Once upon a time...

There was a pile on pile of charts
A pile on pile of ropes
A pile on pile of canvas

And only one small cabin girl to make sense of it all.
To make it more only, there were very few cabin girls on the seas.
Sea life was too dangerous for fair damsels, promised the men.
Sea life was too shocking for young ladies, admonished the women.

So it was cabin boys who were forced to endured the kicks, bad weather, and foul language.
But it was also the cabin boys who were allowed to run free in the rigging, travel the world, and learn the language of the sea. The girls stayed home and learned their respectively useful trades of seamstress, cook, and washwoman, if they had need of employment at all. Noble families preferred to keep their children safely at home, though after a certain age a young man could go to sea. A young woman, next to never.

So this cabin girl was a double rarity, both in being a girl and in coming from a modestly wealthy family. Her father was a well to do trader from a good family.Her mother, now, came from abroad, and rumour had it, was less than dignified in her former life. Occasional delicious stories of freedom were told to the daughter at bedtime, usually prefaced with an innocuous, "Once upon a time there was a girl..." But from there the stories would diverge into tales of running barefoot down the streets of Marseille, riding riverboats down the Seine, or- gasp- going on small family voyages across to Marocq and other exotic places. Like many good tale weavers, the mother avoided identifying exact names of the characters, preferring 'the once-upon-a-time girl'. There was a certain sparkle in her eye during story time, but she occasionally threw in stories of Northumberland moors and Indian bazaars, so one could never be entirely sure.... The cabin girl's own name was an equally interesting concoction -Marjam Coulée Elsbet Giaconde de la Venta - but she was more affectionately known as Coucou. (How much of that came from the ungainliness of her full name and foreign pronunciations, and how much came from the 'cuckoo, I see you!' her French mother chirped in the monrnings, is unknown.)

All that said... Coucou was a very lucky girl. By birth, by family and heritage, naturally. Equally, and less conventionally, in tutoring from an early age in languages and geography. "I must make some use of you before you turn to pirating, my lass," her father would chuckle, and her mother would add, "How do you expect to keep up with the lads unless you show yourself capable?" With two languages spoken in the home, plus a scattering of others from various servants and governesses, Coucou was well ahead of her agemates in that regard, and geography came easy when 'The Thousand and One Nights' mingled in one's head along with 'Beowulf'. Mathematics were more troublesome, until one clever tutor brought in equatorial maps and had her calculate longitude and longitude. And visiting sailing mates of her father were more than happy to show the young lady how to shoot the stars with quadrants. Soon she was using a lead line on weekend trips and keeping a miniature logbook in uneven writing....

When her mother received word of an ailing mother in France, what could be more inviting than for the adventuresome three to travel there? And then perhaps back along what the mother, with a smile in the corner of her mouth, called 'the pretty way'? So it was settled, the house packed up for the present and bundles carried onto the sweetest sailing vessel in the harbour, L'hirondelle. "It means 'The Swallow', like the bird," explained Coucou gravely to her small friends, "and if we fly away on it and never return, I shall think of you when I see the stars." Her friends, knowing this was no light promise, nodded back and wished her well. "We know the post is uncertain," said one small demoiselle apologetically, "but do let us know what adventures you have? And the lands you see? We will write back and address our letters to L'Hirondelle, and they will find you." "And they will find me," replied Coucou, touched and grateful. They embraced, and waved her off one fine morning in March. After boarding, she went straightaway to see how much work was for her to do, down in the hold, but returned quickly to the rail to wave. And then, as they pulled away with the tide, she climbed to the next level of rigging, scolding away the tears and forcing her thoughts to the piles and piles to be dealt with. Farther and farther, and she gave up on plans and dry eyes and climbed to the crow's nest.

There would be time enough for life and adventures. Here she could see for miles, and blow kisses to what had been her home, as she stood near the top of her new one.

The End

Once upon a time

There was a princess.
And she was not particularly beautiful, or particularly wise.
She had a decent memory, which helped in studies, but her handwriting was atrocious.
Her tutors despaired of her.
She fell off horses during riding lessons, and was forever hitting trees, not targets, in archery.
Her riding and shooting instructors despaired of her.
She spilled tea while pouring, and occasionally even missed her seat and fell during etiquette.
Her governesses despaired of her.
(Especially when all that could be seen of her was a rumpled heap of giggling, wiggling petticoats.)

But no one could stay annoyed with the princess for very long.
Because she was good tempered, even when scolded.
And it was obvious that she did try, despite her failures.
And all the lower servants adored her, even as they swept up cup after broken cup.
Because she made up for her mishaps by graceful apologies and bribes of sweet things from her pockets.

And after all the failed lessons and patiently shaken heads, she would curtsy and then waltz out of the room.
Carefully, hand over hand on the railing, she would make her way upstairs.
And there she would perch on her papa's knee and listen to him administer importance to the kingdom.

Occasionally, after the last subject bowed out and away from the Royal Presences, the princess would pat her papa's face.
"What do you see out the window?" she would ask.
When she first lisped the question, at age three, no one thought anything of it, because she was too short to see outside.
As the years went on, it became a pet game between the two of them.
"I see the trees bowing to each other before a promenade," the king might say, smiling.
Or "I see the clouds playing at hide-and-go-seek with the sun."
On particularly challenging days of work, the king might growl, "I see a hawk about to devour a pigeon. Take that, insolent wretch!"
(For a king must always be courteous when administering justice to his court, but what he thinks in his private time is his own.)

As the years went farther on into the future, the princess was given a highly embroidered chair of her own, next to his.
(Only hers had cushioned arms so she couldn't fall out, as she was prone to doing.)
The court came to welcome the days when her little head nodded wisely next to her papa's shoulder.
The king grew quicker to mercy, and his justice was administered more thoughtfully, as she nodded approval at his side.
And there were gradually less days of diving hawks, and more of playing clouds and promenading trees.

The End.

Once upon a time...

There were two crickets

They chirped
(but different songs.)
They watched the sky
(but different corners)

They walked on tiptoes over grass stalks
And occasionally, because they were so busy watching the sky, or chirping, they bumped into eachother.
So it was occasionally a very awkward moment.

But eventually they found a good place to bump into each other
Right above a bed of downy cloverheads
So they could fall right through the grass stalks
And end up watching the stars or other insects fly by
Together

The End

Cricket chirp with a tall grass friend
You're perched too high
Bend down a little lower
Sway a little closer
Share your heart
Make us last
Don't spill the time...

Have a drop of dew
To wet your throat
Can we sing for a bit
Like other times
Soak up the rays
While we soak up us
Call our thoughts out
By and bye...

Once upon a time

There was a very lot of sand
and a very little dune
A sturdy desert man
and a timid little moon

And he pitched a tent
Where the water grew
And the trees came up
And the stars shone through

Though the tent didn't move
As the sand rolled away
And the dune shifted place
As the man paused his stay

He said the dunes may shift so slow
There comes a time to track them down
He said all waters ebb and flow
The time will come to pack and go

Some nights are meant for riding out
The days will come to pull up stakes
The road asks if you're strong enough
Your ready heart is what it takes

Once upon a time...

There was a little house with a sea-view balconey.
Two dragons lived in that house, a red and a blue.
Garnie (whose full name was Garnet) and Saphie (whose full name was Sapphire) were very happy there.
But one day, the sea started calling...
And Saphie started spending more time at the balcony rail.
Or looking out the window.
Or wandering near the river.

Garnie would come out sometimes and put a wing around Saphie's shoulder.
"What are you thinking?" Garnie would ask.
"Mmm..." Saphie might answer absently.

Eventually, the sea called too strong.
Saphie started packing bags.
Garnie would have said something, but the wind had started calling too.
And while it wasn't quite time for Garnie to pack, it would be soon.

When the packing was done, and fond goodbyes were said, Saphie headed to the sea.
Garnie stayed at home, and leaned on the balcony rail alone.
It would soon be time to pack more bags and find the wind roads.

But every so often, the breeze would blow seagulls towards the little house.
And they would call little messages to Garnie from Saphie.
And Garnie would call messages back.
And it was almost the same as having the two friends leaning on the rail again.

The End.

Once upon a time...

There was a heron,
who had three baby herons.
And she and the daddy heron taught them to fly and fish and stand on one leg
Everything a young heron needed to know
And the triplets looked just as normal as the other heron children.

But these three young herons had special parents
With a secret talent.
The parents could speak other languages
So they passed this on to their young ones
And while the little herons grumbled about having to learn different words
(Especially when their friends only had lessons in one language)
This language thing because very useful when they became older

Eventually, as all young herons do, these three grew up and moved away from home
But insteading of building respective nests down the road, up the river, and across the marsh...

One flew to Holland, where herons call, "Goedemorgen!" in the mornings.
And one flew to Poland, where herons greet eachother with, "Dzien dobry!" at noon.
And one flew to France, where herons croon, "Bonne nuit!" at night.

When family reunions happened, every 3 and a half years
(in good heron tradition, of course)
The triplet herons showed up at the family home in greece
And, over the years, brought their own little families of herons
Who enjoyed flying and splashing with the other cousins
As all the grownup herons went around and pecked eachother politely on either cheek in greeting.

But when night came, all the foreign herons tucked in close with their own families
And spoke in their own languages when they said good night.

The end

Once upon a time...

There was a red dragon
Who went on an adventure with a blue dragon and a golden dinosaur

And at first all was well-
they frolicked on the trails,
enjoyed a picnic on the clifftop,
and soaked up a beautiful sunny day in God's nature.
What more could a dragon wish for?

But then.
They saw a dark hole in a cliff wall
Did they dare enter?
"It will be fun," said one.
"We should at least try," said another.
"I have a torch," said the third.

So in they went,
to the sound of eerily dripping water
and their own careful footsteps.

And they took one turn to the right.
And another to the left.
And found empty rooms with old bunks where soldiers had likely slept.
And a pipe up the ceiling where either air or escapes could be had.
And then they reached the end

And came back, still cautiously,
because they had read all the right books and knew that goblins run very softly...
and they knew that some caves have walls that open up.
So one walked in front with the torch
And one walked in the middle to watch the side walls
While one kept a good eye out backward.

That way they made it out safely.
And, after congratulating themselves on being so very brave and clever, they continued on more adventures.

The End

Once upon a time...

There was a koala who could not tell time.
His father taught him to track the sun across the sky.
His mother taught him to look at the star patterns.
His uncles taught him to follow the rhythms of the forest as the animals woke and slept.
His aunts taught him to look for food and water when fresh and cool, and to sleep during the heat.

But still he could not tell time.

So one day, he snuck into a backpack of a nearby Australian...
And flew to Malaysia.
He hoped to learn time there, but his claws had a dificult time with the mobile phones.
So he and his Australian flew to Rome.
But the Italian concept of time was unlike anything he'd ever seen.
So he and his Australian rode a bus to Vienna.
But, while 'Austria' and 'Australia' may look similar, the language and punctuality confused his brain.
So he and his Australian took a train to the Czech Republic.
And there, the koala was happy.
Because there were clocks everywhere - big ones on churches, medium ones on walls, and little ones in shops.
And the koala was so happy, and so content, that he snuck out of the Australian's backpack.
He made his way into a restaurant, and climbed up in the rafters.
There he was above the food and surrounded by a city of clocks.
And he became famous, and fat, and even more contented in all of that.
So they named the restaurant after him.

And while some say this is just a legend, that very place is still there to this day.

Once upon a time...

There was a money lender, in a far off land.

And there was a certain woman on his list, high on his list of debtors.
She had no money left to pay him after her husband died, so he began to think of what he could salvage from the situation
"Aha," he thought, "she has two sons!"
"I shall take them for slaves and gain it all back!"

The woman, well aware of his plans, went to the Wise Man.
The Wise Man, also known as the Miracle Worker, listened as she cried out her story
"How can i help you?" he asked. "What do you have in your house?"

She thought this an odd question, but answered truthfully,
"Nothing there at all."
He waited....
Then she remembered!
"I do have a little oil..."
The Wonder Worker smiled, and told her what to do.

The creditor's wife soon heard a knocking at her door.
It was the widow.
"May I borrow some of your jars, please?"
Knowing that God blesses those who are generous to the poor, the creditor's wife agreed, as did the other neighbors.
Surprised as they were at the odd request from a penniless woman, they were soon even more surprised!
Because the widow soon and somehow had oil jars upon oil jars upon oil jars full to sell!
And word soon went round, how the Wonder Worker had worked yet another miracle.
This time, how he had used God's power to multiply the oil into enough to sell, pay the debts, and live on.
And while some were surprised that nothing more dramatic had happened (such as a resurrection of the dead husband, surely the most practical solution and well within the Wise Man's abilities)... or a rich kinsman redeemer appearing to marry the woman...
The story of the widow and the oil became one of the most treasured tales of the village
How one woman, who had almost nothing, gained more; how when she was at her emptiest, she was suddenly filled from the hand of God.
It quietly gave hope to others, who felt empty inside.
Perhaps the same God who cared for one poor widow would care for their dryness as well.

The end

Once upon a time
There were three camels
And when they were young, they had no names
Besides "Baby White" "Baby Black" and "Baby Brown"

But as they grew into adolescents this was more troublesome
Because proper camels should have proper names
So their Bedouin owner sat in his tent and tried different names aloud
"Wise one" "Strong one" "Fair one"
He would shake his head dismally each time.
Occasionally his wife would call suggestions as she bent over the hearth
"Bright eyes? Starry one? Path Seeker?"
He would only shake his head again and lament the fate of the poor nameless camels, and the shame that would bring to his tent.

But one day, a traveller visited the nomad village
As was courteous, he greeted them in peace and asked if he might stay and trade stories for a time
Since storytellers were highly thought of, he was immediately welcomed to the chief's tent, fed the finest foods, and invited to stay as long as he wished.
Each night that week, he told a different story, or perhaps two or three

And one night, while the poor owner of the camels was squatting with the men by the campfire, the storyteller told a tale of three men, serving in the court of a king
The king was fierce and mighty, and demanded much respect from his people
(The men nodded - this was only right)
And one feast day, the people gathered, and much music was played
(The women, listening from within the tents, murmured approvingly- what was a feast with no fine foods and accompaniment?)

And then - the storyteller threw his hands up to the sky - a huge statue was revealed, shining and golden!
(The children, playing around the fire, gasped excitedly)
And the storyteller explained dramatically that as the vast sea of people bowed, as commanded, to worship the statue and their king...
Three men remained standing!
The entire village, listening to the story, fell into stunned silence.
"What audacity!" "What dishonour to their families and to the king!" "Surely he would have them killed or thrown out for defying his power!"

The storyteller swept his gaze around the tents
"The three men," he said slowly, "were called to the king's presence."
" O king," the three said, "we do not need to defend ourselves before you."
(The villagers rolled their eyes and clicked their tongues. "Foolish men, to not plead for mercy or at least a quick death.")
But the storyteller continued in a measured voice,"if we are killed, the God we serve is able to save us, and he will rescue us from your hand, O king."
Quiet murmurs. This was a new idea. That Allah would step into fate and change it for the sake of three rebels... this would need discussed by the elders.
"But even if He does not, we want you to know, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up."
The storyteller was silent, and let that sink in
Again, a new concept. It would need due attention.
And the village was intent on giving it due attention, silently and not so silently, when a small hand tugged at the storyteller's robes.
"And then what? Then what?" came a child's voice clearly over the crackle of the flames.
The storyteller, lit by the bonfire's light, looked gravely at the small one
(The child's mother put her hand over her mouth and waited)
"Then, my child...
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown into a FIRE."
The children gasped.
The mothers swished their skirts nervously.
The fathers pulled their beards and tried to look unconcerned.

Suddenly, oddly, the storyteller smiled
"The king," he continued, "looked into the fire and gasped too!
For there, walking around unharmed, were the three men!"

The storyteller paused to let the hum die down.
"And with those fearless three was one more, a shining one, who appeared as a son of the gods.
The king cried out, 'Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, servants of the Most High God, come out! Come here!'
And they stepped out.
Unharmed.
Untouched by the smoke, even.
The king saw what a fool he had been.
To set himself up against God and God's followers.
He decreed that his entire kingdom should worship the one true God,
Saying, 'For no other god can save in this way!' "

The storyteller bowed his head, and indicated that his story was at an end
The villagers had much to think about that night.
And for many nights after, as long as the storyteller stayed, and then after that.
For many of them became followers of the one true God, and storytellers to their own people as well

And the camel owner...

Well, he had names for his three camels *and* a story to tell to those who recorded the camel pedigrees.

Once upon a time

There was a dinosaur
Who lived under a bridge on a table with other interesting items
But he was a lonely dinosaur
And he used to watch the humans go by sadly,
wishing he belonged to a little girl or boy who would love and hug him.

One day, a girl walked by
But stopped to look at him with bright curious eyes
She wasn't a little girl tho
Or even a medium girl
She was a big girl
Practically a grownup
But she had young eyes
And he liked the way she smiled at him
He liked even more the way she walked up and tapped his head softly.
He let himself hope - just for half a moment.
He hoped that she was little girl enough inside to buy him.

But she didn't buy him
Just smiled one more time and walked away
And he tried not to let it matter too much
But then!
A few days later
Another girl walked right up to him
She was also a big girl
Who also had young eyes
Which he found very curious
Two girls like that in one week!
But this girl (he held his dinosaurish breath) held out money
The vendor took it

Then the girl picked him up in her warm hands
Took him home in her bookbag
And when she pulled him, out, blinking, he saw a comfy room in a quick glance
Before he landed, upside down and sideways, in another pair of warm hands
When he was turned right side up
And lifted gently up to another face
He was surprised
And delighted

Because he was looking at the young eyes of the first girl
And suddenly he was squished carefully into a hug
As the girls hugged too
Then he heard a voice saying, "You told me you saw a dinosaur... so i got it for you."
In that way, the lonely dinosaur found a home with *two* girls who loved him.
And they lived happily ever after.

(And one day, another small not-quite-dinosaurish friend came to live with them, but that is another story...)

Once upon a time.


There was an attack on the regal city of Krakow.
A very long time ago, by the Tartars, who come from the far northeast with curved swords and black beards.
they scoured the city
They made made fearsome noises round the outer walls
And freaked out the poor inhabitants
And the poor Kasia's and Asia's and Magda's clutched their children closely.
The Piotr's and Jan's and Matteusz'es chewed their mustaches and sharpened their swords.
And the Izdebski and Mazurek and Skowrońska families went to church and prayed that God would fight with them against the outsiders.

But there were burly men who lived on the river
And they poled their rafts on the Wisla
Through the scorching sun and biting snow
And they were not going to put up with any foreign nonsense
So they put their grizzly peasant heads together
And by night, they crept up on those Tartars, who had the audacity and stupidity to take on the polish brave ones
And knocked the tar out of the rascals.

Naturally, though, being good Polish men...
The rafters were not about to let bygones be bygones and walk sweetly back home
So they ordered the bruised and beaten 'attackers' to disrobe
And while the Tartars crept home embaressedly in their old century undergarments
The mischievous rafters pulled on the brightly embroidered red and gold foreign garments and crept back into the city by their river ways

Once in, they ran amok and waved around the purloined swords.
They shouted gibberish in Tartar accents and knocked on doors and tried to hide laughs under fierce war cries.
Once the town was thoroughly roused, nervous, and confused
The rafters stripped off the outlandish clothes and revealed their true selves
And were proclaimed the heroes of krakow
Toasted as saviours with much food and drink.
And the church bells rang and the streets were filled with shouting children and smiling monks.

And that is how the legend of Lajkonik began

The End

once upon a time

there was a little mouse
who lived under a toadstool
and who lost her memory

so every morning she woke up
and it was a fresh new day
and whether the sun warmed her little mouse tail
or the rain dripped over the edge of the toadstool like a silver curtain
she was filled with excitement at all the possibilities
and she wandered the forest in awe at the 'new' trees and 'new' flowers and 'new' friends

and her friends were very patient with her

and while some grew irritated with the constant reminding, and occasionally just found it easier to avoid her
but most of them grew to like the constant introductions, because, while they could never be certain of shared memories
she could never hold on to old hurts or problems either
so they built many half stories together

and every night she tucked herself in under the warm leaves and told herself what an amazing new world she lived in


(and then one evening, heading home, she met a bat, who changed her life... but that is a different story.)

the end

once there was.

and one day there wasn't, and it didn't know what to do with itself.

it was before, it blamed the not on the lack of.

or clung to a will be.

but once it wasn't, there was nothing left to blame and there wasn't going to be.

so there just wasn't.

occasionally hints of is dropped in.

occasionally what might be showed up.

and what wasn't had a chance to someday become.

so it just is or isn't, and tries to be content.

once there was a happy group of stick figures who played basketball. but they had no colour so it was hard to see the lines on the court or where they began and the ball left off. on the bright side, they could reach through one another to steal the ball or even to pull the net closer. the longer they played, the more creative they got with bending lines... and rules... and soon they had to give the game a new name. they called it... ice under the hill. because that's how much sense it made. the end.

WiddlyTinks.com

once upon a time...

there was a small dragon.
she lived with her younger hatchling brothers and sisters in a little cave on the coast.
the group of little wiggly bodies and wings and scales were put to bed every night in a small tunnel off the main cave by their deep-blue mama dragon and their silver-grey papa dragon.
the papa dragon would gently pat each spiky head with his long wings, and he would rumble a good night to them all as they curled up in little heaps.
and the mama dragon would gently hum into the little ears as they swiveled toward her, and rub the little scaly backs until they stopped wiggling around (and poking eachother with not-yet-grown claws).
and some nights, when the dragonlets were VERY restless and VERY full of poking claws, the mama dragon would curl up in a big ball around them and softly growl at them until they were quiet. and if they were quiet enough, she would hum them small dragon songs until their eyelids shut over bright eyes and they lay absolutely still in dragon dreams.
and as the small dragon grew older, she learned the dragon-hums from her mother, and started adding to them. and soon she was the one to hum them to sleep, when the mama dragon was busy or away. and sometimes she would pat the others too, even if the papa dragon had already patted them, just to practice.
but years later, when the small dragon had grown into a big dragon and had a cave of her own, she would still come back to the home-cave to visit. and she would curl up in the old room with the other dragonlets and shut her eyes too. and the mama and papa dragons would come in and smile dragon-smiles at all the hatchlings together again.

because no matter how old or big of a dragon you are, papa-dragon pats and mama-dragon hums are beautiful things before bedtime.

once upon a time

there was a girl
she used to spend all her free time playing outside or reading books
and she was a very lucky girl
because her house had hundreds of books
and her outside was very large
besides her yard and the fields surrounding it, there was a long beach nestled between high cliffs

the girl often read about castles
in books of ancient times, and medieval ages, and modern eras
but she would look around her own white stucco house, and her own backyard, and the timeless cliffs by the beach, and feel she was missing something

that she didn't have a sword, she didn't mind
she used poplar branches from the tree her father pruned
or broke off bamboo lengths near the shore
that she didn't have a horse, she didn't mind
many of the great bards and travelling warriors went a-foot
that she didn't have trusty squires or a handsome prince, she didn't mind
(or fair princess sisters or maidservants)
she simply adapted her sister, brothers, and friends for those roles, as needed
but she didn't have a castle
which was challenging, because castles are the heart and home of so many stories
so she drew her own
she told stories of her own
she claimed some day she'd find one

and one day, her father led the girl, her brother, and their best friend up into the mountains to explore
and there, right at the headland
she found her castle
a giant outcropping of rocks, leaning together, forming a natural small cave and an outlook on the shore and the sea and the rest of the cliffs
she named it "minas tirith", from one of her favourite books
and persuaded her brother and friend to give the corresponding names to their respective castles - for there were three rock clusters!
and for a while they had their castles, somewhere to climb and claim as theirs
for who else would fight for a bunch of rocks on a lonely coastline?

but one day
the girl's mother and father said they were moving
and the girl had to say goodbye
so they took photos
and waved
knew they would always remember their rock castles
but the girl did one more thing
she made a small paper book
and wrote in it with pencil - which may fade but doesn't run like ink
and then she put the small book in a waterproof bag
and she hid it well underneath her castle
and when she said goodbye, she knew that the book would be there and safe a good while yet
and that it would always be her castle

the end

once upon a time
there was a harpist
who strolled the land, went where he pleased, sang what teased his fancy
one day, his laconic elegant self visited a castle he had visited before
and one of the overlords, a greedy ruthless man, was of a mind to punish a waif
this boy had accidentally angered the lord, who recognised him in the great hall and motioned him forward
bent on utter humiliation, if not injury or death, of the helpless wretch
the boy, however, saw Herluin the minstrel, and flung himself at his feet in a silent plea for mercy
"hai my, what is this clinging, small one?" asked the lazy voice
and the long and short of it was, herluin saved the day and won the boy's undying allegiance by trumping the overlord in a chess match
"i am a creature of whim, and i have a mind to this boy".
the boy had a master, an idol, a safety for the first time in his young life.

and yet...
a time later, and a safer, more honourable overlord was visiting, and then travelling to his own estate
and Herluin the minstrel, as much as he liked the boy, in his own careless veneer way...
knew that the only way to really protect the boy from any later revenge or danger, was to send him with the safer overlord

so he did
casually, coolly
citing travel, citing abroad-concerns and almost-concerns at the fate of a boy strapped to a good-for-nothing wanderer.

so he sent him on
and nearly broke the boy's heart
yet they parted on good terms
a final hair ruffle and possibly perceptible undertone of 'i wish you the best' from the languid bard
and the boy rode off, comforted slightly
and found, albeit unwillingly, a new home and life with his new master

and while he only ever met herluin now and again through the wars and days ahead, he never forgot him

whether he ever knew why herluin gave him up, is another question

the end




Retold tale from Rosemary Sutcliff's "Knight's Fee"