Over the next few months my mother, Fern and I settled into a simple, predictable way of life. Despite my protests, my mother refused to let me come with to the market. Not even begging to continue as her apprentice swayed her decision. I was simply forced to stay home.

  After a few near misses with my bored experimenting with flint and steel, Fern taught me things to keep myself occupied during the long days alone. Slowly our dilapidated cabin transformed into a cozy home that some of the villagers would envy. I began to look forward to my work and the joy my mother and Fern have when I proudly presented it to them each evening.

  One morning, I found myself awake earlier than usual staring at the new table Fern and I built. Fern was already awake and starting his day. I doubt if the man even slept. He warmed a small pan of water and set it gingerly on the table. From a small box emerged a knife, a white block, and a small round, flat disk. It caught the light of the sun teasing its way indoors. A white circle danced on the ceiling.

  I watched Fern get to work, intensely curious about this strange morning ritual of his I've never seen. He first washed his face and then lathered it up with the block. I gasped when he dragged the blade of the knife across his cheek. Growing up with only a mother, I’d never been exposed to that which was reserved for fathers. Fern laughed, turning to face me in bed. I smiled seeing his jaw half hidden by white suds.

  “Well, sleeply head, how long have you been awake? Get over here, come watch.”

  And that I did. I leaned, hands flat on the smooth table top while Fern finished up. He explained everything, the purpose of the block called soap, how the knife works and how to store everything when you're done.

  But the round disk, that amazed me the most. When I looked down upon it, I recoiled at seeing an unfamiliar face. He had my light cream hair that fell gently around an oval face, still a little pudgy with its boyish features that it refused to shed. It's too old for a boy's face but too young to be a man. But his eyes, there's something wrong with them.

  “Fern, who's he?” I looked away from the smooth disk in my hands toward Fern. Brown. Brown eyes like the tabletop. I looked back into the boy's eyes in the disk.

  Fern's hearty laugh filled the tiny cabin. My mother shuffled in her bed, I didn't turn when she wished us both a good morning. I was transfixed by the disk.

  “That's you, lad, it's a mirror. The disk shows you a reflection, kind of like a pond but sharper,” Fern said. My mother's round face appeared behind me in the mirror. Light blue. Mine are definitely cursed.

  I shrugged and laid the disk back into the wooden box. Fern fastened the lid and pushed the box aside.

  “Let me take a look at you, lad.” Fern raised his hand and gently rubbed along my jawline. “You face hasn't figured out how old it is yet, but if you don't want to grow a beard, I'll need to teach you how to shave.”

  “Fern...” That was all I managed to say before collapsing in my mother's arms.

  After that day, my mother's lessons in magic began in earnest. On her good days, she'd pull out the small thin pillows and lay them next to the hearth. A small fire chased away the summer evening chills while a pot of tea simmered over the flames. We started with basic techniques for controlling the flow of magic. I struggled at first. Mother's techniques proved inefficient against the sheer intensity of my magic.

  “Picture a barn. The cows standing at the gate want to eagerly go to pasture,” my mother said, sitting cross legged in front of me. She looked to her knees, closing her eyes.

  “You, my son, are the farmer. How do you lead the cows to pasture so they stay calm and docile. One spooked animal can cause a rampage.”

  I followed my mother's lead and closed my eyes. “Fences.”

  “Yes. You can try fences. But, the cows are full of energy and are excited to go out. They push on the gate. What do you do then?”

  It was here that she lost me. I wouldn't know. I felt my lip contort as I puzzled though the various ways I could calmly let the cows out of my imaginary barn. Hay? No, then some cows will stop and block the path. Slowly open the gate? What if the cows storm the small opening? A lone bead of sweat trickled down the side of my head.

  “Son,” my mother whispered.

  I shook my head. “I don't know, mother. Everything I think of won't work.” I deeply inhaled, the warmth of the fire licked my cheek. I shuffled, sliding the pillow away from the fire without getting up.

  “Pick one. You're going to try it. You won't learn otherwise.”

  Fear seized me like a mother seizes a toddler trying to touch a poisonous snake. I trembled waiting for my mother's hand to come down upon me. My hands flew to my head, preemptively grasping my hair in anticipation of the magical migraine that would soon take me. My eyes watered. I felt the tears slowly eek their way out from under my eyelids.

  “NO!” I pulled away as my mother’s iron grasp wrapped around my wrists.

  “The cows, Abel, calm down.” She wrapped her hands tighter and pulled my hands away from my head. I couldn’t breathe through the shorts gasps, panting like a dog laying in the sun. My eyes wouldn’t squeeze tighter as the black flecks appeared in my vision. Forget the cows. The farmer can’t lead the cows if he loses himself before he even reaches the barn.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “The c…” That was the last I heard from my mother before collapsing. My consciousness escaped me like tendrils of smoke in a man's fingers. But not before seeing glimpses of a torch lit cell and two lifeless bodies crumpled on the floor.

  ──── ? ────

  The warmth of summer faded away replaced by the wet, chill of autumn days. Fern and my mother talked of the fields slowly being emptied of their rolling blankets of wheat and the trees of the village stood naked in the square. Changes that I hardly noticed. The trees surrounding our cabin held tightly onto their thin, pine needles.

  In those weeks I've learned enough about magic that I no longer feared the slightest touch from my mother or Fern. Snippets of someone's future are, for me, luckily a thing of my unfortunate past. If you asked me how, I couldn't tell you. Maybe my mind was simply done with the torment of my mother constantly forcing visions upon it. Or maybe, the body and blood finally accepted the heart and soul's deepest desire to suppress the magic until it suffocated out of existence. I don't care how. I'm just glad it's over.

  But, I was still a prisoner in my own home.

  My mother wasn't convinced that I truely had my magic under control. To Fern she gave the task of simulating daily life in the village. Bruises and scraps became a daily occurrence as Fern unexpectedly bumped into me, his muscular bulk accidentally pushed my lanky body into a table or a chair more times than I could count.

  Fern eventually figured out that village life is more than the constant shoving and bumping customary to the market life. I appreciated the assuring hand on my shoulder as I took his shaving knife to my face for the first time. His steady hand guiding the knife when I couldn't get the angle quite right. I probably won't admit it to him, but I started to see Fern as the father I've never had.

  Then one day, Fern and mother came home with a two sacks. I couldn't see what was inside. My mother kindled a fire in the hearth and gathered her pans and iron cooking utensils. Fern plopped his sack on the table. The cloth sagged over the squarish form of the contents inside it.

  “Now, lad, come over here!” Fern pulled out one of the chairs and patted the back rest. “I have something for you.”

  Fern pushed the sack toward me across the table. I picked at the string tying it shut until it unraveled, the mouth of the sack fell open revealing a new pair of boots.

  I looked at Fern and then back to the finely crafted, leather boots. I rubbed the inside lining of the boots between my fingers, soft rabbit hair. My lip began to quiver and I rubbed my eyes with my arm, a sad attempt to hide my tears.

  “Fern, why? These look expensive.”

  Fern laid his hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly but not rough. “It's not everyday that a lad can celebrate the beginning of his sixteenth year of life.” Fern tripped over the words as he said them. Only my mother ever spoke of celebrating the start of a new year of life. Yet another weird quirk of hers.

  I heard the cracking and popping of something fatty being laid in the hot, iron pan. My mother cursed behind us.

  “Mother, you bought bacon?” I leaned over the chair, looking into the flames that licked the pan over my mother's shoulder. “Why? We can't afford bacon.” My mouth watered as the greasy smell filled the small room.

  “Didn’t you hear Fern? My little prince begins his sixteenth year of life today.” She poked the bacon with the stick, the grease snapped in protest at being disturbed.

  “I hate it when you call me that,” I laughed. I tried imagining what being a prince would be like. Bacon and blueberries everyday. My heart sunk in my chest. I missed Hera. How many months has it been now?

  “Eat up.” My mother dropped a plate of bacon on the table. She stared into my eyes as the first piece slowly dripped its greasy goodness on my tongue. “You're going to need your energy. Tomorrow you're going with.”

  ──── ? ────

  At the market my mother and I fell back into the roles of master and apprentice. The first hour I bit my tongue. Her brash tone of voice as she barked out commands unnerved me. I wonder if other children had this problem when working with their parents learning the family trade.

  After the months of training with my mother, I finally understood why sitting cross legged for hours on end was the best position when you read fortunes for a living. The pain in your legs helps keep you grounded in reality. Minds don’t wander as readily when the body is in discomfort.

  Of course that didn’t matter to me, but I had to go through with the motions to keep up the illusion that I was really reading our clients fortunes. As the master my mother would read the fortune as usual. It was then my job as the apprentice to confirm the fortune by reading it myself.

  After a particularly long session with a minor nobleman’s daughter, I nipped at, what I thought, was my second mug of yellow flower tea. My mother had been counting.

  “My child, that’s your fourth mug in two clients. Are you feeling alright?” She gingerly took the half filled mug out of my hands and set it on the ground. “If your headache is that severe then you need to stop. Too much of the tea can be dangerous.”

  I played up the nonexistent headache by dropping my head into my hands and speaking softer and slower. “You might be right, mother. My head feels pretty fuzzy and I can’t focus.”

  “Oh my boy, sometimes I forget that you’re still pretty new at this.” She whispered fidgeting with my ponytail before pulling me into a gentle hug. “How about you take the rest of the day off?” She let me go but kept her hands on my shoulders. “Go see Hera, I’m sure she misses you.”

  I perked right up with the thought of Hera. My mother smiled seeing my newfound energy. “Really, mother? I can go see Hera?” I stared at her in disbelief.

  My mother stood up and made her way to the door of the tent. “If you’re feeling up to it, go for it. You’ve earned it.” She said before stepping outside. Her next client was waiting on her.

  It was midday by the time I reached Hera’s bakery. Something wasn't right. The roads weren’t bathed in the sweet smells of the delicious pastries. It smelt off, like bread that laid too long on the stone plate in the oven.

  The bellowing of the customers I walked into was enough to give me an actual headache. I was glad that my senses were dulled by my mother’s tea. Some customers yelled about their mother’s bread not being delivered. Others demanded their money back claiming their bread was underbaked and burned at the same time.

  Harm stood by himself behind the empty counter that usually was filled to the brim with cakes. There was not a cake in sight. The sweat ran down his face. His expression twisted in an intense storm of emotions. I didn’t see Hera or her father anywhere in the bakery.

  “Is Hera around?” I asked Harm when I finally got to the front of the line.

  It took a second for Harm to realize who I was. When he did he sighed. “Gods almighty,” he cursed. “Not you too now.” He pointed to the angry customers and empty tables. “Does it look like she’s here? Of course not. She and my father have been summoned to the capital. They've been gone for a week now.”