursed her first child by the door, she heard far off a soft converse like water and wind and saw, for the briefest blink, a circle of twelve on the mountain’s shoulder, watching with grave, approving eyes.

And in that land, every year the seasons kept their gentle course—the violets in spring, the strawberries in summer, the apples in autumn, and the quiet snow of winter. People remembered that time has its order, that gifts are given in season, and that the Months are well disposed to those who ask with courtesy and take only what their apron can hold.

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Iconic Lines and Exchanges (as remembered in tradition)

• “Good evening, good brothers. May I warm myself at your fire?”
• “What brings you to the mountain in such weather?” — “I am sent for violets… and I must not return without them.”
• “Brother March, take the seat of honour and do your work.”
• “Be quick—take only what your apron will hold.”
• “Don’t answer back! Go—and if you come back with empty hands, don’t come back at all.”
• “Who are you to demand what time will not give?”
• “You have forgotten measure. Silence.”