It began with such a simple thing, a thing that might so easily have been overlooked. And had it been overlooked, our story might have had a very different outcome, indeed. But it was not overlooked: it was looked at, and looked at hard, and most importantly it was remembered.
Rohlan was, as many young boys are, prone to getting into Mischief. Moreover, Rohlan was particularly fond of raspberry tarts. The combination of these two factors meant that when his mother baked said tarts it was fairly typical for them to turn up one or two short of the number she had thought she’d baked. On the day in question, she had baked two dozen, and set them on the sill to cool while she did some mending outside in the sun. Now, lest you think Rohlan’s mother some sort of fool, let me assure you she knew perfectly well what happens when you leave raspberry tarts un-chaperoned. Thus it was when she heard a clatter from the kitchen she smiled a hidden smile and, in a severe tone, called out to ask her son how many tarts were left on the sill. His guilty voice assured her that there were two-dozen, which made her laugh as she walked back in- only to stop short as she saw that there were, in fact, the full two-dozen tarts cooling, in spite of her son’s somewhat sticky-looking mouth. Confused, she left the kitchen. When she again heard the clatter, she asked how many were left now- to which he once again responded that there were the full four and twenty. Again she returned to the kitchen only to find he was telling the truth- although his mouth retained the sticky look, and he had a bit of a queasy cast to his features. Disturbed, she bade him follow her back outside to assist with the rest of her mending. That night, Rohlan only picked at his supper, and when he was offered a raspberry tart he turned pale and refused it. His mother promptly sent him to bed, certain that only a great illness could kill his desire for the treats. When she related the story to her husband that night he looked concerned, but said nothing.
The next day the farmer brought Rohlan with him to the fields, and walked beside him up and down the rows of tender green plants. Finally he asked his son why he had not wanted any raspberry tarts. At first his son only shrugged and looked guilty, but as his father’s gaze bore down on him, he confessed: he had wanted raspberry tarts- in fact he had eaten the greater part of a dozen. His father commented mildly that it was no wonder the boy had been sick, and by the by, how had he managed to replace those he’d devoured?
Rohan, wretched and miserable, said he did not know. All he knew was that his mother had asked him how many remained and when (in a fit of panic) he lied, he suddenly found it to be truth. The second time had been more to see if he could repeat his feat than because he’d actually wanted more tarts. It had worked, but he still was not certain how.
The farmer was silent for a long while, and then advised the boy not to talk about what had happened to anyone but himself. Next he pointed out that not only is theft wrong, it is also heartily foolish to stuff one’s self to the point of illness, regardless of one’s motivations. Finally, he commented that he really ought to beat Rohlan for lying- but that he wouldn’t this time because he’d come clean in the end.
Rohlan was appropriately grateful.
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