Prologue

Once upon a time, a woman gave birth to her own murder.

No one in the town admitted it, of course. In fact, the very idea was shuttered up like an

abandoned house. But the village, in our loyal, quiet hearts, never forgot, and the knowledge beat

within us like poisoned blood. It made strong men sweat with fear, and made small children dart their

eyes away from cobwebbed corners, sure that some evil lay in the darkness.

For, you see, the executioner still walked free.

The murder took place in the home of a prominent businessman, a pillar of the community, as

the saying goes. All narrow wrists and broken twigs of fingers, the bird-like young man fell in love

with a local lady, a plump, sweet-tempered seamstress who loved him in return. The two married under

a blanket of well-wishes from their friends and set up house near the heart of town. For two years they

were the picture of marital bliss; the man offered happy greetings to all who entered his business and

the wife smiled as she sewed. And then, joy of joysthe young wife was with child. The couples

bliss turned inward, as their attention became fastened on her swelling stomach and the fluttering

trembles under her delicate skin.

The story goes, one winters evening, the couple contentedly sat before the hearth, he studying a

ledger and she sewing a babys gown. As the evening wore on, the wifes tired hands grew less sure,

and she pricked the end of her finger with the sharp point of her needle. Both husband and wife

flinched at the sudden wound, and he scurried outside to scoop up a handful of snow. Returning, he

packed it around the small crimson bloom, and two sets of eyes watched in fascination as the heated

blood melted the flakes.

I pray that our daughter would look like this, the wife whispered reverently, her gaze on the

contrast of colors in her hand. Skin white as snow and lips as red as blood. She offered her husband

a wistful smile. And ebony hair, like the sky tonight. The adoring husband laughed, knelt before his

wife, and kissed her fingertip. Neither questioned the certainty that the child was a girl. Surely the
wifes small body could carry nothing other than the answering frame of a daughter. As none of the

others are in my power, I will at least make her as loved as her mother.

We were tickled with the merchant and his wifes good fortune, but as the pregnancy wore on,

murmurs oozed into the streets like spilled molasses. The hardy young lady appeared more delicate,

the skin under her eyes tightened and darkened with lilac smudges. Her steps slowed with her

burgeoning weight, as the bulging belly anchored her to the ground. Where her feet had once tripped

lightly, almost in defiance of gravity, they now shuffled, newly shackled to the earth. Her arms and

legs narrowed, and more than one of us worried that her back would simply break in two under the

burden of the impending child.

How little we knew.

But while her failing health was clear to us all, the young couple were blind. The husband took

to cooking their dinner, as she had become too frail to lift the kettle. She attacked her meals

voraciously, yet diminished around the growing inflation under her dress. Out of love for her, the town

persisted in bringing items to the seamstress, but when we received our mending, we furtively ripped

out the uneven stitches and replaced them with our own. The seamstresss eyesight was fading, as if

the baby leeched even the strength to focus her eyes. And yet she smiled still, indulgent of the child to

come.

The murder took place in midwinter. The soft snow bandaged the streets of the village, and the

trees drooped low to the ground in frosty misery. The moon hid her face; not one star dared illuminate

the road. Even lanterns placed in windows shed the least light possible, seeking to avoid attention.

The stillness and the shadows were harbingers of dark deeds. Old women barred their doors and placed

sprigs of holly and sweet bay on the porch, to ward against danger and unwelcome visitors. Small

children curled tighter into their beds, and turned their eyes from the cracks of light that stretched under

the bedroom door. The town was tense, restless. We sensed evil.

On this unlit night, the second heart in the wife's body quickened. Within an hour, three
midwives, one with her apprentice daughter, appeared on the doorstep to assist in the delivery. We all

feared one woman would not be enough to separate this babe from its mother. No one voiced her

opinion, for to speak the words was to give them power, but we all knew the truth; the baby had

become a parasite. It selfishly fed off its mother, nursed on her goodness and ate of her joy. Now it had

swollen like a bloated mosquito to a size that would make for a hellish delivery and questionable

recovery.

None of the midwives had the heart to share our concerns with the husband, to burst his bubble

of mild anxiety. He didnt truly expect genuine difficulties. His life had been spoiled by contentment.

Love had come early to him, success even sooner, and now he took the blessing of a child as if it were

his due. Which of these women dared hint that he might have to sacrifice one blessing for another?

They sent him out to the parlor, knowing that when they saw him again, they would carry the

proclamation of death. Only time would determine whose.

The night stretched into one thin, endless moan of agony. The poor woman's sweat soaked the

bed three times, requiring new sheets. Those same sheets would later dry without any stains, for her

sweat held no salt-- only pure water. The babe had usurped every viable element from its mothers

body.

Blood seeped steadily from between the young woman's legs as she clutched the mattress in a

newly recognized fear of death. As the hours waned, her screams grew less strident, turned instead to

mewling gasps of despair. The baby would not come. The midwives watched the upside down child

twist within the swollen gut, belligerently warring with the pulses that tried to expel it from its mothers

dying womb. Finally, as the sky lightened to that odd silver time just before daylight, the child gave up

its hold and allowed itself to be pulled out of her body, each leg gripped by a praying midwife. Tiny

perfect hands yanked blood and matter from its mothers womb as it was ejected onto the bed. Tiny

perfect nails scraped at trembling, vermillion-smeared thighs. A torrent of crimson lifeblood followed

the small body, no longer dammed by the vituperative form.

 Damned, indeed.

The new mother keened once as her tormented soul passed through the tunnel of her mortal

body, and the eyes that finally beheld the new child actually beheld nothing at all.

The baby, a girl, did not cry. She was hurriedly wrapped in a clean blanket by the eldest

midwifes daughter. The girl, only fifteen, often assisted her mother in childbirths, and adored the feel

of a newborn life held in her arms. But as she swaddled this child, she did not cuddle it to her chest or

coo softly in its ear. She admitted later in an uncomfortable whisper to her mother that the baby felt

prickly under the cloth, her tiny body needling like a thorn bush. The girl had felt a mad impulse to

hurl the baby in the fire like a snake found uninvited in the house.

Instead she eagerly placed the offensive burden in the crook of its departed mothers arm. The

midwives were of one accord about giving the child to her embrace. Who knew when the soul truly

left this world? Perhaps before journeying to that painless refuge of Heaven, the mother watched

impatiently in the shadows for a sight of her daughter, the child that had so viciously ripped its way

through her weakened body. However, the midwife's daughter prayed silently that the young mother

was not witness to the daughter she had birthed. She begged God to not let this sweet girls final

awareness be of the small bundle that now rested in her arms. This child that was unlike a common

newborn, both in manner and appearance.

The babe curiously took in her mothers waxen face, unaware of the death she had caused,

calculating only how her own wishes could be met. After rooting for milk, she let loose with a furious

scream of indignation. Two of the midwives, their small daughters clutched protectively to their

bosoms, stepped to the murky corners of the room and chanted furiously for the soul of the dead

woman, but the third midwife, the eldest woman in the room, stared down at the newly born creature.

She was lovely. Even with the gore of her journey still wet on her body, her breathtaking

exquisiteness shone in the room like a false sunrise. A shock of soft hair, black as soot, contrasted with

skin as white as new milk. Her lips were red, stained by her mothers blood, and her cheeks already
held a flush of delicate pink, a foil to skin so pale that it caught the firelight and reflected it back in a

soft wash of luminosity. She was not swollen or misshapen as most newborns, but perfectly formed

with fine symmetrical features, a tiny nose above fragile lips and shell-like ears hidden behind her hair.

Her eyebrows curved deliciously in black parentheses over heavily-lashed eyes.

The eyes. As she found no milk to ease her hunger, she turned her head in amazing

coordination and met the midwifes mixed gaze of wonder and revulsion. The infants eyes fixed on

the midwife with a focus seldom beheld in adults, and never in newborns. The midwife often remarked

to new mothers that the clouds of Heaven still blurred a newborns vision, but not this child. No

memory of Heaven obscured her view. Something dark, something icy and jagged, stabbed the tense

woman as she stared at this girl, chilling her half-formed notion to pick up the child. The babys gaze

was the gray-blue of the sea after a storm, when the dangerous and dirty things that rest at the bottom

and feast on the dead, have been stirred to the surface and have yet to settle. The gaze haunted the

woman's dreams for years after this night, waking her to parched and cracked lips, and sheets flooded

with unsalted sweat.

She lifted the squalling infant from its dead mothers embrace and carried it out to the parlor,

where the father waited expectantly with the naive smile of a man who did not understand that

womens wars were waged in childbirth. He hastily rose and reached for his daughter. The midwife

repressed a shudder as the child passed hands. The girls cries ceased as her father looked upon her for

the first time. The baby raised a petite finger and pursed perfect red lips around it, offering her father a

coy gaze from under black lashes. No more were her eyes a stormy mist, but the clear blue of early

morning. No more did she cry in a strident demanding voice, but instead almost purred in his large

hands. The other midwives and their daughters crept into the room.

You have a daughter. As the eldest woman, she spoke for them all. She watched his swift

and complete devotion to his new charge. This man, who had poured every drop of his love into his

young wife, instantly forgot her in place of a new obsession.

 And your wife is dead. Gasps escaped behind her at the bald statement, but the words were

deliberate. She had seen that look in mens eyes before. The look that crept into a husbands vision

when he listened to whispered adorations from a conniving woman who was not his wife. The look of

a man who decided to give up what he held in his hands for that which he was promised in the warmth

of a new smile. It was a look of the lost.

The man lifted his head in bleary confusion before the razor tip of the words sunk in. His eyes

cleared and he staggered under the weight of her pronouncement. He pushed the baby toward the

midwife to run to his wifes bed. As she was jarred, the baby let out a cry of pain that paused his

movements. Tears slipped down his cheeks as he froze, the baby girl stretched out in his arms. The

midwife held out her own to receive the child, testing him. Frantically he cried out and pulled the baby

back to him jealously, losing control of his crying. The baby sucked contentedly on her finger.

As he regained his emotions, the man looked toward the door that housed his wifes body and

then back to his daughter. We shall call her Snow White, for she is everything her mother wished for

her, white and red and black together. He stroked a satiny flushed cheek. And as I vowed, she will

be as loved as her mother. He stood still, choosing to clasp this small sign of life, rather than abandon

her for the cold form of his wife. All this was observed by the band of women, and as one, they feared

the hold with which this baby already gripped him.

The two forgotten midwives and their daughters stepped forward to give their blessings. It was

the custom of the day that the woman who delivered a life into this world was allowed to also deliver a

benediction for the new soul. This baby would receive the blessing three times over. The first woman

stepped forward and touched unsteady fingertips to the babys forehead. She cast a nervous glance to

the adoring father, and then whispered a blessing reminiscent of his own words. Snow White, my gift

to you is a life filled with beauty and love. The father smiled generously through his tears and the

cowardly midwife scuttled like a beetle out of the house.

The second midwife came forward and mimicked touching the babys head, though her fingers
didn't actually connect with the girls skin. I gift you, Snow White, with a life of ease and

contentment. Her words were a common wish for newborns. She would not look to the remaining

midwife, as she wrapped her shawl protectively around her body and escaped this house of both life

and death.

The eldest midwife and her daughter were all that remained. She exchanged a glance with her

daughter, and their thoughts merged. A blessing from the deliverer was expected, but how to bless a

creature that caused her very soul to shrivel? The room had turned icy in the presence of this child; her

body absorbed all the warmth. The midwife preferred the company of the dead woman to this small,

helpless child. Finally, she crouched forward and brought her hand out to stroke the girls head,

connecting the infant body to her carefully-crafted words. Snow White, she chanted solemnly, I

pray that you receive the rewards that you deserve. The father appeared pleased with the promise, and

her daughter nodded that she, too, approved of the petition.

But Snow White screamed with a sudden rage beyond imagining, as her soul twisted within the

chains of the midwifes words. Her father held her closer and shushed her with sweet murmurings of

love, complimenting her beauty and promising her a life of ease. The forgotten woman and her

daughter gratefully departed, having done all they could to bind the devilish turmoil that had just been

birthed.
 Chapter One

Constantine

Years Earlier...

Snow White, born years later, is not the only character in our little play. In fact, while she may

be a catalyst for the entire tale, it is a lonely little dwarf who claims our heart. It is he we shall

introduce next.

Constantine Solomon Fortunata was one of the world's unluckies, born with a clever mind,

wrapped tight in a warped body. His mother, a lovely Jewish woman with crepe-skinned hands and

drooping apple cheeks, had seen at once that he was unlike other babies, and wisely raised him near the

forest's edge in a remote area of their tiny town. She loved him and taught him all the courtesies of

youth, alone. Her husband, at best a come-and-go spouse who treated their home like a hostel when he

was in the area, disappeared forever after the sight of his baby's unusually round head and moon face.

Constantine's mother never seemed to miss his presence. Before abandoning his family, he loudly

accused her of consorting with the hill people, a race of fairy folk that supposedly mined the area for

gems, were short and hairy, and had magical tendencies. Since Constantine was only a babe when the

flaming, drunken words were hurled at his mother, he didn't remember her reply. But as he grew up, he

too questioned her fidelity and his parentage.

As he aged, young Constantine realized the protected world he resided in was a false one.

Reality was cruel and unforgiving to a young boy with a thirst for knowledge, a desire to make friends,

and an unforgivably wide face and far-set eyes, in proportions that were close to normal, but just

enough removed as to make him a spectacle. His shoulders were broader than a typical child, and the

muscles in his arms already strained in tight spheres against his tunics. His legs ended too close to the

ground, though they contained a pistoning strength, giving his gait a quick, jerky motion which

propelled him forward in a constant rush. His knees hurt every day, and his hips ached if he walked too

far, but his wide chest helped him endure long stretches of work. His own demand for sunlight and
wind, resulting in long solitary treks through the woods, made him strong.

He suffered a lonely childhood, though his mother struggled to make it a happy one. They

romped through the woods as playmates. Young Constantine found an affinity with the trees and the

soil, often as brown and dirt-crusted as a stump by the end of the day. His mother wove captivating,

magical fairy tales for him in the evening.

None of those fairy tales hosted dwarfs.

The boy and his mother quietly practiced their religious holy days at home. For the most part,

Fortunata found God to be a removed, stand-offish parent, somewhat interested in his future, but not

enough to involve Himself in Fortunata's daily obstacles. As the boy learned more of the world, he

changed his mind, acknowledging God to be a cruel trickster, with a malicious sense of humor. That

Constantine, so smart and curious, should be forced to endure the world's censure, merely for his

stature! Though his mother tried to protect him, he knew he was a used as a secret threat by parents.

Behave yourself, they'd say in scathing tones, wrenching the shoulders of guilty-looking children, or

you'll shrink and twist like Constantine Fortunata. Bullies in the schoolyard cursed the younger

students into submission by threatening them with calls of Watch out! I think I hear Constantine

coming! He'll touch you and then you'll turn into a dwarf, too!

Our poor protagonist, lonely and miserable. We must hope for something good to befall him in

the future.

Constantine was apprenticed to a blacksmith when he turned twelve, because the sturdy muscles

of his shoulders and forearms were an advantage in the weighty field. He was oblivious to heat and

scald, as if he were made of sterner stuff than flesh and sinew. His arms became speckled with star-

burst freckles of scars, permanent reminders of the sparking fires of his boyhood.

The apprenticeship was a wretched experience for young Constantine. Wielding an enormous

sledgehammer, he pounded the hot metal wherever the blacksmith indicated, staring at the molten iron

grasped in his employer's tongs over the anvil, patiently waiting for the other to dictate where to hit. He
mastered the basic skills of a striker easily, and the heavy work was simple, though tiring. But once the

villagers caught sight of him within the recesses of the shop, working ceaselessly before the forge that

raged as high as his own head, his arms straining with the weight of the hammer, he became an exhibit,

a one-man circus. Youngsters leaned over the black iron gate, conferred in low voices, pointed and

gaped. He hated their stares and their whispers, but it was preferable to the reactions from boys and

girls his own age, or even adults. Those people showed no concern for his feelings, gossiping loudly

about his maladies and odd form, as if he was not even human (which most were certain he wasn't), but

some sort of animal to entertain them. Constantine turned his back on the onlookers to allow the heat

of the forge to evaporate his bitter tears.

The blacksmith, a kind man, had agreed to take on Constantine as an apprentice, because he had

known the boy's mother in school. And he could not fault the boy's work. But the constant gawkers

were disruptive to business. After only a few months, he declared the boy trained as a striker and

moved him further into the dark corners of the shop, to work on nearly-finished items, using files to

blend and refine edges for smooth finishes. Constantine was both grateful and resentful. He knew it

wasn't his skill that had improved his station, but his affliction. Once he wasn't so visible, the crowds

dispersed, and Constantine developed the habit of leaving the shop long after dark, to avoid further

interactions with townspeople. He told his mother the blacksmith made him work late, and she

believed his master to be harsh.

As he learned the new skills of filing, Constantine found his hands, while square and blunt,

were agile. He could locate a seam without looking, and knew instinctively which file worked best for

delicate jobs. His fingers, callused on the tips, were still sensitive to minute deviations in the metal,

and his finished pieces were always very fine, though unappreciated. No one cared how smooth the

joints were on a bulky piece of farm equipment.

Constantine worked in the shop until he was sixteen. During the long days near the fire, his

skin took on a shiny red patina, his hands became more nimble and dexterous as he learned to avoid the
lava burn of the softened metal, and his eyebrows, heat-bleached, formed white half-moons over his

intelligent brown eyes. A forge accident had resulted in long scars over the backs of his hands,

luminescent and red, like worms burrowed just under the surface of his skin. His shoulders broadened

further, and muscles strained against his skin, like overripe fruit swelling against its own rind. His

torso was a brawny triangle, whittled down to a square waist that ended in short bandy legs. He was the

height of a five year old; his tunics were wide, his leggings were short, his shoes were a man's size, and

no hat fit his large head comfortably. His dark hair was striking, another mean turn of God's hand, and

fell full and soft around his shoulders. It was his one vanity, and Constantine pulled it back in a scrap

of ribbon to keep it out of his face and safe from the fire. He had begun to grow a beard, the shadows

on his cheeks swarthy and dangerous. The same dark hair already furred across the expanse of his

chest, and along his shoulders and his back. As he grew older he would be considerably hairy. More

animal than man, he told himself in disgust. He wore his sleeves past the wrist to hide the curling dark

hairs that grew there, and he laced his shirt up to his neck. Of the dark coarse hairs on his knuckles, he

could do nothing but curse.

At sixteen, he experienced the common stirrings of young men, and the female population

suddenly became a circus of his own to gawk at. He would never dream of inducing one of the girls to

walk with him, or even to speak with him. Instead, he covertly watched them, entranced by the swish

of their skirts, the sway of pliant hips underneath, the constant easy laughter that poured from their

mouths. The fear that the laughter could be at his expense kept Constantine away. He admired from

afar, and even thought of them as animals, in a way. Exotic rare birds that would scatter if a rough

squat bear of a boy came near.

It was during this time, that the local Christian church ordered the creation and installation of a

stained glass window. The church had raised money for years for this purchase, and it was to be the

first of its kind in the community. The artist had been a student in metropolitan cities, before finding

his way to this small village, retired but resolved to complete this one last gift to the Church. In return
for his talent, he required an assistant to do the bulk of the fine work that his old eyes no longer saw.

The blacksmith, hearing of the need, and being a good Christian, recommended his own industrious

apprentice for the work. He had long sensed a dissatisfaction in Constantine, and he suspected the forge

was no challenge for the young man. Also, the blacksmith had a young son who was ready to train.

This son would one day inherit the shop, so sending Constantine on his way was both a generous offer,

and a selfish one. Both sides parted ways amiably, and Constantine left the sulfurous heat of the shop

to work for the artist's well-lit cottage on the far end of town.

The plans for the glass work was unlike anything Constantine had seen before. The artist had

sketched a pattern for the church window, a heavy-handed rendition of the cross, with the thieves'

crosses flanking either side. A golden circle of glass would represent the sun, and the rays that fell on

the cross alternated shades of gold and yellow. Below the crosses, scattered layers of colored glass

would complete the window's main picture. A design of geometric shapes would adorn the outer edges.

Constantine was neither an artist nor a Christian, but he thought the picture blunt and heavy.

Though the window's subject did not impress him, he determined that a fine attention to detail much

more aesthetic.

The process of creating the window was exhilarating, and the sixteen-year-old took to this new

education with a passion. His talents as a welder in the smithy were put to use as he soldered the

different glass shapes with lead, and his scrupulous precision was not unnoticed by the artist. Though

he was well in his eighties, and nearly blind, Constantine's tutor could clearly see the talent the

disfigured boy had, and he quickly taught him new skills. Under his tutelage, Constantine learned to

cut glass into specific shapes, to distinguish between various shades, and to use those shades to create

shadows and light within the picture. Like a painting, the presence of light had to be created, and

Constantine deftly found the best location for color changes. Eventually, the artist stepped back and let

Constantine have his way with the window, looking quietly over his shoulder with an occasional

murmured comment. When the apprentice began cutting varying shades of browns and ambers to fill
the outline of the Holy Cross, instead of one sheet of solid brown, the artist demurred. His old eyes no

longer distinguished details, and the boy had a knack for creating textures with glass. They worked for

months in tandem, and Constantine zealously pieced together the story of Christ's death on the cross,

never once considering the blasphemy of his unbelieving hands involved in its progress.

Near the end of the project, when almost all that remained was to install the new window in the

church, Constantine walked home in the purple twilight of a spring evening, his head lost in clouds of

rainbow-colored glass shards, his hands twitching to solder the last fragile details into the window. He

did not notice the approaching group of youths until they stood directly in his path. He was very nearly

home.

The tallest, a strapping young man of twenty, had secretly seethed at the abomination of a Jew

working on a holy Christian picture. He told himself that was the only aspect that offended him, but

had he searched harder, he would have known the truthhe detested the very idea of Fortunata's

affliction, and spent many nights imagining the young man like a goblin of folktales, prancing and

slobbering around the picture, spewing curses and spells over the expensive addition to the church's

sanctity. He had seen Constantine his entire life, and he wondered in revulsion how the village could

allow such a monstrosity to live among good honest folk, as if he weren't a blight to their way of life.

He convinced several friends to help end this sinful practice of a Jew assisting the church, and

they guzzled several draughts from a jug of homemade confidence behind the elder's barn. Now they

stood, six young men to Constantine, blocking his way home, along with several young women who

had attached themselves to the upcoming fun.

It started with unconvincing solicitude. The elder boy, a farmer, stood with arms akimbo and

commented on the unlikeliness of seeing Fortunata on the road at this time of day. In fact, he

commented with a smirk to his large band, it was unusual to see the younger boy out at allhe was

always working with the glass master. Constantine agreed that he did not often leave his work or his

mother's home, but he spoke haltingly, and with quick darting looks about him. He might have been
able to outrun a few of them, and he could easily have defeated one of them in a fistfight, but Fortunata

was smart enough to realize the extra boys would not stand idly by to allow him to defend himself.

Constantine knew this trial could only end in his humiliation. He had managed, through the

hard work and good graces of his mother and his two masters, to avoid interactions like this. But while

he had avoided them, it had not stopped the other children (and some adults) to want him gone, or

punished, or both. Their ignorance and distrust of the unusual percolated in their hearts, and

Constantine was almost relieved to finally face the trial.

He knew that most people looked at him and saw a monster. They believed God had cursed

him, his sin visible for all to see. Constantine had slowly come to that belief as well. He did not know

his sin, but he felt the punishment for it, and he felt sure that God did not love His own creation. Even

working on the stained glass window, he had pondered on a father who would allow his son to die such

an agonizing death. If God would let that happen to His son, what chance did Constantine have? And

this small, orderly mob on the road only confirmed his own self-flagellation. He somehow deserved

this.

The boys that stood behind their leader grinned maliciously at the inane conversation. They

hopped with restrained impatience to...do what? Break him? Make him cry? Make him bleed? Kill him

right here on a well-traveled path into the village? They didn't know what they planned to do, but their

thirst for action made them into an angry pack of dogs, barely chained and pacing for a chance to be let

loose.

The girls stood to the side of the interaction, a few with fearful eyes. They, too, were uncertain

as to the outcome of this night. They were unsure if the young boy before them would be hurt, and

some felt shame and warped excitement at his predicament. Others watched greedily, their own

prejudices coming to the front. They secretly wished they were male, so they could be more than mere

spectators.

The leader noted aloud how many hours the dwarf spent on his work at the glass master.
Constantine nodded warily, not speaking.

In fact, the other pointed out, it was really very strange that a Jew would put such care into a

Christian holy piece.

Constantine remained silent.

Irritated, the leader commented that some might say it was sacrilegious to allow someone like

him to touch God's work. Constantine knew silence was his best defense, but the words bubbled forth

without thought.

We worship the same God.

Ah! The leader's eyes sparked with relief. A response! Picking on someone made him a bully

responding to an argument made them equals. Did you hear that? He turned to include the pacing

boys behind him. The dwarf Jew believes we worship the same God.

His entourage did not laugh. Instead, their eyes deadened and they stilled eerily. The leader

returned to Constantine with a sneer. My God made me in His image. What image did He make you

in?

The words fluttered in the air like cobwebs. Constantine did not reply, knowing his responses

only angered them more. Better to be quiet and get it over with.

The leader strolled casually toward Constantine, perusing his form in a slow, close circle. His

arms now crossed on his chest, he scrutinized the other with an air of careful deliberation. I see the

image of a monster from a fairy tale. Too short to be a man, too hairy to be a girl. He paused for

effect. Too ugly to be.... He made another turn. Are you even human? Or are you a demon, sent to

profane the work of the church?

The group laughed nervously, but Constantine heard a quiet feminine voice warn, Nicco...

Nicco ignored the girl. He flipped the shiny black ponytail at Constantine's collar. You dress

like a child, and you have pretty hair like a girl. Yet you pretend to be a man. Are you a man? He

suddenly became active and quick, gesturing to his friends. Let's see if you are a man!
 The other boys had merely been waiting for a signal. They jumped eagerly into the fray,

suddenly a pack locked on a scent, and Constantine could not help but fight back. He had thought to

accept the punishment to come, but instinct is a difficult tide to stop, and as the first clumsy blow

glanced off his chin, Constantine felt his own fury rise up within him. Fury at the attack, or at his own

lot in life? It didn't matter. He met the mob with all his strength, which was considerable, thanks to the

heft of a sledgehammer and years of laboring with iron and steel. Several boys went home that night

with unexpected broken ribs, and one sported a bloody nose and black eye for several weeks. But six

against one is never fair, and towering two feet above an opponent is an advantage they all shared.

Constantine was quickly (though not as quickly as the group would have liked) forced to the ground,

and the leader, Nicco, who suffered only minor bruising, triumphantly reared over Constantine's

restrained form. Are you a man, little boy? he taunted while his gang guffawed.

He stripped Constantine's pants down his struggling limbs, and they all finally saw the

exhibition they had yearned in their secret hearts to see for years. Constantine breathed raggedly,

valiantly straining against their weight, but said nothing amid his struggles. As he was exposed to the

crowd, he ceased struggling. Silence suffocated the night.

Here was visible proof that he was indeed a boy, and it was disappointing for some. Nicco,

who had harbored a desire to prove Fortunata's inhumanity, was not satisfied. He kicked the dwarf's

quivering side and pulled out the knife he carried at his waist.

At the glint of the blade in the moonlight, all of the crowd hushed. The dogs holding down

Constantine were instantly alert, quivering and a little afraid, but still willing. The girls who had shared

in Constantine's humiliation by staring at his revealed privates, now gasped. The knife was a new kind

of game, one most of them didn't want to be involved in. That same feminine voice warned again,

Nicco, don't... Constantine wondered idly in his shocked and compartmentalized brain if she was

Nicco's girl, or his sister. As he lay in the dark, exposed and vulnerable, Constantine felt more at peace

than he ever had before. Surely, this was the worst thing he would experience in his lifetime, an event
dreaded for years. To finally have it arrive was curiously soothing. Soon it would be over, and there

would be nothing more to dread. He gazed levelly at the knife, and idly wondered if he would be a boy

for much longer.

Nicco had hoped for the exact reaction he received from his group of onlookers, but the lack of

response from his victim antagonized him. He waved the short blade in the air, making it dance and

shimmer, hoping for tears, or screams, or begging. The lack of any response forced his hand.

We see you are a boy, though not much of one, Nicco scorned, but are you human? Do

demons bleed?

Their eyes met, and Nicco's became fearful. He had not planned to take it this far. A little fright

in the woods, a threat to put the Jew in his place, that was all he wanted. Now what could he do, with

the crowd at his back, begging for some kind of action?

Constantine saw the doubt in the older boy's eyes, and he knew if he offered a plea, a way out

for Nicco, the night would end here. With his humiliation, yes, but little true damage. Conversely, at

Nicco's predicament, Constantine's confidence surged. He was in charge. He determined how this

night would end.

Nicco, he whispered in a guttural voice, from his prone position on the ground, held down by

four sets of arms, Yimakh shemo. In Hebrew, he cursed Nicco, and asked God to obliterate his name

from history. It was a phrase he had learned from his mother, and told never to use it. It was a strong

curse, but it relied on God's hand to make it true. And tonight, Constantine no longer believed in God.

But he believed in man's terror of what he didn't understand, and he used that knowledge to inflame

Nicco. Again, he said, Yimakh shemo!

Demon! screamed Nicco at the unfamiliar words. Do demons bleed?He slashed at the air in

his rage, before bending over Constantine's form to hack at his face. Human or demon? he howled.

The splash of warm blood on his hand brought Nicco back to his senses. Still menacing and

armed, he stood over Constantine's diminutive form, shamed by his size. His cohorts let go of
Constantine's arms and slowly withdrew. The game had gone too far. All eyes locked on the boy still

lying on the ground.

Two gashes opened and bled freely on either cheek. In the dark, the blood shone black, but no

one suggested it was anything other than human blood. Constantine, his eyes pinning Nicco's, used the

tail of his tunic to staunch the flow, and he carefully stood.

One of the girls sobbed in the background, and all the boysfor they were once again just boys

shuffled backward into a loose perimeter. Constantine ignored them all. Still watching Nicco, he

adjusted his pants and tied them closed. Nicco watched in silent, horrified fascination as the blood

streamed from Constantine's wounds.

Human, Constantine offered coldly, and stepped through the crowd. He ignored the gaggle of

teary girlish faces, and he tiredly trekked home.

Sometimes humans are a confusing mix of hate and compassion. Nicco found that all the

disgust and rage at Constantine's existence dissolved at the first incision of Nicco's blade into his

victim's skin. Now he felt only shame for his actions. Like a boy who had ruthlessly kicked a puppy to

hear him whine, Nicco now wanted to adopt him and heal his wounds. He shuffled after Constantine,

unaware of his own movements, only knowing that he had to pay for his sin. His gang followed

forlornly after him.

No one tried to catch up to Constantine, instead loping behind his measured tread at a distance.

Again, there was no plan. They did not know what they would do when he stopped. They only knew

they felt bound to him now, and would be until he chose to sever the link. They followed him home, to

his mother's cottage at the far edge of town, and they stood at the fence, a row of contrite figures afraid

to meet his eyes. Constantine entered the house carefully, but his mother heard his entrance, had

waited up for him. She didn't question from where the blood trickling down his cheeks came. Like him,

she had expected it for some time. Like him, she felt strange relief. He had faced his adversaries; he

was still alive.

 Constantine let her bathe his wounds without a word. His mother kissed his forehead mutely,

fearing his resolute silence, and also fearing to break it. He changed his shirt for a soft, clean one. Then

he packed up his few personal items into a satchel, and wrapped a loaf of bread and some apples in a

linen cloth, placing them also in the satchel. He came to his mother and waited for her to bend down to

his level. He hugged her neck and told her he was leaving. She began to cry, but she did not urge him

to stay. What had happened to him tonight had changed him. Where before he had been a frightened,

troubled young boy, he was that no longer. He was angry, he was cold, he was determined. But he was

now a man.

She walked to the door with him, and she was taken aback at the row of onlookers standing

behind her fence. She feared they were here to finish the job on her dear son. But they didn't appear to

be an angry mob. They seemed...contrite.

And there was no longer any fear in Constantine Solomon Fortunata. He passed through the

crowd as if they were not there.

He left his own country with no expectations, and no plans. He briefly regretted not saying

farewell to the glass master, or the blacksmith, but he pushed those regrets aside. He appreciated the

skills they had bestowed; they would hopefully provide income in his travels. But he had no room in

his heart for sentimentality. He headed toward the border, relying on apples from unguarded orchards,

and cold, fresh spring water to sustain him. He avoided well-traveled roads and exposure to open-

mouthed distaste or outright disgust. His short legs tired quickly, but his large chest allowed him

longer endurance; he soon grew accustomed to hiking mountainous terrain.

His journey lasted two months, as winter began to settle on the mountain tops. He needed

shelter before the weather ended his life sooner than an angry mob would. Combating his inner fears,

Constantine skirted a small village on the edges of a large, dark forest. Having avoided human contact

for so long, he had learned little of the language, and his dirty appearance was shocking enough that he
was widely avoided. No one on the street openly acknowledged him, ignoring him instead or peering

uneasily from around corners. He found the local blacksmith shop and, in the halting local tongue,

asked for work.

The blacksmith, a weary, heavy man with too many years at the forge, stared dumbly at the

comical figure before him. Constantine knew he was not a pleasant sight. Months in the wilderness

had left a decidedly wild stamp on him. His black hair was gnarled and knotted, his clothes had frayed

at the hems. Even at his best, he disturbed most people, and he was clearly not at his best.

The man continued to stare, confused why this runt of a man had arrived at his workplace to

speak to him. He grumbled something under his breath, and then growled words Constantine did not

understand. But he recognized the tone. He left in a hurry, glancing longingly at the forge. For once,

he wished to be back at the heat and the bellows. He left the village without speaking to anyone else.

The next town was worse. The folks there gaped and pointed, and their insults were clearly

spoken, though still unrecognizable to Constantine. He dodged stones thrown by small boys on his

way out of town. That language was universal.

The third village seemed more promising. He saw a synagogue near the center of town, and

instead of the smithy, he journeyed there first. The rabbi, attending the fire in the center of the

building, was startled to see the dwarf, but he hid his repulsion well. Constantine decided to forgo the

local speech. Instead he spoke the words of his religion, though perhaps not his faith. The accent was

off, but his words, at least, were understood. The rabbi smiled suddenly, realizing this diminutive

human was one of his own kind, and he led him to the back of the property to his cottage. He fed

Constantine, and kindly advised him of the unlikelihood of finding work here, or anywhere nearby. He

admitted that the people in this region were narrow-minded and fearful of strangers. He hinted that

Constantine try one of the larger cities, or perhaps, he coughed in embarrassment, even a traveling

circus.

Constantine had not fully understood how much his mother's love had shielded him from the
cruelties of this world. He knew his apprenticeship with the smith was a lucky windfall, but he had

hoped the skills he'd gathered would be enough to help him survive. Clearly it was not. He glared at

the rabbi, an example of his childhood faith, and saw in his well-meaning eyes the truth of God's

existence. Yes, He lived, but He did not care for his deformed children. Otherwise, He would not have

made the poor dwarf's way in this world so difficult.

Constantine thanked the rabbi stiffly for his advice, and the meal. He rejected the rabbi's offer

of hospitality for the night, and quickly made his way out of town. He did not know where he would

go, or how he would survive, but he refused to join a circus. He had been silently labeled a freak in his

own hometown; he did not care to travel the country advertised as one. He dragged his feet as he

retreated, feeling more and more sorry for himself, when a small child, a boy of no more than five,

darted from behind a fence and tugged on his tunic.

Constantine froze, unused to anyone purposely touching him. He turned to the boy and they

looked, almost nose to nose, at each other. What? he growled, his unhappiness still coloring his

voice, though he hadn't meant to be unkind.

The boy jumped, but did not let go of the tunic. Do you work for the witch?

He spoke with a lisp but the lisp slowed the foreign words enough so that Constantine could

understand him. The words only induced his anger. A witch? he retorted, jerking away from the boy's

grasp. Because I am small, and clearly an abomination to God, I must also work for a witch? I am

sick of idiots! He spoke his native tongue, so the boy didn't understand. He didn't seem frightened by

Constantine's mood, either.

You look like a story my mama tells me, and that dwarf works for the witch.

Constantine rolled his eyes. In the uncertain language, he spoke slowly. Dwarfs do not work

for witches. That is only a fairy story. There are no witches.

The boy shook his head vehemently. Are, too! She lives in the hills behind the forest. Mama

told me.
 Constantine recognized that a mama might use an imaginary warning to keep a child from

entering the woods. A malignant gleam shone in his eyes, and a compulsive desire to frighten the boy

dominated his thoughts. I don't like to tell people about her. She doesn't take kindly to rumors and

tales.

The boy, now wide-eyed at being correct, nodded dumbly. In fact, Constantine continued in a

menacing voice, I was sent to the village to find a little boy for her witch's brew. She chops them up

and uses them in her... He could not recall the unfamiliar word for 'potion.' Dinner, he finished

triumphantly, before pausing in thought. You look like you might be just what she wants. He waited

for the boy to run away, or cry. He did neither.

She's not that kind of witch, he told Constantine in a superior tone. She helps people. She

makes cures and medicines from flowers and stuff.

Constantine figured the boy meant an herbalist, a healing woman. Not exactly a witch, but far

enough away from the standard to be rejected by common folk. He understood completely why she

would seclude herself from civilization. He brushed past the boy in irritation, flinging his arm aside.

No, I do not work for her.

But mama needs something for her throat! demanded the boy. She says it hurts awful, and

I'm to go to the witch and get a tulsi. Constantine remembered his mother making the restorative tea

for his own ailments.

Tell your mother to brew a tea of betony. It should ease her pain. He didn't know if it

actually would, but betony was a helpful herb that was good for many different ailments. The boy was

not discouraged. Instead, he dogged Constantine's heels.

No, mama said to go to the witch, he enunciated carefully, and the lisp almost disappeared.

Then go! grumbled Constantine, eager to leave the boy's harping.

I'll go with you, he specified. I don't like to go alone.

Constantine almost yelled at the boy again, but paused. He had no desire to move to the next
town, only to be chased out of it, as well. He was not a witch's familiar, but he was familiar with being

an apprentice. Perhaps she would sympathize with his predicament, and he could offer his strong arms

as payment for a place to stay. Speculatively, he eyed the boy.

I don't think you know the way, he challenged derisively. You expect to follow me because

you don't know how to get there.

The boy bristled at the assumption he was stupid. Do, too! And he took off speedily, his little

legs devouring the familiar road. Constantine gripped his satchel and hurried after him.

They traveled for an hour, using a well-worn path through widely-spaced pines. The boy

occasionally demanded that Constantine hurry up, his young legs more confident on the terrain than

Constantine's. He mumbled a curse in his own language at the boy's insistence, but dared not trail too

far behind. They cleared the forest, and came upon a small valley interspersed with low, easy hills.

The boy never faltered, and he led Constantine toward a small hillock, on which a little, neat cottage

sat like a squat mushroom. It blended into the landscape as if it had grown there, a living organism in

its natural habitat. A carefully tended stone wall enclosed the space, and the boy sprinted through it to

knock loudly on the door.

Whatever else he was, Constantine admitted reluctantly, the boy was not shy.

He caught up with the child just as the wooden door opened, and he received his first glimpse of

the herbalist. She was tall, with disheveled white cottony hair. She stared ahead, slightly off-center of

the boy, and her eyes were white opals.

She was blind.

Ottaker Gottard, you stop beating on my door! she scolded lightly. Constantine noticed the

shuffling of the boy's impatient feet and the constancy of his hopping back and forth. Though the

woman couldn't see, she could most definitely hear the child's movements and identify him. For a

pleasant moment, Constantine entertained the notion of masquerading as a normal-sized adult.

Sorry, Sister, mumbled the boy repentantly. I found your dwarf!

 Constantine sighed.

The old woman limped onto her stone doorstep, her blank eyes wide with surprise. She was a

spritely creature, reminiscent of a fairy story. He could see why the neighboring folk labeled her a

witch. Between her wild fluff of snowy hair and blind eyes, plus the pink of her cheeks and

commanding height, she was an unusual specimen of womanhood. Constantine guessed her to be in her

seventh decade. She moved with a slight limp, and she held a long stick in one hand, which she tapped

habitually on the ground. She did not swivel her head to look for Constantine, but alertly tilted it to the

right. My dwarf? she questioned with a spark of humor. I didn't know I had misplaced him. She

thought the boy was teasing, and she played along good-naturedly. Constantine liked her sense of fun,

but remained silent.

Well, I brought him back, but he says he doesn't work for you. At his words, the herbalist

became still, as she realized this was not just playacting.

Where is this dwarf? she asked quietly. She studied the air through her empty eyes.

Right here! stated the exasperated boy. Why no one knew who the dwarf belonged to was a

great annoyance to him. He tugged on Constantine's tunic yet again to drag him forward.

Good afternoon, Frau, offered Constantine in strangled words. He managed a cursory bow,

feeling ridiculous; she couldn't witness his awkward attempt at manners. The woman's eyes widened

again at the direction the voice came from, and it was clear she understood he was lower to the ground

than he should be.

She paused a moment. Constantine waited as well. Finally, she cocked her head toward the

opposite shoulder. And are you my dwarf? she asked pertly, but not unkindly.

I am looking for work, and will be your dwarf if you are in need of my strength. His words

were formal and cold, for Constantine found his pride stuck in his throat, making his plea for

employment hard to voice.

The witch nodded slowly. Though blind, Constantine felt she saw him quite clearly, and
perhaps saw more than he was comfortable with. A woman living alone in the hills, practicing an art

that was often misconstrued as evil magiche wondered just how much she could sympathize with his

fears and desires.

Have you any experience with herbs? she asked calmly.

Only through common cures my mother used, he admitted. I am a blacksmith by trade.

She laughed outright, but still, not unkindly. Did you use a stool to stand on in front of the

forge? Her lack of sight allowed him to scowl without retribution. And yes, he had, in fact, used a

stool.

Well, blacksmith, I may have use for you, anyway. He wondered how much her offer was

from pity, but didn't care. He needed shelter through the winter months, and doubted handyman work

for the old lady would be taxing.

Thank you, Frau.

It is Fraulein, she corrected. Actually Sister Bertha Faust. I never married. I was a nun in

my youth.

Yes, Sister Bertha, he repeated with grudging respect and told her his name. Meanwhile, the

boy had taken to skipping from the doorstep to the stone wall and back, humming to himself.

Come along, Ottaker Gottard, Sister Bertha reigned him in. Help me collect some leaves for

your mother. Over her shoulder as she entered the cottage, she suggested to Constantine, Cut some

firewood, my dwarf. Stack it beside the house until it is as high as my shoulder. She chuckled,

perhaps cruelly, as she tossed out the seemingly impossible task before she and the boy hobbled out of

sight.

Constantine sighed at his plight, sour and hopeful all at once.

He found the wood pile easily enough. Someone had bothered to drag a giant tree trunk to the

far side of the cottage, and a well-worn ax lounged against it. The trunk had already been shorn of its

bark, and gleamed, butter-smooth in the sunlight. He knew that the size was the only intimidation;
Constantine's strength was more than enough to fell a tree on his own, never mind merely chopping it

into manageable pieces. But the problem lay in the stacking. As high as her shoulder, she had

deliberately charged him, and he knew it was a test. A test of his strength, of his obedience, and of his

ingenuity. For the first time since he had worked in the glass master's home, Constantine brushed the

cobwebs off his brain and set out to excel.

He found his rhythm in the memory of striking the forge. After a moment, his body flowed into

the fluid swing-cut-pull of the ax into the heart of the tree, launching back with all his strength and

letting the momentum of his swing cleave the wood in two. Soon, he worked like a machine, chopping

at one part of the trunk until it cracked apart from the whole, and then he moved three feet down the

length to hack at the next segment. He let the rhythm overtake him, and before long, he had eaten away

at the tree trunk until he was left with nineteen uniform cylinders of wood. Perhaps two hours had

passed.

He did not pause, though the sweat burned his eyes like tears, and his tunic clung to his

shoulders in a clammy hug. He relished the physical challenge, enjoyed the ache that dully pulsed in

his muscles. He could feel himself responding to the labor, and like always, his compact body surprised

him with the strength it held within. He returned to the first section of wood, and cut it into a more

compliant width. Only then did he bother to stand the piece upright on a nearby tree stump, using one

of the longer pieces of wood to stand on himself. Just for a moment he wobbled, before his naturally

low center of balance gave him a sturdiness that taller men could not boast. He widened his stance and

easily hacked the wood into sections that would fit into a wood-stove. He toiled for several hours, but

the work was satisfying, and left his mind free to wander. As he finally sheared the last log to a

manageable size, he shook himself, like shrugging off a particularly sound sleep. He felt that he had

been dreaming, and the dusky light revived him enough to recognize the most difficult part of the task

was now at hand.

The witchfor that was an evident description of her to his tired, grumpy mind had asked for
the logs to be stacked shoulder high. He'd do better than that, he decided with a grimace. He would

teach her early not to underestimate him.

Constantine stacked the logs along the short side of the cottage, filling in the width completely.

He layered the logs on top of each other, but on one side, he continually staggered the layers back,

creating a set of stairs using the cottage as a support. When the logs reached higher than his own head,

Constantine cautiously carried four at a time up his engineered steps to continue stacking. He made the

pile ever higher, until he ran out of logs. He was drenched in sweat, but he applauded his own

cleverness, before seeking out the old woman.

He found her inside the cottage, Ottaker Gottard keeping her company at a burnished wooden

table in the center of the comfortable space. Constantine only had a moment to take in the

surroundings, but he saw in that moment that everything in Sister Bertha's house was tidy and

specifically placed. He assumed her blindness led her to be precise, and he took pleasure in her

attention to detail. The table was empty except for two mugs, one for her and one for the boy.

Mismatched jars and pots lined the shelves along the walls, some with strings, some ribbons, some wax

seals. The wood-stove had been banked, and if a meal had been cooked on it today, there was no

evidence. Constantine's stomach grumbled at the reminder of missed meals, and he hoped to remedy

that hunger soon. A braided rug lay before the stove, and the pattern woven into its center suggested the

blind eyes of Sister Bertha had not sewn it, at least not recently. A neatly-made bed stood in the back

corner, near the stove to absorb the warmth. A patterned quilt topped it, and Constantine wondered

meanly if Sister Bertha had pieced it back when she was whole and could see it. He had no time to

announce himself because the boy, obviously hanging about to see if the dwarf failed at his task,

jumped up at his arrival.

Did you do it? he asked rapidly, and not pausing for an answer, he raced from the room,

stumbling over the doorstep on his way. Sister Bertha stood carefully, her face blank.

Did you?
 He glared at her. See for yourself. He retreated, but not before he heard her chuckle. He'd

hoped to insult her, but instead had only amused her. He had second thoughts about staying here. Her

cruelty, though not as overt as the other forms he had come into contact with, lay near the surface,

double-crossing in its slyness.

Both characters, perhaps equally inclined to prove the other wrong, found the woodpile, where

Ottaker Gottard gaped at the spectacle in awe. His grubby hand caressed the pyramid of logs, and his

eyes glowed with appreciation as he gazed wonderingly at Constantine.

Well? Bertha asked calmly. Has he succeeded? She used the boy's eyes for her own.

Ottaker drew in a deep breath. Yes, ma'am. He did it. He was wholly impressed, and

Constantine's chest swelled with the unusual, sweet pressure of pride.

White eyebrows raised in dubious disbelief, Bertha measured her steps to the woodpile, and her

hand reached out to find the stack of wood. Constantine knew that if she reached too far on one side,

she would find the logs did not cover the side of the house completely, and he tracked her searching

fingers warily. He wished his trick to remain a secret to her probing fingers.

The skinny, capable digits found the wood, and followed the rough edges up, acknowledging

they reached to her chest. To her shoulder. To her head. And then her hand continued its sightless

journey ever upward, until her fingers could not reach higher. The wood continued past her fingertips.

Constantine, contrary and resentful, had stacked the wood to the very top of her cottage wall,

well beyond her reach, and stacked it so carefully and tightly, that she would not be able to remove a

single log at her own height. He had made his point, he felt, and very well, too. Do not underestimate

me because of my height, he had told her with his work. He was both diligent and clever, and she

should not challenge him for sport.

And then she doubled over and laughed.

Ottaker joined her, both of them apparently delighted by Constantine's proclamation of his

talents. He was confused and disheartened. He had wanted anger; he at least expected embarrassment.
He had instead unwittingly charmed them. He threw himself down on the ground in consternation.

Charm was not a talent typical of Constantine.

How did you do it? Sister Bertha finally wheezed through her laughter. He sneered.

Does it matter? I did what you asked. He had no desire to show off his cleverness now. He

had been ready to argue with her, to throw in her face any criticisms she might offer. But now he was

only insolent and cool. He didn't need this further humiliation.

She felt again the wall of wood, reaching upward on tiptoe and finding no end. You have,

indeed, proven yourself worthy of the task at hand. But you did not do what I asked.

What? he demanded. You wanted the wood to your shoulder!

And you stacked it beyond my reach. She explained pointedly. In showing off, you have

made me no better off than I was before your work. I still cannot use the wood. She tugged on one of

the logs before her; in the enclosed labyrinth, it did not budge. What am I supposed to do now?

Constantine stared at her wryly, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. I suppose you will

have to let your dwarf climb the woodpile and fetch it for you.

They stared at each other, all be it one-sidedly. Sister Bertha calmly folded her hands at her

waist. I suppose I will.

Constantine released a sigh that deflated his entire body, and every tense and locked muscle

relaxed. He felt like crying. Instead, he nodded his head. Would you like some wood now, Sister

Bertha? he asked with the utmost politeness.

Yes, Herr Fortunata, I would.

The days trickled past, like dripping water relentlessly eroding a patch of ground. Over time,

through long, long days of hard work, and too-short nights of grateful rest, Constantine's detachment

was worn away by Sister Bertha's placid acceptance of his stature, and steely desire to make him into

something grander than he had planned for himself.

 How different would our story be were it not for her kindness? We are grateful for the changes

she wrought in our Constantine, and the knowledge she put in his heart, though it would take a very

long time for him to feel the same.

He lived with her for nine years. He slept in the barn in the summer months; he slept on a pallet

on the cottage floor in the winter. He was a slave, of sorts, performing whatever chore she demanded of

him. He felt compelled to please her. He cleaned the barn; he swept the floors; he cooked meals and

tended the vegetable patch. He helped her hunt wily plants, and learned under her tutelage to

distinguish between dangerous flora and helpful shrubs, often nestled beside each other in the hollows

of the mountain. Though she almost measured two of him, he carried her crooked body over streams so

she wouldn't trip on slippery wet rocks; he distilled herbs and roots into canisters and glass vials, to be

sold at the village. The only thing he did not do for her was go to the village himself.

He had found a special Eden here in the foothills of a mountain; he would not leave it to face

the ridicule of the small-minded. Sister Bertha only asked him once, and she accepted his refusal

without comment. The first time she left him alone at the cottage, he felt a heavy weight on his heart

for letting her go alone, but he shoved it aside moodily. But after several hours without her quiet, yet

distinct presence, he thought he would go mad with loneliness. When she finally arrived after dark, he

sat, hollow-eyed in the black of the cottage, only the dying firelight to ward off the night spirits, where

Constantine felt them settle over him like a gauzy cape. He made no comment at her lateness; she did

not apologize. But the next month, when it came time to sell her herbals, Ottaker Gottard arrived in the

morning with a wagon to carry Bertha's wares, and he returned at noon with her profits and a shopping

list full of supplies.

Sister Bertha satisfied every need Constantine had. In her lame and damaged body, he found a

mother, and a friend. She was his priest and his doctor, his sister and his teacher. He withheld no secrets

from her, though she never asked for them to be revealed. He felt preternaturally induced to share them

with her, and after declaring each one, he felt lighter, the constant burdens of his grievances and
sufferings puffed full of air by confession and blown away. It took several years, but she wormed her

way into his life until he was as rooted to her as a centuries-old oak was anchored to the ground. He

would not claim to love her; to Constantine, love was a curse, and a lie. His father's love had deserted

him as a child; his mother's love had not protected him from the taunts and jabs of his fellow children.

God's love had not healed his distorted body. But he knew that his connection to Sister Bertha was a

balm to his pain, and those thoughts that he never examined too closely, whispered nonetheless in his

mind that she was peace and goodness. She was home.

After five years with her, Constantine was competent enough with the herbs she collected to

brew simple remedies that she explained to him while looming over his shoulders in a threatening

manner. Her ears and nose made up for the uselessness of her eyesight; she could tell by the whisper of

the measured grains of pollen if he used too many. She could smell a bowl and reprimand him for his

stingy allotment of herbs. By the sixth year, she allowed him to explore her recipe books, which

contained hundreds of concoctions, some uncomplicated and some so complex they took up several

pages and several months to cure. She no longer lingered over him like a guilty conscience. But even

from across the room, she could make suggestions to perfect his mixtures. He refused to admit her

quiet comments always improved his task.

He learned during these years that she was not a witch, as the villagers uneasily labeled her. She

loved her God too much to betray Him by vying for His powers. But she had an uncanny knowledge of

His natural world, and she used His creations in ways that astonished Constantine. With mere herbs,

barks, berries, and roots, Sister Bertha could heal deep wounds, cure debilitating diseases, calm angry

skin, and strengthen failing health.

She could also, using similar natural ingredients, change the color of a person's hair, expand a

woman's bust, help a barren woman's womb grip babies that had always before slipped away without

latching on. All these things seemed like magic to the villagers, but Constantine watched the elements

she blended in her mortar with a practiced hand, and he saw the care in which she studied nature's
resourcefulness to create these medicines. For that was all it was: medicine. Not magic, not witchcraft.

Just common sense and particular knowledge.

He truly believed that until his eighth year under her tutelage.

Constantine was now a young man in his third decade. He was still no taller than a child.

Ottaker Goddard, a constant visitor to the cottage, had towered over his head for two summers, and lost

the youthful lisp somewhere along the way. But Constantine had grown in other ways. He had become

unnaturally strong, and Ottaker asked over and over for him to perform odd feats of showmanship.

Under this addictive hero-worship, Constantine threw stones as large as lambs into streams, just to see

the fish knocked tail over fin out of the water. He casually tossed squared logs through the meadow,

sending them crashing in splinters from the force of the landing. He could hold his own weight upside

down on one strong hand, and balance his ax in the other, much to the crowing delight of his singular

audience. Bertha never remarked, but her silence was usually enough to quell his ostentatious and

swaggering feats of strength.

He had changed in other ways, as well. Removed from the harsh opinion of strangers,

Constantine found it harder to leave this haven of peace, even for a day. He had lost that hard shell of

protection that had served him so well in his younger days. Though he was physically stronger, his soul

had grown tender, and the slightest prick bruised him violently. He did not think of the future, and what

he would do when his time with Bertha would end. In his mind, he had found an eternal home.

When the odd female visitor arrivedwhich was not uncommonConstantine scurried to

some shadowy corner, unwilling to face the women's critical eyes, but unable to completely remove

himself from the excitement.

He needn't have worried about judgments. The women who dared visit Sister Bertha were too

tangled in their own troubles to bother judging someone else's. These women were desperate, irrational

creatures, who had depleted all other methods, and had been forced to visit the mountain witch and buy

her uncanny potions and her silence.

 Occasionally, a young girl would arrive in the thin faded light of day, wanting something that

was valuable only to herblue eyes, faster growing hair, daintier feet. They saw Sister Bertha as an

adventure to experience, and the unearthly, cowering dwarf merely added to the charm of the unknown.

Bertha was always kind, always gentle as she took their money, gave them the small potions they

sought, and sent them home with more valuable advice to love themselves than the potion was ever

worth. At these times, Constantine could see the religious sister she had once been, offering solace to

human grief and fear. He both admired and criticized her acceptance of these common visits.

But it was other visitors, the women who showed up in the middle of the night, their hands

steady with purpose, their voices demanding and shrill, that shook Constantine. These women terrified

him, as he observed them in his lonely corner. These women were here for more serious reasons than

vanity. Otherwise, they would come during the day. These women were so full of sinful longings that

they assumed their desires would show in daylight, like blood stains on a clean shirt. Though they

fought their passions, they still knocked brazenly on the door, their courage stemming from their

corrupt wants.

Some of these women, the flinty-eyed ones with bloated bodies full of poison, wanted curses for

those who had wronged them. They craved revenge, and the desire made them fat and swollen, a

pimple of vengeful hate, ready to erupt. These women were sent away with vials of flavored water, and

instructions to pour it into their enemy's meals. Or they were given oak seedlings to plant at midnight,

under a new moon, and water with them with their own urine, to breed malcontent and agony. The

women always left with satisfied smirks, eager to spread their anger to those they hated. Bertha never

attempted to dissuade them of their vengeance; she understood that once a drop of venom entered a

soul, the body became so polluted that salvation was likely impossible. It was easier to send them off

with placebos, harmless charms that did nothing but slake their need to punish. Besides, could they

complain to anyone when the old witch's spells didn't work for them?

The other type of woman who appeared in the small hours was the kind that evoked pity, and
disgust. For these women were at the cottage because of love. Unrequited, always. Sometimes a

husband had strayed. Sometimes a lover lost interest. Occasionally, another woman's husband had won

their hearts. Constantine always thought these women the more hopeless cases, but Bertha reveled in

the challenge. She invited these gaunt and shriveled women inside, gave them mugs of hyssop tea to

stimulate their hearts, which had often slowed under the strain. These women were a danger to

themselves, so obsessed with the love that did not belong to them that they wasted away without it,

feeding on their own loss.

Bertha's greatest gift to them was a comforting ear. Though her eyes could not take in their

faces, her ears took in their pain, easing some of their burdens with her attentiveness. She listened, a

prescription they could fill nowhere else but in her dim, cozy cottage, sipping a tea that would cause

them to cough all night, in a sly attempt to disgorge the misplaced desire that had settled in their chests.

She told married women that their husbands deserved their trust and she sent them home with a recipe

for cinnamon cake, a medicine better suited for calling wayward husbands home than any she could

brew by unnatural means. She told unmarried women to keep their desires for other women's husbands

to themselves. She refused to help them at all, despite their wailings and pleas. And for the women who

loved men who did not see them as lovers, or barely saw them at all, she sent them away with a prayer

and a small bag of dried wild pansy, known as 'call-me-to-you.' She told these women that just like

these delicate purple and yellow flowers drooped their heads in the rain to avoid drowning, they needed

to drop their eyes from their heart's desires as well. She demanded they refuse to look at the men they

professed to love. Bertha told the desperate ladies to ignore these men who had ignored them. To push

them from their minds, at least in public. If, after two weeks, they did not feel a lessening in their

devotion to these men, then they could use the pansy. Bertha was indeed wise, Constantine realized.

For many of these women, the lust was from the inability to claim the man for themselves; to force

them to avoid him tamped their fiery desires; many of them would find they did not really miss him.

And those who still obsessed had been winnowed out from mere surface fascination.
 Bertha commanded them to take the dried pansy, crush it fine between their fingers, and place it

in a cup. They were to water it with tears they had wept while pining for his love, and then to that they

were to add three spoonfuls of honey. Three, because unrequited love was bitter, and the honey would

ease the concoction down his unsuspecting throat. And men adored a sweet thing, even if it was

dangerous to him. Finally, the women were to mix into the pansy concoction hot water and lavender

tea. She was to offer the man a sip of her drink, to catch him in the field when he was especially thirsty,

or in the woods while he hunted. To catch him in the midst of proving his manhood, and to offer him a

taste of her woman's heart. But only a taste. Too much spoiled him. A teasing sip made him want more.

Made him yearn for something he could only get from her.

These women disappeared with few words for Bertha. They left gold coins on the table, more

than they could afford, because what they asked for was more precious than any other desire they had.

To pay too little diminished their own worth. Sister Bertha always took the gold with a sigh, whispered

a prayer or a spell over it, and dropped it into a secret pocket in her apron. Constantine never saw

where the coins ultimately went.

Why do you give them that nonsense? he accused her one blue midnight, when the woman

had left in near-hysterics. Your medicine can't make some man love her. It's cruel. He felt an

authority on cruelty, and his words held the censure of the righteous.

Bertha smiled and scooped up the gold coin, to disappear with its sisters into who knew where.

Men are fairly easy to manipulate. It is a kindness I do for these women.

How so? He stepped out of the shadows and sat at her table. It was winter, and his pallet was

made up before the wood stove. Most nights, the intrusion of uninvited guests was not mentioned, but

tonight, he felt brazen. This particular woman had seem more pitiful than most, her ragged breathing

dangerous and unhealthy, her shaking hands telling of an obsession that Constantine would not have

humored.

Bertha poured a cup of tea for the both of them. Constantine wisely refused. He had no desire to
sip from a cup of love spell. The older woman, much slower than when he'd first met her, settled into

her chair with a sigh. Even sitting, Bertha was a head taller than he. He had grown accustomed to

craning his neck, as if searching the sky for rain. The women that come to me need only one thing.

Confidence. They need something that focuses their need. I give them a small token that strengthens

their will. Many will decide the man is not worth the spell after all. Others feel the spell working, and

they compliment his hard work, offer him a special treat. It is this confidence that draws the man to her,

that snags his attention.

So the spell doesn't work on its own, he scoffed. He knew her ability to brew healing tonics

was true, but this bordered on the side of magic, and he wanted her to deny it. A dose of confidence was

more palatable to his mind than a dose of concocted love.

Bertha chuckled, as she often did with Constantine. His presence in her cottage was as

commonplace as a cup of tea, and as comforting. He had been a good companion for these many years,

but she learned long ago that the hand God had dealt him could not be reasoned away by the likes of

her. Oh, the spell is true enough, she amended. But the final element is one I cannot supply. Her

desire to win him at all costs is an ingredient only she can add.

You make it sound as if it's magic.

The room grew quiet, the darkness taking on a silencing weight of its own. She met his gaze

across the table before calmly replying, It is.

He chuffed out a disbelieving breath. You don't do magic.

She shrugged. What is magic, my dwarf? Nature and a spark of wisdom. People confuse it for

something more, but that is all it really is.

He stared at her in consternation. But you're a nun!

I was. But I am not so naive as to believe the world exists only through my senses. Losing my

sight forced me to see the world in a different way. They may call it magic, but it is only skill of a

different sort.
 Is that why you live out here in the middle of nowhere? Because you really are a witch? His

world suddenly exposed to unexpected and frightening things, Constantine didn't quite know how to

respond.

Her laughter grew. A witch? What is a witch? She added hot water to her tea to warm it. I

help people. I know some things. Nothing I do is very difficult. You yourself have already mastered

most of my knowledge.

That is not witchcraft! Constantine averred. You have merely given me an education.

She wagged her shaggy white head. You've surpassed my abilities and are entering into a

wilderness without a guide. I am amazed at the things you've made on your own. Without you even

knowing what you did.

I have no talent, he sneered. I cannot surpass you. You know more than I ever will.

I have knowledge, she conceded. You have instinct. And a natural inclination that seeps into

even your most mundane remedies. They become spells under your hands, my dwarf, and they do more

than merely knit together skin or bone.

You think I have magic in my blood? His tone was cold. Because I am a dwarf, I suppose.

Yes.

He shoved away from the table and kicked the chair on its side. He breathed in shallow, wet

pants, like a dog, as he felt the full impact of her words. She often called him dwarf, but he had

assumed after the first year that it was a term of affection, and teasing. To hear it in all seriousness

landed like a physical blow. Are you implying I am not human? The memory of Nicco's taunts in the

forest all those years ago filled his mouth like a sour berry, bursting in curdling juices of pain.

Bertha remained calmly seated. Not completely.

He laughed viciously. So you are only calling my mother a whore. You're too late; my father

called her the same when I was born. He never claimed me as his own.

She sipped from her tea. And rightly so. You are many things, Herr Fortunata. Stubborn, angry,
contentious, intelligent and gifted. But you are not wholly human.

Constantine felt tears sting his eyes but refused to let them fall, even though Bertha would not

see them. He righted his chair and collapsed into it, his small legs no longer willing to hold his weight.

How would you know? You can't even see me.

I don't need to see you. I can hear it in your voice. I can feel it in your powerful hands and the

barrel strength of your chest. Your endurance is beyond most men, and your appetite is enough to feed

three people. But I know it mostly because I taste it in your medicine. I feel it in the tingle of your

ointments. You infuse everything you touch with a spark of your nature, and you make it into

something...more.

My mother is not a whore. He didn't know why this statement was so important to him. At the

moment, it was all he could hear. And she would not have...consorted with dwarfs.

Of course not!She leaned forward to pat his hand, but he inched it away from her seeking

fingers. Not knowingly. Dwarfs are creatures of the earth, she told him, and her voice took on the

sing-song quality of storytelling, as she imparted the history of his people. They are closer to nature

than man ever will be. They are drawn to the elements. They adore fire and metal, and their skill is

inspired. He thought of his days as a blacksmith and was silent. They mine gems deep in the heart of

the mountains, and they can do a day's hard labor by noon. They are close to the earth, both in soul and

in stature, and they were created by God to tend the wild woods.

There are very few female dwarfs. Mostly because dwarfs believe that only the strongest

children should survive. They test the strength of their full-blooded newborns by holding them

underwater for one minute at birth.

Constantine's mouth fell open at the mercilessness of the action. She claimed that this was

where he came from?

The female population are by nature slightly smaller, in comparison at least, to the males. They

rarely survive the test. She sighed. To keep the species alive, the male dwarfs visit human women in
the hours of deepest slumber. Using their charismatic talents, they weave a spell of sleep and

contentment over the women, and they have their way with them. Typically, once the babies are born, it

is clear they are not...expected. In many villages, the mothers wisely leave them in the woods and deny

their births.

Constantine's disgust was profound. They abandon their babies?

It isn't as mean-spirited as it sounds. Dwarf babies, even half-dwarfs, are supremely situated to

survive in the woods. They can thrive in their God-given environment until one of their own come

across them. They are welcomed and loved into the dwarf tribes.

But my mother did not take me to the woods. Constantine could not fathom these words. She

accepted my father's accusations and his rejection to keep me.

She must have loved you very much.

His heart hurt. It thrummed in his chest until Constantine thought he would faint from the

pressure. Yes, his mother had loved him, but even her love could not heal the damage his birthright had

caused him. He felt a tender ache to return home, just so he could kiss her cheek. But following that

thought was an equally upsetting one. Perhaps everyone would have been better had she left him in the

woods.

So I am part dwarf. He tried the notion out with pseudo- rationale. And you tell me I

have...magic.

You are a creature of mountain and wood and rain and sky, she agreed. And yes, of magic.

She smiled her pleasure at his inheritance. And now that you know, your real education can begin.

You said you could not teach me much more.

I will never have the skills you have. It is not in my ability. But it is in yours. She seemed so

eager to begin his new training.

An ability to create spells that lure men into the arms of desperate, conniving women? His

sneer was back, and with it a hatred for what she naively believed a gift. To compel people to do what
they do not want? To make people do my bidding? I see nothing of magic that is good or right.

Sister Bertha grew agitated. You would waste this gift God gave you? You are too angry at

your heritage to appreciate your future, Constantine! He did not give you height or normal features, but

instead He gave you a blessing beyond anything you can imagine!

I don't want it. His anger was cold and biting, a furry frost of words that cooled the room. I

may not be human, but I refuse to live my life as a...creature of fairy-tales.

You are more than--

No. I will not use this ability you say I have. I forsake it.

You cannot, she told him quietly. I tell you, I can sense it in your medicines. You weave it

through everything you touch: remedies, woodcutting, harvesting and planting. You can't stop it.

He was silent as he recognized her truth. Then I will go no further. I may not be able to stop it,

but I refuse to increase it and lose my humanity all together.

You will throw away your talent? She reached again for his hand, and this time he allowed it.

She squeezed his blunt fingers imploringly.

It is mine to throw away. He squeezed her hand in return, feeling a mother's love in her touch

and returning it in the only way he could, silently. Then he rose and left the room, his small body

constricted, fighting to confine the new creature he found himself to be. God had not made him human;

he had made him a bastard, a counterfeit man. But the role of a counterfeit man was still preferable to

that of a dwarf. His secret was welded into the most private recesses of his soul, and he gathered and

trapped his magic and his talent within, swearing to himself to never use it.

Inside, he heard the soft sobs of Sister Bertha.

He lived with the old woman for several more months. He gleaned every piece of knowledge

and wisdom he could from her instruction. Neither spoke of that night's revelations, and it took on the

blurry countenance of a hallucination. Constantine found it easy to ignore her proclamation, and to
focus solely on the work at hand. Sister Bertha died in late winter, from a cold that would not leave,

fluid filling her chest until she drowned in her own liquid breaths. Constantine held her hand and fed

her every cure he could find in her books, but he did not touch that inner sorcery he had locked away.

She died with a smile on her face, and eyes that seemed to focus on something unearthly as she took

her last rattling breath. Constantine dug a grave ten feet deep, and he lined it with soft moss and sweet

herbs dried that past summer. He laid her in the ground with the tenderness of a son, and he buried her

with composure born of loss and shock. Then he boxed up her house, and filled a burlap knapsack with

her books, bursting and precious with her remedies. During his packing, in a hefty abandoned jar in a

far corner, he found her horde of gold coins, tainted with magic and the promise of designed love. He

took the jar, anyway, and promised to do more with it than to continue selling false hope. He left a kind

note for Ottaker, and he set off into the mountains, to leave behind his second home, his second mother,

and his legacy.