A familiar fox arrives, the rose behind its left ear bobbing as it bows its head to you, then takes a missive from the bag at its side.

You take the letter, and begin to read...

Friends! Romans! Countrymen! Lend me your... *checks notes* eyes!

In personal news...

Something (probably the Great Groundhog who prowls our neighborhood. Seriously. He took out a maple sapling.) has eaten our magic lilies... aka, surprise lilies, aka, naked ladies (And WHY does one insignificant object have so many regional names? I love it, yet I hate it. This will be something I'll include in my next book.) I am now officially on the warpath. Watch out, Puxatawney Phil... I am coming for you. One way, or the other.

I am also cataloguing my personal library (for insurance reasons, should the tornadoes flatten my home, AND organizational reasons, so I don't duplicate unintentionally.) I have many more books I haven't read than I used to, a fact I am now making a deliberate goal to remedy.

My current project, Weep No More, has now hit 75,000 words and approximately 2/3 of the tale, which bodes well for my estimated 90,000-word goal. I'll probably need to cut a decent chunk in editing... Oh, well. Draft first, worry about it later.

What I’ve Been Reading:

​Freya and Zoose, an excellently-illustrated and interesting Arctic adventure. The foray into religion was inconclusive and thus, slightly unsatisfactory; but the overall story was one that was very interesting to those with interest in ballooning, exploration, and animals.

​The Big Bad Wolf Murder was a neat middle-grade mystery with a decent twist on a retelling. I didn't like the social-justice undercurrent in the narrative, but it didn't detract from the story; it was there for a reason that made sense in the story, and I was okay with it for that reason. Not my favorite but not the worst.

I reread The Blossoming Summer with my family; I still enjoyed it this time 'round.

... And I tried The Princess Swap, book 1. The concept is good. The story wasn't too bad, either. But the execution left something to be desired in the beginning. It got better as it went along, but must you mention that she had a glass leg six times in the space of three pages straight out the shot? Past that, it improved greatly. Excellent themes of forgiveness.

Some Funny Stuff:

Snippets/Stories to Share:

This space was occupied, for some time, by a series of stories based on Havok Magazine's themes of the month.

This year at Havok, the annual theme is Encore! Each month, they'll review one past season and accept new submissions for those old stories. Season Two, Stories that Sing, was one I really wanted to participate in... but found out about far too late. So, I've taken the liberty of summing it up for you: Stories that Sing was all stories based on songs. So I'm doing stories like that All. Year. Long. The title of the song is clickable to the song the story's based on. I don't listen to songs with language in them, that I know of, and I'll search for clean versions if for some reason I've never understood the lyrics and have been by accident.

I'm sorry in advance, but also... not that sorry. If you have suggestions for songs, email me back and you might get to see one you love!

And now, for your perusal: Hedgerow. (Andrew, if you see this, I can't decide. So I'm using them all at different times.)

~~~

Just beyond the hedgerow. That’s where you’ll find me, should I be free again.

I shiver as I set the bucket on the well’s edge, pulling my cloak closer about me as the autumn breeze whirls, carrying with it his whisper on the winds of my memory.

It’s been too long since we last saw one another; and I give a bitter laugh, knowing that some my age would do just about anything to be free of a sibling who would tease them about who they liked, or how they decided to show off. Me, I still find myself feeling empty, though I never got to know him that well. It’ll be sixteen years since They stole him away, soon.

They all say he’s dead, but I know better. It was only the changeling boy that died five winters ago. Nearly six, now, I add as an afterthought, with a glance at the frost on the grass. My true brother has been kept by the faeren since his birth. Ever since Da, in a moment of too much liquor and not enough thought, as good as gave him to the Little Folk. The wrong words in the wrong times, Granny always warned us, and so it came about.

Ma nor Da noticed the switch; just that Timothy became more colicky. Too weak, too sick, and rather ill-tempered atop it all. But I noticed that his eyes were wrong, and when I asked Granny, she shook her head.

“Ye’ve the second-sight,” she sighed. “And your fool of a father has lost his son.”

“What can I do to get Timothy back?” I asked, bold and all-too-convinced of my capability.

“Nothin’,” she said. “They’ve taken him, and there’s naught you can do.” I’d drooped, and she added at last, “At least… not until he comes of age. If anything can be done, it’ll only be then. Though I’ve no idea what that would be.” She smiled at me sadly, then, and I still think of her smile, pained and wan, though she’s now buried next to the changeling-boy in the churchyard.

I didn’t call him Timothy; none of us did for long. Da soon referred to him as ‘that boy’, and Ma as ‘her sweet boy’, even though she had a crease between her eyes when she said it. I called him Twain, and I think he understood. He never did speak much, but we took care of each other in our own ways. It wasn’t his fault he was traded away— and as I knew exactly what he was, and did not blame him, he would follow me about as I gathered water, firewood, and did my share of the fieldwork. I would sing, and he liked to hear it. I only hoped that they’d be as kind to poor Timothy, and so when Twain died, I was perhaps the one who mourned most.

I miss him, though I miss Timothy more. I wonder, sometimes, if his faeren parents miss him at all. Even if they did, there was no way to tell them he’d died. So I lay forget-me-nots on his gravestone, as well as Granny’s, every so often. I don’t think she’d mind.

I take up my bucket and trudge back home, the rough handle reminding me that the here-and-now concerns me, as well as what’s past. Here and now, (since Twain died) I find hints, hear whispers, see visions. Bright-eyed lass, though always daydreamin’, Ma says, and Da knows something’s a little amiss with me, too. Neither try and stop me, though, and for that mercy, I’m grateful.

I first saw him on the edge of our property, just on the other side of the hedgerow, the last warning before the Wildwood. He was pale, as though he’d spent far too long underground, and he sat underneath the trees in slapdash garb made of leaves, spiderweb, moss, moleskin— the sort of thing that, at first, made me think he was one of Them. I’d frozen, hand outstretched for the fallen branch I’d strayed a little too far to grab, and prayed he hadn’t seen me.

But he turned his head, eyes wide with alarm, and I saw it then; the same eyes of hazel I had. Perhaps a little brighter, a little wilder— but they weren’t the silver eyes of the Faerie. They were the eyes of a guilty child, surprised in the act of some harmless rebellion.

We stared at one another for a few minutes, then I slowly grabbed the branch and pulled it the rest of the way to our side, dropped upon it my handkerchief, and pushed it back through.

He didn’t move, every muscle tense like a startled rabbit before it runs, and I crouched down, gathering twigs as I waited, tears brimming I was determined not to shed. Tears, I know, they see as weakness, a call to prey.

After a few minutes, he shifted, and the squirrel that’d been in his lap dashed away. His eyes never left the handkerchief, and I gave a quiet cough at last.

“I knew a boy with your eyes,” I murmur.

He didn’t respond, but his eyes flicked to me.

“If it won’t get you in trouble, you can have it.” I nodded to the handkerchief. “I honor the Faeren with a gift.”

Understanding bloomed in his eyes; I would not betray him, would not bargain, would not pursue. Though it killed me, I turned away and left, then. He was well, and that was all I could hope for, all I could hold dear.

I returned to the hedgerow more often after that, though not too often. Finding excuses to do so was the hardest part. The goat had gotten out (both with, and without, a little assistance). The firewood was damp elsewhere. I found berries growing there. I was getting supplies for the apothecary, who was eager for my unexpected interest in the healing arts.

I wasn’t afraid; for the worst, in my opinion, had already happened. They were honor-bound to keep changelings safe, as part of the bargain. It was only their definition of ‘safe’ that was in doubt, and as he was alive…

I could gladly risk myself to let him know, in however small a fashion, that there was family who hadn’t chosen to trade him away. That there were some of us who remembered him. If They found out and their wrath was kindled, it would fall wholly on me. I would happily risk all just so that he’d know me, at least a little.

Occasionally, he would be there, and he and I would spend some time in silence together. No words seemed to be needed, as with Twain.

Nor was he my only otherworldly visitor; Granny came to me in dreams, fractured pieces of memory that became conversations we’d never had, but that I knew to be true.

“Keep your Christian name to yourself, and use his only when there’s need,” she’d say one night. “Faeren have much power, but the power of humans is stronger, though oft forgot.”

“What power, Gran?”

She only smiled that sad, wan smile, and I awoke, crying out for her.

The next time I found an excuse to dally in the hedgerow, Timothy was waiting for me, just on his side of the growth. I was put in mind of a fox I’d half-tamed when I was younger; he was impatient, eager— but there was still a wall between us.

“I’m to marry their princess,” he said, the first full sentence he said to me. “On All Hallow’s Eve.”

I stared at him, stomach knotting.

“I won’t be able to come back after.”

I had to bite my cheek to keep my tears back. “Do you want to?”

“It’s an honor few get,” he said, as though he didn’t hear me. “Most changelings don’t last this long. But with human blood in her line, our descendents would be stronger.”

“Does she love you?”

He snorted, giving a twisted smile— his laugh lines reminded me of Da’s. “Love does not matter.”

“If you will be happy, then I wish you well.” I twist my hands in my apron, unable to meet his gaze.

“You’re my blood-kin, aren’t you?”

I look back up at him. His earnest gaze, and my heart spasms. “I think so.”

“I am allowed to invite one of you. Will you come?”

I nod, and he reaches in to cup my chin, and I can feel his pulse, thready and quick.

“You came to look for me. You treated my double well. I would have you leave my celebration laden with gifts.” His voice shakes, and I reach out and put my hands on his shoulders, the lump in my throat growing.

“What can I do to free you?”

He shakes his head. “There is nothing.”

“I want you to be able to choose.” I tighten my grip, for only a second, then I let go as he does.

“What were you, to me?” he asks, taking a step backwards.

“I… I am your elder sister.”

Something shoots through his gaze, desire and pain, and he turns away. “I will send word if I cannot come again. But if you should seek me… look just beyond the hedgerow. That’s where you’ll find me, should I be free again.”

I haven’t seen him since. It’s been three months and a little more… and All Hallow’s Eve fast approaches.

I seat myself outside the door to remove my shoes, and close my eyes. I wish that I was good enough, or strong enough, or wise enough, to solve this.

“You are the elder sister?”

I open my eyes to see a badger, forepaws folded neatly, standing upright before me, and a chill runs down my spine like water.

“I am.”

It nods. “I am sent to give you an invitation to a most glorious event. The royal wedding.”

I open my mouth, but cannot find any way to reply. It fishes in a bag at its side, unheeding, and pulls out a gilt envelope, which it proffers. “As a word of advice,” it continues, in a less formal tone, “You would do well to bring a gift. Each guest receives much, but it is in poor taste to arrive without one.”

“Who are you talking to?” Ma calls out, and the badger glances at the house, then back at me.

“I…” I look down at the envelope. “I don’t have anything precious enough.”

“Any gift will do,” the beast says gently. “Us speaking beasts don’t have much, either, but we bring what we can. The poor of your kind aren’t much better off, and I can’t fathom how they allowed him to invite you.”

Hot tears spring to my eyes, and he tsks. “You’ll have to be careful about that weeping business. ‘Tisn’t safe for you at this sort of thing.”

“I know,” I say softly, still not daring to open the envelope.

“If you come,” the badger says, turning on his heel, “Look for me; I’ll save you a seat. We whitestripes are considered good luck, you know.”

“Thank you,” I rasp, as he hurries away on all fours. I would say I’d imagined the whole thing, except for the weighty envelope in my hand which tells me this is very much real.

Ma’s voice comes closer, and I tuck the envelope under my cloak. “Is there someone we should invite in?” She glances about, and I shake my head, embarrassed.

“No one, Ma.”

~~~

(Next part to come next month! It’ll be still relating to this song, but I’ll throw in another for a twist.)

Something Cool to Me:

I found a decent recipe for zucchini fritters, since a friend has come into an abundance of zucchini. If you, too, suffer from the excess of your garden-variety squash... I've got you covered.

I was also pleased to have a few free hours to join in a silly, fun, clean fairytales event... with a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure styled fairytale. If you want to play... you can do so here!

Closing thoughts:

​The parable of the servant who refuses to forgive, even though he's been forgiven much, serves as a lesson on how we should treat our fellow men.

But it's not that we are forgetful of the grace we have been shown, which makes us unwilling to forgive, as much as we are desperate to make up our own lack, or so I've perceived it. The parable comes in context of Peter, asking how many times he has to forgive the nitwit next to him that sins against him. Peter's desperate to check off the box, to do the right thing... but just enough of the right thing. He wants to do it, but he doesn't want to be taken advantage of as a patsy. He wants to know when he can tell that guy to stop it and go soak his head.

Jesus is examining Peter's heart, and ours, and tells the story of the servant to illustrate that we should forgive not with a grudging spirit, but with the heart of one who is filled with joy at our own forgiveness. Forgiveness is hard, but not something that should be either ignored, or replaced with a resentful rote.

If you can't forgive because you want to, you can give your best effort because the One who loves you wants you to, as Corrie Ten Boom tells about. For those of you who know little about the lady, she was a clockmaker's daughter who helped hide and smuggle Jewish people in WWII. She and her family were placed in a concentration camp, because they were caught and branded sympathizers.

There was a particularly cruel guard, one who was responsible for much of her sister's suffering (which led to her death), who she encountered, years later, when telling her story, and of how God used that part of her life. He didn't recognize her... but he did know he worked at the camp she suffered in, and asked for her forgiveness.

She knew him, and did not want to forgive him, but after she'd just spoken of God, how could she turn him away? It would reflect poorly on the Savior, after all her words at the podium, if she were to act as though His commands meant nothing. So she prayed that she might be able to shake the ex-guard's hand, and she was given the strength and grace to do so: and in that moment, she found she did forgive him.

If we believe yet struggle, He will help our unbelief. If we love Him, He gives us the strength to love others. We're not here to check a box or prove a point... we're here to live, to love, and it involves forgiveness.

The fox bows again, and as it turns to leave, cocks its head.

"Shall I take a message in return?"