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IT is still dark when Hazel slips out to tend the sheep.
She tends them every morning, this gentle girl of twelve, for though the sheep do not belong to her, they love her and trust her and know that her pockets are perpetually full of treats that she is always generous enough to share, though food is precious in the household of Arthur and Maude. Sheep are not dull creatures, contrary to popular belief, and they sense her sacrifice. They love Hazel for it, watching from the fields, bleating out their call that will gather the flock and welcome her to them, a call that sounds a bit like “Bo Peep.” They watch for her every morning, awaiting her hand’s tender touch, awaiting the click of her tongue, awaiting the soft voice that invites them to eat before they nuzzle up to her and take what she has to give them.
They know the sound and smell of their shepherdess, and they trust her completely.
Most of the village people have not yet risen. Only a few houses, where mothers take to the kitchens, kneading the bread they will put in the oven for the mid-day meal, if they have enough flour to bake (many do not), light the still-dark world. The kingdom has been ailing for a time, where food is concerned. The villagers share what they have, but some families, of course, need more than others. Sadly, they do not always get it.
The village, though, has a gardener, and at least there are fresh vegetables for every family every day. Sometimes Maude slices them all into a hearty vegetable stew. Sometimes she steams them in a pot, and Hazel and Theo have carrots and cauliflower and broccoli for dinner. Sometimes, on occasion, there is a roast leg of lamb, when Hazel can bear to part with one of the village sheep. She prefers not to choose or to know which one it will be, begging the butcher to do this work himself, though she always knows which is the missing one. A shepherdess would always know a thing like that.
Mostly the sheep are used for their wool coats, harvested so that Maude and the other village women can spin their fur into yarn and knit the children warm caps and gloves and sweaters for the cooler mornings that come around once every year, for only a month or two.
Hazel stares up at the moon, low in the sky, as if it is setting at the same moment the sun is rising. She loves this still quiet, when the whole world holds its breath before the start of a new day.
“Come, my sweets,” Hazel whispers to her sheep. “Let us find water.”
The sheep roam close to the Weeping Woods, where no villager has been brave enough to go since the days King Sebastien stormed the throne with twenty-thousand men, many of whom died in those woods and are said to haunt them still. Fairendale parents urge their children to keep their distance from the dangers of the wood, sprites and wood nymphs and goblins and fairies among them. Years ago a child disappeared into the woods and never returned. When her father went to find her, he never returned either.
Hazel tries not to look at the woods as she moves the sheep toward the cove of fresh water just off the road that leads to the castle. She does not wish to see its dark trees, for they look like people standing guard, as King Sebastien’s men must have looked all those years ago. She does not wish to see those branches that look so much like arms, reaching toward her.
But her flock gives her courage.
They reach the cove, quiet and tranquil in the morning’s chill. Only the first hints of day have begun to peer from the east, where the sky turns a bit less black. Hazel does not approach the water, for she does not want to see whether the mermaids are here or not. Hazel does not like it when they are. Though they seem to enjoy the village boys, mermaids are not often kind to the girls, jeering and poking fun or hiding beneath the cover of water and showing their animal-like teeth to those brave enough to look at them shimmering below the surface. She has had quite a fright other mornings. She does not wish to see the mermaids again, not when she is alone, not even for a glimpse of the tail, the most coveted of luck charms in the village of Fairendale. Hazel cares nothing for luck charms this morning—though one might remember that Hazel looked for the mermaid’s tail in the evening past, as every other villager did. Mermaids are easier to enjoy when one is not alone—or very near them.
Hazel watches her sheep drink for a time, careful not to look at the water, where she is certain the mermaids have by now gathered for their morning laugh. Every now and again one of the sheep wanders over to her, and she strokes its curls absentmindedly.
Hazel has many other things on her mind.
Last night’s sleep, you see, was filled with nightmares that felt more like real life than just mere dream. One who has experienced a nightmare like this knows how very difficult it is to escape the black cloud of unease that follows one into a morning. And so Hazel broods. Her sheep drink.
One of her favorites, Bluebell, a sheep she named for the tinkling bell tied around its neck and the bluish tint to his wool, approaches her. He nuzzles her arm. He gazes into her eyes, as if he is speaking.
And Hazel, dear reader, understands. It is most astonishing.
“Oh, I do not know,” she says. “I simply cannot get that dream out of my head.” She picks a piece of grass and watches it twist in the wind. “It was not a dream, really. It was a nightmare.”
Bluebell nudges her again.
“I do not wish to speak of it,” Hazel says. “It was too horrid.”
Bluebell lets out a breath.
“I do not know if I did right,” she says. “I do not know if I fully assured them that Theo does not have the gift of magic.” She looks at her sheep, scratches his head. “I fear I am not a very good liar.” Another sheep near the water lets out a startled bleat. The mermaids have most certainly returned. “They will not believe me.”
Bluebell nuzzles her hand. She scratches him more. “I know,” she says. “I did my best.” Hazel looks at the sky, brightening into a richer blue, like her brother’s eyes. “I do not want Theo to get hurt. I have a bad feeling about all this.”
Bluebell rests his head on her shoulder. Hazel pulls on a ringlet. “All will be well,” she says. She turns to the sheep and takes both sides of his face in her hands. She kisses him right between the eyes. “You are a dear. I always feel better after speaking with you.” She whispers the next words. “Thank you.”
She stands and taps her staff to the ground. The sheep gather about her, not even needing the rounded end of her staff to draw them closer and tighter. Hazel walks them back to their field, paying no mind to the splash of water and the angry voices of mermaids behind them.
***
ONCE the sun wakes the day, Hazel and the girls sit at a great oak table, where cookies are gathered in a bowl. Every now and again a small hand will reach into the bowl and grab another of Maude’s famous pumpkin sugar cookies.
They are listening to Arthur lecture about the dangers of magic. He has followed the trail of danger, after a child asked why the former King Brendon did not simply vanish from the danger of King Sebastien, so that his life might have been spared. Arthur has told them about the instability of this vanishing spell, how when one tries to vanish from a place of danger to a place of safety, one never knows how they will reappear—or whether they will reappear at all.
But if they do not reappear, where do they go? they ask.
No one knows, for the ones who did not reappear have never been found, Arthur tells them.
And what if they reappear? they ask.
One will not reappear with the same face, Arthur says. One could be years older or years younger or a nobleman or a pauper. There are even tales of the fortunate ones who reappeared taking animal form.
“I would be a bear,” says a tiny girl sitting at the end of the table. The children call her Lina, for Thumbelina is a name with four syllables, and most everyone knows that a name with four syllables can grow cumbersome to children.
“Alas, you do not get to choose,” Arthur says. “The magic chooses for you. The spell must be handled with the utmost care, avoided at all costs.”
He fears that they do not understand the dangers that accompany playing with a spell such as this one. The girls, to tell the truth, are more than a little distracted by the scrumptious goodness of Maude’s cookies.
And one is distracted by the boy in the back of the room.
Every now and then Mercy glances back at her best friend’s brother. Does he have magic? Does he not? Why would they not tell her if he did? Was she not to be trusted?
Theo’s face is dark this morning. It holds only secrets, so she cannot read his eyes. She merely knows that he did not sleep last night, for his eyes are shuttered by blue-black circles top to bottom. He watches his father and does not seem to notice her watching him.
But then he catches her staring. He grins, his whole face lighting up with the simple act of lips pulling toward ears, and she turns quickly back to the front, trying to pay attention.
Why would they not tell her?
“Mercy,” Arthur says. “What say you show us how to do a simple transformation spell?” He holds up a dish towel that was draped over the wash basin. “Turn this into a shoe.”
“Arthur.” Maude snaps the towel out of Arthur’s hand. “Not my best towel.” The girls giggle. Mercy looks at Hazel and grins. They have never been able to execute a simple transformation spell in this house, for in order to transform something into something else, you must have something first. Maude does not allow for the transformation of her household items, for her house, as is the case with most houses in the village, has only what is absolutely necessary in it. Extra would be lavish. Sometimes, though, the children are fortunate enough to turn an old, tattered shoe into something like a new towel. In fact, Mercy is quite sure a shoe is what this towel used to be, judging by its leathery smell and a hint of, well, foot.
Why would not one simply reverse the transformation spell? That is one of the first questions Mercy asked Arthur back when he began teaching the village girls how to use their magic. “An object can only be transformed once,” he said. “If you turn a shoe into a towel, a towel it must remain. Use your transformation magic wisely.”
She always had.
Arthur must have forgotten that this towel was a shoe once upon a time. Mercy’s spell would not have worked anyway.
“How about this?” one of the girls says. She holds up her shoe. A giant hole stretches across the toes. The girl has raven black hair and pretty red lips and carries the name Ursula. She is Hazel and Mercy’s age, or very nearly, and is known for teasing the mermaids in the cove, dipping her feet into the water and racing back out before they can latch on to her limbs and drag her down to their depths. She makes them dreadfully angry, for they enjoy pulling victims, particularly females, down to their deaths. “I shall go barefoot.”
“That is the spirit,” Arthur says.
“But dear,” Maude says. “What about her mother?”
“The shoemaker is making new ones,” Ursula says. She grins at Maude, and there are dimples in both her cheeks and the middle of her chin. Mercy has never really noticed her before. She is a pretty girl.
Arthur looks at Maude, as if asking, “Well?”
“Oh, go on then,” she says. The children laugh again. They love to see Maude and Arthur in their home, as much for their kindness as for the love that passes between them. Mercy wonders if she will love her husband someday as Maude loves Arthur. Likely not, as her mother has promised her to Prince Virgil. Only the village girl with the strongest magic is raised to be a queen. Mercy shudders. Perhaps she should have hidden her powers to avoid marrying a boy like Prince Virgil.
“Very well, then,” Arthur says. “Can you turn this shoe into a rose?”
She would do better than that, of course. Magic like hers could do much more than a mere rose. She could make the whole bush. And that is exactly what she does, reader. It is really quite amazing. The bush falls into her hands, pricking a couple of her fingers, but she pretends not to notice. The bush is full and lush and beautiful, with thousands of pink roses blooming. Arthur applauds. Mercy bows and tosses the bush so it lands in front of Hazel.
Some of the girls roll their eyes, but Hazel claps. “Beautiful!” she says, as enthusiastic as her father. Even Maude appears impressed. Mercy does not dare look at Theo.
Why did they not tell her?
“You were made for a queen,” Arthur says, and, just like that, though it was entirely unintended, Mercy grows melancholy once again.
Yes. She is made for a queen, and that is exactly what they will make her. But she does not want to marry a boy as horrid as Prince Virgil, even if it shall make her queen.
“Yes,” Hazel says. “You are powerful enough and beautiful enough.” Hazel pats her friend’s arm and smiles into her eyes.
Mercy does not want to be powerful and beautiful enough. She merely wants a happy life living among her friends, practicing magic when it suits her. She wants to stay in this warm kitchen with pumpkin sugar cookies forever. She wants to be a village girl with powerful magic.
But we know, reader, that one does not always get what one wants. This is the way of life.