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They told Troll that she could understand animals so he should not have been surprised.

But he was surprised.

Troll turned away from the moth and looked, really looked at the human girl. Up close, she was smaller than he expected. For a thing so small, she commanded a great deal of attention. It was as if every eye of every creature of the forest was on her.

What was it about her. She had a... a....

“Wh... What ARE you?”

The human girl spoke. Her voice was soft and thoughtful but deep down it demanded attention.

Troll knelt down to look her in the eye. He had to scoot back to keep from poking her in the face with his long nose. He spoke when he was settled.

“I am a troll. You can call me Troll.”

There was something about her, he wasn’t sure wh…

She spoke, stopping him in mid thought once more.

“I’ve never met a troll before. I didn’t even know trolls were real.”

Whatever thought was in his head vanished.

She reached out towards him.

He lifted his own hand.

Their fingertips touched.

It was unremarkable.

There was no spark. No magic.

It was a quiet moment.

Troll knew that he would never forget it. Though he could not feel it, he knew that a connection had been made.

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Papa got the wagon ready.

Mama prepared the morning meal and food for the road.

Signy took care of the animals. It was her job to make sure they had water and that they were all secure in their pens.

She went to the sheep first. Gerda, Herda, and Ferda were easy. Even if the pen was wide open, Signy knew they would stay put.

Falcing, the goat, he was the problem.

He followed his stomach and if his stomach found something outside of the pen that it wanted, he would not stop until he could eat it.

Signy latched the gate and tied it with a rope. She then tied it with a second rope. After that, she put three large rocks in front of the gate.

Hopefully that would hold him.

Once they were secure, Signy walked back and forth with the bucket, filling their troughs with water.

On her last stop with Falcing, she decided to have a word with him.

“Now you be good.”

He rudely bleated, “YOU be good!” between bites of grass.

“Don’t you take that tone with me! You do as you’re told. “

“You do as YOU’RE told” he bleated back, but in a more subdued tone.

“That’s better. Thank you.”

Falcing huffed rudely.

Signy reached through the fence to scratch his chest. The spot just below his neck was his favorite.

Falcing stopped eating and looked up. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Looking away from food was the highest form of praise for Falcing.

“I love you too,” Signy smiled.

She rubbed him between his horns before walking away to join her parents at the wagon.

“Is he always like that?” Wincey asked. He had been on Signy’s shoulder for most of the morning.

“Oh no. Sometimes he’s grouchy. This was a well-behaved Falcing.”

Signy did have one other job. It was her job to bring the cap.

She had washed and dried it the day before, so it was as good as new.

Mama was in her seat in the wagon already, waiting.

Papa was giving Izzi, the horse, some last-minute oats before the trip.

“All ready?” he asked.

Signy nodded.

He offered a hand to help her climb into the back of the wagon.

She had to share the space with bundles of sticks that he intended to sell or trade as firewood.

The wood came from clearing debris from the forest road.

Papa refused to come to a new place empty-handed. It was a matter of pride to show he was a hard worker.

Before they started off, mama turned around. She elbowed papa in the side, then he turned too, and spoke.

“Mama and I, we... well… this thing you do… with the animals, it’s…”

He looked at his wife for support.

She nodded her head, gesturing with her hands to keep going.

He shrugged his shoulders.

She scowled.

“What papa is TRYING to say is that WE think when we meet new people you shouldn’t talk to animals.”

Signy was shocked.

Her father lowered his head and added, “they might not understand is all. They might not get it.”

Signy hated the idea of hiding a piece of herself. It wasn’t fair!

Mama gestured towards Wincey.

“Maybe that... thing should stay here.”

“What? No! He’s my friend!”

“But you can’t...”

Papa stopped her.

“Signy. If he comes you can’t talk to him, okay. Say he’s... I don’t know... a pet or something if anyone asks.”

Mama turned away and huffed.

Signy lowered her head and looked at her feet and the floor of the wagon.

“Okay?” he asked again.

“Fine,” she mumbled.

A short way into the forest on the western side of the clearing they came to an old stone bridge.

“This looks promising,” declared Holger with a smile.

He was so pleased to see any sign of civilization that he completely ignored the massive oak tree that he was driving beneath... and over. The ride became very rough as the wagon rolled over the gnarled roots jutting from the ground.

Holger was tossed up and came crashing back down.

He howled both from the pain and from the shock.

There was a quiet, “ouch” from the back of the wagon.

He looked at his wife. Her knuckles were white, holding on to her seat.

He apologized to them both. He rubbed his own sore bottom, then moved forward slower and more carefully.

The wagon touched the stone bridge and the ride became easier, smoother.

Holger smiled.

This was good. A smooth, working bridge.

Holger had a very good feeling about this trip.

And then the wagon stopped.

Papa urged Izzi, the mare on. She pulled and pulled, but the wagon would not move.

“What’s going on here?”

Papa hopped to the ground to see what the problem was.

Signy looked down over the side of the wagon. The bridge was cracked and the wheel was wedged inside it.

Papa tried to push.

It was no use.

Then both parents pushed while Signy held the reins.

Still nothing.

They tried to back the wagon out of it.

Even that didn’t work.

Papa threw his hands up in frustration.

He said he could walk back home to find something that he could use to pry the wheel free.

Mama said she would go with him.

“We need to talk,” she said. She did not look happy when she said it. “Alone.”

Papa’s face went from frustrated to concerned. Signy was surprised that she could recognize the difference.

Both parents looked at Signy.

“You’ll be fine here. Just stay in the wagon until we get back, okay?”

Signy kept her head down and nodded her head.

She was still upset with them about saying she shouldn’t talk to animals. Now she was worried that her parents might fight about it.

It wasn’t fair.

“We won’t be long,” said papa.

“Just stay in the wagon, okay?” added mama.

Signy didn’t react.

“I said OKAY?” mama asked again.

“Fine,” Signy sighed.

“Good.”

Signy watched her parents walk away. She couldn’t hear them, but she could tell by the way that mama’s arms moved that she was lecturing papa.

So frustrating! She needed to think about something else.

The cap!

It was still in her hands but twisted it as if she was wringing out a wet rag. She hadn’t meant to take out her anger on it. Signy loosened her grip and smoothed it out.

Her fingers slid over the embroidered pattern as she fantasized about who the cap might belong to. It was a man’s cap. It seemed either very well cared for or very new, so she imagined its owner was a young man. Maybe even someone close to her own age!

How exciting!

She brought the cap to her nose, inhaling deeply. She hoped there might be some leftover scent from its owner.

There wasn’t.

She put the cap on her hand and held it out. She talked to it like it was a person.

“Good morning, mister cap. You’re not taking me to my destiny, are you?”

She laughed at herself.

“Or maybe you’re taking me to my true love?”

She held the cap to her chest like a hug and let out a wistful sigh.

“Oh Wincey,” she said, “you must think I’m silly.”

There was no reply.

Where was Wincey?

Signy was alone.

“Wincey? Wincey, where are you?”

Signy was upset.

Wincey did not fully understand why. He just remembered her words when it happened.

“What? No! He’s my friend!”

Somehow it was about him. Had he done something wrong?

Signy stayed quiet when the wagon moved. She stayed quiet when it stopped.

She hardly spoke when her parents walked away.

Then she spoke to the cap.

Wincey still wasn’t sure what a cap was.

The cap did not speak back.

Wincey was more used to his new eyes and seeing in all directions at once.

There was a red squirrel perched on a branch of the big oak tree.

He wondered. Was it the red squirrel that had been with the earth beast? No wait. He called himself something else. What was it?

Troll.

Something moved behind the oak tree.

Wincey flew to investigate.

There was no Troll.

What he did find was a moose.

It must be THE moose!

“Do you know Signy?” the moth asked.

Before the moose had a chance to answer, a smaller animal that Wincey had not seen leapt from a mound of dirt and rocks, landing on the moose’s head.

It was a vole.

“I know Signy!”

Thankfully, the vole did not seem to want to eat Wincey.

Wincey was not aware that Signy knew a vole.

The moose then chimed in with his own answer.

“I know her too. I do. She said I was handsome! She is my friend!”

It WAS the same moose!

Wincey had a thought. If the moose and a red squirrel and a vole were there, then maybe the troll was too.

He asked.

The mound of dirt and rocks shifted slightly. There was a bush on the mound. Beneath the bush was a lemming.

OH!

The mound was the troll!

Wincey pleaded with the mound.

“She is here! She is here! You have to meet her!”

The mound did not move. It did not speak.

Wincey remembered something the troll said the first time they met. He knew just what to do.

“You have to, Troll. Look at her. She needs your help.”

The moose, the vole, the red squirrel all looked. Even the lemming lifted her head to look.

“Is she?” asked the moose.

“Oh yes,” Wincey flapped. “Her wagon is stuck on the bridge. Her parents have gone. She is alone.”

“I want to help my friend,” said the moose.

“Me too,” added the vole.

Moose stepped around the tree to see Signy with the vole riding between his antlers.

Wincey flapped his wings at the troll.

“Well? Aren’t you going to help too?

“You help her. She helps you,” yawned the lemming.

“Fine,” grumbled the troll. “Fine.”

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SUBJECT: Victoria of Circumstance – working title

Estelle had a thought about the cover and title. VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE, but VICTIM is crossed out and VICTORIA is hand-written above it. Let us know what you think.

Personally I love it! Will give name recognition and tell part of your story at once. BAM! People will love it! Expecially big money DONOR$. This is just what we need to get your campaign off to a strong start!

On that note. We do need that chapter about your husband. No pressure. But the sooner the better.

Stick with the familiar tone! People are going to eat that up! Yum! Yum!

ALSO! Big news!!! Confirmed with The View to announce your candidacy! They love it!!! The whole hour will be yours! THE FEMALE VOTE IS OURS! We just need to set a date and I can line up the press and announcements after.

“Where it’s at!”

Chip Skipson

Skipson Consulting LLC

Victoria refused the help of a co-writer. She was perfectly capable of doing this on her own.

She had two unfinished drafts for the chapter about her husband. This chapter was absolutely vital to her story.

She wouldn’t be where or who she was without him.

It was his death that brought Victoria into the national spotlight.

Victim of Circumstance?

She laughed at the proposed cover idea. If only they knew.

Two drafts.

One told the story people wanted to hear.

The other…

***

John and I met Freshman year.

I hated him immediately.

John arrived at Dartmouth that Fall so full of himself. He thought he was so handsome. He thought he was so charming. He thought he was so smart. To be fair, he was all of those things.

There is a very big difference between being those things and knowing those things. He knew it and that was what made him insufferable.

He was almost the smartest person on campus.

Almost.

It was that almost that made him crazy.

Seriously, he wrote this in his private journal.

“I don’t know how to be any better. I should be impossible, except there is someone here who is and the thought of it drives me mad.”

It was me. I drove him crazy.

Back then I was Victoria Winstead.

My friends called Vicky.

John was not my friend. He used my last name only. Winstead this. Winstead that.

Usually when I referred to him, I called him moron.

Needless to say we did not get along.

This went on for all four years at Dartmouth. John was a nuisance. Oh yeah, I called him that too.

I know, I know. You’re asking yourself how we wound up married and in love if that’s how things started between us.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m getting to it.

A year after graduation John and I found ourselves both in D.C. interning in Senator Nathaniel Hilliard’s office. Our first assignment was to conduct research and interviews for the Senator’s Arts in Education Initiative.

At the start, we fought almost constantly. We competed for attention and to have our ideas put forth first. It was Senator Hilliard himself who put an end to it. Nathaniel sat us down in his office then closed the door.

I’ll never forget what he said.

“I need a tuna sandwich on rye. No mayo.”

John and I fell over each other, insisting we knew a better sandwich shop or that we could get it faster or that we would even go so far as to make it ourselves.

Nathaniel slammed his fist on his desk.

“Could you two shut the hell up for just a minute. If you two could just learn to work together you’d take over the goddamned world. Now shut up. Work together. Figure it out.”

From that moment on, John and I worked as a team on everything.

Senator Hilliard’s Arts in Education Bill was approved and funded. We worked tirelessly for his re-election bid, and he won in a landslide.

Oh. And he eventually got that sandwich too.

Working together, John and I became closer. One night, after a very successful rally in Springfield, we locked eyes.

He moved in for a kiss.

I asked what he was doing.

He backed away.

Then I grabbed his cheeks and pulled him in.

I’d be damned if I was going to let him make the first move.

Everyone knows the number one rule of relationships.

Don’t cheat.

Further down the list though, is a rule that warns against dating at work.

Nathaniel warned us about it too. Either we would have to stop seeing each other, or one of us would have to leave the office.

We were in love. The choice was easy.

One of us needed to quit.

John said he would go, but bless his heart, I thought back on all the times I bested him at Dartmouth. He needed that job more than I did.

I snuck into the Senator’s office with a written letter of resignation while John was off fetching coffee for the office.

He was furious.

We made love for hours.

He proposed the next day.

It was the first time he called me Victoria, not Winstead.

We got married two years later inside the Tomasfield Museum of Art. We chose it because it housed the first student exhibit funded by Senator Hilliard’s Arts Initiative. It was a small venue, but beautiful.

We couldn’t have been happier.

A year later we welcomed our first, Tanner Elizabeth. Shortly after came Preston Winstead.

The political rise of John Harper is well documented. If you’re reading this book, you’re not stupid so I won’t bore you with something you already know.

He rose in stature and power, eventually becoming Governor.

I know. Not bad for the second smartest person in the room!

I was proud of him!

I still am.

Which hurts.

A lot.

Fuck it. Ripping the band-aid off. Right? I can’t tell the story without this part.

Sorry. It’s hard, but don’t you go feeling sorry for me, okay? I won’t stand for that.

On February 15 John was stabbed to death in the snow outside of our home at 3:32 AM.

He had a bouquet of red roses. My favorite.

He somehow found an all night florist and bought them on his way home.

There was a note. The roses were an apology for missing Valentine’s Day.

I will never forgive myself for how furious I was with him that day for missing our dinner reservation.

Never.

Victoria read the draft over. Several times.

She clicked REPLY ALL to the email from Chip and attached the chapter.

They might want more, but she could always say she’s too distraught for that.

Keep it simple.

Victoria paused for a moment before clicking SEND.

The chapter was off.

Victoria closed her laptop and walked away, sipping her coffee. It was still warm.

Two drafts.

One told the story people wanted to hear.

The other told the truth.

Victoria pulled out a handwritten journal and skimmed through it.

While John, the moron, went off to work every day she was left home to look after the children.

“You don’t need to work,” he would say. “I can take care of you.”

Victoria never wanted to be taken care of.

Sure, there were parties and social engagements that she attended. Charities. Fundraisers. Foundations.

None of it was real work.

She resented it.

Then came the affairs. Plural

Did he think she wouldn’t find out? Did he think she didn’t know?

Well, he was a moron, so he probably did think that.

The number one rule of relationships. Don’t cheat.

It wasn’t the other girls… definitely not women… who put Victoria over the edge. It wasn’t even missing Valentine’s Day.

Over time John’s politics became twisted, pathetic, power-hungry version of the man she once loved.

She did love him once.

What put her over the edge was that on February 14, he signed legislation to cut all funding to the Tomasfield Museum of Art.

When she saw that on the late-night news, Victoria snapped.

She grabbed a used knife from the kitchen drawer, not one of the fancy ones from the knife block on the counter.

She waited for the headlights.

She met him in the snow, asked who the roses were for.

She didn’t even wait for him to answer before she stabbed him.

Twenty-seven times.

She was never a suspect. The gardener was convicted.

Oh well.

Oh, one more thing. There really was a note with the roses.

It said, “Sorry Vicky.”

Moron.

And only her friends called her that.

Victoria walked to the fireplace and tossed the journal in.

Can’t have a silly thing like the truth stop her from ruling the world, now can we?

At the top was an image of a tear away calendar with progressing years printed on it. 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971…

SEE YOUR FUTURE!

It was inconspicuously placed among ads for Sea Monkeys, X-Ray Specs, BB guns, and one promising to transform the reader from a 98-pound weakling.

Johnnie usually ignored them all, but there was something about the prospect of seeing his future that called to him.

He read the ad again.

SEE YOUR FUTURE!

Your destiny revealed! Stuck in the past? Not anymore! See the future! Love! Money! Success! It’s all waiting for you! No. 042 _______________ only $1.00

by Kalico

Johnnie had a dollar.

Why not?

Two weeks later he came home from school.

His mother turned off the vacuum just long enough to tell him there was a package waiting for him on his bed.

Johnnie rushed to his room and closed the door. He tore the package open to reveal a round, plastic dial.

A yellow slip of paper fell to the floor, floating beneath his bed.

There were three concentric circles that could be rotated in either direction. The inside dial had the day, the middle dial had the month, and the outer dial had the year.

The third dial started at 1968 and went all the way to 2068.

“Oh wow! A hundred years!”

Johnnie was excited and couldn’t wait to try it out.

He couldn’t wait for the weekend, so he checked his calendar first. It was Thursday, September 19^th.

He set the inner dial to 21, the middle dial to September, and the outer dial to 1968.

Nothing happened.

He shook the device.

He tossed it in the air and caught it.

He talked to it.

Still nothing happened.

That was when he noticed the yellow slip of paper beneath his bed.

There were words on both sides.

On one side, in bold print was the word INSTRUCTIONS.

1. Set the day.

2. Set the month.

3. Set the year.

4. Hold the dial with both hands and press the center with both thumbs.

Aaaaaoooohh!

Johnnie tossed the paper aside, ignoring whatever was written on the other side.

He held the disc in both hands, like the instructions said, and pressed down on the middle with both of his thumbs.

The world spun around him. Wind whipped his hair.

The next thing he knew, he was at the playground spinning Martha Jenkins on the merry-go-round.

She was screaming for him to stop.

Johnnie had no idea what led to this. He stopped the merry-go-round and let her off.

“What day is it?” he asked, offering a hand.

“You’re such a creep,” Martha answered, pushing his hand away. “It’s Saturday.”

Martha ran away, crying.

Johnnie hardly noticed. He was too excited that was actually in the future!

It worked! It worked! It worked!

He felt the dial in his back pocket.

Thank goodness! He didn’t want to lose THAT!

Where else… or when else could he go?

Johnnie sat on the slowly spinning merry-go-round and pulled the dial out of his pocket.

He had an idea!

Eighteen! A legal adult!

He set the dial for his birthday in 1971 and pressed his thumbs against the middle.

The world spun around him. Wind whipped his hair.

Johnnie was in his bedroom. It had changed, but not much. There were some different posters on the walls. The blanket on his bed was new.

He looked in the mirror. He was taller. Stronger. There was a football helmet on the dresser behind him.

Was he a football player now?

Far out!

He went to the living room. His mother stopped vacuuming long enough to wish him a happy birthday. She had a few grey hairs that he hadn’t seen before.

His father was in front of the tv. He wore glasses. He hadn’t had those before.

The news was on. War in Vietnam.

Johnnie hadn’t paid much attention to that before. He was surprised the war was still going on.

His father pointed to the screen and said, “you’re eighteen now. Better watch out or you might get drafted.”

He was joking, but in a way that wasn’t actually joking. Johnnie’s dad did that a lot.

The doorbell rang.

Mom turned off the vacuum.

“I’ll get it. I bet I know who it is, birthday boy!”

Johnnie wondered what she meant.

A moment later, in walked Martha Jenkins with a gift in her hand.

She had gotten taller… and she had… err… grown in other ways too. She had make up on.

She was pretty.

Really pretty.

Martha kissed him on the cheek and handed him the gift.

Johnnie opened it. It was a record album from some band called Led Zeppelin. He had never heard of them before, but Martha insisted they were his favorite.

He didn’t know what to say really. He thanked her, then excused himself to go to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, amazed at his older, more manly appearance, Johnnie wondered what he was like even further into the future.

Thirty?

Why not?

He pulled the dial out of his back pocket.

How about the summer?

He set the dial for June 1, 1983.

The world spun around him. Wind whipped his hair.

He found himself sitting on a couch in a strange house. He was facing the television, but what was on was like no show he had ever seen before. There were colorful… things moving back and forth across the top of the screen with small lines dropping from them. One of the small lines hit a thing that looked like a building at the bottom of the screen.

The words GAME OVER appeared.

Game? What?

A small person. A child who Johnnie hadn’t noticed before smacked him on the back and said, “tough luck, dad! You lose. That means we’re going to the movie on Saturday! Yay!”

The child… a boy… looked like Mar…

“Honey, did you lose on purpose? You didn’t have to do that. I know you wanted to see Return of the Jedi too.”

Martha Jenk…

Wait. Was it still Jenkins?

Were they married?

Oh wow.

He married Martha Jenkins!

She looked mature. Very pretty. She was wearing strange, brightly colored pants though. And her hair was unnaturally curly.

“That movie is all you’ve been talking about for weeks.”

Johnnie watched everything in a daze. He had a wife and a son.

Then came the crying. A baby.

“Honey. Can you take care of Jenny. I’m in the middle of dinner.”

Jenny? Who was Jenny?

Johnnie wasn’t prepared for any of this. He stepped into the hallway, pulled out the dial and advanced the year without looking.

The world spun around him. Wind whipped his hair.

Johnnie found himself in an office. Behind the desk.

His office?

There was a small, colorful television on the desktop facing him. On the screen was a sort of grid with lots of numbers on it.

In front of the tv there was a sort of typewriter, but with no paper.

Johnnie pulled the dial out of his back pocket. His pants felt strange. He was wearing… what… a suit?

Oh, this was weird.

The year on the dial was 2006. He was… he did the math in his head… fifty-three years old.

Oh wow! He was OLD!

Next to the weird tv was photograph. He recognized Martha Jenkins. No. Not Jenkins. She looked older than his mom and dad!

She was posed with two young men and a young woman. Johnnie assumed those were their children. There was snow behind them. The younger ones… the kids… were holding what Johnnie thought looked like surfboards.

They seemed like they were happy. Johnnie assumed he must have done something right.

A young woman opened the door to his office carrying papers.

“The report you asked for.”

She hummed a catchy tune. As she closed the door he heard her sing the words, “we’re all in this together.”

Johnnie wondered what that was about.

He looked around. It seemed like a very nice office. He had a secretary it seemed. He must have been doing very well for himself.

What about even farther?

Why not?

He fiddled with the dial, not sure how far to go. He was older now. He didn’t want to go too far that he was dead.

When did people usually die anyway?

He gave himself another ten years. Hopefully he would be okay at sixty-three still.

Why not see what Christmas in the future would be like?

Johnnie set the dial for December 25, 2016.

The world spun around him. Wind whipped his what was left of his hair.

Johnnie found himself alone.

Alone? How could that be? He had a family? Martha and the kids. Where were they?

The television, a giant flat screen hung on the wall. The news… something that thankfully in all this time hadn’t changed much, talked about some man named Trump who was going to be president soon.

Trump?

That didn’t even sound like a real name.

A lot of people on the television seemed very upset about it for some reason.

There was a card, a Christmas card in his hand.

Johnnie opened it up.

Dad,

We wish we could be with you for Christmas. Hawaii is gorgeous. Wish you were here.

Remember to take care of yourself. Mom’s not there to do it for you anymore.

Love,

Jenny

Mom? Wait. Not Johnnie’s mom. Jenny was the baby? Did she mean Martha? What happened to Martha? Did she leave him? Did she die?

Johnnie pulled out the dial to jump forward again. Maybe he would find answers in the future.

Five more years should do it.

He would go to his birthday again. Surely, he wouldn’t be alone then.

He set the dial for his sixty-eighth birthday.

The world spun around him. Wind whipped his bald head.

Johnnie ached. He was… what he was… sixty… eight? Yes, he thought that was right.

He was in another office. A doctor’s office by the looks of it.

The woman in the white coat on the other side of the desk spoke.

“Do you understand why you’re here with me today?”

Johnnie did not and shook his head.

“Do you remember my name? We’ve been meeting once a week for some time now.”

Johnnie had no idea who this woman was. He knew she wasn’t one of his children.

He shook his head.

“Do you remember your children’s names?”

Ah! He knew one!

“Jenny.”

“And your sons?”

Johnnie thought about it. He hadn’t seen or heard their names.

He shook his head.

He had an idea. He knew who could clear this all up.

“Where is my wife? Where is Martha? Can I see her?”

The doctor pulled her glasses off.

“Mr. Conroy. Your wife passed away eight years ago. Don’t you remember?”

Johnnie had a very bad feeling about where this conversation was going.

“I’m afraid I have no choice, Mr. Conroy, but to admit you permanently to our facility. Do you understand?”

Johnnie wanted to get out. He needed to get out.

Two large men entered the room and lifted Johnnie from his seat just as he was reaching for the dial in his back pocket.

The dial fell to the floor.

The men helped Johnnie into a wheel chair and began rolling him out of the office.

“Dial! Dial! Dial! Help!”

No one knew what he was talking about.

Weeks went by. Johnnie was given a quiet room. There were activities in the common room with a bunch of old people. They made Johnnie uncomfortable. They were slow and old and didn’t know what day it was.

He didn’t belong there. If only he could get his dial back, then he could get back to his own time.

One day, while playing Bingo, Melvin, the man next to him who drooled a lot because of the medicine the doctors gave him, said something.

“I’m not supposhed to be here, you know? This ishn’t my time. Thish is the future. I jusht need my dial back.”

Wait. What?

Someone else had a dial?

Slowly, the others around them chimed in. They talked about dials or circles too. All of them claimed not to belong there either.

It started to get out of hand. The whole place erupted in quiet frustration.

One of the large men shrugged at one of the other large men.

“Sometimes they get like this. It’s harmless.”

The second large man asked what they were talking about.

“Oh, the dial? Who knows? Some old-timey thing we don’t have any more I guess.”

Johnnie began to panic. To really, really panic.

Oh no. What had he done!?!

He had been busy. Very busy.

Randulf had been given new responsibilities at the stables. His mother had constant errands too.

As busy as he was, as much as was on his mind, there was one constant in his thoughts.

Signy.

He missed her.

He worried about her.

He lov...

... he felt very strongly about her.

The last time he saw her was when his father nearly killed that dog in front of everyone. When his father forced Signy to reveal her secret.

Now everybody knew she could talk to animals.

She ran away and hadn’t been back since.

Randulf desperately wanted to see her again.

He wanted to know that she was okay.

And if it wasn’t okay, he wanted to tell her it would be.

The smell of food was in the air. Lamb.

Randulf stepped inside expecting dinner. What he got instead was another errand from his mother.

There was a comb in her hand. It belonged to his oldest sister.

It was the most excited he had ever seen her, but she looked nervous too. It was like her face couldn’t decide how to be.

His mother reverently handed the comb to Randulf.

“It’s time. It’s finally happening.”

It took Randulf a moment to figure out what was happening.

A comb? What was so special about a comb? The comb of his oldest sister?

It hit him all at once!

She was going to get married!

According to custom, once the families were in agreement, a personal possession, most often a comb, was delivered to the groom’s family. This token, this small piece of herself, would be a part of her new family before the wedding.

Randulf looked at the comb. Really looked at it. It was made from bone and was well polished.

His mother closed his hand over the comb.

She whispered, “this is only the beginning. Someday someone will bring a comb for you too.”

He nodded.

“Take this to Ulf and Runna. It is for their second son, Tym.”

Randulf knew Tym. He was a few years older. Like the other boys, Tym had teased and bullied Randulf.

Randulf hoped he would treat his sister better.

He had better.

Randulf opened the door, then turned around before leaving.

“I-I-I’ll b-b-b-be b-b-b-back s-s-s-s-soon.“

The door closed behind him.

The hearty aroma of the evening meal lingered in the outside air.

Randulf was hungry. He really did mean to be back soon.

The sun had moved below the trees but had not set yet.

Randulf kept a brisk pace through the Okstjin and down the lane to Ulf’s farm.

The village was empty. Everyone must have been inside with their families.

He fidgeted with the comb, shifting it from calloused hand to calloused hand, unsure how best to carry it. His fingers had become accustomed to pitchforks and shovels and ropes. Holding something so delicate and small felt strange.

As he neared the farm, he thought back on the day he and Signy first met. Ulf’s farm was where he brought her family to trade on their first day in Fjoll.

That was the day she gave his cap back.

So much had changed since then.

Randulf approached the door. There was fighting inside. Ulf and Runna always fought. Everyone knew that. He knocked, hoping they might hear it over the shouting.

The shouting did not stop.

Randulf readied himself. There was more to this errand than simply handing off the comb.

He needed to speak.

Randulf hated talking, but he would do anything for his mother and his sisters. Even speak.

The door flew open without warning.

Ulf stood in the doorway. His face was red and sweat dripped down his cheeks.

Runna was close behind.

Randulf cleared his throat.

“I-I-I-I c-c-c-come t-t-t-to...”

Runna stepped closer to join her husband at the door.

Randulf could tell from their posture and their expressions that they were getting impatient. He wished he could get the words out quickly, but he just didn’t know how.

“...y-you w-w-w-w-wi-wi-with th-this c-c-c...”

“Comb,” interrupted Runna. “Yes, we see it.”

Ulf followed up with, “Is this about Tym? He and your sister?”

Randulf nodded. Yes or no questions were easy. He could answer without opening his mouth.

He held the comb out, and Ulf took it and stood for a moment until Runna elbowed him in the side.

“Ah yes. We, uh, accept this comb... token... and welcome your sister into our family.”

Ulf seemed almost as unsure about his words as Randulf had been.

There was an awkward pause. No one spoke or moved.

Finally, it was Ulf who broke the silence.

“Is that all?”

Randulf shrugged his shoulders.

Runna grabbed the door.

“I think we’re done here. Tell Finna... I mean your mother we’ll see her tomorrow.”

With that, she slammed the door in Randulf’s face. It nearly hit him in the nose.

From behind the door, Runna yelled, “Tym! You’re getting married!”

“What?!,” came a muffled reply.

“You’re - getting – married!”

Then Randulf heard something he likely wasn’t meant to. Through the door, he heard Runna whisper to her husband.

“Which is more than I think we’ll ever say for Finna’s poor boy.”

Ulf laughed.

Randulf had heard worse. Much worse.

Things like that stopped hurting a long time ago.

Or had they?

He turned and slowly walked away.

He would prove them wrong. He WOULD get married. He hoped he would get married. He knew just the girl.

Signy.

Lost in thought, his feet lead the way. Surely, they knew where he needed to be.

His stomach rumbled.

Signy.

Was she having her evening meal? What would it would be like to share a meal with her?

He pictured her face. He imagined that she put a spoon to her lips then blew away the steam before sipping some broth.

His mother’s words echoed in his head.

Someday someone will bring a comb for you too.

If that someone wasn’t Signy, he wondered if he could refuse.

There was no one else. How could there be?

With his family, Randulf spoke when he needed to.

Signy was the only person he WANTED to talk to. She waited. She was patient. She never interrupted. She never spoke over him.

Not even his mother did all of that.

His feet kept moving. Surely, they knew where he needed to be.

Step after step, Randulf thought about how brave she was. He thought about how confident she made him feel. He thought about how she told him about her day. He thought about how she asked about his, and how she listened.

She actually listened to him.

He thought about her smile, about her orange hair against a cloudy sky, about her freckled nose, about...

Randulf stopped.

Something was off.

He had been walking on dirt. Dirt roads and dirt paths.

His feet had taken him to something, to someplace new. He was standing on something solid.

He looked down.

Stone.

Where was he?

He heard the sound of rushing water.

Oh. Oh no. He knew this place.

He looked up.

Randulf was on the stone bridge.

He was in the haunted forest.

The giant, gnarled, and twisted oak tree loomed on the far side of the river. That thing gave him the shivers.

There was something else there, too. It was in the place where he had watched his father fight and scream when the night animals attacked him.

There was a large mound of earth.

A large mound of earth with eyes.

A large mound of earth that was looking at him.

Caterpillars were unique. Magical. All of them. All of them.

They did not vary in shape or size or color.

They hatched from small, round, yellow eggs, usually laid on the underside of a leaf.

All caterpillars ate. A lot.

When their time came, caterpillars made their cocoons on thin branches or leaves.

It was in those cocoons where the magic happened.

Each caterpillar had a special, unique dream. These dreams shaped their coming lives. Literally.

Caterpillars who dreamed of light and beauty were likely to become colorful butterflies.

Caterpillars who dreamed of secrets and darkness most often became moths. They would live their lives hiding either by trickery or the black of night.

In his cocoon, Wincey dreamed.

He came upon a place in a forest. There was a giant living thing. It was not animal or plant or human. It was made from dirt and rocks and earth, like a piece of living land.

Wincey was afraid and hid in the shadows.

He felt his body change.

He kept away but studied the earth beast. Many animals came to it for help or friendship or comfort or even shelter.

Wincey was curious but remained hidden.

He felt his body change.

The earth beast reminded him of Signy. It did not look like her, but it was able to speak to animals the way she could.

Wincey was sure it would understand him too, but he cautiously remained hidden.

He felt his body change.

Wincey felt that the earth beast was important. Was it a friend? Was it dangerous?

Signy appeared in his mind.

Then the earth beast.

Then Signy again.

The two flashed back and forth as a beam of light burst through the clouds on them both together.

Wincey understood, or thought he did, that Signy needed the earth beast and that the earth beast needed her too.

He felt his body change.

The dream revealed a purpose to Wincey.

All caterpillars discovered their purpose in the dream.

His purpose was to find the earth beast, then to bring it together with Signy.

He felt his body change.

He leapt from the shadows into a new, magnificent sensation.

His body seemed to float on air.

He fell.

Suddenly he moved something on his back.

Wings? Yes. Wings!

He was flying!

His body was complete.

The dream was over.

Wincey awoke the world.

The time to dream was finished.

He pushed his head from the cocoon and used his new, strong, long legs to pull himself out.

He shook the last pieces of cocoon from his tail.

He shook himself, then spread his wings.

He had wings!

He wanted to fly!

Could he fly?

He felt that he could, but where?

He looked out and the world was dark.

Where was he? Where was Signy?

Wincey discovered quickly that he could see very well in the dark.

It was not a night-time darkness.

He didn’t know how he knew that. It just felt that way.

It was like the darkness when Signy had first brought him into her home. It was a strange, but pleasant kind of darkness.

Wincey saw that fresh leaves had been scattered around his cocoon.

Signy had brought him food while he slept.

He loved her for that.

Wincey flapped his wings. They felt strong enough. He flapped them open-close-open-close until he felt comfortable.

He spread his wings and was about to leap when, at that precise moment, a part of the darkness seemed to fold in and a blinding light took over the space.

“Wincey! Is that you?”

It was his Signy! She came back for him!

“Wincey! Is that you?”

Signy knew it must be him!

She dashed across the room to him.

Delicately, she placed her finger next to him and he stepped on.

Signy lifted him to eye level to get a better look at how he had changed.

“What wings you have!”

They were black as night with bright red spots on them. Signy had never seen anything like them before.

Wincey flapped them.

Signy studied the shape of his wings closely.

“Wincey! You’re a moth! I was afraid you might come out as a butterfly.”

In her experience, Signy found that moths cared about the world around them while butterflies care mostly about themselves.

“Signy! Where’s that bucket?!?”

Mama called from outside. Signy forgot why she had come in.

“Oh yeah,” she told Wincey. “I’m supposed to fetch water for the sheep. Want to come?”

Wincey flapped his wings. He seemed unsteady. Unsure.

“I haven’t flown yet. What if I don’t know how?”

Signy lifted Wincey to her shoulder.

“You can ride with me here until you’re ready, okay?”

Wincey wiggled his antennae in agreement.

The bucket was next to the door. She picked it up on the way outside.

As she stepped outside, a small gust of wind blew her in the face.

It wasn’t so small for Wincey. The wind blew him from Signy’s shoulder.

Her little friend spread his wings and learned how to fly very quickly.

“I... I’m doing it!”

He was flying!

Signy laughed and danced and spun in circles as Wincey fluttered around her.

He was so much fun as a moth, but more than that, it felt good to be with her friend again.

“Signy! The water!”

Mama had a disapproving look on her face.

Signy lowered her head and apologized.

There was work to do.

Wincey followed her to the river. It was on the southern edge of the clearing.

As they went, Signy told her friend what went on while he was changing.

She told him about talking to Snog, the moose, at night when they travelled.

She told him about meeting Snog, the moose, when they came to the clearing.

They reached the river and Signy dipped the bucket into the cool water.

She told Wincey about riding Sn...

“There’s something in the water,” flapped Wincey.

Signy had been so caught up in her story that she hadn’t noticed.

There was something in the water. It wasn’t a leaf or a stick or a pinecone.

What was it?

She pulled it from the water and held it out in the light for a closer look.

A cap?

How did that get there?

Signy set the bucket on the ground.

She wrung the cap out and turned it around in her hands.

Wincey landed on the edge of the bucket.

“What is a cap?” Wincey asked.

Signy answered as she turned it inside out.

“People wear these on their heads. Well, not all people. Girls don’t.”

The cap was made from wool; she could tell that right away. It was embroidered at the base. Someone had put a lot of care into making it.

She turned it right side out again.

The cap had no rips or holes. It couldn’t have been in the water all that long.

She whispered to herself, wondering where it came from.

Wincey wiggled his antennae.

“Are there people that way? Not-girl people?”

“Of course!” Signy cried. “There must be people upstream!”

“Come on! We have to tell papa!”

Signy dashed to find him.

“Wait,” Wincey fluttered. “The bucket!”

It was no use. She was already too far gone.

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(It might help to read this section too. It comes just before)

Once I knew this girl, her name was Emma. One day she wandered into the garden of a grumpy old widow lady who wasn’t so pleased at her presence. The old lady called upon the gods for Emma to be transformed into a cat. Strangely enough it actually happened.

Emma wandered off and eventually found her way back home. When she got there she tried telling her roommates what happened to her, but all that she could do was meow at them.

Her roommates took pity on the “poor lost kitty” so they took her in.

To try and make them all see that it was really her and not just a cat, she would meow every time one of them would say something to her. They never figured it out.

One day I happened by and spoke to the cat; it meowed back at me. After a few exchanges of words and meows I somehow made the connection and realized that Emma and the cat were one.

Before her unfortunate episode, we hadn’t been the best of friends, more like loose acquaintances, but since nobody else believed me about her being the cat and all, I was the best friend she had. I was the only one who knew.

I’ve been trying unsuccessfully for seven months to change her back to her former self. I’ve researched all the weird, off-beat religions with methods of changing people into cats, the occult, Neil Sedaka albums, the ingredients of Spam and a couple of other things. So far there’s been no dice, but I’m on to something right now that seems like a pretty strong lead. It’s an ancient religion from the Baltic region with all these rituals, spells, curses and such where it’s written that people can be transformed into cats. For now I’m just reading up on it, but it’s a short book so I’ll be done soon.

There, I’m done. I told you it was a short book.

Fortunately there was, written upon it’s secret pages, an incantation that supposedly can change people who have been turned into cats back into regular people, free of any and all psychological disorders despite having been changed into a cat and all.

The words are supposed to be read in a silent place while eating carrot cake.

Here goes nothing.

“Hocus cadabra - Hair of Alfalfa - Piece of tape - Man in a cape - Turn this person - In the from of a cat - Just stop flirtin’ - Back to that - Of a person dammit.”

Oh shit! I forgot the carrot cake.

I get me some carrot cake and try it again and once again it fails. Perhaps my room isn’t quiet enough. I take Emma to seven or eight other quiet places that I know to recite the words with a mouthful of carrot cake. Eventually, at the last place I try, the library, it works. Of course it’s silly that I mentioned that the library is the last place I try because if I kept on trying after it worked it would be rather pointless

Anyway Emma seems considerably pleased to be back in human form after all that time. Well, she’s pleased until she realizes that she’s completely naked in the middle of the school library.

I hand her my cardigan and tell her to wait in the ladies room until I get back with some clothes and give the secret knock.

She complies even though I don’t show her the secret knock.

My place is so close to the library that I could hit it with a well spit loogie from my porch. I go there, grab some sweatpants, a t-shirt and a pair of flip-flops because I don’t know her shoe size and head back to the library.

I give the secret knock on the ladies room door.

Emma answers it cautiously, then sees that it’s me. She takes the clothes I brought for her and closes the door again. She emerges a few minutes later fully clothed.

She expresses her gratitude to me for doing all that I have.

I’m happy too so we go out and grab a burger at the nearest fast food joint we can find.

While staring down her first burger in months, she tells me that the thing she missed most was fast food.

I doubt that, but agree with her anyway.

Ash was a biology teacher at Lisa G. Degeryt Middle School.

The school was named after a teacher who died tragically in a fire in her home 647 months prior.

No one remembered who she was anymore.

Ash had a particular affinity for botany.

He had a favorite coffee shop at 647 Maple Avenue. He stopped there every day on his way to work.

While standing in line, Ash overheard someone, a woman, talk about an abandoned conservatory.

Ash looked, but her back was turned. She wore a white shawl.

The woman described the place in exactly six hundred and forty-seven words.

His curiosity was piqued. He quickly looked it up on his phone and continued to read about it when he reached work.

In exactly six hundred and forty-seven swipes on his phone, Ash decided he was going.

His hope was to sneak into the conservatory and collect rare plant specimens to use in his classroom.

From the videos and firsthand accounts he saw online, entering would be easy.

His hope was to sneak into the conservatory and collect plant specimens to use in his classroom.

Ash drove for exactly six hours and forty-seven minutes through the humid, summer weather to Emblaton.

He had never heard of Emblaton before.

As he drove, the sky turned windy and dark, but it did not rain.

When he arrived, Ash parked his car and hurried inside. He hurried to the entrance hoping to avoid the building storm.

The door creaked open the moment he touched the handle.

The entryway had a marble floor. There was a dust covered sign boasting the six hundred and forty-seven different species of plants within.

Ash pushed open the door to glass pavilion.

The air was thick. Far more humid than outside.

It was impressive, vast, lush, overgrown.

The plants inside seemed to thrive in the absence of people.

A clattering sound came suddenly from above.

Rain. It danced on the glass roof.

There were no cracks or missing windows, but water poured through as if it was raining inside as well as out.

Ash ventured further inside.

He came across many strange and exotic plants.

Amorphophallus titanium, the corpse flower, though it was not in bloom.

Dracula Simia, the monkey face orchid.

Actaea pachypoda, the doll’s eyes.

Tacca chantrieri, which resembled bats.

Monotropa uniflora, the ghost pipes.

There were Rafflesia, Nepenthes, and many more.

Ash was in heaven!

He gathered samples and put them away in his bag.

One of the less exotic plants, a species he knew from a visit to Hawaii, was the Mimosa Pudica, or the sleeping grass. Ash ran his hand over the leaves. As expected they quickly closed up at his touch.

What was unexpected was that it pricked his finger.

That shouldn’t ha… have… happ…. hap…h…

Thud.

Ash hit the ground.

Ash was passed out on the floor for six minutes and forty-seven seconds.

He came to with a gasp.

His mind was fuzzy. Strange. Things just felt off.

Finding oneself on the ground with your cheek in a puddle of rainwater would do that.

The water felt strangely refreshing though.

He pulled himself up. It felt good to be upright again.

His clothes were damp. Even though brushing them off was use, he did it anyway.

Ash put his finger, the one that stung, in his mouth. He sucked on it hoping it would help ease the pain.

It didn’t.

Looking around, the conservatory felt different somehow. There seemed to be more plants and fewer glass windows.

He was curious and meant to investigate, but he became distracted by a Clathrus Archeri. An Octopus Stinkhorn.

He had never seen or smelled one before.

The scent of rotting flesh did not disappoint.

Ash collected a sample then ventured on.

He took six hundred and forty-seven steps before stopping in front of a corridor of roses.

It ended in an archway.

Ash looked up. He was outside now. There were no walls and no ceiling. When did that happen? He did not remember passing through a door.

The sky was unfriendly and dark, but the rain stopped.

He kept on, mesmerized by the Black Baccara roses on either side or the corridor.

There were six hundred and forty-seven rose blossoms in total.

Thorns ripped at his sleeves as he passed through the archway. Some tore his skin.

Beyond the archway, the sky was lighter. It seemed more dreary and less dreadful.

Misty.

The droplets of water in the air felt soothing on his scratched skin.

There were more roses, the same black and red blooms from the corridor. The plants weren’t so close together there.

There were tall mirrors in front of some of the roses. Six hundred and forty-seven of them.

Not that he counted.

The images reflected back in some of the mirrors were off. Different.

In some there were fewer clouds, or no clouds. The wind blew differently in some.

In some of the mirrors, even he was different.

Ash stared into one mirror in particular.

The sky was the same. The wind was same.

It was his own reflection that was the problem. It wasn’t there.

What was happening?

His mind raced. He was confused. Lost.

Where was the conservatory?

Where was his bag?

His samples?

Had he dropped them?

Did he ever have them in the first place?

Was there ever even a conservatory?

Ash looked into the mirror again.

He still wasn’t there.

Did HE even exist?

Something caught his eye. Movement.

In the distance of the reflection there was a flash of white cloth. Flowing.

A white shawl.

The woman from the coffee shop?

Ash turned to look, but she was not there.

He turned back to the mirror.

There she was again!

He turned and ran, chasing the invisible thing.

The thing that wasn’t there, the woman in the shawl was six hundred and forty-seven feet away.

Or was she?

Ash ran as fast as he could, his clothes tearing on the thorns of the rose bushes.

Sometimes he thought he could see the woman in white, but just enough to lead him this way or that on a wild, meandering chase.

Roses gave way to trees. Tall trees. Ancient, cold, dark trees.

Hadn’t it been summer?

Wasn’t it warm?

Where was he?

Ash came to a… a… he didn’t know what it was. A circle. A gateway made of sticks. Six hundred and forty-seven of them.

Beyond the circle, in the trees he saw the white thing again.

The woman. Her back was turned. It was always turned.

No. Maybe she wasn’t a woman. What if she only looked that way? What if she was something more?

Something older.

Something… different.

Her hand waved like an invitation to follow.

Ash stopped.

He tried to think.

He needed to think.

He wanted to think, but something in him was wrong.

He was lost.

He was… he was… he was a teacher… he studied plants.

Plants.

Yes.

Forests have plants.

He loved plants.

What better place to be than a forest.

Plants as far as he could see.

He could talk to them and care for them and…

No. No this wasn’t right.

Plants don’t talk.

The woman in the white shawl waved again.

He was drawn towards her.

He should stop… but his will was gone.

Ash…

Ash?

Who was Ash?

He stepped through the circle to the sound wind in the branches, creaking tree trunks and youthful laughter.

The more he walked, the more the noises around him sounded like words.

“Welcome home.”

“You are loved.”

“We missed you.”

Six hundred and forty-seven trees spoke to him.

Yes. Yes this felt right.

This is where he belonged.

This is where he was meant to be.

Like home.

He followed the woman to a place with circles of stone on the ground. Some glowed.

In the middle circle was a tree. An elm tree. It was slightly off center.

It seemed there should be a second tree next to the elm.

He was sure of it.

Where was the other tree?

Why wasn’t it there?

He stepped lightly through the stones to the place where he was certain the other tree should have been.

“You’re finally home, Ash, my love.”

Who said that?

It came from… it came from the elm.

The white shawl caught the wind and flew beyond the outer stone circle.

Was the woman the tree?

Did that mean that he…

His feet sink into the earth.

Did that mean that he was a…

He lifted his arms to the sky.

Did that mean that he was a tree too?

Her tree?

Leaves shot from his fingers. His legs and arms became stiff.

Yes. He was her ash tree.

She was his elm.

He remembered. He had been gone for six hundred and forty-seven days.

Six hundred and forty-seven days of freedom to explore the world, to be human.

It was something he did.

It was something she did.

They always came home.

Twelfth birthdays were important. They marked a change.

Children became men and women when they turned twelve.

When a boy became a man, it was called his Yergril.

Today Randulf was a man.

He stepped outside, feeling the warm, dry air of early summer on his face.

Randulf didn’t feel like a man, not that he knew what that felt like. He thought he might look different.

He cautiously faced the world the same as he had every day. Feeling insignificant and small.

There was one small thing that was new about him though. There was a wool cap on his head.

Caps were given as Yergil gifts and were worn until the young grew a beard.

The cap came from his mother. She worked many nights on it. He knew this because she told him. He was her youngest child and only son, so this was her only chance to do it right.

On his Yergil, a young man was permitted to do as he pleased so long as he caused no harm to person or property.

Many young men spent the day playing pranks or causing minor mischief.

Not Randulf.

He wanted nothing more than to sit by the river and watch the water the whole day. Alone.

Just a few steps from his door, a boy from the village appeared.

A few steps more and another came out.

Then another, and another until he was surrounded by twelve boys in all, taunting and teasing him.

This had been his life for as long as he could remember.

Randulf tried to ignore them, but it was no use. It was never any use.

As a man, nothing had changed... or maybe it had gotten worse. Now he had something they didn’t.

The cap.

The boys asked to see it.

None of them had one yet.

Then they asked again.

And again.

And again.

They even made a song of it. An awful, awful song.

Randulf hated them.

After asking fifty-seven times... yes, Randulf counted... he couldn’t take it any longer.

If he let them see it, just for a while, maybe they would leave him alone.

Maybe.

Probably not though.

He didn’t know what else to do.

Randulf opened his mouth to speak.

He hated speaking. No good ever came of it.

“Y-y-y-y-you h-h-h-have t-to g-g-g-g-give it b-b-b-back,” Randulf stammered uncomfortably, pulling the cap from his head.

They said they would.

Well, some of them did.

They took their time with it, holding it up, turning it inside out, ever trying it on.

After each boy had a turn, some more than one, Randulf felt it was time they gave it back.

“C-c-c-can I-I h-h-h-h-have it b-b-b-b-back n-n-n-n-n-n-now?”

The boys mocked his stutter. They always did. He was used to it, but being used to it didn’t make it hurt any less. If anything, now that he was a man, it hurt more.

They didn’t give the cap back.

This was no surprise.

Randulf hated them. He just wanted his cap and to be left alone.

“G-g-g-g-give i-i-it b-b-b-b-b-back n-n-n-n-now!”

Randulf tried to snatch it away, but he was too small and too slow. A vicious game of keep-away ensued with Randulf in the middle.

He ran and jumped after it, but the cap was always just out of reach.

Finally, he had a chance. One of the younger boys tried tossing it over Randulf’s head.

He jumped as high as he could; arms stretched as high as they could go.

Haust was a raven.

He had flown a long way.

A long, long way.

Too long.

It isn’t that he minded flying. He loved it.

Mostly what he loved was that it was something that goody-goody wolf, Varys couldn’t.

Varys was his best friend. He loved her, but he loved teasing her, maybe just a bit more than that.

Varys had done her part for the mistress and now it was his turn.

He was sure there would be more jobs. There always were.

The mistress didn’t say what the prophecy was, but Haust could tell that it was complicated.

The next time around, Haust hoped for something more exciting than stealing a stupid hat.

A hat!

He was fast. He was clever. He could fly. He could argue with a dragon out of its gold.

There was so much he could do and the mistress sent him to steal a little boy’s hat.

Pathetic.

He watched from a rooftop as the bigger, stronger boys took it from him.

Why was he even here? They had taken the hat for him!

Wait. No.

One of them boys was about to ruin everything!

Stupid boys!

Haust leapt from his perch and snatched hat just as its owner was about to catch it.

Varys couldn’t do that, now could she?

Randulf was shocked to come back down without the cap.

Some bird. Big and black. A crow maybe.

It snatched the cap before Randulf could grab it.

Even nature hated him.

The crow didn’t keep it for long, dropping it after a short while into the river.

He just dropped it and flew away.

Randulf pushed through the boys and stumbled down the uneven shore, tripping over tree roots and splashing into the river trying to catch it.

He made one last desperate lunge, but it was just out of reach.

The boys offered no help. Why would they?

Randulf clawed his way up the bank onto shore.

The boys watched in silence, then all ran away.

Randulf wasn’t ready to give up.

He sprinted down the shore, but it was too late. The cap was too far gone.

He fell to his knees and began to weep.

How could he go home?

His mother had worked so hard.

And his father. Oh gods, not his father.

Randulf lifted his head. He wiped his eyes and realized that, in a strange, awful way, he got what he wanted.

He was alone and he was by the river.

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In the early morning light just after sunrise, Troll walked east.

He came to a soft, muddy patch close to the tree line at the edge of the clearing.

There was a lingonberry bush there.

Troll introduced himself to the bush, and asked permission to share its air.

The lingonberry bush was in full bloom and was excited for the company. The bush was eager to show off its small, bell-like white flowers.

“They are lovely,” said the troll, whooshing like a gentle breeze, “and they smell sweet.”

He settled his body in the mud.

For their size, trolls were remarkably skilled at camouflage. He rolled himself up to appear as a large moss-covered rock. The bush on his shoulder seemed to grow at an angle near the top.

Red Squirrel, Lemming, and Vole were with him. They were too young to be left on their own.

Lemming slept beneath the bush, fidgeting and kicking in her dreams.

Vole hopped to the ground and marched straight into the clearing. Troll had to ask that she stay close.

She squeaked in agreement, but Troll knew she was not happy about it.

Red Squirrel climbed to the top of the bush and stared into the clearing.

“How are you supposed to climb trees when there aren’t any trees? How do you hide from the wolves and hawks and foxes and eagles out there?”

“Stay with me where you are safe then.”

Troll knew that nothing would harm his friends as long as they were with him.

When Moose came in the night, he said there were three humans. There was more though. They had come with some sheep, a goat, and a horse.

Watching them from a distance, he could not tell who or what was who.

“Which do you think are the humans?” Troll whispered to his young friends.

Red Squirrel answered first, or he tried to. The sound of a falcon in the distance frightened him so much that he froze.

Lemming was next but was probably dreaming and talking in her sleep.

“Issa comfy fuzzy, mmmmm.”

Vole climbed up to the bush and looked out into the clearing. She strained her little eyes.

“Everything is too far away. I can’t see.”

Troll thanked her for trying, telling her he couldn’t remember what humans looked like.

“That is why I am asking.”

Vole squinted her eyes. In the field were dark blurry shapes in the sunlight.

She did not like not knowing, especially when Troll needed help.

She was impatient.

An idea came. Why not just go ask?

She did not stop to think if this was a good idea. She scurried to the ground and dashed as fast as her little legs could carry her into the field.

There was a whoosh from Troll’s rocky fingertip. It just missed her fluffy little bottom as she sprinted away.

She had outrun Troll’s reach!

Nothing could stop her now!

“Come back, Vole!” shouted Troll.

A farmer at his heart, Holger stood in the field imagining where he might plow a new field to someday start growing again.

Suddenly there came a loud, chittering, squeaking kind of sound. It echoed throughout the clearing.

Everyone looked up to see what it was.

Everyone except for the goat that is. He kept eating.

“What was that?!?” Holger yelled.

Beyla shrugged her shoulders.

Signy did not answer. She was already walking that way.

Come back, Vole?

It didn’t make any sense to Signy, but that’s what she heard.

It was so loud. So deep. So... not small sounding.

She imagined the sound came from some sort of giant rodent, but that didn’t make sense. There weren’t giant rodents, were there?

Signy had already started towards the sound when Papa called for her to be careful.

She didn’t listen.

Vole was determined.

She dashed through the field as fast as her little legs could carry her.

One of the blurred things was just ahead. The closer she came, the clearer it looked.

The thing was coming towards her!

It was tall, though not as tall as Troll, and walked on just two legs.

Vole was brave. She would stand up to it if she had to. She could stand up to anything!

The two-legged animal stopped.

It did not see Vole.

It looked over her to the trees. To where Troll was hiding.

Vole knew that Troll did not want to be seen yet. Why else would he be hiding?

What was she going to do?

Her first and only idea was to squeal as loudly as she could and to climb onto the creature’s foot.

The thing saw Vole there.

“What’s this? Who are you?”

The tall, two-legged thing bent over to get a better look at Vole.

“ME? Who are you?!?”

Vole wanted to take charge. If anyone was going to be asking questions, it was going to be her.

“I’m sorry if I almost stepped on you. I didn’t see you down there.”

“What are you?” chittered the small, furry creature.

Signy was surprised at how direct the little thing was. She bent over for a closer look. She remembered what the giant, rodent sounding thing had said.

“Are you a vole?”

“Of course I’m a vole. Why? What are you?”

She knew it! The loud thing must have been talking to the vole.

“That loud noise... before... did you hear it? What was it?”

The vole hopped to the cloth of Signy’s tunic and climbed all the way to her shoulder.

“WHAT ARE YOU?” it squeaked loudly into the girl’s ear.

Signy realized she hadn’t answered any of the vole’s questions. She didn’t want to seem rude.

“I’m a girl,” she finally answered.

The vole skittered behind Signy’s neck to her other shoulder.

“I’m a girl too, but what ARE you?”

Signy suddenly realized what she was being asked. It seemed strange that someone didn’t know what a person was. How far into the wilderness were they?

“A person. A human. Why? Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

“No”

The vole was very direct. Signy wondered how different truly wild animals must be from the ones she had known all her life. It was a strange thought that there were animals who might have never seen a person before.

A loud voice came from behind. It was mama.

“Signy! Come back please!”

Hearing mama reminded Signy of the loud thing that had called for the vole.

“That’s my mama. She wants me to come back.”

She paused.

“Does someone want you to come back too?”

The vole scratched with her back leg, then spoke.

“That was... I have to go too.”

“Oh. Okay then. Well, it was nice to meet you. You were very brave to come out here all by yourself, you know, but I’m glad you did.”

“I am brave. I’m not afraid of anything,” the vole told her.

“I believe it,” laughed Signy.

The vole scurried down Signy’s apron and tunic to the ground and ran to the place in the trees where the sound had come from.

She shielded her eyes from the sun as she stared into the tree line, but she didn’t see anything.

“Signy! Come on!”

“Coming, mama!”

Red Squirrel had only just learned that humans existed.

He was sure they were trouble; probably bloodthirsty predators. He shuddered at the thought.

One more thing to be afraid of.

There were humans in the grassy field.

Red Squirrel leaned out from the bush as far as he could, straining his eyes, but he could not see them. They were too far away.

Vole was out there too.

Red Squirrel sniffed. He perked up his ears.

Wherever she was, Vole was too far to see or smell or hear.

She was probably dead.

The world was terrifying. How did Vole not understand that? Running into danger was sure to get her eaten.

“What is happening out there, Troll?”

Troll stayed quiet and still.

It was Lemming who answered him, in a way. In her sleep she muttered something.

“Sssss a good hummmmman. So niccccce. Mmmmmm.”

Lemming re-snuggled against the base of the bush.

The world was terrifying. How did Lemming not understand that? Sleeping in the face of danger was sure to get her eaten.

Nothing. Nothing in the world was nice. Maybe Troll. Maybe. But that was it.

There was a sound in the grass. Something was running. Coming closer.

His nose twitched.

It was Vole.

She must have been running for her life.

Red Squirrel leapt from the bush and crawled into Troll’s nose for safety.

He clung to the hairs inside Troll’s nose, bracing for Vole and whatever was chasing her. Probably a human.

Vole scurried from the tall grass. She stopped in front of Troll to catch her breath.

Red Squirrel watched and sniffed and he listened for the thing Vole must have been running from.

He saw nothing. He smelled nothing. He heard nothing.

Strange.

Vole was lucky to have gotten away.

“That was a dangerous thing you did,” quietly scolded Troll.

Vole ignored him.

“I met one! I met one!” she squeaked. “I met a human! She talked to me!”

Vole dashed up Troll’s face and stood right between his eyes.

“She said I was brave!”

Red Squirrel couldn’t believe it. Vole wasn’t brave. She was stupid. And lucky.

Troll lifted a finger to pet Vole.

“You would like her. She was nice... like you.”

Nice? Red Squirrel didn’t believe it. The human had probably just eaten, that was all.

“Wait,” said Troll. “You said she talked to you? And you understood her?”

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Water remembers.

Every drop of rain. Every flood. Every cube of ice. Every flush of the toilet. Every washed hand.

Water is ancient.

Water is patient.

Water knows every secret but has none of its own.

Water has had enough.

Water absorbs.

***

Steelborough was a one factory town. Its residents were loyal and tough… and desperate.

That one factory had closed more than a decade ago. Over the years there had been some interested by companies from Japan or Germany or China to repurpose and reopen the factory, but nothing came of it.

The jobs and the work and the money and even some of the people flowed elsewhere.

Those that remained in Steelborough did their best to make ends meet, taking whatever work they could find, mostly relying on passing freeway traffic to stay afloat.

***

Marcy was the fourth-grade teacher at Steelborough Elementary.

It was a small school.

One Tuesday afternoon, after the children had gone home, she stayed behind to clean up as she always did.

As she dumped the classroom trashcan into the dumpster, one thing struck her as odd.

Where were the juice boxes and soda cans? There wasn’t a single one.

Strange.

She knew her kids… and their parents. They didn’t typically make the healthiest choices, which she understood. Sugar and fat were cheap.

Marcy shrugged it off. Maybe someone had emptied the trash when she hadn’t been looking.

***

Wednesday, during lunch, Marcy was reminded of the garbage can when she looked around and not a single child drank soda or juice.

They had water. Every. Single. One.

The children lined up at the water fountain and either drank from it directly or filled up a cup or bottle they had brought from home.

Marcy sipped water from her own re-fillable water bottle, thinking that perhaps her own behavior was rubbing off on them.

***

Thursday was rough. No matter what she did, her mind just felt sluggish… sloshy almost. Her thoughts would not come as they usually did. The only comfort in the day came when she took sips from her water bottle.

Perhaps she was coming down with something and was feeling de… dehy… whatever the word was.

Thirsty.

The children, again, had only water.

They were mostly quiet.

In the teacher’s lounge, Marcy noticed the coffee maker had been shut off and the entire school staff was drinking water too.

Something was weird.

Strange.

She felt like she should be worried, but she took a sip of water and ignored it.

Whatever it was, it was a problem for another day.

***

On Friday morning Marcy flowed out of bed and straight into the shower.

She had taken one the night before… or she thought she had… but she felt like she needed another.

Maybe it would help her to wake up.

As the water poured over her face, she opened her mouth and drank the cold water.

Cold?

Didn’t she take hot showers?

No matter. It felt good. Natural. Easy.

She left for work, almost forgetting to get dressed, and ignored her car.

Marcy joined a line of people walking in the street. Some wore clothes. Some did not. It didn’t matter. It was like a stream with people joining and leaving like little trib… tri… whatever. Water that joins and splits off.

No one spoke.

They flowed.

Mar… Marc… Marcy crossed the bridge and felt a pull towards the river below. She almost forgot her own name.

She did not stop. Water… no… she wasn’t supposed to stop. Water… no… she kept moving.

She passed a storefront with a television in the window. There was a man on the screen staring blankly at the camera. He took a sip of water from a cup, then stood up and walked off screen.

No one went anywhere, but no one stayed still. The people of Steel.. stee… st… just sort of trickled around the central part of town. Now and again someone would step out to go to the bathroom or to get something to eat or water to drink.

Only water.

At the end of the day everyone returned to their homes.

***

Satu… Sa…S…..

Join the current.

Walk.

Be a part of the flow.

Marc… Ma…. Mmmmm.

Something tugged at what was left of her mind. Something wasn’t ri…

She crossed the bridge.

She never finished that thought.

Or any thought.

Ever again.

***

Water remembers.

Every drop of rain. Every flood. Every cube of ice. Every flush of the toilet. Every washed hand.

Water is ancient.

Water is patient.

Water knows every secret but has none of its own.

Water has had enough.

Water absorbs.

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(listen while you read if you like)

It was late March.

The sky had been dark with rain the whole day, but as John drove home the clouds parted, the sun shot though, and there was a rainbow.

“Magic,” he whispered to himself.

John didn’t believe in magic. It was just something he said sometimes.

The rainbow was still bright when he pulled into the driveway.

He rushed inside to tell his wife and daughter.

They loved rainbows.

The family held hands in the front yard, watching the bright colors against the distant clouds.

“Magic,” whispered Emmie, his daughter.

“Yes. Magic,” answered Clara, John’s wife.

John laughed to himself. When Clara said it he almost thought she believed it too.

It faded away, as all rainbows do, and the family went inside.

At the front door Emmie stopped her father. She had some exciting news.

“Daddy guess what?”

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“I lost my first tooth at school today!”

She held up a small, purple, plastic, tooth shaped necklace and shook it.

“It’s in here. The school nurse gave me it to keep it in.”

John had known this day was coming but felt woefully unprepared. Her tooth had been loose for weeks.

“That’s amazing” he said.

John knelt down to hug her and looked up to Clara, hoping she might have come up with a plan since she and Emmie had been home for over an hour already. It stood to reason that Emmie had told her mother first.

From there the evening went on much as they always had.

Over dinner John asked if any of Emmie’s friends had lost any teeth yet.

“No. Well kind of. Lilly lost one before, but I unfriended her when she cut me in line for free time.”

“I’m sorry you’re not friends anymore,” John said. He didn’t know who Lilly was. There were too many names coming and going from school to keep track of them all.

“What did Lilly do with her tooth when it came out?”

John was trying to ask something without actually asking it.

“Daddy, it goes under your pillow. Everybody knows that. She got five dollars for it.”

Five dollars?!? When did teeth get so expensive? John remembered getting a quarter and being happy to have that!

Either way, that was what he needed to know. Now to find some cash. Maybe Clara had some. They would talk later.

At bedtime, Emmie carefully placed the tooth necklace under her pillow. John and Clara kissed her goodnight.

When they turned the light out, Emmie whispered her I-LOVE-YOUs, then added, “I hope the Tooth Fairy doesn’t forget me.”

“She won’t,” assured Clara.

Oh good, John thought, she must have a plan.

The couple sat down on the couch. Clara grabbed the remote control and switched the TV on.

They always watched something when Emmie went to bed.

John sat down next to her.

“So,” he smiled. “What are we going to do about her tooth.”

Clara looked back with a blank stare.

“What do you mean?”

“You know… Tooth Fairy and all,” John answered, lightly flapping his arms like wings.

Clara had the same blank stare.

“You know,” John asked again, “money under the pillow and all?”

Clara finally smiled. Laughed even.

“Oh, I get it. You’re joking.”

She lightly hit John in the arm.

“For a minute there I thought you meant that WE needed to do something. Well don’t you worry. I believe in the Tooth Fairy and our little Emily’s tooth is in good hands.”

John knew his wife. He knew her inside and out.

She wasn’t joking.

How had they been together all this time without him finding out she ACTUALLY still believed in the Tooth Fairy?

He thought back to the rainbow.

What if Clara really DID believe in magic?

Oh.

Oh no.

He needed to find a way to make some magic.

He loved his wife. He loved his daughter.

If magic was what they expected, then that was exactly what they would get!

How though?

It was 7:47. He needed to think fast.

He had an idea.

“Babe. Want some ice cream?”

Please say yes. Please say yes.

“Mmmmm? Yeah okay.”

John got up to go to the kitchen while Clara chose a show to watch.

He needed a reason to go upstairs where he might have some money hidden away somewhere.

He knew just what to do.

John took the chocolate syrup from the fridge and squirted it down the front of his shirt.

Walking back to the living room, trying to look innocent, he showed Clara what had happened.

“Babe. I made a little mess. I’m going to change my shirt. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Oh god. What happened?” she laughed.

“I… it just…. “ he waved his hands in front of him. He didn’t want to lie and so left it at a half non-answer.

“Go! Go!” she insisted. “And maybe rinse it off in the sink so the stain doesn’t set in.”

Excellent. Rinsing the shirt would give him more time.

John rushed up the stairs.

The first thing he did was pull the chocolate covered shirt over his head and drop it in to the bathroom sink. He assumed warm water was best. He honestly didn’t know. He turned on the hot water and hoped for the best.

Now, where might there be some money?

Preferably paper. Preferably paper with a number five on it. Can’t have that Lilly girl getting more than Emmie, can we?

He tore though his drawers. His nightstand. The weird knick-knacks he kept on his dresser. Nothing.

Well not nothing. He found a ballpoint pen and a paper clip, but no money.

The light caught Clara’s jewelry box. He turned to look. He wondered…

No, no. He was going to make this work completely on his own.

Next, he went to the hamper. Maybe he had left some money in his pockets the last few days.

Nothing.

Well, not nothing. He found the Starbucks receipt from two days ago.

The closet maybe?

John turned the light on and began digging through jacket pockets.

Again, nothing. Except this time, it really was nothing.

“You okay up there?!?”

Oh no. He was taking too long!

“Just rinsing the shirt. All good.”

John came back to the bedroom. Where hadn’t he looked?

The jewelry box caught his attention again. Had he seen her drop money in there? Maybe.

No. He wasn’t going to do that.

He needed to make magic on his own.

In desperation, he lifted the mattress.

He was surprised to find a sock that had been missing for months. He was not surprised to find no money.

When setting the mattress back down, he bumped, by accident, into the jewelry box.

It fell to the floor.

“What was that?!”

“Sorry. I knocked something over. Almost done!”

He wasn’t almost done. Why did he say that?

The box was thankfully unharmed.

John bent over to pick it up when something beneath the bed caught his attention.

There on the floor was a crumpled, stained five-dollar bill.

It would have to do!

The thing seemed to appear there as if by magic. Of course magic wasn’t real.

It was luck then!

John tiptoed to his daughter’s room, turning the hall light off first so as not to wake her.

By the light of his cell phone, he entered the room, knelt down, and reached under the pillow.

The tooth wasn’t there. It had to be there. He began to panic.

Wait.

Something else was there. Small. Thin.

John pulled it out.

He held in his hand a crisp five-dollar bill.

What?

How?

Who?

John slipped the good bill back, pocketed the ugly one and left the room.

“I’m coming up!”

“No, no. I’m done.”

John turned the water off in the bathroom sink and hung the shirt to dry on the shower head.

He nearly forgot to put on a new shirt before heading back down stairs.

John couldn’t get the shock of the crisp bill under Emmie’s pillow out of his head.

How had it gotten there?

WAS there a Tooth Fairy?

***

The next morning Emmie ran down the stairs squealing and screaming and laughing about how the Tooth Fairy had come.

“I told you she wouldn’t forget you, “Clara smiled.

John was still stunned by the whole thing. He didn’t say a word.

Was magic real?

He needed time to wrap his head around everything.

Clara hugged Emmie and tussled her hair.

“Oh, and don’t forget,” she told their daughter. “The Easter Bunny comes this weekend too!”

The Easter Bunny?

Wait. What? It can’t be. Not that too. Noooo….

The next thing John knew, he was on the floor with Clara and Emmie above him with concerned looks on their faces.

“You passed out, dear. Are you okay?”

“Daddy. Daddy?”

For just a moment, behind his wife and daughter, John swore he saw something shiny and small with wings… that wasn’t a bird or a bug.

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He hated dares. They were stupid.

He had always thought of them as the way stupid people asked you to do stupid things.

Without the power of words and persuasion, the simple phrase., “I dare you,” was as much as their limited intellects could muster.

Why was it though, that dares so often worked?

It was a dare that brought him that afternoon to Halford House.

Once a magnificent estate, Halford House had been left to rot after the Halford fortune was spent and foolishly invested and gambled away until there was nothing left.

In the surrounding forest were warning signs saying to keep out. Warnings that had been ignored for generations.

The dare was simple. Climb to the top of the spiraling staircase.

Stephen knew better, but a dare was a dare and, as stupid as it was, he had to do it.

He hadn’t yet found the words needed to talk his way out of a dare.

He stood just inside the doorway and hesitated.

The other boys teased, calling him “chicken”.

Stephen was sure that even a chicken would have more sense than to go up there.

He held his breath and was about to take the first step when a shout came from outside.

“Stephen! Oh Stephen! Are you in there?!”

It was Emmie, his younger sister.

He was sure she had been in her room when he left the house.

“You go on home, Emmie. Git.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Whatcha doin’ in there, Stephen?”

The other boys butted in, talking about the dare to go up the stairs.

“Ain’t scary!” piped Emmie bravely. “I cin do it!”

Without hesitating, she started up the steps alone.

That girl had less sense than a chicken.

“You git back down here,” Stephen demanded, going up the stairs after her.

The boys teased that she had bigger balls than he had.

“You shut up!” he told them as he took more steps.

Emmie was still moving. He called again for her to stop, but she just teased in a sing-songy way that she had the biggest balls.

It wasn’t funny.

Or at least Stephen didn’t think it was.

The boys by the door thought it was hysterical.

“Emmie. I’m warnin’ you. You better stop!”

It was a surprise, but she did stop. Emmie turned around, looked him dead in the eye and said, “or else what?”

She stomped her foot…

… which was a mistake.

The step she was on buckled. The railing next to her cracked and she began to fall.

Stephen dove forward and was able to grab her hand just before she slipped over the edge.

He held on as long as he could.

Dust shot out from the breaking steps directly into his right eye.

At that moment his grip on his sister’s hand failed and she fell to the floor below.

The other boys cursed and ran.

For fear that he would fall too, Stephen scooted down the stairs as quickly as he could.

When he reached Emmie, she was breathing, but just barely.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know if he should try to move her, but he didn’t want to leave her there by herself either.

He shouted for help. For the other boys to come back.

No help came.

Emmie’s fingers and toes wiggled slightly.

She moaned.

He took that as a sign that he might be able to move her, so he lifted her up into his arms.

His eye, the one the dust stung. He kept it closed as much as he could as he hefted his sister through the trees.

He nearly tripped over a stick or a tree root. He didn’t know what.

Emmie gasped.

Stephen’s close eye shot open for just a moment as he regained his balance.

He could have sworn there was a sort of hooded figure made from sticks in front of him, but when he looked again, with just the one, good eye, it was gone.

Emmie was becoming heavier. Limp.

She stopped moaning.

He did not stop to make sure she was breathing.

He had to get her home.

He had to get her to help.

He was close.

He made it to the edge of the forest to the street. He wanted to run, but he didn’t have the strength.

The pain in his right eye had become unbearable, but he could not stop to wipe the dust away.

Whenever he opened it, the world seemed different.

Paler somehow.

He thought it was his eye adjusting to the light, nothing more.

The clouds looked different.

Things were just slightly off.

His house was ahead.

The dusty eye opened again.

The world through that eye was… off somehow. It was as if his left eye and his right eye were not seeing the world at the same time, or from different angles, or, or he didn’t know what.

The leaves swayed differently from each eye.

The water from the sprinkler on the neighbor’s lawn was in two different places.

Stephen didn’t have time to think about that. He closed the dusty eye and kept on.

When he got to his front door, he set Emmie down as gently as he could on the porch, then rang the doorbell.

His mother opened the door.

She looked panicked.

“Oh ma God! Emmie!”

Stephen opened his dusty eye when she came out.

One mom fell to her knees, hugging and kissing… sobbing… screaming “what happined? What happined to mah baby?!?!”

The other mom. The dust eye mom seemed to look through Stephen like he wasn’t there.

Like he was invisible.

Just then the strangest thing happened.

Emmie… she… she stepped through him and hugged his mother.

Emmie was covered in dust and dirt and there was a large cut on her arm.

“Mama! Mama! It’s Stephen. He fell! Come quick!”

Stephen’s mother and sister grabbed hands and ran together through him.

He turned around to watch them go the way he had just come.

What?

What was happening?

With both eyes open he saw both things. Both worlds.

He couldn’t take it. It was too confusing.

Stephen fell to his knees and closed both eyes.

Tears already flowed from his dusty eye. His good eye began to cry too.

What would happen when he opened them again?

Would he see both worlds still?

Would Emmie’s body still be there?

Would he be there?

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Falcing had been walking for days.

He needed to rest.

He needed to drink.

More than anything he needed to eat.

It was no fair that they walked past so many good things to eat without stopping.

He felt like he was going to die.

Somehow his body kept moving though. He didn’t want it to keep moving.

The wagon came to a place with no trees. There was so much grass and so many flowers.

The wagon stopped.

YES! Food!

Before he could lower his head to eat, something bumped into him from behind.

Stupid sheep.

If he wasn’t so hungry, he would have turned around to bleat at them.

He was hungry, though. Starving.

“Watch it,” he muttered, then lowered his face into some delicious white flowers.

They might have been delicious.

Were they delicious?

He ate them too fast to know, or care.

He ate and ate and ate. He was relieved that no one was stopping him.

As he ate something happened.

Things always happened. Usually, they were stupid things. This something got strange when that shadow of something large blocked the sun. The shadow was followed by a voice.

Signy.

“And this is Falcing. He’s our goat. He likes to eat.”

Who was she talking to? Whoever it was, they were probably stupid.

Falcing looked up.

He saw knobby knees.

He looked up farther.

He saw a torso.

He looked up even more.

Finally, he saw a head.

It was hideous. And huge. And Signy was on its back.

The thing looked down at Falcing. It had a long, ugly stupid nose. It didn’t say a thing, but it breathed loud.

“Falcing,” Signy said. “This is Snog. He’s a moose.”

She wanted him to see her new friend and he saw it, whatever it was.

New friends were stupid.

Falcing grunted once, then lowered his head and kept eating.

The Snog shadow moved away. Falcing heard Signy introduce the giant stupid snog moose thing to the sheep.

He didn’t want to listen, but he couldn’t help it. They were so loud.

The sheep said hello to the snog moose thing. It said hello back.

Falcing had a thought. A terrifying thought.

“You’re not keeping it, are you?”

“What was that?” asked Signy.

The snog moose thing walked back to Falcing with Signy on its back.

She repeated her question.

“What was that?”

Falcing looked up. Way up. He needed to see her eyes when he asked.

“You’re not keeping it, are you?”

Signy opened her mouth to speak, but Falcing cut her off and bleated first.

“Because I won’t share. All the grass. All the flowers. All of it. It’s mine! He can’t have it!”

Signy laughed.

SHE LAUGHED!

“Mine!”

He lowered his head once more, burying his face in a patch of clovers.

“MINE!”

Holger watched in stunned silence.

Signy was on a moose!

She was riding a moose!

That was impossible.

Did the thing understand her?

Did she understand it?

Beyla grabbed his hand.

Their eyes met.

She looked terrified.

Holger shrugged his shoulders.

He and his wife followed their daughter, riding the moose from goat to sheep to horse.

She seemed to be introducing the moose to them all. Holger could understand Signy when she spoke. The animals did seem to respond but he could only understand her.

Impossible!

Signy rode the moose back to the wagon.

Holger looked up.

“Do they… understand you? Like really understand you?”

“Of course,” she replied laughing. “I keep telling you I can talk to them.”

Beyla said what Holger was thinking.

“We thought it was make-believe…”

Beyla paused.

“But this is…”

She stopped.

Holger didn’t know what to say either. It was something, that much was certain, but what?

After a pause, he and Beyla spoke at once.

“Incredible,” he said.

“Dangerous,” she said.

They locked eyes. The terror Holger saw in his wife’s eyes before was still there, but now he saw anger in them too.

Husbands and wives, from time to time, share a kind of unspoken communication. Holger was convinced that this is what happened after they said two different things. His understanding was that they would talk about this later, and that is what he said.

Beyla did not say a word, but her eyes went wide with shock.

Holger feared that he might have misunderstood the unspoken communication.

Signy said, “okay,” then rode off on the moose’s back through the meadow, whooping and yelling like it was the best time of her life.

Beyla hit him in the arm.

She was angry.

He turned to her. He was going to explain. He didn’t know how. He hoped the words would just come.

He opened his mouth, still unsure what would come out when from across the field came a shout.

A happy shout.

“This is it! Our new home!”

If only there was water, he thought. It would make a fine farm if there was water.

Then came another happy shout.

“There’s a river too! I love it!”

Holger closed his eyes. Sure enough, to the south was the sound of running water.

Beyla climbed out of the wagon. Holger watched her stand with her hands on her hips.

Without turning around, she called back to him.

“I can already tell you like it. We might as well start unpacking.”

He climbed down.

“But I’m still angry,” she added.

Moose did good.

That night, when the moon was high, he did not stay with his new friend.

Signy was asleep.

He walked through the darkness to the Troll’s bridge. It was not far.

He went to tell Troll that they had arrived.

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“Let’s get to the reason we’re all here tonight.”

When Finna spoke, the other five women took seats at the table on either side of her.

Signy stood before them. Her hands were clasped together tightly.

She looked so small. Alone.

Beyla stood several paces behind her daughter.

She wanted to reach out to her. She wanted to hold her. She wanted to speak for her.

All she could do was watch.

Beyla had thought she was on her way to becoming friends with the women in the village. That was before Signy was accused of being a witch.

She eyed each woman with suspicion.

On the left were Astrit and Oddni. They were related by marriage and very close.

In the center was Finna. Her husband was Skaldbyrnn, the cleric. It was he who called Signy a witch. He was an awful man.

Beyla began to question every word she had ever shared when they had been together.

Next to Finna were two farmers’ wives. Real farmers. The kind that planted things in the ground. They had that going for them at least.

People claiming to be farmers who only raised livestock were something else entirely.

At the end was a woodcutter’s wife. Beyla remembered that it was she cutting wood when they met while her husband was nowhere to be seen.

Before them all stood Signy. Beyla saw the woman her daughter would soon be.

Or hoped she would be.

Gods, if those women discovered what Signy could do with animals...

She couldn’t bear the thought.

Finna cleared her throat and spoke before Beyla could imagine any dark possible outcomes.

“We all know why we’re here. I won’t say it again now. There is no need. Here’s how this will work. There will be three tests.”

The others nodded.

It occurred to Beyla that she had never heard of anything like this happening before.

No one had ever been accused of being a witch before.

What tests could there be?

Were their minds already made up?

Were the “tests” just a way to put their minds at ease when they said Signy was one?

Her mind raced. What even was a witch? People used it as an insult, but the actual meaning of the word was always unclear.

Finna spoke again, interrupting Beyla’s thoughts.

“You must act on your own. No one here can help you.”

Finna looked beyond Signy to connect with Beyla.

“Not even you, dear. I’m sorry.”

Beyla nodded and lowered her head. What choice did she have?

Astrit, who was the stablemaster’s wife, merrily chimed in, “But if you need anything, Beyla, just ask. Something to eat. A drink. A blanket. You are our guest.”

Oddni smiled and added, “yes, yes. Just ask.”

Beyla was too upset to be grateful but mouthed a quiet thank you anyway.

Back to Signy, Finna asked, “do you understand?”

Signy nodded her head.

“Yes now. The first test. When you came in, we all had tea. Thank you, Astrit, for that.”

Astrit smiled and held up her cup then took a sip.

“And also the stew, which I made,” she added. “Your first test is to tell us what was in them both.”

What?!?

How would that prove anything? Beyla knew most of what was in both the tea and the stew. Did that mean SHE was a witch?

Was she a witch if she didn’t know?

This made no sense.

Signy tilted her head to one side. She did that sometimes when she was thinking.

“In the tea was, ummm…”

Signy listed off Meadowsweet and Chamomile and honey and apple peel.

Astrit giggled to herself when Signy answered.

This annoyed Beyla. She wished the woman would take this more seriously.

One woman at the table was serious. Very Serious.

Finna.

How could Beyla have been so misled by her?

The woman had seemed like a friend, taking a genuine interest in Beyla and her familly. Thinking back, Finna asked a lot of questions. Had she been working with her husband all along?

She felt sick to her stomach.

“And now for the stew,” said Finna in a voice that sounded cold, calculated and mean.

The stew was easy. Signy should know this.

“Radishes. Papa’s radishes, I think. There was cabbage. I think that was his too.”

Beyla was focused, she was, but she still felt some pride that even in the midst of everything, it was her husband who grew the radishes and cabbages for her stew.

Finna’s stew had been delicious. Beyla hated that she liked it so much.

Signy continued.

Beyla agreed with most of what she said, though maybe not all of the spices.

When Signy stopped talking, Finna asked if that was all.

Signy nodded.

“Thank you for that. And now for your second test.”

What?!?

No mention of how well she did? Nothing? Just on to the next thing?

Beyla held her tongue, but just barely.

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The sky was clear.

It was always clear.

And dry.

Janus had only been in Arizona for thirty-seven years and wasn’t used to the weather yet.

Part of him longed to return to the Mediterranean and hoped he would never get used to the weather. The other part of him was sure he would come to like it in time.

He had been sitting alone at the picnic table in the courtyard and was ready to go back inside. It would be snack time soon and he was looking forward to a Jell-O cup. If he was lucky, they would have grape. That was his favorite.

Above the door hung a sign. It said ETERNAL DUSK RETIREMENT COMMUNITY.

Janus pulled the handle and was about to walk through when a duck waddled up.

This was not unusual.

Nothing was unusual when you shared a residence with retired deities.

Janus held the door open for the duck.

“After you.”

The duck quacked once and walked ahead but then stopped in the doorway.

“Is something wrong?” Janus asked.

The duck quacked but did not move.

“Look friend, in or out?”

The duck quacked and again did not move.

A part of Janus knew snack time was quickly approaching and did not want to be late.

The other part of Janus wanted to give the duck as much time as it needed to make up its mind.

The duck took a step inside, then stopped and turned around.

Janus held the door. He looked at his digital watch.

10:28.

Snack time was in two minutes.

The duck quacked, then turned around in circles in the doorway.

10:29

Both sides of Janus had lost their patience. He tried to gently nudge the duck outside with his foot.

The duck quacked wildly and flapped its wings. It nipped at Janus’ rainbow-colored Crocs.

Janus’ stomach rumbled. He WOULD NOT be missing snack time.

He picked up the duck, dropped it outside then quickly closed the door.

Janus had been the god of many things. Among them was doorways. To teach the duck, whoever it was, a lesson, he used his power to move the duck to another doorway.

Somewhere far away.

He turned around just as the time changed to 10:30.

Janus walked down the hallway to the cafeteria.

It was quieter than usual.

Where was everyone?

Jell-O cups were usually wildly popular.

He pushed the cafeteria door open. He was met with trees and grass and a brisk, northern springtime wind.

What was happening?

Where were the Jell-O cups?

His stomach rumbled. Janus was hungry.

A part of him thought there must be a perfectly logical explanation.

The other part of him was mad and blamed the duck.

Janus walked back through the door into the hallway of the retirement home.

He heard footsteps. Someone was coming.

A south Asian gentleman approached Janus. There was a snake draped around his neck and arms.

Varuna. Janus knew him, but not well. They had been in the same pickle ball class and had seen each other at Bingo.

“What have you done?” asked Varuna.

“What? Me? What do you mean?”

“The doors. They are all wrong. Nothing goes where it should.”

One part of Janus blushed. He hadn’t meant to do that.

The other part of Janus still blamed the duck.

When Janus meant to teach just the duck a lesson, he changed the nature of every door on the planet.

Doors opened where they should not.

Some doors would not open at all.

Some doors that were meant to stay closed swung open.

Doors that said “push” could only be opened when pulled and vice versa.

It was chaos.

“We must fix this. I will help you,” Varuna said calmly. “Among other things, I am a guardian of cosmic order. Come with me.”

ETERNAL DUSK RETIREMENT COMMUNITY had a larger garage than most retirement communities.

Inside were mostly chariots. There was a large mortar and pestle that someone used. Janus did not know who. In one corner was a flying throne.

Varuna led Janus to one of the chariots, a golden one.

There were several. Janus could hardly tell them apart.

Varuna whistled and seven horses appeared, ready to go.

“Celestial horses?” Nice touch.”

“Thank you,” nodded Varuna.

Off they went, leaving thick contrails as they criss-crossed the sky.

They circled the globe nineteen times. Together they fixed every door on the planet.

Janus and Varuna worked well together and became friends on their little adventure.

***

Oh. The duck.

He stood on the outside of the door where he found himself.

It appeared to be some sort of storefront.

There was a handwritten sign taped to the glass that read, “DO NOT LET THE DUCK IN”.

The duck was Loki in disguise.

He tried to change back but somehow was not able to.

He tried to curse, but it came out as a quack.

Loki waddled in what he hoped was the direction of the retirement home.

He hoped that he at least stopped Janus from having his precious Jell-O cup. That was his plan all along.

***

Janus and Varuna returned to the retirement home just in time for lunch.

Janus was very hungry having missed snack time.

His stomach still rumbled.

He was pleased to see Jell-O cups as an available side with lunch.

And they had grape.

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(If you’re interested, please read this one too.)

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Like all trolls, his purpose was to watch over his piece of earth. His forest. His home.

He had been there longer than he could remember.

There was a stone bridge, which he made with his own hands. He would sleep beneath it sometimes.

Near the bridge was a very old oak tree. Ancient.

They were friends.

Neither tree nor troll knew a time when the other didn’t exist. Who came first was a matter of dispute. Each claimed to be the oldest. Because of this they would call each other Sapling.

There had been other friends. None lasted long. As most things do, they died.

Once there was a pair of mushrooms that grew from his neck. They were joined together but disagreed on everything.

Once there was a spider who enjoyed spinning her web beneath Troll’s nose. Sometimes he would sneeze it away. She would always build it back in the same place.

Once there was a grey wolf. He and Troll would howl at the moon together.

Once there was a brown bear. She mistook Troll for a rock and wiped her butt on him after pooping.

Maybe the brown bear hadn’t been Troll’s friend. He remembered not liking that.

Troll sat beneath his friend, the oak tree, with three new friends. They were Red Squirrel, Vole, and Lemming. All were recently orphaned.

He was watching the clouds.

His three friends were asleep beneath the lingonberry bush that grew from his shoulder.

His long nose sensed something coming first.

Then his ears heard something coming.

Lastly, his eyes saw something coming.

It was a bull moose. His antlers had just begun to grow in.

It was not a moose he had seen in his forest before.

Troll called out, “You are welcome to my waters.”

That was the way to greet a moose.

The moose approached and lowered his head.

Troll did not stand to meet him. Moose were proud of their size. He did not want to make it feel small. No good could come of that.

Troll’s friends beneath the bush began to stir.

Red Squirrel jumped into the bush to hide.

Vole ran to the tip of Troll’s nose and puffed her chest out.

Lemming stayed where she was and went back to sleep.

The moose didn’t speak right away.

Troll was not prepared for what came when the moose opened his mouth.

“I have to tell you something there is a girl well not just a girl but her family they are human well there are animals too one looks like a small moose with no antlers and it is pulling something but they are coming this way because I told them to or I told the girl to come this way or I kind of did I think she is very nice she said I was handsome do you know what a handsome is I don’t know what a handsome is she called me Snog too I don’t know what a snog is either but it seemed nice I let her touch my nose and it felt nice anyway they are coming this way and I have to go now.”

Troll watched the moose with his jaw hanging open. He had never known a moose to say so much.

The moose turned and began walking away.

He stopped after a few paces and turned his head.

“The girl can talk to animals.”

The moose turned his head and walked away.

“What’s a human,” demanded Vole.

“Do they eat squirrels?” pipped Red Squirrel.

Half asleep, Lemming said with a yawn, “girl is friend.”

His three young friends had told Troll over and over that the smell inside his mouth was, “very bad.” Vole complained again, and Troll closed his mouth.

Troll looked to his oldest, longest friend, the oak tree.

He groaned like a tree trunk in the wind.

“Humans are coming. Do you remember what they look like?”

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Elizabeth stood, facing the mirror near the front door. The familiar reflection stared back offering no solace.

She stressed over every flaw. Every out of place hair. Every scar. Every zit. Every crooked tooth. Every place she looked fatter than she thought she should.

It didn’t matter what she wore or what makeup she used or how she styled her hair. Every time she saw herself just one word came to mind.

Ugly.

Some people said she wasn’t. A few boys at school. Nathan Jenkins was one. Her best friend, Sam.

What did they know? They didn’t have to see that reflection every day. They didn’t have to live in her body.

The thought usually ended with the word Ugly, but not this time.

This time another thought came after.

A question.

Why can’t I be pretty?

Elizabeth watched her reflection as it did something unexpected.

“Would you like to be?”

Elizabeth blinked and leaned in, silently questioning the familiar, ugly face staring back at her.

“Well?”

She stepped back. What was happening?

Her reflection spoke again, in a tone just slightly sweeter than her own. Or was it? She had never listened to herself talk before.

“You’re confused. Scared. I get it. Happens all the time. Look, I’ll cut to the chase. You want to be pretty. I can make that happen, we just need to make a deal, okay?”

Her reflection returned to normal.

Elizabeth waved her hand in front of the mirror, thinking somehow that it might help her to understand what was happening.

Her nail polish was chipped.

Ugly.

The reflection spoke again.

“I can assure you this is all very real. Shall we talk terms?”

Something in the reflection shifted slightly, like the smallest glimpse of a less ugly her.

“F-fine.”

She blushed with embarrassment.

“Good. Good. So, here’s the deal. I can make you pretty, and all I need is your soul.

“Whoa, whoa. No way,” answered Elizabeth, backing away.

“Hold on, hold on. Let me explain,” countered her reflection with its suddenly perfectly manicured nails and flawless hair.

The reflection briefly explained the new economics of soul redistribution and acquisition. Elizabeth tried to follow, but her reflection spoke so fast.

It sounded to her like there were too many people, or too many people offering their souls, maybe both, and that they were running out of room. Her reflection talked about a sort of rent-to-own option where Elizabeth would get ten minor wishes. Once the tenth was used her soul would be forfeit.

Elizabeth didn’t fully understand.

“What happens if I don’t use them all?” she asked.

The mirror spoke very quickly in what sounded like the kind of legal jargon that comes on during ads. She caught the words “binding arbitration” but nothing more.

“So whaddaya say?”

It had all happened so fast.

As Elizabeth thought it over, her reflection reverted back to the same, familiar, ugly face and body that she was accustomed to.

She was hideous. How could she say no?

Looking better would solve all of her problems.

Did she have problems? She must, right? She was too ugly not to.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

The reflection smiled, but somehow it didn’t look like Elizabeth’s smile. It was… different. She could have sworn there were more teeth.

The reflection sped through more details.

Elizabeth was too excited to finally be pretty to listen.

“So, whenever you want to make a wish, just find a mirror, any mirror, and tell it what you want. It’s that easy!”

She stared deeply into her reflection, pulse quick, excited for the change.

“I wish to be pretty!”

Nothing happened.

“I said I wish to be pretty.”

Again, there was nothing.

Elizabeth knocked on the mirror.

“Oh, come on! You have to do something! At least make me lose some weight or something.”

That’s when she felt something. She watched as her chubby cheeks pulled in. Her waist and thighs slimmed down. It only took a few seconds for her to become as thin as she hoped in her minds eye to be.

“Holy crap! It worked!”

The mirror fogged as if from the other side, then a number nine was drawn by an unseen hand.

That was when she understood, or thought she did, how her bargain worked.

When the glass cleared, she saw herself and really looked.

Better, but still ugly.

She thought about the number though. About the ten wishes. As tempted as she was to do more, she decided to wait.

Some people said she looked different. Better. A few boys at school. Nathan Jenkins was one. Her best friend, Sam.

What did they know? They didn’t have to see that reflection every day. They didn’t have to live in her body.

It was only four days before she used her next wish.

Elizabeth stood in front of the bathroom mirror after a shower and wished for clean, smooth, flawless skin.

She watched in awe as her acne cleared up and all scars disappeared. Even the freckles on her nose and most of her moles disappeared.

The mirror fogged from the other side and the number eight was written by an invisible finger.

She did look better, but she still wasn’t satisfied.

She started to go by Lizzie.

She used another wish every three or four days. She wished for perfect hair. She wished to always have flawless make up. She wished for bigger, bluer eyes. She wished for fuller, poutier lips. She even wished to be taller.

With each wish she would feel better about herself, but only for a short while. The old, familiar thoughts of being ugly always returned.

The whole school said she was beautiful. All of the boys at school, or at least the ones that mattered said so. Nathan Jenkins said she was the “hottest girl he’d ever seen”. Sam, her best friend began to blush more whenever they were near.

What did they know though? They didn’t have to see that reflection every day. They didn’t have to live in her body.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

She started to go by Liz. It sounded prettier. That didn’t help either.

It was prom night and Liz had just one wish left.

As she got ready, every glance in the mirror reminded her that she still didn’t feel pretty.

Her reflection didn’t say a word, but she could feel it coaxing her, taunting her, pleading with her even to make another wish.

She had given the first nine away so freely, but knowing there was only one left, she had to make it count. She fought the temptation and did not use it.

Nathan Jenkins came to her house wearing a rented tuxedo, driving his father’s car.

He said she looked beautiful.

She said thank you but didn’t believe him.

Liz posed for pictures with her date, dreading how ugly she was sure they would be.

Liz danced with Nathan.

Liz danced once with Sam, who confessed to bigger feelings than just friendship. This surprised Liz less than she thought it would.

Amid the dancing and music and smiles that she forgot about being ugly, but just before leaving, she stopped in the ladies’ room where her reflection reminded her.

The thought haunted her as she sat in the passenger seat while Nathan drove.

A hand appeared on her thigh.

She looked up.

Where were they?

What was he doing?

Nathan’s hand moved up.

“Stop.”

He did stop, for a moment.

“Oh come on,” he smiled. “It’s prom night.”

His hand moved up again.

“I said stop.”

He stopped again.

“But you’re gorgeous. Why else would you make yourself so pretty?”

What the hell?!?

Liz… Lizzie… Elizabeth was disgusted. She pushed Nathan off of her, but harder than she meant to.

He lost control of the car.

Elizabeth came to.

She opened her eyes.

She was upside down.

Nathan was motionless beside her.

The rearview mirror was directly in front of her.

Blood was streaming down her face. Her nose was bent. There was a deep cut on her cheek and another on her forehead.

The reflection spoke.

“Wish the scars away.”

She opened her mouth and almost did, but then she remembered what Nathan’s words.

What had she gained from all of those wishes? How was her life any better after making that deal?

It wasn’t, was it?

Elizabeth crawled through the broken window to safety.

She lived.

With the scars. With the trauma. With the constant temptation in the mirror.

She lived.

With a tiny piece of her soul intact. And maybe, just maybe that would be enough.

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The white wolf asked him to...

... oh no. Where did the humans go?

His nose led him to where he had last smelled them.

They moved in what the white wolf had called a wagon.

The wagon was pulled by what she had called a horse.

The horse-thing looked like a small moose that smelled wrong.

They stayed on the road.

Moose followed, but not too closely.

He kept close, but not too close.

The white wolf asked him to...

... oh no. They stopped.

They had come to a place where the road split.

One part went north.

Moose knew the north. That was where he went when the days were long and hot.

The other road went west.

Moose had never been that way and wondered what he might see if...

...he knew which way the humans should go.

The white wolf asked him to...

... oh no. They were getting out of the wagon.

Moose kept to the trees. He would wait until night and visit the girl again.

He liked her. She called him handsome. He didn’t know what a handsome was, but it seemed like a good thing.

As he waited, Moose did his best to remember what the white wolf had asked him to do.

They came to a place where the road split in two.

Papa said it was a good place to stop. He stepped down from the wagon and stretched his legs.

Signy and mama followed.

Signy had told herself that she would tell them about the coin purse that had fallen from the tree when they stopped, and she was just about to when papa declared they would be staying the night.

He and mama began unloading things from the wagon.

The coin purse could wait. It wasn’t like there was a place to spend any of the money anyway.

There had been only two small villages on the road and papa sped through those without stopping.

Signy wanted to help, so she gathered firewood. She found more wood near the western road. It looked like it hadn’t been used in some time.

The laughter from the morning had long since worn off. That night, as they ate, no one said a word.

At night papa and mama went to the blanket tent again and Signy went to the wagon.

Mama made sure she had enough blankets to keep herself warm.

Signy stared into the sky, past the trees, hoping to find the animal shapes in the stars from the night before.

She was sad, though not as much as the night before.

There were no tears.

Signy wasn’t sure she had any left.

She felt lost.

Signy looked around in the darkness.

They were lost. Desperately lost.

Would they find a place?

Would she ever have friends again?

Would they just travel forever?

A quiet snoring began in the blanket tent.

Tears came. It turned out she had more after all.

The snoring got louder.

If they did find a home, would they put up with papa’s snoring?

He snorted loudly as if answering her thoughts.

Signy sniffled and laughed at the same time.

Being so sad and finding something funny at the same time was very strange.

Between her father’s snores there came another sound. It sounded like the footsteps from the night before.

She wondered, could it be the moose again?

She closed her eyes, trying to listen.

It did sound like heavy footsteps. They were slow.

They came closer.

Then they stopped. She felt warm air press against her face.

“Hi.”

Signy opened her eyes to a giant nose over her head.

“It is you,” she whispered. “I hoped I would see you again.”

The moose quietly snorted.

She reached up and was about to touch his nose but stopped herself.

“May I?”

The moose blinked slowly and nodded his head.

Signy stroked his nose and whispered, “so handsome.”

He leaned into it, closing his eyes.

“Are you following us?” she asked with a smile.

“Yes,” snorted the moose.

“Why?”

“The white wol...”

The moose started to answer but stopped himself and turned his head away.

She wondered what he was going to say.

“You don’t have to tell me. That’s okay.”

Papa snored loudly from the tent. It sounded like a wild animal.

She reached up and stroked his nose again.

He faced her again.

She asked if he remembered her name.

“Signy,” he replied.

She was thrilled.

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name. Do you have one?”

The moose did not respond, but papa let out a snore.

“No name? That’s a shame... I think. Is that not something moose do?”

Her hand was still on his nose when she asked.

Again, the moose said nothing.

“Would you like a name? I’m good at naming things!”

The moose hesitated, as if considering her question, then snorted, “yes.”

Signy clapped her hands excitedly, but quietly. It was still quite late at night after all.

She pursed her lips and tried to think, but just then papa let out a gnarled, monstrous snore. Even the moose jerked his head with surprise.

“That’s papa. He snores. I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The moose turned his head back and let her pet him some more.

“Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted,” she giggled quietly. “Oh yes. A name?”

SNOOOOORE!

Signy and the moose looked towards the tent, then back at each other.

She laughed in her way and the moose laughed in his.

“So yes, your name. I think it should be…”

SNOOOOORE!

They laughed again.

“…Bork? No. Oompa? Oh dear no. Frip? Not that.”

Her face brightened. “I’ve got…”

SNOOOOORE!

“How rude,” she laughed. “I think I’ve got it.”

SNOOOORE!

“Snog!”

The moose blinked slowly, then repeated the name.

“You like Snog?”

He snorted so big she could feel his warm breath all over her body.

“Well then. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you Mister Snog!”

SNOOOOORE!

They laughed again.

Signy felt they were becoming friends. She needed that.

It felt good to have someone to talk to, especially after a whole day of silence.

Signy opened up and told Snog everything that had happened in the last two days. Once she started, she just couldn’t stop herself.

Snog watched and listened and seemed to understand. And even if he didn’t understand, he seemed to care, and really that was more important.

When she stopped, Snog bent over and rubbed his nose against her cheek.

SNOOOOOORE!

Snog laughed.

Signy couldn’t. Not this time.

There was a snore-filled pause between them, then Signy whispered, “I wish we knew where to go. You don’t know, do you?”

Snog leaned forward again and touched her nose to nose.

“Follow me,” he said.

Then he stepped back and slowly walked away.

Not far off she heard what sounded like a slow, slurping, chewing sound.

“Having a late-night snack,” she whispered into the darkness.

The chewing stopped.

“Follow me,” came Snog’s voice.

She heard him move again, walking west.

She trusted the moose.

She closed her eyes and, despite her father’s snoring, fell asleep.

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The Hendersons had been looking forward to their trip to the late 1900s for months…

… well not all of them. Snip, the daughter, didn’t want to go. She was perfectly happy where she was.

Visiting the ancient past held no alure.

The Hendersons arrived at the immersion training facility before the doors opened.

They were not alone.

Snip’s father quickly made friends with the other men.

Snip’s mother quickly made friends with the other women.

Snip kept to herself.

She hated having to do this.

The more her parents told her it would be fun, the less she believed it.

There was a family with a son standing near them. He looked just as miserable as she was.

The families were let in one at a time. The Hendersons were last.

Snip walked slowly behind her parents, dragging her feet, literally, hoping for a last second reprieve. None came.

Just before she walked through the large metal double-door, something caught her attention.

It was a butterfly.

Snip watched without a word as it fluttered clumsily into the facility.

“Snip! Come on!” called her father.

Snip ran ahead to catch up with her parents.

The butterfly was gone.

During the welcome orientation, everyone got authentic late 1900s clothes and an authentic late 1900s hairstyle.

Snip was asked if she preferred to be scary, sporty, baby, ginger, or posh.

None of that made any sense to Snip. She knew she didn’t want to be a baby, and she didn’t want to be scary so she shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t know. What’s a ginger?”

“Ginger it is!” shouted the attendant.

Before she knew it her hair was dyed to a rusty, orange color. The attendant then put some sort of spray all over it that made her hair stiff in the most unnatural way.

She hated it.

Snip came out wearing a dress that was entirely too short that was decorated with something the attendant called a “union jack”.

None of that made any sense to Snip.

Worst of all, was the shoes. They seemed like a sort of voluntary torture. She put them on for just a moment.

The attendant called them “heels”.

Poor snip could barely stand, let alone walk.

She took the shoes off and carried them.

On her way to the main meeting hall and the rest of the orientation, Snip saw the butterfly again, but only for a moment.

The boy she saw before entering was there. He got to wear pants and a T-shirt and normal shoes. Snip was jealous.

The families were led to their practice homes.

The neighborhood, as they called it, was a single curved street with houses and these things called “cars” on each side. It was walled on all sides with fluorescent lighting on the ceiling.

They were given a tour of the home and a brief tutorial of the functions of the household items. They were assured they by the end of the five-day training they would be “flipping channels and microwaving popcorn like pros”.

None of that made any sense.

During the five days Snip and her family learned to do wash the car, turn on the tv, open the fridge, vacuum the rug, turn on a light, and log on to the internet. Snip hated the sound that came with that last one.

None of her experiences made her feel any better about the trip to the primitive past.

She was given other clothes to wear each day. Baggy jeans. Crop tops. Skirts. T-Shirts with something called “band names” on them. Thankfully she was given more comfortable shoes. They were still awkward and weird, but at least they were more comfortable. One day she had something called “platforms” and another day it was something called “grunge boots”.

Her mother learned to do something called “cooking” and another thing called “laundry” while they were there. It seemed like work. Snip was glad she didn’t have to do it.

Her father learned to “fire up the grill” and “talk about the big game”. Snip wanted to have nothing to do with fire or talking to people so she was glad she didn’t have to do those things either.

Snip was told that, as a late 1900s teen, her role was to be “moody” and “emotionally unavailable” to her parents. She mostly stayed in her room, listened to loud music and complained. She excelled at that.

Now and again, Snip would see the butterfly outside of her window.

Now and again, she would see the boy from before in the yard across the street. He was doing something that her father called “watering”.

There was a gathering in the backyard of the largest house on the street at the end of the fifth day.

The dads drank “beers” and talked about the best way to “flip a burger”.

The moms drank “mimosas” and talked about something called “Judge Judy” and “Jerry Springer”.

The children were given smaller tables and mostly left on their own. Some had handheld gaming devices called a “Gameboy”.

Snip snuck off.

She saw the butterfly and followed it.

It led her to the boy from across the street.

He wore “baggy shorts” and had a “flannel” tied around his waist. Like her, he had on a “band shirt”.

His said “Green Day”.

Hers said, “Hole”.

His hair was awful. It was shaved on all sides, but sort of long on the top.

He was adorable.

They talked all night.

The next morning, Snip and her new friend walked through the time portal together, holding hands.

Maybe going to the past wasn’t so bad after all.

The butterfly fluttered into the suburban sunshine of the late 1900s.

***

When the group left, a ChronoTour technician did his usual scan for anomalies.

Normally, it was clean.

This time though, the scanner detected one small change.

A song.

Just a single song that appeared three point seven three years after the trip.

The technician found himself humming a tune. It became more and more familiar as he went.

It was as if it had always been there.

How could he know the song if it hadn’t been there already, right?

He shrugged it off as a glitch.

The screen read, “TIME ANOMALY : BUTTERFLY – CRAZY TOWN – DELETE? Y/N”

The technician deleted the message, then quietly sang to himself “come my lady, come, come my lady…”

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