Once Upon a Time: New Fairy Tales Paperback

It was the other schoolboys, most of whom had once been his

friends, who started calling him Idiot. At first it was Idiot Ivan, but soon it was simply Idiot, and it spread through the village until people forgot he had ever been called Ivan. Farmers would call to

him, cheerfully enough, “Good morning, Idiot!” They meant no

insult by it. In villages, people like knowing who you are. The boy was clearly an idiot, so let him be called that. And so he was.

No one noticed that under the dirt, and despite the rags he wore,

he had grown into a large, handsome boy. He should have had

sweethearts, but the village girls assumed he was slow and had no

prospects, even though he was the miller’s son. So he was always

alone, and the truth was, he seemed to prefer it.

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? Theodora Goss ?

The miller was the only one who still called him Ivan, although he

had given his son up as hopeless, and even he secretly believed the boy was slow and stupid.

This was how things stood when the miller rode to market to buy a

new horse. The market was held in the nearest town, on a fine summer day that was also the feast-day of Saint Ivan, so the town was filled with stalls selling livestock, vegetables from the local farms, leather and rope harnesses, embroidered linen, woven baskets. Men and women in smocks lined up to hire themselves for the coming harvest. There were strolling players with fiddles or pipes, dancers on a wooden platform, and a great deal of beer—which the miller drank from a tankard.

The market went well for him. He found a horse for less money

than he thought he would have to spend, and while he was paying

for his beer, one of the maids from the tavern winked at him. She was plump, with sunburnt cheeks, and she poured his beer neatly, leaving a head of foam that just reached the top of the tankard. He had not thought of women, not in that way, since his wife had drowned.

She had been one of those magical women, beautiful as the dawn,

slight as a willow-bough and with a voice like birds singing, that are perhaps too delicate for this world. That kind of woman gets into a man’s blood. But lately he had started to notice once again that

other women existed, and that there were other things in the world

than running a mill. Like his son, who was a great worry to him.

What would the idiot—Ivan, he reminded himself—what would he

do when his father was gone, as we must all go someday? Would he

be able to take care of himself?

He had saddled his horse and was fastening a rope to his saddle

so the new horse could be led, when he heard a voice he recognized

from many years ago. “Hello, Stephen Miller,” it said.

He turned around and bowed. “Hello, Lady.”

She was tall and pale, with long gray hair that hung to the backs

of her knees, although she did not look older than when he had last seen her, at his wedding. She wore a gray linen dress that, although it was midsummer, reminded him of winter.

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? Blanchefleur ?

“How is my nephew? This is his name day, is it not?”

“It is, Lady. As to how he is—” The miller told her. He might not

have, if the beer had not loosened his tongue, for he was a proud man and he did not want his sister-in-law to think his son was doing badly.

But with the beer and his worries, it all came out—the days Ivan

spent staring out of windows or walking through the countryside,

how the local farmers thought of him, even that name—Idiot.

“I warned you that no good comes of a mortal marrying a fairy

woman,” said the Lady. “But those in love never listen. Send my

nephew to me. I will make him my apprentice for three years, and at the end of that time we shall see. For his wages, you may take this.”

She handed him a purse. He bowed in acknowledgment, saying,

“I thank you for your generosity—” but when he straightened again,

she was already walking away from him. Just before leaving the inn