People forget: words matter. They forget that the simple shape of syllables and the rhythm of rhymes is the most elementary of magics.
In all fairness, itâs an easy enough fact to forget. Itâs not like the land is overflowing with magic. Not like in the old days.
Itâs especially true of the common phrases. Shaped on all kinds of lips, the same, basic idea is repeatedly breathed into existence. Like water dripping on a stone, the world is shaped for better or worse by the words with which we fill it.
Beyond a sleepy house on a far away farm, the sun spilled gently over the horizon.
âAre you still sleeping, Maise? You know the early bird catches the worm.â Sophie stood at the bottom of the rough, slightly crooked farmhouse staircase. Her hair was nearly the same color as the dusty orange dawn, and from her two thick braids, bits of yellow hay protruded. Hands on her hips, she tapped a muddy boot and waited expectantly for an answer.
âItâs the early bird catches the worm and the second mouse gets the cheese,â came the distant, grousing reply.
âCome on Maise, darling,â Sophie called. âIâve already milked the cows. But Iâll need help with the rest.â When this was followed by a dreary thump and muttered, shapeless cursing, Sophie smiled.
A woman appeared at the top of the staircase some moments later, stumbling and with a plaid sweater halfway dragged over her head. From the collar, wild, mousy brown hair emerged. And then red rimmed eyes and full lips puckered in a frown.
âItâs just not fair,â Maise grumbled, trudging down the stairs. âYou know I do my best work beneath the light of the moon.â As Maise spoke, she squinted in distaste at the sun glaring offensively through the window.
âYou work beneath the moonlight because youâre dramatic.â
âThat too, obviously,â Maise replied, and paused in her general slouching and trudging long enough to give her wife a peck on the cheek.
They left the farmhouse together, breaths fogging in the crisp air. Sophie rubbed her hands together and Maise tucked hers deep in her pant pockets as they marched across the dew damp soil.
âI have a feeling,â Sophie said, walking and shivering, âanother oneâs coming.â
âOne for you or for me?â
Sophieâs nose twitched and she frowned. âNot sure yet.â
As the two women crossed the mist drenched field, two parents sat in the kitchen of a silent, sleeping home. Hunched, and with expressions drawn in both exhaustion and grief, they looked at untouched mugs of coffee and considered what they should say when the children woke. The dog, a little beagle, had slipped through the front door, and the sleepy-eyed driver who didnât even notice when she darted into the road really hadnât stood a chance of stopping.
Eventually, the children did wake. And to those curious, confused eyes, one parent fumblingly said: âA farm. Thatâs right. Little Pepperâs gone to a lovely farm. With large fields where she can run all day and be happy.â
Hearts aching, the parents and children both wished desperately that it could be true.
Meanwhile, on that far away farm, Sophie shaded her eyes, squinting against the rising sun. âThere she is,â she murmured, pointing in the direction of the rough, slanted fence at the edge of their property.
âOne of mine,â Maise said, perking up.
Shoulder to shoulder, the two women watched the little golden beagle trot beneath the lowest plank in the fence. Itâs sharp tail was wagging in a slow, cautious joy as it approached.
Dropping to her knees, Maise held out her hands. Its wet nose bumped her fingers, sniffing for a careful moment before it fully committed and leaned forward, pressing itâs soft head into her hands.
âThere there,â Maise consoled.
Crouching down, Sophie looked the small dog over. The poor thing had clearly ended up in front of a car.
âIâll fix you up, little one. Yes I will,â Maise sang, and scooped the beagle up in her arms.
âI still can't believe your necromantic powers stretch so far off the property,â Sophie said, reaching out to give the dogâs head a little scratch. Then she traced her fingers along the collar, feeling for a tag.
âThey donât stretch much past the fence. Iâm telling you - my little ones end up here the same way yours do. They just appear. Out of thin air.â
Across the green, open fields of the farm, creatures of all sizes milled and played. Dogs, cats, rats, rabbits, horses and more. Overhead, a butter yellow domestic finch flitted through the air. It had been one of Sophieâs, and had arrived nearly a week prior, lost and sick (presumably having slipped out a window). Healing it had been an easy enough task for a cleric. And though it delighted in flying from one end of the farm to the other, it never left the boundaries set by the rickety fence. Sophie wasnât sure why the animals couldnât leave once they arrived, but whatever the rule was, it seemed to be an immutable one. Fortunately, even though none of the animals left, the farm never ran out of space. Some days, when Sophie squinted her eyes and peered through her lashes, it really did look as though those green fields went on forever.
âWell go on,â Maise said, hugging the dog to her chest. âWhatâs her name?â
Coming back to herself, Sophie turned the metal tag over in her fingers.
âPepper,â she said, smiling softly down at the beagle with its little wagging tail. âI get the feeling you were very loved.â
Cradling the well-loved beagle, the two women crossed the infinite field of well-loved creatures.
From the damp soil, the yellow finch plucked a fat squirming worm.
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