Lies of Golden Straw

by E. L. Tenenbaum

  I always hoped I would take after my mother, thinking I’d rather be unremarkable than anything like Father. Growing up, I was quiet and shy, hardly spoke to anyone but Father and Merlin, and I saw the sensibility of a life lived in a mill where the work was consistent and the rent well covered.

  Like most children, I eventually matured, and in so doing, my entire fate shifted. Of course, I hadn’t known it at the time, or perhaps I wouldn’t have become so pretty or allowed my hair to glitter quite like gold, but these are things I had little concern over in my ignorance. At twelve years of age and without a mother, I no longer went to school, but stayed at home with Father to keep house and help where I could around the mill. Within a few years, I would be old enough to attend village dances and it was there that the boys who once teased me would jostle each other to dance with me. It was a sweet, sweet change, even if we all pretended there had never been a time when they once mercilessly mocked me. More lies.

  In the meantime, Merlin was sent off to our capital to study in the realms’ first Academy of Magicals, established by our king when he was still a prince some fifteen years before. There, the strength of his magic would be tested and developed to determine if he would only ever be a wizard, or if he might one day apprentice under any of the very few mages in the kingdom.

  It was difficult to say goodbye to Merlin, which I refused to do explicitly, instead reminding him his home was still in the village so we’d see each other often enough. It wasn’t really true, though I wouldn’t call it an outright lie because the sentiment was honest enough. There was naught either of us could do about it anyway. We promised each other we’d keep in touch, numerous times. I missed him sorely while he was away, for, as I’d seen that day not long before, Merlin’s magic indeed proved to be rather powerful, so his training continued for quite a long while.

  Father seemed to miss him a lot, too, as evidenced by the time he stopped through the kitchen after the day’s work sometime after Merlin left. He was relaxing with a jug of ale and without precedence turned to me and wondered, “Wherever be that Merlin boy? Nab himself another lass? Blackguard!”

  “No, Father,” I replied, ignoring that he’d indirectly called me Merlin’s girl, as if that could change the truth I never dared to embrace. “He’s in Raedryn, studying at the Academy, remember?”

  “Aye.” Father took a deep drink as he deciphered my answer. “I be meeting a wizard once.”

  “Yes, Father. You told me.”

  But Father was already too deep into his cups, and his story. “Meet him I did, just down the river from here. He be wading in a stream playing catch and release with something there.”

  “A trout.”

  “Aye, a trout,” Father agreed, ignoring the fact that I already knew the story. “His pants be rolled above his knees, like so, and he be doing a funny thing so his wand be floating over his head while he be splashing about. Course, he can’t be doing a thing as his beard be drinking up all that water and soaking the front of them robes he be wearing.”

  I tuned out Father as he rambled, trying to imagine Merlin wading in a stream, his wand overhead, a long beard dipping into the water. I couldn’t imagine it very well. When Merlin left, he had yet to sprout hair on his lip, and the thought of him having any facial hair was difficult to imagine. Much more was difficult to imagine then.

  The next few years passed without ceremony, and though I never stopped missing Merlin, the ache dulled enough to churn unnoticed much like the steady turning of the mill’s wheel in the river. There was enough going on about the mill that my days were full tending house and taking care of Father. Even after I could no longer spend hours playing outside, part of the appeal of living at the mill was that it was on a river, so no matter the time of year, the view from the window was always beautiful.

  The mill itself was a quaint, sand-colored stone structure built slightly under the house on the river’s embankment. The cottage was hardly more than three rooms: a bedroom for Father; a bedroom for me; and a medium-sized room that served as kitchen, dining room, and drawing room. Although a large area had been cleared in front of the cottage to allow for arriving carts laden with wheat—it being too steep to drive a large wagon to the embankment—it felt as if the whole of the mill was hidden away inside the forest, wrapped securely in its leafy embrace. The feeling was enhanced by the scores of flowers surrounding the front of the cottage and tumbling down the wide, outer stone steps leading to the mill below. Father claimed Mother had been the one to plant and care for every flower around the cottage, and I believed him only because he would say this straightforwardly, without any masterful story surrounding it. From when I was old enough to pull a weed, I cared for those flowers, feeling their continuity represented my one untainted connection to my mother.

  Even when the mill was in use, the cottage was quiet, except during harvest season when even the sun’s sleep was no concern of the farmers wanting their flour milled before the grain sprouted. Father had to take on extra workers then to keep the stones turning night and day—even Merlin was hired the year before he went away—and it fell to me to feed them all, despite also having to keep the mill’s books in order as the only one there with any proper schooling. Then, the long days would blur together in an endless cycle of cooking, cleaning, calculating, and too little sleep. There were often nights I fell asleep at the kitchen table to the rumble of the mill below, a strange lullaby to rock my sleep.

  Little trips into the village and quiet stolen moments became more important to me during the busy season, if only as a reminder that there was life outside the drudgery of the daily grind of our work. Without a mother, without siblings, with only a father who lived more in the world of his stories than the one that truly existed, it was vital for me to get out to maintain a hold on reality.

  Something that helped tremendously, of course, was letters from Merlin. During the first few years, I couldn’t wait for the week to end so I could fetch my weekly letter from the village post. I would read it over and over again, memorizing the words late at night until I could envision them and all they portrayed. The next day, I’d skip back into town to send back my reply.

  When Merlin was first sent away, I still saw him regularly enough, as his youth allowed him to return home every month or so. As the years passed and his studies increased, those precious pockets of time occurred less and less frequently. Although his advanced studies did bring about some rather charming changes.

  When I was fifteen, the letters became fewer, but the wait for them was well worth it.

  The first of such letters arrived one morning at the cottage, courtesy of a magically tinted purple hairstreak butterfly, amazingly—or magically—able to carry the load hanging from its feet. Without ceremony, it dropped a simple, unassuming box on the counter near a bowl of rising dough. A small piece of thick, soft, cream colored paper was stuck through the string at the top. Millie, curled in beautiful calligraphy, the purple ink pressed neatly into the rich paper. I stared at first, not just because of its abrupt appearance in my house, but also because I rather liked seeing my name there, twisting and swirling in beautiful spirals across the center of the paper like a crest.

  Then, at least, I truly liked the name and all it brought to mind.

  I cleaned my hands and carefully examined the plain wooden box, holding it carefully in my palm and measuring its weight. It was only slightly heavier than the thin wood it was made of and I wondered what could possibly be inside such a tiny thing. Surely the encasing meant something important nestled within. Carefully, I lifted the top, waiting a moment in suspense before removing it completely.

  A colorful burst of butterflies fluttered up, their soft wings skimming against my cheeks and eyelashes, flooding the room with a moving rainbow of color. I was startled at first, but then a delighted giggle escaped me, building into a satisfied laugh. I spun in place, arms wide open to the magic unfolding around me.

  It was just a few short moments before the
butterflies found their way to the open window and flew out of sight. But their absence didn’t matter. The scene was strong enough to linger well after it had ended, the memory of it bringing a warm smile to my lips even now.

  As it turned out, no letter was included on the other side of the beautiful paper, but in truth, there didn’t need to be. Merlin had said everything with a burst of magical life from a simple wooden box. I realize now it meant that a glimpse of the extraordinary could come from anywhere. Then, I only knew it to mean he was doing well, his studies had progressed, he wanted me to smile, and he missed me, too.

  The only thing about it that stopped me short was that I didn’t quite know how to respond to such a wonderful surprise. I had no way to bottle up my delighted laugh, and sending a pressed butterfly back was too understated, too morbid. I couldn’t think of anything, so I remained silent. Surely, Merlin would understand that I could give no response to the message he’d sent.

  As his skills grew and the power of his magic increased, the messages he sent home were even better, even more enchanting than his first winged rainbow. By then, I had stopped writing to him altogether. I can only shake my head now to think how much that must have hurt him, to think how much it took for him to cling to what we had even when he received only silence from me. I still don’t know how I ever deserved having him in my life.

  The next magical delight was a small planter that appeared just at the tip of my kitchen window, as messages from Merlin were now wont to. I suppose it was his way of making sure I got to these letters before my father’s dishonest fingers were able to taint them with their touch. The planter was a small terracotta clay cup, packed tight with dirt from which a tiny green stem peeked out from the center. I ducked my head outside the window but saw no sign or signal from anything that could have carried it to me, though I guessed some sort of purple-winged creature must have.

  With the messenger away or vanished, I turned the planter this way and that in an effort to decipher the nature of such a seemingly usual gift. Merlin knew of the host of flowers blooming around the cottage at any time of the year. Surely he wouldn’t send such a small thing to lose within the rest of the garden’s bloom?

  Seeing nothing on the sides, I lifted the planter above my head, squinting at the glowing scribble of words pulsating beneath.

  Feed me once, and once is all.

  That was it. I contemplated the vague words for a while, then decided that if Merlin couldn’t be bothered to tell me more, the instructions were very simple, and if not, I could not be blamed for misunderstanding. I poured a cup of water and dipped my little finger in, bringing it to hover over the soil, waiting and watching as a single drop formed then slowly slid off. The drop landed with an inaudible plop and dashed across the little green stem. Almost instantly, there was a purple puff of smoke that quickly cleared to reveal a fully formed, thick petal purple anemone proudly blooming in the center of the planter. It was beautiful, the richest purple I’d ever seen on any growing thing. Despite the resources at my disposal now, I have yet to find a suitable match for its deep, vibrant shade.

  A large smile overtook my lips and I clamped my hands over my mouth to stifle the strangled mix of giggle and cry, my eyes tearing at the sight of the beautiful flower made for me. Despite my father’s tales, I had no idea that such beauty could really exist in the world, and I hardly understood then how something so great could be captured by something so simple and small. Only years of experiencing life would ever allow me to broach the idea with anything resembling understanding.

  True to the message at the bottom, I never needed to water the flower after that. I kept it on the ledge of the kitchen window, and no matter the season, no matter the hour, the beautiful purple flower never changed, never dimmed in hue, never wilted.

  Not then, at least.

  Two years after those delightful butterflies, the last message I received from Merlin before the air was quieted from his lack of surprises for an unusually long while, came via a lovely violet-backed starling, its feathers glowing even stronger, even bolder from the magic imbued within it.

  I was in front of the house when it arrived, and I didn’t notice it at first, not just because I was tending to a bustling array of flowers, but also because the belly of the bird was so white it blended into the sky above. I only looked up when it deposited a thick cream envelope before me, and I barely had time to brush its soft feathers before it flew away, looking very much like a piece of cloud had removed itself from the sky and floated down to see the world up close.

  I took my time with the letter, smiling to myself all the while, even as I traced the cavorting, dark purple lines of my name. I turned the envelope over and carefully opened the flap, then slowly slid out the thick cream colored paper folded in half. I opened the paper. It was blank. I shifted and turned it toward the sun, inanely thinking that perhaps I couldn’t see the ink of the letters.

  I couldn’t, but that’s because there were none at first.

  Slowly, as if mimicking the hand of the artist, a thick purple line began to form in the shape of no letter I knew. The line continued to grow and it didn’t take long to realize that it wasn’t forming words, but a picture. Light dabs of other colors began to appear as well, just simple dots in the right places for added emphasis.

  I gasped as Merlin’s familiar purple eyes gazed up at me from the paper, then came his thick hair and full smile, right in time to match my own. Just when I thought the picture was complete in the sudden pause that followed, I started again as little lines began dashing their way across the top of Merlin’s lip, just under his nose. Once finished there, the lines moved down to his chin, lining up in a neat row like freshly cut grass. The lines covered his jaw and marched up past his ears, connecting to the close cropped hair of his head.

  I stared as the implication of the drawing became clear to me.

  Merlin hadn’t been home in a long while.

  Merlin had a beard.

  Merlin was going to be a mage.

  I fell to my knees, laughing and crying as I hugged the paper to me. Merlin, my best friend, the other most important person in my life, had been blessed with the best of fortunes for a violet-eyed child. He would be given respect, he would be given honor…he would be able to turn someone into anything of his making.

  I knew all this to be true because, even before his training, it had taken but a name for him to do so for me.

  Bird’s Eye View

  By eighteen, I was turning heads. From a nondescript, quiet, friendless little girl, I had magically blossomed, like my purple anemone, into the kind of golden-haired lass who was always included in other girls’ parties and always asked to dance.

  I took to it very well.

  Although not a girl of much fortune, especially not compared to any of the wealthier village daughters, I was the only child of a miller, which meant steady, reliable work for any young man sensible enough to want it. Father often seemed anxious to marry me off, though I suspect he was simply looking for a fresh pair of ears around the house and a younger set of arms inside the mill.

  “Always be accepting of an invitation to a dance or party, Dear,” he instructed me, more than once.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I’ll not be wanting you to be staying behind on me own account, or any other.”

  “No, Father,”

  “I always be perfectly capable of taking care of meself.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Aye, Daughter, and with these two hands, I once be fighting off half a dozen pirates during me sailing days, like so.”

  Father lunged and parried an invisible sword in emphasis. I didn’t even look. I was darning holes in his socks and only knew he moved about from the creak of the floorboards. I also knew because this wasn’t the first time he told this story with the accompanying demonstration. He broke a chair the last time, so we now only had enough to welcome one guest at a time around the table. Not that we ever had much cause to
worry about that.

  “I remember, Father.”

  “Course, I be much younger then, but I still be taking care of meself all the same.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  I once thought of recording all of Father’s stories. I thought of taking notes and cross referencing them to prove it was near impossible for him to have done everything that he claimed. Not only because he hadn’t lived long enough, but also because his youth was too short to have fit it all in. I never bothered in the end, because picking up the pieces of Father’s lies would be more exhausting than trying to chase down the magical butterflies that had once exploded to life in my hands. Had I given more thought then to what even a little lie can do to the truth, I may have reconsidered.

  Father found his chair then puffed on his pipe a bit before sitting forward abruptly. “Now you be listening here, Daughter, this be very important.”

  “I’m listening, Father,” I replied dutifully.

  “Look up, look up, when I be speaking to you.”

  I raised my eyes to his, wanting to go back to my work, but his gaze held me. He wasn’t about to launch into one of his stories, he was being serious, serious for him at least.

  “You mustn’t be falling in love with a firstborn, understand?”

  “Why not, Father?”

  “Because them firstborns have them own inheritance, that be why,” Father explained. “I’ll be needing someone to leave the mill, and it won’t be a firstborn with land and worries of his own.”

  “I understand, Father.”

  “There be a good girl,” he said with a nod and firm puff of smoke.

  I laugh at the memory now. There’s so much in life that cannot be anticipated, no matter how fixed the course. There are so many promises that cannot be kept, no matter how noble the intentions. There are so many things that happen in defiance of all that’s planned, like marrying firstborns with land and worries of their own.