Bees & Moles & Toads

The mountain side was at peace in the late morning sun. Small herds of deer filtered through the trees and butterflies fluttered their buttery wings amongst the rainbow pallet of wild flowers. A low wind blew the smattering of dandelions bald, and an array of forest birds sang and twittered to one another. The land was picturesque and beautiful, a poet’s sanctuary.
And then he came.

“Bloody, fudgering hell!”
Logan swore and cursed and shouted, all the while holding one foot in his hands whilst hopping indelicately on the other. Lack of balance and an uneven surface soon tumbled him quite disgracefully upon his buttocks.
“Watch it!” Lina cried, “You almost squashed me.”
She poked her head out of one of Logan’s many pockets, gripping the seam with all her tiny hands so as not to fall out, as the boy rolled around the grass and attempted to look at the bottom of his foot. Finally establishing himself in a very uncomfortable and twisted position, he proceeded to pick at his middle toe, still cursing under his breath.
“What happened?” Lina asked, clambering out of her pocket and up Logan’s shoulder. Finding a suitable wrinkle of coat material, she sat herself next to his ear and peered down upon the nasty brown foot Logan was so intently scratching. The middle toe was starting to redden and swell.
“Stepped on a bee,” Logan muttered, “Forgot how much those little sods hurt.”
“You shouldn’t be running around barefoot; I told you,” Lina said.
“Screw that. Do you know how uncomfortable those shoes are? You’re such a little priss, sitting inside a nice cozy pocket all day. Maybe I should make you walk for a while. See how you like it when you’re stung by a sodding bee,” Logan let his foot fall, having finally extracted the bee’s stinger. He continued to itch the bottom of his toes furiously.
“You should, but you won’t,” Lina smiled sweetly, “Because you know if you let me off by myself, I’ll be eaten or stepped on or carried off. A bee sting would kill me. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you? Of course not. And we can travel quicker with me in your pocket.”
“I should have left you with the damn mole.” Logan mumbled, slowly getting up so as not to dislodge Lina.
The tiny girl shuddered, “I appreciate you not leaving me, thanks.”
Logan grunted.
“Can I stay on your shoulder for a while? The pocket was getting a bit stuffy. And it smells like toad.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh, stop being a sourpuss.”
“If you don’t like my attitude you can always find someone else to travel with.”
“Someone has to make sure you don’t step on any more poor, unsuspecting bees.”
“That bee deserved to die. Not my fault he couldn’t get out of my way quick enough.”
“That’s a very bad attitude to have. Not all things can read your mind, you know. That bee was probably having a nice time gathering pollen and then you barge in and step on him. No wonder he stung you. You deserved it.”
“Say another word and I’m tossing you in the next pond I pass.”
Lina did not reply, but she did stick out her tongue. However, what with her sitting on Logan’s shoulder, he did not see her rude gesture, and she preceded the settle down in the folds of his jacket and sulk.

The king was dead.
He had died in the night, peacefully and without fuss, at the ripe age of eighty-nine. His heart had decided that it was, finally, tired of its endless work and, in mutual agreement with its employer, had stopped.
The land mourned King Humphrey, their quiet, simple, happy, beloved king, for all of twelve hours before proceeding directly into celebration. Humphrey’s only surviving son, the handsome and charming Prince Charles, was to claim the crown. It was a happy day for all in the land – while King Humphrey was as beloved as a sweet grandfather, he was extremely old-fashioned. The people held Charles’s ascent to the thrown as a promise of happy and somewhat more modern times. Everyone was excited, everyone was hopeful, and everyone was celebrating. That is, unless one’s name happened to be Afton, and one happened to be the goosegirl at the royal castle in Boltane.
Afton, along with the gooseboy Henry, had cared for the royal flock since the carefree age of ten. Exactly eight years later, nothing much had changed, except, perhaps, the number of geese. Afton still slept in the same hayloft corner and still ate bred and cheese during every afternoon meal. Matilda, Afton’s mentor and the head barnmaid, still looked very much the same, with crinkly, baggy skin and little, squinty eyes. Afton herself looked very much the same, except she was a bit taller and she had sprouted a few more freckles and her red hair was a touch frizzier. No, Afton’s life was very placid and uneventful – and she was quite honestly happy – until King Humphrey’s death. Afton, it would seem, was the only person in all the land who did not care for charming Prince Charles at all.
Her dislike was quite understandable – after all, he personally fired her not three weeks after his ascent to the throne.