| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Amy Benesch / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
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| THE CRONE'S TALE |
When we (and by "we" I mean the Folk who wield Magic, rather than iron, who worship the Goddess and follow Her
ways) stayed on in the Old World, while the Others cut down trees, moved dirt, and slaughtered each other at the slightest
pretext, we drew a veil between the Old and the New, so that we would not have to witness the madness. And, I, for one,
would have been happy to never see that veil parted, but Rhiannon decreed that we must try and build a bridge between
the two worlds. She searched until she found a man whose heart was still open to the Old Ways, a man who wasn't so
terrified by a Magical Woman that he would sooner destroy her than make love to her. They met many times in the
Dreaming and agreed that they would wed and have a child who would be half of his world and half of ours. Through this
union She hoped to stop or slow the hands that were destroying one version of our beautiful Earth. And so Rhiannon
lowered Herself from Goddess to a woman riding a white horse. She used Her magic, though. She had to, you see, to see
if he would be frightened. For men often promise one thing in Dreaming and do something quite different when they are
awake. But he wasn't frightened. He saw Her magic; he felt Her power, and he loved Her for it. He even seemed to
understand how She had humbled Herself by riding forth, allowing him to catch up to Her and speak to Her, and then
joining him in his world, subjecting Herself to the laws and customs of his land.
Did She know how She would be treated? Of course She did. How could She not? She is Goddess. She knows
everything. But knowing the future isn't the same as living it. Still, She never faltered, but played out Her humiliation with
dignity and fortitude. I wasn't there to see Her ordeal, thank the Goddess. I was still safely on the other side of the veil. I
wouldn't listen when Folks came to me, telling me how Rhiannon had been accused of killing and devouring Her own
child, or how She was forced, as punishment to offer to carry any guest that came to the castle on Her back. Who could
believe such things? It was too horrible to imagine.
Then, when the boy was found and Rhiannon was restored to Her former station (they thought they were doing Her an
honor, though to me, She was still demeaning Herself), She sent for me, and I learned that all the rumors had been true.
And yet Rhiannon stayed.
"Why?" I asked Her when we were alone, "Why do you tolerate these people? You, who could destroy them with a wave
of Your hand?"
"Ah, Blodeuwedd," she cried. "They treat me like such a weak thing, I've begun to see myself as they do. However I am
determined to stay here to raise my son and be a true wife to my husband."
I could not believe that this woman, so full of doubt and humility, was my Mistress. I will admit that Her husband seemed
to genuinely love and honor Her, but he had to placate the men of the place, both the church and the nobility, and, in the
end, it was all he could do to convince them to spare Her life.
Then I had my own role to play: nursemaid to Her changeling boy, Pryderi. I wish I had gotten hold of him while he was
still in the cradle. By the time I came into his life, he was seven, and already a bit arrogant. The one thing that saved him is
that he had been brought up amongst horses. No one who has lived with horses can be a total fool; besides, horses and
birds are the Goddess' special allies. But it saddened me that he had his culture's lack of respect for women. For me, the
old crone who slept in the kitchen, (the only place I could stay warm) he felt fondness, but I also detected a trace of
contempt. If he had been with us, on our side of the veil, I would have boxed his ears for his impertinence, for we treat
our elders with reverence. But I had to tread a thin line if I wanted to be able influence this young prince in the ways of
our people. If I had boxed his ears, the young prince would have set up a wailing that would have roused half the castle
and I would have been sent on my way, at best. I can't imagine the worst. For if they subjected beautiful Rhiannon, wife
of their ruler, to degradation for a crime She never committed, what might they do to an old woman who dared touch the
young master?
So I must use the Arts to influence the heart and mind of this half-breed. There can be no Magic; the men who rule here
are so terrified of our Power, they would fight us to the death, and Rhiannon has made it clear that we must not become
an excuse for their blood lust. I resort to the subtle art of tale-weaving to win over this young warrior. When he cannot or
will not sleep, he begs me for stories. Of course all he wants to hear about is knights slaying monsters, but I learn to
weave some Truth and Magic in between the battle scenes and must hope that the seeds will take root in his heart and
blossom when he comes into maturity. If I weave my tales aright, the love of battle, so prevalent in these times, will take a
turn into another direction. I must use great care and cunning.
Here comes my master (for so must I address him) now. He's been put to bed, but he seeks my company. I started a
story last night and he wants to know what happens next. I warned him that this one has ladies in it. He asked if I could
leave that part out. I told him I could not. If he wants to hear about the battle between the knight of Arthur's court and the
black knight, he must hear about the women, because they're part of the story too. He scowls and says he'll put his finger
over his ears. I tell him he might miss some of the best parts then, so he'd better listen to the whole tale. Thus do I, a
revered crone in my own country, find myself huddled among the ashes to keep warm and bargaining with a half-human
child.
ways) stayed on in the Old World, while the Others cut down trees, moved dirt, and slaughtered each other at the slightest
pretext, we drew a veil between the Old and the New, so that we would not have to witness the madness. And, I, for one,
would have been happy to never see that veil parted, but Rhiannon decreed that we must try and build a bridge between
the two worlds. She searched until she found a man whose heart was still open to the Old Ways, a man who wasn't so
terrified by a Magical Woman that he would sooner destroy her than make love to her. They met many times in the
Dreaming and agreed that they would wed and have a child who would be half of his world and half of ours. Through this
union She hoped to stop or slow the hands that were destroying one version of our beautiful Earth. And so Rhiannon
lowered Herself from Goddess to a woman riding a white horse. She used Her magic, though. She had to, you see, to see
if he would be frightened. For men often promise one thing in Dreaming and do something quite different when they are
awake. But he wasn't frightened. He saw Her magic; he felt Her power, and he loved Her for it. He even seemed to
understand how She had humbled Herself by riding forth, allowing him to catch up to Her and speak to Her, and then
joining him in his world, subjecting Herself to the laws and customs of his land.
Did She know how She would be treated? Of course She did. How could She not? She is Goddess. She knows
everything. But knowing the future isn't the same as living it. Still, She never faltered, but played out Her humiliation with
dignity and fortitude. I wasn't there to see Her ordeal, thank the Goddess. I was still safely on the other side of the veil. I
wouldn't listen when Folks came to me, telling me how Rhiannon had been accused of killing and devouring Her own
child, or how She was forced, as punishment to offer to carry any guest that came to the castle on Her back. Who could
believe such things? It was too horrible to imagine.
Then, when the boy was found and Rhiannon was restored to Her former station (they thought they were doing Her an
honor, though to me, She was still demeaning Herself), She sent for me, and I learned that all the rumors had been true.
And yet Rhiannon stayed.
"Why?" I asked Her when we were alone, "Why do you tolerate these people? You, who could destroy them with a wave
of Your hand?"
"Ah, Blodeuwedd," she cried. "They treat me like such a weak thing, I've begun to see myself as they do. However I am
determined to stay here to raise my son and be a true wife to my husband."
I could not believe that this woman, so full of doubt and humility, was my Mistress. I will admit that Her husband seemed
to genuinely love and honor Her, but he had to placate the men of the place, both the church and the nobility, and, in the
end, it was all he could do to convince them to spare Her life.
Then I had my own role to play: nursemaid to Her changeling boy, Pryderi. I wish I had gotten hold of him while he was
still in the cradle. By the time I came into his life, he was seven, and already a bit arrogant. The one thing that saved him is
that he had been brought up amongst horses. No one who has lived with horses can be a total fool; besides, horses and
birds are the Goddess' special allies. But it saddened me that he had his culture's lack of respect for women. For me, the
old crone who slept in the kitchen, (the only place I could stay warm) he felt fondness, but I also detected a trace of
contempt. If he had been with us, on our side of the veil, I would have boxed his ears for his impertinence, for we treat
our elders with reverence. But I had to tread a thin line if I wanted to be able influence this young prince in the ways of
our people. If I had boxed his ears, the young prince would have set up a wailing that would have roused half the castle
and I would have been sent on my way, at best. I can't imagine the worst. For if they subjected beautiful Rhiannon, wife
of their ruler, to degradation for a crime She never committed, what might they do to an old woman who dared touch the
young master?
So I must use the Arts to influence the heart and mind of this half-breed. There can be no Magic; the men who rule here
are so terrified of our Power, they would fight us to the death, and Rhiannon has made it clear that we must not become
an excuse for their blood lust. I resort to the subtle art of tale-weaving to win over this young warrior. When he cannot or
will not sleep, he begs me for stories. Of course all he wants to hear about is knights slaying monsters, but I learn to
weave some Truth and Magic in between the battle scenes and must hope that the seeds will take root in his heart and
blossom when he comes into maturity. If I weave my tales aright, the love of battle, so prevalent in these times, will take a
turn into another direction. I must use great care and cunning.
Here comes my master (for so must I address him) now. He's been put to bed, but he seeks my company. I started a
story last night and he wants to know what happens next. I warned him that this one has ladies in it. He asked if I could
leave that part out. I told him I could not. If he wants to hear about the battle between the knight of Arthur's court and the
black knight, he must hear about the women, because they're part of the story too. He scowls and says he'll put his finger
over his ears. I tell him he might miss some of the best parts then, so he'd better listen to the whole tale. Thus do I, a
revered crone in my own country, find myself huddled among the ashes to keep warm and bargaining with a half-human
child.
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| The hero of the present tale has left his wise mother, who has tried, in vain, to protect her son from all knowledge of bloodshed. No one was allowed to mention steeds or arms in his presence. Of course I knew this would not hold this boy's interest for long, so I quickly move to the hero's first fight, which he, of course wins. But a seed has been planted. Not everyone thinks that fighting is noble. As the hero moves from fight to fight, I weave Magic into the tale, through details of food, dress, color, and animals. Any child of the Folk would understand these symbols. To my young friend, they are just background, but they do their work nonetheless. After the fifth battle scene he is entranced enough that I dare to introduce a beautiful maiden into the story. My young friend frowns, so I have the hero redeem himself by single-handedly vanquishing three armies. A smile forms on his lips and his eyes begin to close, as if he had sated himself on meat and wine. I don't know how much longer these story-telling sessions will be allowed to continue, so I make a bold move. I have our hero, very casually mention to the fair maiden that he loves her. I quickly add that he will not give up his quest (which seems to be finding people to kill, or best in battle, for love of her.) Still, the possibility that this manliest of men can feel something for a woman has been broached. The young prince accepts this more readily than I would have expected; perhaps he's extremely tired. I lead him to his bed, promising that next time I will tell him of how his hero dealt with the witches who crossed his path. In this way I will be able to get some witchcraft into him, without his realizing what he has learned. |
I grope my way back to the kitchen in the dark. I can feel the cold in the very marrow of my bones, but no more wood can
be put on the fire until dawn. To distract myself from my misery, I close what they call over here my "good" eye, and let
other one, the one covered with a milky film, turn inward and show me what they call over here "the future."
I follow my eye into the near future, fifteen years from now. What I see reassures me: Pryderi will become a man who loves
women. He will marry, stay devoted to his Mother, and find his way through the veil often. Of course. I should have guessed
that Rhiannon would protect him from the constant fighting that is considered necessary to being a man in these times, in this
place. This vision warms me so that, eventually I drift into a half-dream state, where I'm in a splendid castle, where the food
and wine are plentiful, the music and dancing never stop, and one is never cold. I dream that I am Home.
The next night the prince comes to me, I tell how our hero crosses the path of the witches of Caer Loyw. His eyes glow,
imagining how Peredur will vanquish these monsters. Of course I have to have him vanquish "the hag," as I must call her, but
I throw in a curve. The witch begs for mercy, but she knows the hero's name. He wants to know how she knows. Well,
being a witch, she has foreseen this encounter. The witch agrees never to harm the people of Peredur's domain, and Peredur
decides to go with the witch to the Witches Court and learn from them.
"What could a knight learn from witches?" the prince asks indignantly.
"How to ride a horse and handle weapons," I say quickly, these being the only skills deemed appropriate or necessary for a
knight. Suddenly I have a prickly feeling on the back of my neck. We are not alone. Someone has caught wind of the fact
that the prince is being told stories by the odd, old woman. I know I will have to end this story with the hero vanquishing the
witches. I also know my days are numbered. No matter how I disguise my stories, the powers that be understand that my
very presence is a threat to them and their beliefs. I can only hope that I have done sufficient damage already. I remember my
vision, and I smile.
After the little one has toddled off to bed, I again turn my eye inward. I go further into the future. What I see appalls me:
more war, more fighting, more carnage, the veil between the worlds growing thicker, less penetrable. And yet, there are some
bright spots: a cult of gallantry and love and respect for women. I see this as a possibility. I will try and make it grow; and if,
for my pains, I am banished from this cold, harsh world, I will have a hard time seeing that as punishment.
The next night the little one comes to me, and I tell how Peredur leaves the witches, as he has left every situation. For what is
a knight if he's not on his horse, looking for foes to conquer? But instead of a foe, our hero comes across a hermit's cell.
And now, for the first time, I introduce Nature into the story. For when he awakens snow has fallen, and a wild she-hawk
has killed a duck, whom our hero's horse startles, so that she rises up, and a raven alights on the duck's flesh. And when
Peredur sees this, he feels he has awakened from a long sleep, and he looks around and everything seems very bright and
clear to him. The blackness of the raven, the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood remind him of the woman
he loved and left so easily. A shudder comes over me and I know, without understanding how or why, that my words have
rent a hole in the veil between the worlds.
I continue, knowing now that tonight is my last chance to influence the boy. While Peredur is struck by his vision, King
Arthur and his retinue come upon him. Arthur sends a squire to ask him who he is and what is his quest. But so fixed is
Peredur on the woman he loves best, that he doesn't answer. The squire then strikes at Peredur with a sword, and Peredur
turns on the squire and hurls him over his horse's crupper to the ground. (I add that part to stave off the prince's protest, as
he senses the direction this story is going.) And so it goes with twenty-four knights, all being thrown to the ground. (Proving,
of course, that our hero is still a man, even while lost in love). Finally the wise knight, Gwalchmei speaks up and says that no
one should rudely interrupt a knight from his meditation, for it might be that he has suffered a loss, or that he is thinking of
the woman he loves the best. And he volunteers to "speak lovingly," to Peredur. Now, I am in such dangerous waters, I'm
amazed that the spies have not shouted out with indignation, but are letting me prattle away. They must be under strict orders
to listen and report what they have heard, without taking any action. I have just sealed my own banishment, so I determine to
go out in a blaze of glory.
The other knights mock him and accuse him of being too cowardly to fight, but Gwalchmei points out that the others have
failed in their objection to find out what's ailing Peredur and that he, with his kind words will bring the knight with him
without breaking any bones. I then have King Arthur praise Gwalchmei for his wise and prudent words. I steal a glance at the
young prince. He's listening intently. I hear a stirring in the broom closet. Well, the spy will be stuck there until morning. I
have all night to plot my escape.
Gwalchmei speaks kindly to Peredur, who quickly admits that he had been lost in meditation, thinking of the woman he loved
best, and Gwalchmei replies that it is no wonder he disliked being interrupted from his thoughts and invites him back to King
Arthur's tent.
The young prince, who had found himself a very humble throne on the wood pile has fallen asleep, bored no doubt, by this
turn of events. But I know that words and images find their way into a person's soul even when asleep. I gather him up and
carry him down the long hallway, where I see with my "bad" eye his attendants searching frantically for him. I leave noisily to
give the spy a chance to make his escape.
When I return, alone, after having claimed that I returned the boy as soon as I found him asleep on the wood pile, I am colder
than I can ever remember being, colder than I would have thought possible. To distract myself I cast my gaze into the future,
further than I have ever gone before. I am horrified. In spite of a cult of chivalry the killing continues. I go further and further
into the future, hoping to see an end to the slaughter of the two-leggeds, the four-leggeds, the finned, and the feathered, the
tree people, and the covering over of the Earth. The further I go the more death and destruction I see. The veil between the
worlds grows thicker, and fewer and fewer humans remember how to penetrate it, or even believe that another world exists
alongside their own. I have gone too far now. I'm seeing things I don't understand: large silver birds that fly without feathers
or magic, bundles dropping from the sky that level cities, destroying more people than I knew could exist in one place. But I
can't turn back. I have to see an end to this madness. How does it end? Will this world wind up destroying itself, and, if it
does, what will that do to our world? Whether I like it or not, we are connected.
I see a flash of blinding white light, and then...nothing. Slowly I open my eyes. I'm laying with my face in the ashes. I hear
voices and men running. The door is flung open, and I see the sky streaked with red. It is dawn; I am living in a strange, cold
world, my face black with soot. I am facing men armed with clubs and maces, their eyes small with hatred, their yellow teeth
bared. I stand to face them. Rhiannon is behind them, looking frantic. I speak into her mind: :My lady, do I have Your
permission to use Magic?
"Of course," she answers out loud. "Do whatever you must to save yourself."
I lift my hand and the men freeze where they are. I build a small fire, then throw peat on it to create smoke. I will leave with
the smoke, but I must try one more time. "My lady," I beg, "Come with me. You do not belong here. They will never honor
you. You cannot make a difference. They are blind, deaf, and dumb. We need you; they abhor you. Come with me. Come
Home."
Tears streaming down her face, Rhiannon shakes her head. For reasons I cannot fathom she has decided to live out her
destiny with these war-mongers. I turn to the smoke. It is a good smoke, a friendly smoke. It agrees to take me home. I am
about to step into it when I hear the patter of feet on stone. The young master has heard the commotion and has come to see
some excitement. I hear the patter of larger feet right behind him. Well, I think, they say, or will someday say, that a picture
is worth a thousand words. I have no more words to give this boy, so let me dazzle his sight. I wave my hand again, and the
men lunge at me, weapons raised. But where, a moment ago, there was an old woman huddled by the hearth, there is now a
little white mouse, squeaking piteously. I turn my mouse eyes to the boy, and see his eyes grow soft, as they did when I
spoke of knights battling giants. "Magic," he breathes.
The mouse scurries off into the smoke, never to be seen in the world of humans again.
be put on the fire until dawn. To distract myself from my misery, I close what they call over here my "good" eye, and let
other one, the one covered with a milky film, turn inward and show me what they call over here "the future."
I follow my eye into the near future, fifteen years from now. What I see reassures me: Pryderi will become a man who loves
women. He will marry, stay devoted to his Mother, and find his way through the veil often. Of course. I should have guessed
that Rhiannon would protect him from the constant fighting that is considered necessary to being a man in these times, in this
place. This vision warms me so that, eventually I drift into a half-dream state, where I'm in a splendid castle, where the food
and wine are plentiful, the music and dancing never stop, and one is never cold. I dream that I am Home.
The next night the prince comes to me, I tell how our hero crosses the path of the witches of Caer Loyw. His eyes glow,
imagining how Peredur will vanquish these monsters. Of course I have to have him vanquish "the hag," as I must call her, but
I throw in a curve. The witch begs for mercy, but she knows the hero's name. He wants to know how she knows. Well,
being a witch, she has foreseen this encounter. The witch agrees never to harm the people of Peredur's domain, and Peredur
decides to go with the witch to the Witches Court and learn from them.
"What could a knight learn from witches?" the prince asks indignantly.
"How to ride a horse and handle weapons," I say quickly, these being the only skills deemed appropriate or necessary for a
knight. Suddenly I have a prickly feeling on the back of my neck. We are not alone. Someone has caught wind of the fact
that the prince is being told stories by the odd, old woman. I know I will have to end this story with the hero vanquishing the
witches. I also know my days are numbered. No matter how I disguise my stories, the powers that be understand that my
very presence is a threat to them and their beliefs. I can only hope that I have done sufficient damage already. I remember my
vision, and I smile.
After the little one has toddled off to bed, I again turn my eye inward. I go further into the future. What I see appalls me:
more war, more fighting, more carnage, the veil between the worlds growing thicker, less penetrable. And yet, there are some
bright spots: a cult of gallantry and love and respect for women. I see this as a possibility. I will try and make it grow; and if,
for my pains, I am banished from this cold, harsh world, I will have a hard time seeing that as punishment.
The next night the little one comes to me, and I tell how Peredur leaves the witches, as he has left every situation. For what is
a knight if he's not on his horse, looking for foes to conquer? But instead of a foe, our hero comes across a hermit's cell.
And now, for the first time, I introduce Nature into the story. For when he awakens snow has fallen, and a wild she-hawk
has killed a duck, whom our hero's horse startles, so that she rises up, and a raven alights on the duck's flesh. And when
Peredur sees this, he feels he has awakened from a long sleep, and he looks around and everything seems very bright and
clear to him. The blackness of the raven, the whiteness of the snow, and the redness of the blood remind him of the woman
he loved and left so easily. A shudder comes over me and I know, without understanding how or why, that my words have
rent a hole in the veil between the worlds.
I continue, knowing now that tonight is my last chance to influence the boy. While Peredur is struck by his vision, King
Arthur and his retinue come upon him. Arthur sends a squire to ask him who he is and what is his quest. But so fixed is
Peredur on the woman he loves best, that he doesn't answer. The squire then strikes at Peredur with a sword, and Peredur
turns on the squire and hurls him over his horse's crupper to the ground. (I add that part to stave off the prince's protest, as
he senses the direction this story is going.) And so it goes with twenty-four knights, all being thrown to the ground. (Proving,
of course, that our hero is still a man, even while lost in love). Finally the wise knight, Gwalchmei speaks up and says that no
one should rudely interrupt a knight from his meditation, for it might be that he has suffered a loss, or that he is thinking of
the woman he loves the best. And he volunteers to "speak lovingly," to Peredur. Now, I am in such dangerous waters, I'm
amazed that the spies have not shouted out with indignation, but are letting me prattle away. They must be under strict orders
to listen and report what they have heard, without taking any action. I have just sealed my own banishment, so I determine to
go out in a blaze of glory.
The other knights mock him and accuse him of being too cowardly to fight, but Gwalchmei points out that the others have
failed in their objection to find out what's ailing Peredur and that he, with his kind words will bring the knight with him
without breaking any bones. I then have King Arthur praise Gwalchmei for his wise and prudent words. I steal a glance at the
young prince. He's listening intently. I hear a stirring in the broom closet. Well, the spy will be stuck there until morning. I
have all night to plot my escape.
Gwalchmei speaks kindly to Peredur, who quickly admits that he had been lost in meditation, thinking of the woman he loved
best, and Gwalchmei replies that it is no wonder he disliked being interrupted from his thoughts and invites him back to King
Arthur's tent.
The young prince, who had found himself a very humble throne on the wood pile has fallen asleep, bored no doubt, by this
turn of events. But I know that words and images find their way into a person's soul even when asleep. I gather him up and
carry him down the long hallway, where I see with my "bad" eye his attendants searching frantically for him. I leave noisily to
give the spy a chance to make his escape.
When I return, alone, after having claimed that I returned the boy as soon as I found him asleep on the wood pile, I am colder
than I can ever remember being, colder than I would have thought possible. To distract myself I cast my gaze into the future,
further than I have ever gone before. I am horrified. In spite of a cult of chivalry the killing continues. I go further and further
into the future, hoping to see an end to the slaughter of the two-leggeds, the four-leggeds, the finned, and the feathered, the
tree people, and the covering over of the Earth. The further I go the more death and destruction I see. The veil between the
worlds grows thicker, and fewer and fewer humans remember how to penetrate it, or even believe that another world exists
alongside their own. I have gone too far now. I'm seeing things I don't understand: large silver birds that fly without feathers
or magic, bundles dropping from the sky that level cities, destroying more people than I knew could exist in one place. But I
can't turn back. I have to see an end to this madness. How does it end? Will this world wind up destroying itself, and, if it
does, what will that do to our world? Whether I like it or not, we are connected.
I see a flash of blinding white light, and then...nothing. Slowly I open my eyes. I'm laying with my face in the ashes. I hear
voices and men running. The door is flung open, and I see the sky streaked with red. It is dawn; I am living in a strange, cold
world, my face black with soot. I am facing men armed with clubs and maces, their eyes small with hatred, their yellow teeth
bared. I stand to face them. Rhiannon is behind them, looking frantic. I speak into her mind: :My lady, do I have Your
permission to use Magic?
"Of course," she answers out loud. "Do whatever you must to save yourself."
I lift my hand and the men freeze where they are. I build a small fire, then throw peat on it to create smoke. I will leave with
the smoke, but I must try one more time. "My lady," I beg, "Come with me. You do not belong here. They will never honor
you. You cannot make a difference. They are blind, deaf, and dumb. We need you; they abhor you. Come with me. Come
Home."
Tears streaming down her face, Rhiannon shakes her head. For reasons I cannot fathom she has decided to live out her
destiny with these war-mongers. I turn to the smoke. It is a good smoke, a friendly smoke. It agrees to take me home. I am
about to step into it when I hear the patter of feet on stone. The young master has heard the commotion and has come to see
some excitement. I hear the patter of larger feet right behind him. Well, I think, they say, or will someday say, that a picture
is worth a thousand words. I have no more words to give this boy, so let me dazzle his sight. I wave my hand again, and the
men lunge at me, weapons raised. But where, a moment ago, there was an old woman huddled by the hearth, there is now a
little white mouse, squeaking piteously. I turn my mouse eyes to the boy, and see his eyes grow soft, as they did when I
spoke of knights battling giants. "Magic," he breathes.
The mouse scurries off into the smoke, never to be seen in the world of humans again.