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wonders where their loved one has disappeared or if he’ll ever return. Oh, the stories my forest has generated. Oh, the fear men have when they must enter beneath its secretive boughs.
    Today, not one, but three of man’s offspring take refuge under my tree. My wits sharpen. The challenge is accepted. I will play my game and see who triumphs as the victor. These men are big and beefy. They are the king’s guards. After a quick meal, they take to their horses. A hard winter has forced the creatures farther into the forest. Man must now delve deeper for what they desire. Today their pound of venison may cost a great deal more than a few arrows. I hold their lives in the palm of my hand.
    These men have heard the stories. They are quick. They are cunning. As one looks for those creatures deemed weaker, one’s they can kill and eat, the other two stay alert for danger. I say my spell, weave my magic, and their horses spook. A kick and a buck and the men are thrown off. The horses race from my enchanted forest.
    The three stumble for their weapons and collide. These men are buffoons, after all. I worry for nothing. They notch their arrows and peer about threateningly. I am not afraid. I call down a tree branch and slap one in the rump, flinging him to the ground. They yelp and huddle close together. I soften the ground beneath one and he sinks. The others grab him and pull. He flies free only to land on his companions. They all scramble to their feet, eyes wide, mouths stretched into thin lines of fear. I let out a quick bark and growl. They jump, turn and run. What fools. What fun. I like this game. I might even let them go free.
    I follow them, throwing rocks and howling like a rabid wolf. Once an arrow narrowly misses my head, but I am too quick and the threat whizzes by harmlessly. The edge of town appears and the guards catch up to their mounts grazing by the miller’s house. The three are ashen-faced and frightened as they tell their tale to the wide-eyed peasant. I giggle. My tricks have been worth the risk to see them out of my home and back into the world of man.
    Just as I’m about to return to the cover of the trees, a girl emerges from the mill. She curtseys, deep and graceful. Her hair shimmers golden in the sun and her skin turns rosy with embarrassment as her father pulls her closer. I confess I am enchanted.
    “This be me daughter. Charity.”
    “A fine beauty indeed,” one of the guards says.
    “Beautiful and talented,” the miller insists.
    The men chuckle as if they’ve heard the claim before. The head guard nods. “Very wise to acquire a talent. Beauty is known to fade.”
    “Some talents do, too,” one of his comrades offers.
    “Not me gal’s.” The miller pulls her even closer so they can get a better look. “She’s special.”
    “And so she should be in her father’s eyes,” the other guard says, humoring the man as if he were a simpleton.
    The miller grows affronted. “Not just mine. Ask anyone. She’s a rare one.”
    “Father, please,” the girl begs. Even her begging is enchanting. “Let the men be away. They cannot stay here all day. They have business to attend.”
    Hushed awe descends on the group. The maid is unaware how the sweet melody of her voice invites the ear, how the sun reverently kisses her skin, and how it caresses her hair until every strand sparkles like the purest gold. She is a rose amidst the ugly thorns.
    The head guard bows. “Beautiful, talented, and wise.”
    The three mount, but the miller is not wont to let them go without a fight. “Tell the king, if a wife he seeks for his son, me gal is the one for him.”
    It is no secret the king seeks a wife for his son, but so far, none have been pretty enough or rich enough to entice an offer. I doubt he’ll ever find a dowry that satisfies his imagination. Greed recognizes itself in others, and the king’s nature is steeped in greed with a touch of madness to go along with it.
    The head guard looks down