Story: Be a Helper (part three)

 

 

 

 

Be A Helper

(part three)

 

 

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Whimbrel tumbled from the roof of the shed he’d been turfing, a progress Bede did not want yet to observe at close quarters. Finch and Bunting glided from a high gable window, by the craft of their garments (cardigans otherwise, and double-ruffled pantaloons).

“No, I can’t have all of you,” Bede said. “Whimbrel, run tell Jorinda we’ll be in the woods, and soon back.”

Whimbrel took a step. He arrested himself with Finch and Bunting close on his heels; the collision caused a chicken munching houseleeks to fall from the shed roof, and catch on Bede’s hat. His cow, fenced next the path, came prying her horns at the rail.

Whimbrel took a mirror from a pocket.

“Won’t she need one of her own?” Finch said. “Or the mirror in the hall, but you’ll have to summon her, won’t you? How will you go about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I call out to her?”

“Because,” Bede said, “you can well do that from here. We are hardly out of earshot. More polite if you simply run, as I suggested.”

“Go! Go!” Finch, by Whimbrel’s sleeves, slung him to Bunting, who by his jacket flung him towards Jorinda’s workroom.

Jorinda was at the sill already. “What is it now?” She spied the turnip. “Wish it away, Gadwall!”

“I tried that. I’ve spent the goodwill, I suppose.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It’s got a purpose of its own,” Scoter said. “Whatever it’s good for, counts more than the good of getting rid of it.”

“Then I’ll second Bede, and hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

Bunting said, “We are all going to find Melchior.”

“But can’t you help me with the wool, love? You and Gadwall. Gadwall’s a wonder at carding.”

“I’ll sit at the wheel and Gadwall can hand me across,” Whimbrel said.

“None of you will spin. You have spun me bales of yarn, I can hardly manage… And Finch.”

With contrition, or a show of it, Finch answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

Jorinda, bless her, almost had relieved Bede of his entourage. Sprites could be drawn off to bunch at each other’s backs over any competing task. And like sweet cakes, Bede’s candy-colored wools delighted them.

Finch had wished this absurdity on his sheep.

 

 

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“But, Jorinda, you were telling me magenta won’t come true from the petals of a pink, and poppies can’t make red, and a daisy’s dear little button heart is not enough for a yellow…”

“Yes, and I was agreeing it was a shame…that we have only what we have, and wools can be only their blacks and browns, their greys and whites. I believe I nattered you a good tutorial on the dyeing with indigos, madders, and mosses, and never once wished for a thing.”

(The lambs were coming out the same colors as the ewes.)

“Will you put them back?” Jorinda had asked.

“She doesn’t want to,” Bunting said. “She loves them as they are.”

A sigh. “In my way, I do myself.”

“You see, then. Magic knows. But, Finch my darling, put one or two back, for Jorinda.”

 

O woolly friends, of bright-hued fleeces

Lest Spritecraft run amok

And bring ill-fates upon your nieces

 

“They have nieces, do they? Sheep?” Finch whispered to her mother.

“Nieces, nephews, cousins, no doubt.”

“Sons and daughters,” put in Whimbrel.

“But what rhymes with amok? Is it even a word?”

“Duck!”

The duck-sheep offended with its manners, could not speak the other ducks’ language, failed to swim, and lived now as a pet at Jorinda’s feet.

“But all to the good.” Bunting said now. “If they can’t be changed, it means the colors are a boon to someone. We’ll find out, won’t we?”

 

 

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Be a Helper

Be a Helper (part four)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2021, Stephanie Foster)