From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were--I have not seen
As others saw--I could not bring
My passions from a commonspring--
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow--I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone--
All I lov’d--I lov’d alone...
~Edgar Allen Poe
It’s cold...very cold...the thin white dress I’m wearing does nothing against the morning chill. I’m in a circle of stones, the dawn’s rosy fingers turning everything pink and gold. But the beauty has no effect on me, for after all, I’m only two or three years old at best. All I remember is sleep, hazy faces that no longer have names...and I do the only thing I can. I cry.
It seems like forever before someone finds me, but it’s probably just a few minutes. He’s young, probably no more than twenty or so, with dark hair, garbed in rough homespun. He looks around worriedly at the circle of stones, the pale light of dawn, then back at me.
“Sunrise an’ a child in the ring o’ stones,” he mutters to himself. “Can only be ill luck, but I cannae leave a child alone here. ‘Twill be worse luck if I do.” Glancing around and muttering prayers of protection all the while, he fearfully enters the circle, picks me up, and all but races out. Sighing about an hour of work wasted, he starts walking back the way he came, still holding me and occasionally muttering another entreaty to the gods for protection against evil spirits and misfortune.
Few of his words really make sense to me, for all that matters is that I’m warmer, and hearing the sound of a human voice, hopefully going to safety, and food, and all those lovely things small children want. He heads for a small cottage tucked against a hillside, the roof thatched with bright straw, the door slightly open, and the sound of a young woman’s voice singing drifting out. Hens scratch in the dirt by the doorway, a cow lows from behind the house, and a black and white mongrel is curled up in a patch of sunlight. The young man, still carrying me, ducks inside, both us of blinking to adjust to the sudden loss of light, although the weak morning sunlight valiantly struggles through a small window. A young woman sits beside the window, singing some ballad to herself in a voice only slightly off-key voice. Her flaxen hair is braided and pinned up, and she’s mending the dark blue woolen cloak in her lap.
She looks up with a start. Her face is pretty, with a kindly, mild expression around the eyes, which turns to one of fear when she sees her husband holding me. “Ye gods, Riss, what are ye doin’ wi’ tha’ child? Where’d ye find ‘er?”
Riss looks down at me nervously. “I heard ‘er cryin’ in the woods, in the ring o’ stones. What should I ha’ done, left the poor thing? Jen, she’s just a babe, an’ a cold an’ ‘ungry one at that.”
Jen’s expression softens. “Aye, that she is.” She sets her mending on a table and moves to Riss’ side, reaching out her arms. Riss, with a sigh of relief, deposits me in them and takes a step back. Jen moves back to her chair, crooning softly, but the expression of concern on her face grows more and more pronounced. “Riss,” she whispers urgently, “what ha’ ye done? The girl wears the clothes of a nobleman’s daughter, she’s nae a peasant! We could lose our ‘eads for keepin’ ‘er!”
Riss pauses, on his way back out to the fields. “She was in the ring o’ stones, Jen. No one around, not a sign of a single person. Must ha’ been magic. Probably no one knows she’s even ‘ere.”
Jen nods slowly, clearly unhappy with the situation, but evidently decides it’s better than leaving me to my fate in the woods, alone. They aren’t cruel people, no, although...no, not now...that doesn’t come yet.
All that matters to me is that I’m warm, and fed, and comfortable. The Melinors decide to keep me, against their better judgment, no doubt. They call me by the name I remember as my own: Rois. And I become Rois Melinor, the daughter of peasants in the land of Kirn, not remembering any life but the one I have now...
Almost two blissfully ignorant years passed. I was happy there, with Jen and Riss Melinor as my parents...I don’t know if I truly loved them, but I was fond of them, and I suppose they were fond of me as well. We made a tidy little family: husband, wife, and daughter, but all of that changed in my fourth year.
It’s just another ordinary day in the Melinor house; Father has gone to the fields for the day and Mother is baking bread. To keep me from being underfoot, she’s given me a small basket of grain and sent me outside to feed the hens and collect any eggs I find, along with a stern admonition not to wander away from the house. I do that often; Mother says I’m far too bright for a mere child, and my head is too often in the clouds. I think she’s a little afraid of me, just like Father. I think it’s because of my eyes. Mother always assures me that they’re very beautiful and there’s nothing wrong with them, but I think my eyes scare them because they change color with my emotions; when I’m happy, sad, angry, hurt...I don’t understand why, though.
I’ve fed the hens already and I’ve found ten eggs, there can’t possibly be very many left, and I can’t find them if there are. It’s so dull, there’s nothing to do, no one to play with, and I just want something to do. An idea slips into my head...crazy, perhaps, but it will be fun! Oh, a glorious game, indeed! Before I know it, the change just happens. One moment, I was a human girl-child...and the next, a small brown puppy! Oh, games, yes, so much fun! Chasing the hens, they can’t really be that scared, I won’t hurt them! Oh, this is so much more fun than sitting around!
Mother’s coming, maybe she’ll play too...Uh oh...she doesn’t look happy, and she’s carrying a pan of something. She’s yelling at me to get away, to leave, but mother, it’s me, it’s just me! No! What? Mother, what...why...hey! She storms up and promptly lets the contents of the pan down, right on my head! Freezing cold water! The shock of it makes me shift back, to me, the human child.
Mother turns completely white, as white as her blouse. Her eyes are wide as saucers, and a horrified expression steals across her face. Gasping for breath from the shock, she backs away a few steps, then. . . uh oh. She’s screaming. “No! Demonchild! Oh gods! Riss! Riss! Demons!”
I try to call out to her, but she’s screaming so loud she doesn’t hear me. “Mother, please, it’s me! Mother, no! Please. . . I was playing, just playing. . .” She runs away, screaming for Father. “Mother. . . it was just a game. . .” She doesn’t look back, and I sink down into the dust and slowly slip into heartbroken tears. “Mother, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. . . it was just a game, Mother, please. . .I won’t do it again. . .”