Livid awoke with a start. She threw out her arms as if to catch herself. Quickly sitting up, she glanced about with glazed gray eyes hoping to see nothing other than her desert home and not a trace of water or wave. To her great relief, her hopes were realized.
Her small campfire lay in front of her, but it was now little more than glowing embers. Its dying coals cast their faint light upon the nearby rocks and boulders of the craggy slopes where she had made her camp.
All around, her flock slept soundly, and behind her, she could hear the rhythmic snoring of her friend, the old donkey named Dawdle. The animal lay on her side, and her round belly was like a great warm and furry pillow against which Livid had been reclining.
In the cold night breeze, the shepherdess could smell the blooming cactus, and she could hear the sad song of the Weepingwaste. This rocky desert landscape was her home, and she had never been more thankful of this than she was at that moment.
Looking upward, Livid fearfully recalled the angry storm that had swirled above her, but now she found only the clear desert sky full of bright stars. Instead of lightning streaking across ominous clouds, she saw only the outstretched branches of an old gnarled tree under which she had been sleeping.
Realizing that it had all been a terrible nightmare, Livid let out a shuddering sigh and stoked the fire with a stick. In response, the flames were rekindled, and as they grew, they began to cast a flickering light all around the campsite.
Gazing deeply into the fire, Livid was consumed by troubling questions. “Who is this gray-witch?” she wondered silently. “And where did she find the golden baby? And why did she throw the poor child off the tower?”
As she sat in deep thought, the campfire’s light gave her gray face a reddish-gold hue, and its flames glinted like gold in her colorless eyes.
Livid’s slender face grimaced as her mind lingered upon the troubling night-vision. The gray-maiden had often dreamt of the huge black waves and had often felt as though she were being swallowed by the shadowy depths. Yet, of all her nightmares, she had never seen the great dark tower, nor had she beheld the woman in black, and she definitely had never dreamt of the golden child.
Uneasiness began to grow in Livid’s heart as she thought about all these things. “That gray-witch was colorless like me.” She frowned as she considered this.
She had always desired to know who her parents were, but now she began to realize that not knowing might be much easier. Suddenly, she wondered if it had been better when she was only fearful of the dark waves rather than these shadows of uncertainty.
With an annoyed slump, the gray-maiden laid back against the furry round belly of the donkey. Dawdle gave no sign that she noticed the abrupt contact but simply went on with her soft rhythmic snoring.
Gazing up at the stars above, the shepherdess inhaled deeply and then held her breath for a moment. Seconds later, she let the air burst forth from her lungs and out of her mouth in a fountain of vapor that slowly disappeared into the cold desert night. As she watched the cloud of her breath fade from sight, her mind went again to the baby.
In all of Livid’s dreams, that golden child had been the only comforting thing she had ever seen. In fact, Livid almost felt envious of the baby’s peaceful and innocent expression.
Tugging upon a leather strap that hung around her neck, Livid pulled out a small wooden flute from within her tunic and then brought it to her dark-gray lips. As she began to play, the tune she created harmonized with the mournful song that lingered upon the breeze. Thus, the two melodies joined together in a sad but beautiful song which floated out into the empty desert dunes beyond.
Hearing her music, the sheep’s ears twitched, for they found comfort in the flute-playing of their beloved shepherdess.
Along with Dawdle, the gray-maiden’s flock had become her family. She watched over them with great vigilance, and unlike some of her master’s other shepherds, she had never lost even one single lamb. To reward her for her diligent care, her master had given her both the donkey and the flute.
Dawdle made Livid’s job much easier, for she was also watchful. She was quick to bray when she saw a predator, and she had even stomped and kicked a few to death to keep them from eating any of the sheep.
After playing the tune for a short time, the gray-maiden finally let the flute fall from her pale hand so that it dangled around her neck once more. She then pulled her rusty-red cloak up under her chin, and after glancing around at her flock one last time to insure they were safe, she slowly closed her colorless eyes and drifted back to sleep. This time, her slumber was undisturbed by neither dream nor nightmare.
