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It’s too much for me to take anymore. Dad and Ingo are best friends, I get it. They trust each other with their lives. It’s all wonderful.
They tell lots of stories about it. We’ll all be sitting by the fire, sipping tea or cocoa, and Dad will start talking about the time where Ingo saved him from that wild stallion. Ingo will go on about when Dad saved him from the rabid wolfos. And when Dad wasn’t sure that the ranch would pull through that winter, Ingo somehow managed to get the shipments of milk and eggs to Kakariko Village through all that snow. At the ranch, we live and die by how Ingo and Dad save each other.
Of course, nobody talks about how Ingo comes into my room a few nights a week, while we’re all supposed to be sleeping. I still pretend to be asleep, even though he and I both know I’m aware of everything that happens. The ways that he touches me, and what he touches, are not appropriate. I know that for sure. I think that if they were appropriate, then I wouldn’t be so scared of telling Dad about it. I think if they were appropriate, they could happen while I’m awake. I think if they were appropriate, I might feel okay about it.
But I can tell that it’s not okay. I feel some solace in that knowledge, that what is happening is not right.
I wish that could be enough for me to share with Dad. But it’s not. I think it would kill him, to know that his best friend was sneaking into my room at night and doing these things. I wish I could really put into words what is happening. It’s just that every time I try to think about it, I feel the nausea building up inside my esophagus. So I just sort of put it in the “bad” drawer in my mind, and leave it for examination later. Like, twenty years later, maybe thirty.
It’s been six years since this whole thing started. I don’t know if it was anything I did or said, of if it was because of something Dad did or said. Maybe it’s because that’s around the time I sprouted breasts, or something like that. I mean, I would have tried to stop them from popping out if that could have stopped this kind of thing from happening.
But it’s too much now. I’m eighteen, now; at this age, people are starting their lives. Meanwhile, I’m just sitting here on the ranch, doing what I’m told to do, living in my father’s house, being touched by my father’s friend. It’s all closing in on me. I wonder sometimes if these walls are just going to collapse on top of me, ending this existence.
And I wonder sometimes if I’d be terribly scared of that happening. Sometimes, I wonder if I’d welcome it. The other day, it finally occurred to me that if I would welcome death so long as I stay here, it might not be such a bad idea to leave.
Leaving means leaving things behind. One of the reasons why I’ve refused to consider leaving before is because I know I would have to leave Epona. I wish I didn’t have to leave her, but raising horses and eventually breeding or selling them is one of the things we do here at Lon Lon Ranch. Taking Epona would be stealing, and I’m very well aware of that. I’d like to think she’s my horse, mine to keep forever, but just because that’s what I’d like doesn’t mean it’s true. It doesn’t matter that she was the first foal I helped birth, or that I’m the only person she’ll listen to without a fuss. She’s Dad’s horse, and if I take her with me, I’m just going to end up coming back.
I can take clothes with me, so I throw some of those into my pack. I’ll wear my boots and my cloak—they’re the only ones I own. I throw in my books, even though I hardly have time to read them as it is. I have very few valuables, but I do pack my mother’s necklace. It’s officially mine, since Dad gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday. That’s not stealing. I frown. I have nothing to wear with it. I mean, I wouldn’t need to wear it, so I shouldn’t need anything to go with it.
Bah, I need something to go with it. But I don’t own anything nice enough to wear with this necklace. Mom might have owned something, but her old clothes are in the attic. I have some time to search, I think. Dad and Ingo are waking up in about a half hour or so.
I quickly tiptoe into the hallway, and I grimace as the attic door creaks. Geez, we need to oil this thing. Well, I won’t care anymore, right? I’m leaving.
The stairs groan, too, and I roll my eyes at the noise. The armoire with Mom’s old clothes protests, too. Maybe this whole attic is trying to keep me from leaving. Damn everything.
The closet smells like mothballs, and I have to hold my nose to keep from sneezing. I hope that her clothes have survived these long ten years. I sigh; they’re mostly work dresses. A couple have holes in them, or dirt and grass stains, and I hold back tears—they’re still the same as when she was alive. Ugh, no, I can’t think about this.
Finally, I find some of her fancier dresses, the ones without patches of mismatched calico, the ones without the old stains from cucco feces. These dresses of jewel tones, of satin, chiffon, taffeta, and lamé, they’re from better times here on the ranch. Those times were over soon after I was born, although we kept hoping things would pick up. Hope ended with Mom’s death.
I hear noises from downstairs, the second floor, and I realize that I need to hurry up. I quickly pull three dresses from the armoire, figuring that at least one will match the necklace and hopefully fit, and I shove them unceremoniously into my pack.
I creep back downstairs, and I panic as I realize that Dad is awake and getting dressed. I can hear him even with his door closed. Crap, crap, crap. I quickly shut the door and run downstairs as silently as possible. I need to get out now. I don’t have time to go back for anything else, but that’s fine. I can’t get caught. That’s not an option.
Dad usually lets me get up and dressed on my own time. Breakfast isn’t an issue; we cook it in advance so we can grab it and eat is as we walk outside to start the day. I have to leave my breakfast untouched, so Dad thinks I’m still asleep or upstairs. He and Ingo won’t realize I’m gone for at least a good thirty minutes, possibly until lunch if they’re really busy.
I mentally click off the hours as I head towards the city. One hour—Dad is probably milking the cows. He probably thinks I’m weeding the garden. Two hours—Ingo is probably attempting to collect cucco eggs from some grumpy hens. He probably thinks I’m still in the barn with Dad.
Three hours, and I’m within the city walls, looking around for “Help Wanted” signs. Dad has probably figured out that I’m gone. I didn’t leave a note, but since my boots, cloak, and pack are gone, it should be obvious that I didn’t magically or unwillingly disappear. But I also feel a little guilty—I didn’t think to leave a note. I hope it doesn’t pose a problem.
Four hours. I’ve already spent ten of my rupees on a sandwich for lunch, and none of the “Help Wanted” signs have led to jobs I could do. I can’t be a seamstress, or a cook. I can only sew and cook well enough to get by on the ranch. I sigh heavily. Will I have to go home? I shudder at the thought, and I continue to move through the marketplace.
I’m about to give up and return to the ranch when I spot a flyer pinned up on the doorpost of a bar. Upon closer inspection, it’s a sort of “Help Wanted” ad. To my great pleasure, there are openings for stable hands up at the castle. This is something that I could definitely do. Sure, it might be easy for Dad to find me, but I’ll just have to hope and pray as much as I can.
The road to the castle is a long one, and with each step I take closer to the massive building, the more I start to doubt myself. What if this is a men-only position? Will they take runaways? Do I legally qualify as a runaway if I’m over eighteen? Can Dad take me home if he finds me here? What if I’m not good at whatever they ask me to do? Will they give me somewhere to stay? The ad didn’t say if room and board were provided. It did say the position pays up to 300 rupees a week. What are the chances that I’ll get that much? Dear Farore, give me the courage to keep walking. Otherwise I might turn and flee.
“State your business,” says a soldier at the gate, and it’s only now that I realize I’m standing at the drawbridge to the castle. Yeesh, I was so not paying attention.
“Uh, seeking employment,” I say, hoping I sound confident. At least my voice doesn’t crack. I think it’s even more embarrassing for women than for men.
It works; he nods and lets me pass. Geez, I think I actually broke into a cold sweat. That’s just gross. Ugh, I’mgross.
I should have asked him where to go to ask for employment. But I’m not bright like that, so I just keep wandering until I get to the entrance of the castle. More soldiers stand there.
“State your business,” another one asks.
“I’m seeking employment,” I say again, but this time I remember to ask, “Where do I go for that?”
“What kind of employment?” he inquires.
“Stable hand,” I reply, and to my great relief, he nods. Apparently, they do hire female stable hands.
“You want to head that way,” he tells me, pointing to the left. “You’ll find yourself in the Royal stables after a few minutes. Just ask for the stable head.”
“Thanks,” I blurt before heading in that direction. I’m so awkward, it hurts.
I find the stables quite easily. They’re huge. Enormous. Expansive. I could fit the whole ranch in here, I think. Well, that’s probably an exaggeration, but it is big. The wood is polished, not full of holes and easily splintered. There isn’t a stray straw of hay to be seen, or even a suggestion that a horse crapped near here. Everything is confined to the stalls themselves, it appears, and the carts that are pulled around. They’re heading out the back of the stable, and I don’t know their destination.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for the head of the stables,” I say to the first person I see. He looks as if he works here, since he is leading a horse.
“You mean Donald?” he asks. “He’s in the office, right over there,” he answers, pointing off down the corridor of the stable. Before I can double-check with him that I’m going to head in the right direction, he’s back on the move, and the horse clip-clops behind him.
I make my way down the corridor and I find that the set-up is pretty straight-forward. The entire building is one long rectangle, with a wide corridor running long-ways. In the center, there’s a perpendicular corridor going into the castle itself. On one side of the building, stretching from end to end, are individual stalls, with rooms full of tack on either end. On the other side, for the first half of the stable, are more stalls, but the other half seems to contain rooms and offices for people, including one large room that seems to be completely stocked with bags and bags of oats. Another door opens, and a young man is pushing an empty cart out and into the corridor—it seems that this room contains carts, as well as some equipment to clean them. At the very end, I can see another young man pushing a cart into some room and pushing it out full of straw. Beyond the stable, I can see open pastures, with picturesque white fences.
Of course, while staring at the green fields, I bump into yet another young man pushing a cart of dirty hay. Fortunately, the cart doesn’t tip over, but now there’s smelly straw all over the floor. And me. Oh, Goddesses.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, over and over. “Oh, geez, I’m so sorry!” I stupidly try to pile the straws and feces into my hands and back into the cart.
“It’s fine,” he sighs, and I see that he’s wearing gloves. That’s smart of him. His hands won’t stink so terribly now, as mine will. I didn’t think to bring my gloves, since they’re technically Dad’s, and I was being so careful about not stealing. That wasn’t so intelligent of me.
“I’m really sorry,” I say one last time, and I wipe my hands on my work dress. Another young man is coming by with a broom and a mop, and I blush with shame. I haven’t even spoken to the head of the stables yet, and I’m already causing trouble.
I spot a door with a name-card reading “Donald” on it, and I knock as calmly as I can. “Oy, come in!” calls a rough voice.
I push the door open to reveal a very messy looking office, complete with a middle-aged man behind a desk. “Can I help you, young lady?” he asks, annoyed.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I must have apologized a million times already today. “I was told that you were looking for stable hands. I’m looking for work.”
He sighs. “Well, come in then,” he replies gruffly, and I quickly shut the door behind me. I can hear the blood pumping through my ears.
“Well, what’s your name, girl?” he asks. His graying hair is mostly covered by his hat, which he struggles to keep in place on his head. I suspect he’s going bald. “What kind of experience do y’have?”
“My name is Dahlia,” I lie; if I tell him that I’m Malon, he’ll know exactly who I am. I would like to at least maintain some sort of anonymity. “I worked in a stable in Kakariko for a while. I know how to help mares give birth, and I know how to raise a foal. I know how to raise horses, take care of horses, train horses, and breed horses.”
He nods. “Well, Dahlia, I’m in sore need of help, since a bunch of my stable hands decided to up and join the ranks of those obnoxious soldiers.” He sighs. “It’s that new Captain,” he spits. “Everyone wants to be like him, and I’m down to only five hands right now. Anyway, I’ll send word to the castle to get a bed ready for you.” He stands up and starts pulling some paperwork off a shelf. “You’ll be sleeping and taking your meals in the castle with the rest of us,” he says, searching for a pen. “I’m sorry to say that you’re the only lady, and you’ll be rooming with the five young men you may have bumped into out there. If they do anything funny, just kick ‘em or something, and they should stop.” He finally locates a pen, but it doesn’t work, and his search continues. “I can tell that your dress has seen the stables, but here, it’s better to work in tunics and britches. I don’t have any that are outfitted for a lady, but we’ll find you some getup that fits all right.” I spot a pen and quickly hand it to him. He begins filling out the form without even glancing at me.
“I’ll be checking out this place in Kakariko,” he says, and then I realize that my plan might totally fall through. Crap! I don’t even know of any stables in Kakariko, at least not by name. “Of course,” he continues, looking up at me, “that won’t be right away, and if you can prove to me that you’re worth keeping, I might turn a blind eye to some inconsistent information, if y’know what I mean.”
“Completely,” I reply dryly, feeling a little safer.
The tour of the stables isn’t as nerve-wracking as I’d feared. Donald shows me how the whole system works: there will be a clipboard in a cubby with my name on it, and I have to check off everything on it as I go. Certain things need to be done before lunch, and others need to be done before dinner. Fortunately, there’s not much to do before bed.
“If there’s a red sticker on the top, it means it’s your turn for night duty,” he explains. “That means you’re going to have to stay up in case we have any late night visitors. If you’re on duty, you’ll have chores to keep you occupied and awake during the night. If someone does come in, and you can’t handle it yourself, feel free to ring the bell over here.” He points. “That’ll wake me up, and I’ll come down and help you. It’s part of my job, so I’d rather you ring for me than attempt something that you can’t do alone. I won’t be mad, especially since you’re new. The next morning, you’ll join us for breakfast, and you’ll be able to rest until lunch. After that, your day continues as normal. Your shift will occur every six days or so, barring any unusual activity.”
He explains the locations of everything I’ll need to take care of the horses, whose stalls are all very clearly labeled. “I tend to assign people the same horses, so you won’t have to learn where everyone is right away. I will switch you around every so often, though, and by the end of the first month, I do expect you to know where everyone is.”
He then explains the only system I’m worried about. “Now,” he continues, “you’ll notice that the floors of the stable are rather flawlessly clean.” I nod and blush as I realize the site of my earlier accident is now clear. “Our policy here is that everyone is responsible if there’s a mess left behind. I’m not going to freak out if you spill some hay or muck, but if it’s not cleaned up within ten to twenty minutes, depending on how generous I feel or what you’re in the middle of, all the stable hands lose lunch, as well as ten minutes of sleep. All the cleaning supplies are available to you in all of the rooms and closets except the stalls themselves. If someone else makes a mess, you’re better off helping him. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, gulping slightly. I’m unused to having to avoid messes like these.
“Donald, not sir,” he says gruffly, and his hat nearly falls off. Yep, he’s definitely balding.
Once my tour is over, he takes me to the stable hands’ quarters. There are five messy beds, and five bureaus with random drawers halfway open. A trunk sits at the end of each bed, some of which have clothing sticking out. At the end of the room, there’s a six cot waiting for me, with a small bureau beside it and a trunk at the end. There is a small pile of folded sheets and blankets at the foot of the bed, and a bare pillow at the head. A new candle in a holder sits on the dresser, with a starter next to it. “Here’s the room,” Donald says, trying to sound cheery. “Our dining room is right across the hall, so you’ll just get dressed and go there after the bell rings in the morning. There’s a clock in there, and I need you all out in the stable by seven at the latest to get started. If you want to get started on making your bed right now, I’ll go hand in this paperwork and get you some work clothes.”
“Thank you, Donald,” I say awkwardly, and as he leaves, I feel very lost.
Oh, I’m not actually lost. I have a good sense of direction, and I can easily find my way back to the stable. I just finally feel as if I’m on my own, just like I wanted, but now I want to go home. Maybe I’m not ready for this new job, new life. Maybe I should have just stayed at home.
I can already make some predictions. Tonight, the male stable hands will all snicker as they watch me change. Tomorrow, I will leave several trails of hay and dirty straw behind while I work, which I will struggle to clean up. The other stable hands will have to help me to avoid losing lunch. I’m going to be ostracized, not only because I’m a girl, and not only because I’m unused to keeping single straws of hay from falling to the ground, but also because I know that all of the horses will listen to me. The other stable hands will watch with jealousy. I will astonish them, and I will stun them.
But as I make my bed, I know that I would rather have these five young men (boys, really) despise me than go back to my own bed in my own house, only to feel Ingo’s fingertips running across my skin and down—
—I finish making my bed, and I quickly unpack my things before Donald returns with several sets of work clothes. It’s obvious that only men are expected to work here. Otherwise, there would be a closet for me to hang up my dresses. Instead, I press the beautiful fabrics of my mother’s dresses down before pushing the small drawers back into place.
Aarne-Thompson refers to the Aarne-Thompson classification system of fairy tales. Cinderella is Aarne-Thompson type 510A, with the heroine persecuted by a female figure. Aarne-Thompson type 510B refers to similar stories with the heroine persecuted by a male figure. "Donkeyskin" by Perrault and Deerskin by Robin McKinley fall under this category, and I have to say, I only prefer it to 510A because the heroine escapes immediately in 510B. I can't write a realistic reason for the heroine to put up with the stepmother's crap in 510A, so I haven't managed to write a Cinderella story yet.
Anyway, I hope that Ingo's behavior won't prevent reading and reviewing. It's not as central to the plot as it was in Just a Farm Girl, so I'm not going to fixate on it as much. Huzzah.
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