Poor Mig. What will become of her? You must, frightened though you may be, read on and see for yourself.
Reader, it is your duty.
25
MIGGERY SOW called the man who purchased her Uncle, as he said she must. And also, as he said she must, Mig tended Uncle’s sheep and cooked Uncle’s food and scrubbed Uncle’s kettle. She did all of this without a word of thanks or praise from the man himself.
Another unfortunate fact of life with Uncle was that he very much liked giving Mig what he referred to as “a good clout to the ear.” In fairness to Uncle, it must be reported that he did always inquire whether or not Mig was interested in receiving the clout.
Their daily exchanges went something like this:
Uncle: “I thought I told you to clean the kettle.”
Mig: “I cleaned it, Uncle. I cleaned it good.”
Uncle: “Ah, it’s filthy. You’ll have to be punished, won’t ye?”
Mig: “Gor, Uncle, I cleaned the kettle.”
Uncle: “Are ye saying that I’m a liar, girl?”
Mig: “No, Uncle.”
Uncle: “Do ye want a good clout to the ear, then?”
Mig: “No, thank you, Uncle, I don’t.”
Alas, Uncle seemed to be as entirely unconcerned with what Mig wanted as her mother and father had been. The discussed clout to the ear was always delivered . . . delivered, I am afraid, with a great deal of enthusiasm on Uncle’s part and received with absolutely no enthusiasm at all on the part of Mig.
These clouts were alarmingly frequent. And Uncle was scrupulously fair in paying attention to both the right and left side of Miggery Sow. So it was that after a time, the young Mig’s ears came to resemble not so much ears as pieces of cauliflower stuck to either side of her head.
And they became about as useful to her as pieces of cauliflower. That is to say that they all but ceased their functioning as ears. Words, for Mig, lost their sharp edges. And then they lost their edges altogether and became blurry, blankety things that she had a great deal of trouble making any sense out of at all.
The less Mig heard, the less she understood. The less she understood, the more things she did wrong; and the more things she did wrong, the more clouts to the ear she received, and the less she heard. This is what is known as a vicious circle. And Miggery Sow was right in the center of it.
Which is not, reader, where anybody would want to be.
But then, as you know, what Miggery Sow wanted had never been of much concern to anyone.
26
WHEN MIG TURNED SEVEN years old, there was no cake, no celebration, no singing, no present, no acknowledgment of her birthday at all other than Mig saying, “Uncle, today I am seven years old.”
And Uncle saying in return, “Did I ask ye how old you were today? Get out of my face before I give ye a good clout to the ear.”
A few hours after receiving her birthday clout to the ear, Mig was out in the field with Uncle’s sheep when she saw something glittering and glowing on the horizon.
She thought for a moment that it was the sun. But she turned and saw that the sun was in the west, where it should be, sinking to join the earth. This thing that shone so brightly was something else. Mig stood in the field and shaded her eyes with her left hand and watched the brilliant light draw closer and closer and closer until it revealed itself to be King Phillip and his Queen Rosemary and their daughter, the young Princess Pea.
The royal family was surrounded by knights in shining armor and horses in shining armor. And atop each member of the royal family’s head, there was a golden crown, and they were all, the king and the queen and the princess, dressed in robes decorated with jewels and sequins that glittered and glowed and captured the light of the setting sun and reflected it back.
“Gor,” breathed Mig.
The Princess Pea was riding on a white horse that picked up its legs very high and set them down very daintily. The Pea saw Mig standing and staring, and she raised a hand to her.
“Hello,” the Princess Pea called out merrily, “hello.” And she waved her hand again.
Mig did not wave back; instead, she stood and watched, open-mouthed, as the perfect, beautiful family passed her by.
“Papa,” called the princess to the king, “what is wrong with the girl? She will not wave to me.”
“Never mind,” said the king. “It is of no consequence, my dear.”
“But I am a princess. And I waved to her. She should wave back.”
Mig, for her part, continued to stare. Looking at the royal family had awakened some deep and slumbering need in her; it was as if a small candle had been lit in her interior, sparked to life by the brilliance of the king and the queen and the princess.
For the first time in her life, reader, Mig hoped.
And hope is like love . . . a ridiculous, wonderful, powerful thing.
Mig tried to name this strange emotion; she put a hand up to touch one of her aching ears, and she realized that the feeling she was experiencing, the hope blooming inside of her, felt exactly the opposite of a good clout.
She smiled and took her hand away from her ear. She waved to the princess. “Today is my birthday!” Mig called out.
But the king and the queen and the princess were by now too far away to hear her.
“Today,” shouted Mig, “I am seven years old!”
27
THAT NIGHT, in the small, dark hut that she shared with Uncle and the sheep, Mig tried to speak of what she had seen.
“Uncle?” she said.
“Eh?”
“I saw some human stars today.”
“How’s that?”
“I saw them all glittering and glowing, and there was a little princess wearing her own crown and riding on a little white, tippy-toed horse.”
“What are ye going on about?” said Uncle.
“I saw a king and a queen and a itty-bitty princess,” shouted Mig.
“So?” shouted Uncle back.
“I would like . . .,” said Mig shyly. “I wish to be one of them princesses.”
“Har,” laughed Uncle. “Har. An ugly, dumb thing like you? You ain’t even worth the enormous lot I paid for
