Page 5 of Mischief Maker
Kireth spins around in a circle as he takes in the pathetic state of things. “And you really believe I can help you fix all this?”
“I have no choice but to hope you can.” Summoning this creature was my last resort. Without Kireth, I have no avenues left.
“Hmm.” He looks thoughtful for a moment as his gaze returns to mine. “Fine. Then I will do as you ask. But I will warn you—the more generous your task, the more generous my interpretation of it.”
I should have expected this. He is still a trickster, after all, so I nod in understanding.
“I will try my best,” I say, hoping that he won’t make my life even harder than it is.
Kireth sighs at my lackluster answer. “It’s a shame you have no fight left in you.” He swaggers to the front door. “I would like to know what is hiding behind the terrified little house cat you are now.”
Then he’s gone, whistling to himself with his long tail flicking behind him. I wonder what he could possibly mean. If anything, I am the mouse the house cat killed.
Kireth
This mortal is interesting, in her own way. Pathetic, really—scared and demure. Beaten down by the weight of the world, almost no resistance left inside her.
But I can detect something else in there, too, lurking underneath that soft skin. The way her pulse jumped when I got so close to her gave me a clue. There is a hungry animal inside, waiting to be released from its bonds.
A most curious woman indeed.
The one thing I’ll say for mortals: they are creative, if not very clever. Little Faela is trying to pit her wits against mine, and though it is brave of her, she will fail. I’ll make sure of it. Besides, this decrepit place is beyond my help, no matter how many tasks she’s able to dream up for me.
Livestock chores. Whatever that entails. I’ll make it up as I go along and take liberties where I see an opening.
That is why I was made, after all. A tool created by the great goddess Lucia, giving mortals what they want but wrapping it in poison for her entertainment. I have a role to play in this world: creating small doses of chaos and sowing a quiet discord in everything I touch.
Milking a cow is a simple task and has not changed over the course of my long existence. I switch from one udder to the next, though these cows are sad and skinny and don’t have much to give. When I bring the milk inside, the human is trying to fix the hinges on the door. She’s struggling to find the right placement.
But she didn’t ask me to help her with the door, so I leave the milk on the table and return to these “livestock chores.”
There are also sheep, and if I know one thing about sheep, it’s that their wool is very desirable to humans. Perhaps I’ll shear them before the summer heat really sets in, and the woman can make enough money to hire a carpenter to repair these detestable fences.
Not that the state of her fences is my concern, or whether she has enough wool to sell for it.
There is a sheepdog who guards the sheep, and when I lean down and whisper in her ear, the dog gets to work chasing down the stragglers and bringing them into the pen.
I ought to punish the young woman for such a broad request. While I quickly snip off the wool, making sure not to cut any of the sheep’s tender flesh, I consider what best way to show her that my rules are not to be bent to her needs.
Ah, yes. I know just what to do.
When I’m finished shearing the sheep in exactly the way I want, I bundle up the stacks of wool with twine and deposit them in the storeroom. The stores are shockingly empty, with only one half-full barrel of grain left for the animals and almost nothing in the way of human food. How does Faela expect to survive for much longer?
This sad woman really does need help.
Fortunately, it’s not my job to make sure she has food to eat. I don’t need physical sustenance—being immortal and all. I’m only here for ninety-nine more tasks, and once that’s through, I’ll return to my temple and wait for the world to continue passing me by.
The sun is setting by the time I finish bringing the two dozen cows and the sheep inside. I’ve done what Faela asked for today—and fairly well, I might add. Better than she deserves. I shouldn’t have put so much thought into what she wanted me to do. That won’t teach her a lesson about using her tasks so broadly.
As the dog chases the last of the livestock into the pen, I throw her some dried meat I found in the storeroom. Unfortunately, the gate is rickety and old, and it really should have been fixed a long time ago. Irritated at my new master’s broad directive, I intentionally leave the gate open and return to the house, kicking over a bucket of grain as I go for good measure.
Faela is out in one of the fields, tearing out dead plants and tossing them into a big pile. Everything is withered and yellow, and some stalks have even turned black at the base. There are streaks of red down her face, like she cried for some time and then finally ran out of tears.
What has she done so terribly wrong as to kill off all her crops this way? They look like they’ve been neglected for months without water or nutrients.
While she works, I lean down and scoop some soil into my hand. It’s strangely dark—almost black, as if a deep mold has sunk into it. But how could that be?
There’s something odd here, but I can’t pinpoint what it is.
