Of Mice and Lilies


This story, as with all the very best and greatest stories, begins with an impossibility.

After all, I am telling this story, and I have seen a great many impossibilities in my time. It comes of being a dreamer, and of thinking like a writer. All writers deal in impossibilities, of course. It’s how we make our living.

I shall not, dearest reader, go to the trouble to explain just how a mouse might fall in love with a lily. Indeed, such an impossibility will be a hard thing to convince anyone of, except to say that the mouse—a most rascally, clever fellow by the name of Wignilian Finch—had a mind of his own and a tendency to want everything he was quite sure he couldn’t have.

On the particular morning I am thinking of, Wignilian was in a place no self-respecting mouse ought to be. His brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins were scurrying about the floor and walls of the grain silo, just as any decent mouse might, but Wignilian had eaten his fill of grain for the morning, and as he was an exceptionally lazy mouse and didn’t like to scuttle when he didn’t have to, he had wandered off. Now, he was poking his nose about the reeds and rushes, the slimy mud and sticky algae of the mill pond, and what he could have wanted there in the first place, I couldn’t tell you.

He was looking—I suppose—for something grand and wonderful to steal away and hide beneath his nest in the grain silo. He rather liked such things, mainly because he enjoyed bragging about them to his smaller cousins and refusing to allow them even one peek, lest they should spoil his prize. He had found nothing of interest among the reeds, and as they had laughed at him for the grain dust in his fur, he had wandered on. At last, on the stone wall beside the creaking, dripping mill wheel, he caught sight of a lily floating gently in the center of the pond.

The lily was quite the loveliest, whitest, most charming treasure that Wignilian had ever laid eyes on, and right away he began to ponder how he might have it for himself. He had no boat, of course, and as mice are not known to be champion swimmers—particularly in ponds that harbor a great deal of pike and trout—he found himself quite without an idea. But, besides being rather lazy, Wignilian was also stubborn. He sat himself down on the edge of that mossy stone wall, propped his chin in his paws, twitched his muddy little nose, and began to think.

He thought for quite a long time. All day, I believe, but not a single brilliant scheme occurred to him. The lily floated peacefully far out of reach, looking whiter and more beautiful with each passing minute. Wignilian could not stand it. He chewed his paws, he chewed his tail, he even bit the end clean off one of his fine, sharp claws, but he could not find a solution.

At last, when the sun was sinking beneath the woods, a great, scaly, ugly pike came swimming right to the base of the wall, poked his hooked jaws and large head out of the water, and inquired, as pleasantly as any pike can, what could possibly be the matter? Now Wignilian knew better than to talk to a pike. He really did. But just at that moment, he was so distressed about the lily that he told the big fish all about it.

The pike listened and nodded sympathetically, and I do believe he even summoned a tear or two for the little mouse’s plight. Wignilian was touched. He ventured a step nearer, and a step nearer, so as to be sure every last word of his sad tale could be heard. At last the pike shook his head and said, in a voice quite trembling with emotion, “Intolerable. There must be a way—” Then the pike grinned, a monstrous, toothy grin. “Of course! I have an idea. Hop down onto my head, and I’ll bring you right over to it. You’re such a little mouse that it wouldn’t be any trouble at all!” And he continued to grin that terrible, wicked grin that I am sure he thought was most friendly and inviting.

I am sorry to say that for all his cleverness, Wignilian almost fell for it. He took two steps forward without so much as a thought, and it wasn’t until he saw those sharp, shiny white teeth that he began to wonder if the pike might have some other purpose for his kindness. He took another tentative step forward, twitching his little nose and wondering. The pike, seeing that Wignilian was hesitating, unhooked his great jaws and sprang upward with a mighty splash, snapping at him with all his might.

Wignilian squeaked with fright and made a dash for safety. He was spry, for all his laziness, and all the pike got for his trouble was a single whisker and half of poor Wignilian’s tail. It wasn’t quite the prize the pike was hoping for, but it was far more than Wignilian would have liked to give. He scuttled away, trembling from his nose to his tiny paws, and I dare say he never gave one more thought to that lily. And I am quite sure that he never once dared go anywhere near the old mill pond again, not even when his Great Uncle Cornelius Fellbottom gave a party on the wall to welcome the first of the merfolk to their pond.

But that, dear reader, is another story.

The Hiding Place

I believe that history is important.

George Santayana, a Spanish-born American author, said, “Those who cannot remember the past condemned to repeat it.”

I fully believe that this is true, and yet, at the same time, I struggle to read the history books that were handed to me in school. Dates, times, statistics, and names always pass straight through my head, and I never remember them.

What I do remember are stories.


If you hand me a well-written biography (or better yet, an autobiography) I will almost certainly remember in great detail exactly what happened to them, what they did, when they lived, what they cared about, and what they believed. Books like the Diary of a Young Girl or The River of Doubt teach me much more about WWII or Theodore Roosevelt than I will ever pick up from any history book or lecture. The story sticks with me, and I remember the facts of the story because of how powerful it was.

One such book that has deeply impacted me is The Hiding Place, by Corrie Ten Boom.

Corrie was a Dutch woman living during the horrors of WWII. Her story, written in her own words, tells of her life before the invasion of Holland by the Germans, and her struggle through the war to hide and protect the Jewish people in and around her community. Her resistance against the regime that caused so much terror throughout the known world begins with very small things. Simple kindness, a ration card, a message delivered. Before too long, she, her sister, and her aging father are asked to shelter a Jewish man in their home, an offense that could get them shot.

They don’t hesitate, and Eusie is added to their household.


More and more Jews join them, until there are seven who live every day in the Beje, their tiny little home. Others come and go, on their way to safe houses, but those seven have become a part of their family. Seven people that no one else can ever know about. A secret room, built into the twisting, cramped little house, gives them a place to hide in case the Gestapo ever come.

And they do come.

The secret room saves the seven Jews, but Corrie, her sister, and her father are all arrested. A succession of prisons and concentration camps follows, leading them into the darkest corners of Germany. Corrie’s account of the horror of the concentration camps is softened by her faith in God and her love for her sister. Even in the midst of the tragedy around them, they are able to cling to the promise that no pit is so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.

This book is one that has influenced me over and over again through the years. The story of faith, perseverance, and forgiveness locked within its pages is truly life-changing.

“Corrie, if people can be taught to hate, they can be taught to love!”

Rain Pits


They hide in the rain pits. They don’t come out in the daytime, only at night, and I come down here when the moon is full and the starlight in filtering down through the leaves and shining on the water.

That’s when they come up. Up to play, up to eat. Up to visit with me.

The Chakari, they’re called. Spirit Walkers. My father says they’re the dead come back to us, but my mother scoffs at that. The dead don’t come back, she says, no matter how much you beg them. They are gone. The Chakari are only fish, she says, fish that live in the pits filled by the constant rain.

I don’t know who I believe more. I don’t think the Chakari are dead, or spirits of the dead, but I don’t think they’re quite alive either. Quite natural. They’re too beautiful for that.

They come out, their pearly white fins swirling in the water, their black eyes fastened on me, and I smile at them through the clear surface. They know me by now. I’ve been down here enough. I give them the apple blossoms and willow leaves I’ve brought, and they chatter and giggle and swirl away, returning with shells and brightly colored pebbles to trade. I don’t have many friends in my village, but when the moon is full I come down here and play with the Chakari, and then it doesn’t quite matter that I’m too young, too small to join in the games the others play. It doesn’t matter that I’m chosen last for everything, that none of my siblings will let me tag along after me.

The Chakari like me. They like my black hair and my smile, and when I come down here to cry they comfort me with bubbles and gifts of seaweed and sea-glass. They’re the only friends I have, so I always come back. No matter how often my father says it isn’t natural to like them.

The Ordinary Princess

I am not a fan of romance books.

Oh, I like the old classics, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, that sort of thing, but for the most part, I will avoid a book if it is solely based on romance. I like books full of action and adventure, books with intrigue and suspense and a life and death goal. If romance happens to be slipped in alongside that, fine, but a book that is absolutely centered around the guy getting the girl?

Not so much.

And yet, this particular book is just exactly the kind that I usually don’t like. It’s a very typical romance, where the princess in disguise meets the charming and handsome prince, and they live happily ever after.

Except—it’s not.


The Ordinary Princess is one of the sweetest fairytales that I have ever, in my entire life, come across. The writing style is perfect, the characters are funny and charming, and the world they live in is just the right mixture of fantasy and whimsy. It begins with the birth of a princess. In fact, the birth of a seventh princess.

And everyone knows that the seventh princess is always the most charming, the most beautiful of all her sisters.

A great celebration is held for the child’s christening, and the darling little child is given a name. Or, seven names, to be precise. Princess Amethyst Alexandra Augusta Araminta Adelaide Aurelia Ann of Phantasmorania. In addition, it is decided that, since she is the seventh daughter, it would no doubt be an excellent idea to invite all of her fairy godmothers to the christening.

This was not, in fact, an excellent idea.

One of her godmothers, a crotchety old woman named Crustacea, is caught in traffic on the way to the party. By the time she arrives, she is in a foul temper and quite dried out from all the dust on the roads. (Besides being a godmother, she is also the fairy in charge of lakes, pools, and the ocean.) She stumps into the throne room in high bad temper, looks at the charming, sweet little Amethyst, and says, “My child, I am going to give you something that will probably bring you more happiness than all these fal-lals and fripperies put together. You shall be Ordinary.”

And then she is gone, and the damage is quite done.


And Amy (for who could possibly call an ordinary child Amethyst?) is ordinary. She has straight, mouse-brown hair, a turned up little nose, and freckles. Her father and mother are at a loss on how to marry their ordinary child off. Amy, of course, does not want to be married off at all, and in the end, she runs away to find her own adventures. Through a series of circumstances involving, among other things, a crow, a squirrel named Mr. Pemberthy, a dress that is simply falling to pieces and must be replaced, and a man-of-all-work, Amy creates her own happily ever after.

What I love the most about this book, (besides the absolute charm of it) is that the romance in it is entirely ordinary. Nobody swoons, no-one is enraptured by the beauty of their significant other, and there are no dramatic fights in the rain. (Although blackberries do get thrown.) Amy and her prince are simply best friends. And that, I think, is the best basis for a marriage that can possibly exist.

(Whoops. I gave away the ending, didn’t I?)

Lavender’s blue, rosemary’s green,

When I am king, you shall be queen.

For Sale


I open the shop the moment the sunlight touches the leaves of the oak tree outside. If it’s rainy, I don’t open it at all. In the winter, I open late. I’ve explained my system a few times, especially to annoyed customers who came too early and had to wait. They told me that my policy is bad business.

I told them that dreams are temperamental and never run by a clock.

A young couple is waiting outside when I unlock the doors. She’s never had a dream, they tell me. He’s going to buy her one. I can already tell he’s going to spend too much on this date, so I leave them to browse and go back to the counter to measure out and fill another glass rose to replace the one they’re going to buy. A box, one of the patterned kind with sweet-smelling sandalwood and mint oil rubbed into the joints, would be the most economical choice—and a more practical gift for a first date—but the glass roses are flashy and romantic. The way he’s working to impress her, he might just end up with a whole bouquet.

Poor fellow.

My bell rings again, and I look up. My heart falls, and the cheerful morning dims as an older gentlemen with a flower in his buttonhole wanders in. He looks as though he doesn’t want to be here, not again, and I wish with all my heart that he wasn’t. But I smile anyway. “Morning, Simon. How’re the tulips?”

He shrugs, not quite looking at me. His eyes roam the boxes and jars littering my shelves, straying to the couple in the corner looking at the roses. “Just fine. I’ll take my usual, thanks.”

I bite my tongue before I can tell him no. His usual. A dream about his dead wife, a way to bring her back into his arms for a few hours. Seven years he’s been coming to me. I want to tell him that he’s wasting his money, that he needs to let her go now. But I don’t like to meddle. Instead I say softly, “It’s in the back.”

He nods, still looking at the couple with the roses. I think they’ve chosen one now. She’s blushing.

I disappear into the back and mix the dream. A dash of memory, a bit of mint, a little stardust, some lily pollen. Dreams are easy. I’ve been making them since I was twelve. My shop sells everything but nightmares. I’ve even dabbled in foreshadowing.

But I don’t want to sell this one. I hesitate, stirring the contents absently, then do something that I never, never do.

I meddle. I interfere. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it anymore. A dusting of powdered willow leaves changes the shape of the dream, and I wrap it up quickly before I can change my mind. It will be a good dream, one that will wake him smiling, but it won’t be about his wife.

It will be about the life he still has left. About the grandchildren that bring him cookies every Saturday. About the next door neighbor that smiles at him. About sunshine, wind that smells of apple blossoms, and fishing on the lake with his grandson. About the high school sweetheart he’d very nearly forgotten about.

He might bring it back tomorrow, might complain that it wasn’t what he wanted, and I’ll give him a refund and my apologies. But I can’t give him the dream he wants. Not this time.

The Swiss Family Robinson

I am fascinated by stories of survival.

And not just survival. Stories of adaptation, of thriving in an environment that is hostile and far outside of the ordinary. Stories of shipwrecks, of people driven to the end of what they think they are capable of, and yet, still managing to make a place for themselves in a world that is hostile.

Robinson Crusoe, the first season of Lost before it got too weird, that one movie where Tom Hanks is stuck on an island with only a volleyball for company. (Wilson, we all loved you.)


And of course, The Swiss Family Robinson.

I cannot even begin to remember the number of times I have read this book. It is one of my oldest and dearest favorites and will always hold a special place in my heart. Since I am always more interested in reading about the method and ingenuity of survival, rather than the quest to escape, The Swiss Family Robinson fits my interest to the letter.

It begins with a shipwreck, as any self-respecting story of this sort does. The family Robinson, consisting of a man, his wife, and his three sons, are sailing aboard a ship bound for the colonies in Australia. A storm blows them off course, and they are left alone offshore an uninhabited island, left to survive on their own with little hope of rescue.

The supplies aboard ship, combined with their own ingenuity, provide them with the means to begin their own small colony within the confines of the island. As they explore and begin to find their feet in this strange new world, they are faced with a new series of challenges at each turn. Marauding bands of apes, massive snakes, and other predators remind them continually that their island is a long way from the peaceful farm they left behind in England, and yet, they find themselves growing attached to their strange home.


The book, written by Johann Wyss in 1812, covers the span of ten years. From a treetop home to the caves they discover in the cliffs, they spend their time settling in their strange home and, as a result, find themselves so attached to it that when rescue does appear, ten years later, they are reluctant to leave it.

This book is an old, old favorite from my childhood, and one I would highly recommend to anyone searching for a good, solid adventure. I hope you enjoy it as thoroughly as I did.

We rose up betimes, for sleep weights lightly on the hopeful, as well as on the anxious.



I find her cabin an hour’s walk from the village. She has always stayed away from us, always, as if our stink made her gag. She hates us, I think, although no one really knows why.

They’ve always been too afraid to ask.

I’m carrying him strapped to my chest, and I can feel the heat of his fever through the wrappings. His tiny face is flushed, his skin red and angry. He’s getting worse, my baby, my treasure. The only person I have left in this world.

I wouldn’t have come here for anyone else.

She’s awake when I push open the door to her cabin. I should have knocked, but I was too afraid she’d send me away. Her hair is knotted, black with soot and gray with feathers, and when I look at her she bares her teeth at me. “Get out.”

My voice is shaking. “I can pay you.”

She hesitates, looking at me as though I’m the strange one, as though she’s trying to understand me. “What kind of payment?” She looks interested, at least. No one has ever offered to pay her before. No one has dared.

I take a deep breath, the words sticking in my throat. “A soul. My soul.”

She laughs at me, and comes to take the child out of my arms. “A life for a life. Good bargain, stupid assumption. What would I do with your soul?”

She takes him over to her table, lays him down and strips away the blankets, his little tunic, the cloth diaper. Everything is soaked in sweat, some of it in pus. I look away, gagging on my own breath. “Please—”

“Be quiet, woman,” she tells me. “I’ve never let a baby die yet. Hand me that vial.”

I offer it to her. She’s cleaning him now, rubbing something sharp smelling into his skin and touching his lips, his throat. An owl is perched on the back of her chair, a raven on the stove. Everything is wrong here, everything is backward and warped, but I don’t question it. Whatever she’s doing might help, and that’s all that matters.