Page 1 of The Pebbled Path

Chapter One

Once upon a time, far away and long ago, a man and his daughter lived in a meadow at the edge of a forest. The man loved his daughter, and she loved him. They were not wealthy, nor were they important in the eyes of the world, but they were happy.

Yet time marched on, as it always does, and the man was forced to admit that his daughter could not remain so isolated forever. She had, with increasing frequency, spoken wistfully of meeting a handsome young man, falling in love, having a home and family of her own. He could not deny her that dream.

With winter gone and spring making herself known, the man gathered food and supplies enough to see them to the nearest village, where he hoped to introduce his daughter to families with young people her own age with whom she might form friendships. Perhaps among them she might find a suitable young man. He had no expectations of an immediate match; indeed, he earnestly hoped for the opposite. This, he told himself, would simply be their first journey of many. In time, she would find her future. For now, they would focus on improving her present.

He led their pony cart along the narrow and seldom-used path through the forest. He knew the way well. They ventured to the village twice per year, though only to replenish supplies and sell goods of their own. This time, their purpose was more personal, and the journeys would, from this moment forward, be more frequent.

Gretel, his beloved daughter, was aware of their reasons for journeying. A nervous smile hovered unchanging on her lips. Her eyes were wide with anticipation. “Will there be a great many young people my age?” she asked.

“Have you been lonely, Gretel?”

“No, Papa.” The eagerness in her expression belied her declaration.

“The village boasts many families,” he said as they traveled deeper into the forest. “You have met them in years past. Surely you remember.”

She leaned against him, a warm buffer against the chill breeze. Winter no longer held the forest in her grip, but warmth had not entirely returned.

“I do remember,” Gretel said, “but I wish to hear again, as this time we are making our journey with the sole purpose of making friends.”

He told her of the families he knew, the size of the village, its many prospects and enjoyable activities. She asked more questions than he’d heard from her at any one time. His darling child was excited. Her anxiousness added to his. Though he knew this journey would signal the beginning of the end of their time together, he found he could look on the pending change with increasing happiness.

They reached a familiar fork in the road. He made to guide the pony in the appropriate direction but hesitated. Indeed, his indecision led him to stop their forward progress altogether.

“Papa?” Gretel asked, eyeing him with confusion.

“Forgive me.” He eyed both paths ahead of them, no longer certain which was the correct one. “I believe we must go right.”

“No, Papa. I remember this well. We are to go left.”

That, he now felt certain, was wrong. “No. We are meant to go right.”

“But, Papa—”

“Gretel,” he answered firmly. “I have never been more certain. We are meant to go right. We have to go right.”

He guided the pony to take the right side of the fork, even as his daughter more loudly insisted he was mistaken. He would not be deterred. The farther down the road they traveled, the surer he was of his decision. This was the right path, the best path. It was important that he travel it. Turning back would never be an option.

He flicked the reins, urging the pony faster. Reaching the end of the road was paramount. The need to do so quickly filled every thought, every thud of his heart, every breath. On and on they went. Faster and faster.

“We have gone the wrong way,” Gretel insisted. “Please, Papa. We must turn around.”

Her pleas only served to urge him forward, a desperateness to prove her wrong. This was the path he had unknowingly been looking for all his life.

“Please, Papa.”

On and on.

“Please.”

And on. Until, quite without warning, a cottage appeared before them. He had been looking for this very place, this very spot. He felt certain he had been, though he could not say with any confidence when he had begun looking for it, nor how he knew it existed, only that this was where he had to be.

“I do not like this,” Gretel said.

“I must go in. I must.”

“What of our trip to the village?” Worry laced her words.