Excerpt

Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Matthew 5:4

Prereading:

1.  For what in our personal lives do we mourn?
2.  How are we blessed if we mourn?
3.  What comforts us?

“Dolly, sit in the corner, where it’s dark, so that no one will see you. Be sure to keep that headscarf on. Your hair is a dead giveaway,” her voice whined into a sigh.
“It would have been better if you hadn’t come.” The plump, gray-haired woman left the mortuary alcove shaking her head.

“Wait, Aunt Lottie.” Dolly saw her aunt wasn’t going to wait.

Dolly tucked all the white strands of hair out of sight under her scarf. She shook the closed umbrella to get the drops of rain off. The long walk from the Greyhound bus terminal to the mortuary saved her the price of a taxi but cost her wet feet.

She sat in the corner of the pew. She stretched forward and looked into the front section of the main room of the mortuary. She could see several flower arrangements, including the one ordered by her mother and her before she left Minneapolis for Chicago. She knew the card did not indicate who had sent the flowers.

Amongst the arrangements, she could see part of the casket and her father’s white hair. Tears welled up in her eyes as she dug around in her purse. She pulled out a wet tissue and wiped her eyes. “I feel like an outcast at my own father’s funeral. I’m thirty-five years old, and I’m treated like a child that shouldn’t be seen or heard,” she whispered to herself. It made the alcove feel less empty.

Hearing several voices, she went to the side of the doorway and peered around the corner. Groups of people, mostly women, stood near the casket. The oldest, a large woman with gray hair, sobbed, “Oh, I’m a widow. He has left me. My poor Charlie. How will I bear it?”

“Deborah, you have been separated for twenty-seven years. Don’t be so dramatic.” Aunt Lottie put her hand on her hip as she stared at her ex-sister-in-law. “You’re just going to miss his money.”

“How dare you, Lottie?” Deborah stepped closer to Lottie and returned her stare. “I loved Charlie. Of course he took care of me by paying me a monthly allotment, but that was his duty.”

“Well, some of us don’t see it that way. You got all you could from him. You could have gone to work. Well, ‘good time Charlie’ is gone. You aren’t getting anything more. I know because all he left was his life insurance. And I’m the beneficiary.”

“Aunt Lot, you’ve no call to talk to my mother that way. Besides, I am the beneficiary,” said a young woman holding Deborah’s arm.

“No, Angelica! Charlie told me he made me the beneficiary to pay me back for the nine months he lived with my family when he was out of work.”

“That was twenty-five years ago, Aunt Lottie. He changed it when I turned twenty-one. He said he paid you back many times over with all the money he has given you over the years. And don’t forget your son, Melvin. Dad helped Melvin out when he got into trouble in Las Vegas. Melvin never paid Dad back. Dad said I was to use the insurance money to pay for the funeral expenses, and any debts he had,” Dolly saw the young woman lift her chin as she enunciated, “that can be proved, and the rest I was to keep. It is only a fifty thousand dollar policy so there won’t be much left.”

“Angelica, that money is mine. All of it. He promised,” Aunt Lottie hissed.

“He changed the beneficiary to my name, Aunt Lottie. So get over it.”

Dolly saw Aunt Lottie grab the arms of her husband and son and stomp away from the group. She stuck her head around the corner to watch them go out the door of the mortuary chapel. She looked back and stared right into the startled eyes of the young woman Aunt Lottie called Angelica. She ducked back around the corner and found to her horror her scarf had slipped to her shoulders. She yanked it back on and returned to her seat in the dark corner.

Moments later the young woman stood in the archway of the alcove. “You’re Dolly, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Angelica, your half-sister.”

“I guessed as much. Dad talked about you. And the gray-haired lady is your mother, Deborah, right?”

“Yes. I knew the moment I saw your white hair, you had to be Dad’s daughter by his first marriage. You inherited his white hair; I, unfortunately, didn’t.” Angelica glanced around the alcove. “Is your mother here?”

“No. She wanted to come, but she knew Dad and Deborah never divorced, so she thought it might not be fitting. We sent a bouquet of red roses. The one without a card. I hope you don’t mind. Aunt Lottie said I was not wanted here, because your mother never recognized Dad’s first marriage.”
Dolly looked past Angelica to the casket. Her fingers twisted the strap of her purse.

“That’s the first thing I can agree with Aunt Lottie about. Oh, I don’t mind your being here, but my mother is high-strung and very old world. She would cause a scene, I’m sure.”

Dolly nervously tucked her hair deeper under her scarf. She slid farther over on the pew even though there was plenty of room for Angelica. Angelica’s voice seemed kind although sad and hesitant. Dolly felt hesitant, finally she said, “It’s hard for both of us; sisters meeting for the first time.”

“Aunt Lottie says your mother is possessive, domineering and generally obnoxious. She said your mother hates me and I shouldn’t have come. My grandmother was like that. She never liked Dad, so she forced Mom, who was only 17 at the time, to divorce him. He didn’t have a job, so Grams
thought he was a bum.”

Angelica sat next to Dolly. “Aunt Lottie is wrong about my mother. That description fits her more than my mom.” Dolly thought Angelica’s voice sounded defensive. She decided not to tell Angelica that their dad also said Deborah and his sister Lottie were cut from the same bolt of cloth.

She relaxed, as Angelica talked, “Mom never recognized the marriage because it was by a judge and not in the church. That is very important to her. She wanted that part of Dad’s life forgotten. However, he told me about you, and that he went to visit you every summer for his vacation.”

“Yes. Sometimes he brought Aunt Lot, but not often. She kind of took over. One summer they came when Mom and I were canning our garden tomatoes. Aunt Lot dove right in and helped, but she also took all of it home with her–36 jars of tomatoes, peaches and pears. We didn’t have any
fruit all winter. We laugh about it now.”

“That certainly sounds like Aunt Lottie,” Angelica chuckled

“Dad told me what happened to your wedding present.”

“Nothing happened,” said Dolly. “He had Bob and me pick out a TV.”

“Dad said that Aunt Lot and he were driving to Minneapolis, and when they stopped for gas she asked to see his wedding present to you. He showed her a very expense bottle of perfume. She said that was not appropriate and put it in her suitcase.” Angelica looked at the floor. “He
never saw it again.”

Dolly nodded her head in understanding. “That must be why he took Bob and me to a fancy furniture store and told us to pick out anything we wanted. We chose a television set for a hundred-and-eighty dollars. Dad kept trying to get us to choose something more expensive. I thought he was disappointed when we insisted on an inexpensive TV. He probably wanted to show Aunt Lottie how much more he spent on the gift in comparison to a bottle of perfume. That sounds like Dad and Aunt Lot.” Dolly smiled.

“Yes, it does. In a way you were lucky to live in a different city than Dad and Aunt Lot. I’ve listened to more arguments than I care to think about. And, my mother and Aunt Lot fight like cats and dogs all the time.” Angelica shook her head and chuckled. “Some of it is pretty funny
when you think about it. I didn’t say this out there, but Dad told me that the money left from the insurance, I was to split with you.”

Dolly blinked hard several times as she leaned back against the pew. She had envied Angelica’s close relationship with their dad. Knowing he wanted to leave her something to share with Angelica took the edge off her feelings of rejection.

Angelica took a picture from her purse. “I want you to have this. I was going to send it to you.It is a picture of my husband, our three children and me. I thought you might want it.”

“Yes, thank you.” Dolly slipped the picture into her purse after she glanced at it. The smiling faces of strangers who had been closer to her dad than she had been made the ache sharper.

“I better get back to my family. Will you be coming out to the cemetery?” Angelica asked.

“Yes, I’ll be in Aunt Lottie’s car. I’ll try to stay out of sight, towards the back.”

“Thank you. My mother would say something unkind if she saw you, as your white hair identifies you.” Angelica smiled as she left the alcove.

Dolly listened to the pastor’s talk about the beatitude, ‘Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted.’ He finished his sermon by saying, “People mourn over lost jobs, relationships, and a loss in death, but God sends comfort to all who call upon Him.”

She wondered if Aunt Lottie and Deborah thought comfort should be money. She certainly didn’t feel comforted. She felt like an outcast. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She shivered. The empty, dark alcove made her feel buried and forgotten.

After the casket was wheeled out to the hearse, she kept to the back of the crowd and slipped into Aunt Lottie’s car at the last minute.

At the gravesite, Deborah, Angelica, Aunt Lottie, and Cousin Melvin sat on folding chairs near the casket. Dolly stood in the third row from the casket and held the umbrella close.

When the mourners were starting to leave, Deborah and Angelica each took a rose from the bouquet that said Beloved Husband and Father and placed it on the top of the casket. Then Angelica took two roses from the bouquet that did not have a card and placed them on the casket.

“Why did you do that?” asked Deborah.

“I thought a couple extra roses would be nice,” said Angelica.

Dolly saw Angelica glance at her and smile as she walked off with her mother.

Dolly approached Aunt Lottie, “I don’t think I will stay overnight. Will you give me a ride back to the bus depot, and I’ll take the late bus home?”

“Well, that sounds sensible. I don’t know why you came anyway. You only saw Charlie once a year. I’ve been on pins and needles the whole time. Hurry up and get in the car. I’m getting drenched.”

“Melvin, you didn’t pay Charlie back that money he lent you. You need to pay me. I’m his sister. If I don’t get the insurance money, I should at least get the loan money.”

“Mom, I owed it to Uncle Charlie, not you. Now that he is gone, I don’t owe it to anyone.”

Aunt Lottie and Melvin argued all the way to the bus depot. Uncle Bill nodded his head and said uh ha to everything said by his wife or his son. Dolly sighed with relief when he stopped the car at the depot’s entrance.

Uncle Bill said good-bye, but Aunt Lottie and Cousin Melvin continued arguing and did not hear her as she got out of the car.

Passengers were boarding the bus to Minneapolis. Dolly found a place to sit in the back. The rain beat against the window as the bus left the terminal. Soon they were out of the city, and darkness settled in. Dolly felt the outside world had ceased to exist. All that was left were the strangers on the bus. The loneliness and sadness again brought the tears down her cheeks. She yanked a tissue from her purse. The picture Angelica gave her fell on to her lap. On the back of the picture were the names of each person and Angelica’s address. Dolly turned the picture over and smiled. I lost a father, but I gained a sister, a brother-in-law, two nephews and a niece. I think this is God’s comfort to me.  The tears stopped, and Dolly felt peace and comfort in her heart once again.

Post Reading:

1. Can you add anything to your answers in Prereading questions?
2. List people or things you have mourned or are now mourning and list the comforts you received.
3. How can we be a comfort to others in mourning? Are we then a blessing?
4. Is it easy to see comfort while we are mourning? If not, are there ways we can try to recognize the blessings?
5. Rewrite the beatitude in your own words.

Read more about Beatitudes For Today? Really? and Patricia Stinson HERE.

Copyright 2010 Patricia Stinson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Rom met Yldich on a trip to the North when he was almost twenty years old. He was a slender young man, with hair the colour of crow feathers, and eyes that were almost as dark. He had a temper on him that was like an underground forest fire. It could smoulder undetected for a long time, and consume him from the inside, but a well-aimed spark and sufficient fuel could ignite it and make it blaze like a bonfire.
At an age when most young men had already put down roots and were tending their fields and holding, their young wives raising their first babies, Rom travelled the country alone, buying and selling goods. To the northeast he went in spring, selling precious dyes, spices, silk thread for embroidery, silver needles, buttons of mother of pearl and any other things that were rare to the people of the northeast. Back to the South he travelled in autumn, to stay in the old cottage and buy goods from local farms and holds to sell next spring.
When people from the village started to say Rom should stay on the farm and get married like any honourable young man his age, he ignored them. When people said he was a strange one, always had been, and no good would ever come of him, he ignored that, too. When a migrant farm worker who had sampled a lot of strong local ale one night in the inn referred to him as ‘that shady Tzanatzi-looking bastard in the corner there’, he did not ignore it, and the man ended up with a broken nose and a lost tooth. Rom ended up in the village lockup. It had needed two town guards and a wrathful innkeeper to subdue him.

When the after-effects of the alcohol and a thorough beating had worn off and he regained consciousness, he found himself in an uncomfortable situation. Not only did the numerous hurts and aches vie with each other to get his attention, he also had to find a means to pay both the substantial fine for fighting in a public place as well as the furniture and goods the innkeeper claimed had been damaged in the process. The list included three chairs, a table, ten bottles of wine, two bottles of brandy, a keg of beer, the farmhand’s tunic and some other assorted items Rom couldn’t remember breaking. But then, he had been reasonably drunk. Apart from that, to contest the fine would mean demanding justice at Court. He had no taste for that. It was common knowledge that Southern judges did not favour Tzanatzi in their rulings. But it meant a substantial portion of his earnings from the trip to the northeast were lost. He would have to set out again as soon as possible, to earn back some of the damage. It would mean travelling in autumn, when the winter snows threatened from the North, instead of waiting for spring in the comfort of the old cottage.

He set out a few days later, on horseback, leading a pony laden with merchandise and supplies for his journey. His ribs were still sore, but the cuts on his face were healing nicely.
The first days of his journey were uneventful. The nights were still warm, so he slept beside his horse, wrapped in his blanket. When the evening air became edged with a chill that hinted at the end of summer, he decided to seek a place indoors to stay the night.
The first wayside inn he stayed in was The Squealing Pig. It had a bad reputation as far as food and hygiene were concerned, but it was a good place to start a journey, for lodgings were cheap and as the inn was frequented by both locals and travellers from all over the kingdom, it was a good place to sample the local news. Though Rom was not one to chat with locals, his face was familiar to most frequent lodgers as he had travelled the same route before. So they treated him fairly enough, though they knew better than to try to get him to socialize.
It was down in the common room that evening, while Rom washed down a somewhat dry meat pie with a mug of home brew, that he was warned off the journey north. Not as many people stayed at the inn as was usual that time of year, and a big, ginger-haired traveller in his early forties was obviously looking around for some company. Rom ignored him, but the man took a seat at the same table, across from him.
Unfortunately, as there were no other diners present, he could not pretend the man was not there without insulting him. The incident of the previous week still fresh in his memory, he nodded stiffly. He silently hoped the man would be put off by his grim appearance, the yellow-purple discoloration around his left eye, and the healing cuts, visible remnants of being in a fight. The man seemed to take no notice, however, and introduced himself as Yldich. He spoke with a subtle accent Rom had never heard before.
Yldich did not seem to mind Rom’s monosyllabic answers to his questions where he was from (‘south,’) and where he was going (‘north,’) either, as he had enough tales of his own to fuel the conversation. He told Rom about his travels, his home, and his experiences on the road, evidently enjoying talking and hearing the sound of his own voice. Despite his tendency to keep to himself, Rom found he actually enjoyed the man’s tales. He gave a silent, encouraging nod every once in a while to keep a story going.
Yldich had signalled the serving boy to refill their beer mugs for the third time, when he said: ‘Well. This business of yours up north, will it take you through Gardeth Forest?’ Rom’s head snapped up. He glanced sharply at Yldich. ‘I thought as much,’ Yldich said. ‘You haven’t heard about the trouble people have had up there then?’
‘I usually go around, because my business is with the villages near the east coast.’ Rom turned his mug around in his hands and frowned at his beer. ‘I’ve never gone through the Forest all the way.’
‘Better go around again,’ Yldich said in a low voice. His eyes narrowed under his heavy brows. ‘I’ve barely been able to get through in one piece myself, this time. And I know the region well. Something’s haunting the Forest, something that doesn’t like people passing through.’
He set his mug down on the table with an audible thump, and sat back in his chair. ‘It started about ten years ago. Well, the Forests have always been dangerous for the unwary to cross, especially in winter. Frozen branches crashing across the paths, horses getting spooked and running off, ropes breaking on you for no apparent reason. Treacherous frozen lakes appear where there hadn’t been any before. But last winter it got really bad.’
He leaned over his mug, and fixed Rom with a stare, his grey eyes like ice under an overcast sky. ‘Travellers have been disappearing. Their bodies were found at the Forest’s edge, frozen solid. They looked as if they died in terror.’ He took another draught of beer. ‘Now, some say the Forests have been getting worse because they’ve been stirring up trouble in the mines in the South. Disturbing some sort of balance, something to do with dark spirits or whatnot.’ He shook his head and sat back. ‘I’m just a simple farmer, I don’t have anything to do with that sort of thing. But you mark my words, young man, be careful, or better still, don’t be passing through the Forest at all.’
Privately Rom thought Yldich might be a farmer, but whatever he was, he wasn’t simple. He wondered also if there could be a specific reason the man wanted to discourage him from travelling through Gardeth, other than warning mere strangers from the goodness of his heart. But he couldn’t think of any.
‘I’ve got no choice but to pass through the Forest,’ he said. ‘It’s already late in the year, and I can’t afford to waste any more time.’ Yldich shook his head in disapproval. He looked concerned, but he did not press the matter further.
‘Well, you do as you see fit, lad.’ He got up and left a small pile of coins on the table to pay for the beer. ‘Sleep well, now.’
‘Good night.’ Rom watched Yldich leave. He moved surprisingly graciously for a man of his heavy build.
While Yldich had a short talk with the landlord before he went up the stairs, Rom stared at the worn tabletop, lost in thought. Maybe Yldich was trying to warn him off the journey through Gardeth not because of supernatural danger, but a natural one. Rebels? Robbers? But what would be his motive to dissuade him from passing through? Rebels would not take offence at a lone traveller passing through. Robbers would welcome the chance of an easy prey. But if the Forests were home to any kind of illegal activity, why would Yldich not just say so? Why the ghost-stories? It made no sense. Unless the man was the gullible, superstitious kind, and he didn’t seem to be, not at all.
When he was finally in his bed, he mentally went over his supplies again. He thought of the small but sharp knife he always had with him on his journeys. It could cut through tough ropes, leather, roots and the like, but it would not be of much use against robbers.
Despite Yldich’s warnings, he decided to go directly north and pass through the Forest as quickly as possible. That way he might avoid the worst of the winter weather.

The next morning, after a quick and simple breakfast of stale bread and hot soup, Rom went outside to pack. He was checking on the ropes and leather harness when he heard a short, deliberate cough behind him. He turned around sharply. Yldich carefully stood just a few paces behind him. He grinned through his trimmed rusty beard.
‘Good morning to you,’ he called. ‘Still set on going north?’
‘Yes,’ Rom said. He wondered what would be next.
‘That’s just as well. I’ve decided to go visit my relatives in Hernicke. It’s just on the other side of the Forest. I will accompany you.’

Rom felt singularly ill at ease riding through the southern fringes of Gardeth Forest with his new travelling companion. He was not used to having company on the road. In fact, he wasn’t used to any kind of company at any time. From a young age he had always taken care to go about his business alone.
Yldich did not seem to share his discomfort. He was humming under his breath, looking around with his bright grey eyes. There was no beginning or end to the cheery tunes, just endless meandering notes.
The older man apparently knew the Forest well. On his journeys to the northeast, Rom had always taken care to follow the well-trodden paths used by farmers and goat herders. But Yldich had chosen a route that took the men straight through the Forest, and ignored the existing paths and trails altogether. What means he had of knowing the way through the trees, which looked all the same to him, Rom could not discern. He seemed to find his way through the foothills and trees effortlessly.
The cheerfulness of the humming contrasted with the sharp vigilance with which Yldich took in his surroundings. Was he on the lookout for signs of trouble? Rom’s eyes flitted across the path, but he could discover none. The forest floor looked undisturbed; there were no signs that anyone had camped along the trail recently. He was also concerned about Yldich’s motives for travelling with him. First, the man wanted to dissuade him from going north. Then he had insisted on going too. Somehow Rom had been unable to shake him off. He was like a big, stray dog that followed him around and wouldn’t go away. Suddenly his mouth pulled in a wry smile. It was the other way around: he was following the dog’s lead.
Every once in a while, Yldich pointed out something to him: a lizard basking in the sun, almost invisible against the background because of its bizarre camouflage patterning, a small group of deer in the distance, that threw back their heads and sniffed the morning air, a beautiful large hunting cat that moved noiselessly through the underbrush. Rom wondered at the abundance of life around him. It had never been so apparent to him before. Had it always been there but had he never seen it? In contrast to his stream of talk the evening before in The Squealing Pig, Yldich was silent except for his humming and occasional remarks.

When the sun was sinking behind the tall trees, they stopped to make camp in a small clearing. Rom gathered some dry grass and twigs to start a small fire. He had some trouble getting it going. Yldich had seen to the horses and had gone, probably to relieve himself. Rom was busy with the fire for a long time, frowning and concentrating. It was already getting dark.
Just as it caught and he had a small blaze going, he heard the snap of a twig behind him. Without thinking, he threw himself forward and whirled around on the forest floor, putting the fire between him and whatever was behind him. He fumbled for the knife in his belt. He had it out, ready to strike, when he recognized Yldich, who stood there with a dead rabbit hanging from his belt. Yldich lifted an eyebrow at the sight of the sharp knife pointed at him.
‘Caught us some supper,’ he said. He sat down and proceeded to skin the rabbit with his belt knife. Rom released a breath and got up slowly. He put the knife away and started to feed the fire little twigs. Every once in a while he threw a glance at Yldich. The man deftly pulled the furry skin off the rabbit, taking care not to tear it and spoil it. His face was expressionless.
When the rabbit was roasting on a makeshift spit, Rom said: ‘How did you catch the rabbit?’ Yldich grinned.
‘I called him.’
‘What?’ Rom blinked at the man, as if he doubted he’d heard him right.
‘I called him. He was ready. He came. I caught him.’ Rom raised his brows in incredulity.
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ Yldich said softly. ‘I would have preferred not to take his life. But we have to be careful of our supplies, we have a long road ahead of us. Bad weather’s coming.’
Rom stared at him. The sky had been clear all day. He wondered once more just what kind of man he was travelling with. Was he merely an eccentric, was he mad, was he dangerous? Would he be killed in his sleep tonight?
When they had eaten, Yldich stretched his heavy limbs and sighed. He arranged his blanket around his large frame moving slowly and carefully, as if he was aware of the younger man’s misgivings.
‘Have you ever heard the tale of Rabbit and the king of the Pixies?’ he said. Rom gazed at him through the fire. He shook his head.

‘One day, Rabbit was running from his enemies. He was making his way through the Forest, chased by teeth, nails and fangs, and because he had no means to defend himself, all he could do was run. It was dusk, that magical time between night and day, and he was still running, and getting really tired when he crossed the border of the land of the Pixies.
As it happens, the King of the Pixies was having a Feast. All the woodland folk were there: beautiful deer with antlers, adorned with field flowers, field mice with little gems tucked behind their ears, and lots of Pixies having a good time.
“Welcome,” said the King of the Pixies. He was the most magnificent of all creatures present. His coat was studded with precious stones and he had a wreath of delicate night-blooming flowers in his hair. His eyes were as bright as peacock feathers. He looked at Rabbit, who was still panting from being chased through the Forest all day and all night. “Well met, young man,” he said, and belched discreetly behind his hand, for he was slightly tipsy from the elderberry wine. “Please join us in our merry-making, and know that if your heart desires anything tonight, you shall have it.” Being slightly drunk made him generous.
Rabbit thought for a while. He was really tired of being chased. He said: “Your Magnificence, if it’s not too much trouble…”
“Not at all,” the King of the Pixies said without hearing him out. “Tell us what you would have, and I will see to it that it shall be so.”
“I would like to be safe from my enemies,” Rabbit said. “I would like to have a coat of armour, and sharp teeth to defend myself with, and sharp nails to hurt my enemies with.”
“Eh?” The King said, being temporarily distracted by an attractive pixy lady passing by. “Very well,” he said. “Let it be so!” He waved his hand, and spoke a secret spell. And in no time at all, Rabbit was transformed.
Rabbit felt it instantly. For one thing, he was much taller than he used to be. He was heavier too. His hide was thick with scales, from the tip of his nose to the tip of his little tail. His claws had grown to the length of small daggers, and they were very sharp. His teeth had grown into fangs. Rabbit was very pleased.
“Now no-one will bother me ever again,” he thought. “Now I will be safe from my enemies.” He thanked the King of the Pixies extensively, and went on his way again.
He strode through the Forest, feeling big and strong. A large forest cat had followed his rabbit-smell to the border of the land of the woodland Pixies. When Rabbit came out, she picked up his trail again.
“Ah,” she thought, “here’s that little bunny-smell again. I’ll have a feast tonight.” Then she bumped into Rabbit’s transformed self. Her yellow eyes went wide. She screeched, and all the hair on her back stood on end. She turned her tail on Rabbit as quick as she could. It was three times the size it had been. And that was the last he saw of her.
Rabbit was very satisfied with the effect of his transformation. He walked home, much at ease and taking his time. Who would bother him now? He hummed as he approached the rabbit hole were he lived with his wife and children.
“I’m home, dear,” he sang, but there was something odd about his voice. “Must be my improved girth,” Rabbit thought. Mrs. Rabbit came out, with the little rabbit-children behind her. Their eyes went wide when they saw Rabbit standing there, with his scales, his fangs, and his nails. “I’m back, my love,” Rabbit began. “And you wouldn’t believe what happened,” but before he could finish his sentence, Mrs. Rabbit whacked him on the head with a large stick. The little rabbits shrieked and fled down the hole.
“Get away from us, you monster!” Mrs. Rabbit used the stick in an honest attempt to bash his head in.
“No, no, wait, it’s me, let me explain!” Rabbit tried to shield his head from the resounding blows. Mrs. Rabbit had a good aim. But the words came out all slurred around the heavy fangs that now occupied his mouth and he didn’t recognize his own voice.
“Get you gone,” Mrs. Rabbit cried, and after one more painful blow, Rabbit fled.
He walked through the Forest, feeling wretched and alone. After a time, he became hungry. He thought: “I’ll feel better when I’ve had a bite to eat. Then I’ll go back to my wife, and explain it all,” and he went searching for something to eat. He tried to nibble the grass, but his fangs got in the way. He tried to dig out some roots, but he hurt himself with his long, sharp nails. He tried for a long time to find something he could eat, but it was no use. After a while, he became thirsty.
“I’ll have some water, first,” he said to himself, and he went to the edge of a small forest lake. He was so tired and hungry, he dropped to the ground at the water’s edge, as he moved his head to the water. But he was not used to the heavy bulk of his armoured body, and he toppled over. Rabbit fell into the water, and he couldn’t swim, not with the long nails and the heavy scales on his body…so he sank, and the water closed above his head, and that was the end of Rabbit and the gift of the King of the Woodland Pixies.’

Read more about Curse of the Tahiéra and Wendy Gillissen HERE.

Copyright 2008 Wendy Gillissen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.