He knew somewhere in his jumbled mind that he must sound incredibly foolish, perhaps even inebriated, which no royal would ever stoop among the common folk, but the innkeeper paid no mind. He handed a key over and said, “Second door up the stairs, Highness.” After seeing that the prince was managing to climb the stairs all right, he retired to his own bed in the back room.
The prince collapsed onto his bed as soon as he reached it and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
Upon waking, his head felt noticeably better. The barrage of chatter penetrating the room’s closed shutters didn’t make him want to smother his ears with his pillow, but why was it still so loud?
Creeping to his window, his legs mercifully steady again, he cracked open a shutter just enough to see the mass of humanity that had gathered outside the inn. In voices that ranged from a chorus of whispers to the loud speech of one who is hard of hearing, yet blending together in a way that made it difficult to pick out more than a word or so at a time.
“They must be excited to have a member of the royal family in their village. I can’t imagine anyone from the Court, let alone one of their princes, has ever set foot in this dusty old place,” he thought to himself.
He spied a pitcher of water on his bed-stand and quickly quenched his parched mouth, not even bothering to pour the water into the tin cup that sat next to it. With that, he brushed the straw and dirt from his silk frock jacket, berating himself for not taking any supplies with him other than food on his journey, and went downstairs.
The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen, so the prince dropped some coins from his purse onto the desk and stepped out, prepared to meet and greet the rabble of onlookers.
With a thrust of his reinvigorated arms, the double doors flew open and His Highness stepped onto the cobblestone street. The chatter hushed immediately, and most of the crowd, especially the women who had children with them, stepped back. Instead of a mob of adoring fans, Prince George found himself feeling more like a leper, the crowd too morbidly curious to disperse but still holding enough common sense to not draw any closer.
The sole brave man in the group was the aged friar. His clothes simple and the top of his head shaved smooth, he’d marked himself a man of God and feared no witch. Without trepidation, his old knees hobbled up to the prince. His sharp eyes scrutinized his face, and with his fingers, he searched the scalp.
“I cannot properly inspect you in public,” the friar explained in a matter-of-fact way as his eyes and fingers continued their work. Though he be a prince, his status mattered nothing to the friar.
His fingers slowly traveled back until they found the painful lump on the back of his head. George winced and the public gasped.
The friar, however, chuckled. “Tis not a mark, good people! Our young lord is not afflicted by magic, but he’s certainly got a nasty bump on the head!”
In a moment, the quietness gave way to roaring laughter. “Did she beat you up, Mister?” a very young boy called, too young to realize who the man was and what he represented.
Prince George felt the sharp pierce of humiliation deep within his gut, for princes were often sheltered from the stings of gossip, rumor, and ridicule. At least, it stayed that way until they became kings, and, given his status as the younger brother, he never had to worry about the silly notions of commoners.
“No woman bests me,” he boasted. It wasn’t an entire lie, for Alora hadn’t struck him at all. But the prince didn’t stop there. “I was returning from my opening negotiations with your so-called witch when a band of ruffians jumped me. Fortunately, I, your prince, was able to fight them off!”
Now, most often the people of the realm would accept their prince’s word, but their faces told a different story. Highway robbery wasn’t totally unheard of, especially with the silver veins found, but they knew all too well that the road Prince George had been traveling on was hardly a well-traveled road. The ruffians would have had to have been either close to the mill, which was always deserted by everyone, respectable folk or not, or they would have had to ambush him just beyond the village. Never had a traveler so close to their little town been violently accosted before, even if he was clothed in fine, though well-worn by this point, silk.
“So,” whispered one man to his wife, though he was standing so close that the prince could clearly hear him, “the witch has grown dangerous. She dares attack the prince himself, probably knowing that no one would dare come to arrest her!”
A well-to-do gentleman, likely having taken advantage of the influx of travelers, looked ready to faint. “When word of this gets out, business around here will dry up!”
The prince felt himself growing furious. Had he brought an escort with him, the entire rabble would be punished. Alas, he had insisted on setting out alone, and without even carrying extra clothes, believing it would help him blend in.
Just as he was about to start shouting, the talking stopped suddenly. Eyes darting back and forth from the prince to the edge of town, where the familiar figure of Alora was pushing her wheelbarrow.
Prince George gulped as she quickly moved right up to him. Her wheelbarrow had a single sack of flour in it, which she heaved over the edge, watching it slide off and fall with a thud at the prince’s feet.
“Since yesterday didn’t go as planned, my lord,” she said, “I thought I’d give you this sack of flour as a parting gift.”
Prince George glanced between the sack of flour, so rudely dumped before him, and Alora. She was the same woman he’d met yesterday, her eyes brilliant green and very human. He no longer believed her to be a witch, but the power she held over his reputation in the realm was now insurmountable. One wrong word from her and he was finished. Granted, one wrong word from him would be the end of her own life as well. Perhaps she was only there to dare him to spill the beans, as the common folk put it.
“My good woman,” he began, choosing his words as carefully as his father did during a diplomatic session, “you were the one who made negotiations unfruitful!”
Alora sneered. “They would have gone much better if you hadn’t lost your footing on the ladder!”
Despite the town’s fear of the miller, her unexpected response triggered a chorus of snickering and chuckling. Again Prince George’s stomach churned, for he was used to laughing at others, not having others laugh at him.
The enchanted woman turned spun around on her heel and began a pronounced march back to the road that wound its way to the mill. The prince looked on in horror, bested by a common woman, and one who was cursed at that! The townsfolk stood in awestruck silence, for Alora usually went out of her way to avoid meaningful interactions with others.
Dashing down the street, Prince George grabbed Alora by the arm and spun her towards him. “I have a proposal for you!” he cried.
Alora folded her arms across her chest and waited.
“I have never been up-stood by anyone. If I don’t do something now, my reputation will be destroyed forever. Although I’m not in line to inherit my father’s throne, I still matter a great deal to my people. They need us royals to look up to!”
“I beg to differ in that I doubt royals are meant to be anything more than decent governors, but there’s nothing you can do except return to your kingdom, Sire.”
She turned again towards home, but the prince again intercepted her, explaining, “I can break the spell. It will be difficult for me, but I can and will do it.”
“Don’t bother,” Alora retorted. “You’re only in it for yourself anyway.”
“Does that matter? You’re the one suffering under a curse! Would you not want to be rid of it, even if it is I who breaks it for you?”
Alora tumultuously hung her head, her fingers clenched into tight fists, for the prince was right, but she hated it. She was alone, painfully shifting between woman and owl with the rising and setting of the sun, and another chance like this may never come along again. She finally gave in, however, and agreed to his plan. Five years of suffering for the two of them, but it would end with her permanent humanity and freedom of movement.
The pair headed uneasily back to the mill, their thoughts full of anguish and uncertainty. It was a decision, they each told themselves, that had to be made.
The mill looked even less inviting the second time, Prince George thought. The creaking and groaning ominous and foreboding instead of monotonous and tiresome. The pair entered and Alora gave an exasperated sigh.
Taking a ragged old robe from a trunk, she held it out to the prince. “When you’re ready, take this robe and your part of the curse shall begin.”
The prince looked at the robe, moth-eaten and tearing here and there, and grimaced. “I musn’t disappear directly from my kingdom,” he explained. “I shall return to my father and explain myself before returning here. You can trust me, for I give you my royal ring. It is made in such a way and with so precious jewels inlaid through the band that it cannot be recreated. I must return or it, and when I do, I shall wear your wretched cloak.” Dropping the ring onto the pile, he added, “May five years feel like five days!”
Departing and returning home, his father listened with compassion and grave concern as his son told him what had happened and his intent to break the spell. As he spoke, his father’s face fluctuated between stern, sorrowful, and worrisome.
“My son, I have raised a prideful and arrogant young man! We mustn’t spoil our good name with these rumors of cowardice, yet must we also not allow rumors of witches and enchantments to spread? Worse would be if word got out that you, too, were bewitched. Would a superstitious mob not come upon your head just they may take the life of the woman you spoke of?
“I must also say that five years is a long time to successfully keep a vow of silence? Would your body not wither away completely if you spoke? Moreover, how should I explain your absence? And do you expect me not to worry constantly for you whilst you’re away?”
The questioning continued for some time, the prince unable to answer. His decision was based solely on his unwillingness to be considered weak - something a royal must never let stand. Yet the price to pay for suppressing such rumors could easily give way to far more damaging rumors.
His father gathered his inner council, a collection of men he’d gathered from both high and low places and considered close friends, about him to discuss the situation, demanding complete secrecy. Fearing an outbreak of witchcraft accusations, the magistrates demanded that the prince fulfill his promise to poor Alora, lest the mill remains a cursed blot on the kingdom for generations.
The group created a plan to say the prince was leaving to spend five years with his cousins in a neighboring kingdom while he returned to the mill to do his duty. He was not to leave the mill, lest someone recognize him. With the tears of one who is about to embark on a dangerous voyage, Prince George departed, leaving his anxious father and brothers to await his return.
Upon returning to the mill, Prince George accepted the old robe and watched in horror as his own stately clothing immediately turned to rags, his identifying ring turning to base metal, though he could not say a word about his anguish.
The first few days were the most difficult for him. Used to commanding things be done for him, his vow of silence meant he could not order his new companion about. She went about her day of bagging flour, mending and sewing clothes, and cooking for him. Because no one was meant to know she’d taken on a roommate, procuring extra food was a difficult thing for her to do. The villagers were quite reluctant to give in to extra demands, but none wanted to incur her wrath if she was, indeed, a witch.
The prince did what he could to help, even if it was only to alleviate his own boredom and to put an end to Alora’s snide remarks about doing all of the work. Though he could already feel his muscles growing weaker, he helped to grind the grain into flour, bag it up, and hoist it onto the wheelbarrow. And though Alora saw to it that she cooked breakfast and lunch, Prince George began to cook supper, for the poor maiden was very seldom a maiden still by the time supper was finished!
By the end of the first year, the prince appeared older, as though a man of his forties instead of barely beyond adolescence. His aged face came with a perk, however, for now, he felt comfortable to accompany Alora outside of the mill. None would now recognize him, but the fresh air came with the cost of enduring the superstitious and scornful behavior of others. Hardly a friendly word was spoken to him, and he soon realized why Alora neglected to make eye contact with most people.
Yet somehow this strange little household managed to function, and in time they both reckoned there was hardly a happier mill in all the land. Both were outcasts, both were suffering the physiological effects of the spell they were under, and they both came to appreciate each other through it all.
Alora found herself oddly taken with Prince George’s dutiful adherence to his vows. As time went on, she became accustomed to all his little gestures. When night fell, she managed to use her own little gestures to express herself when her own voice was silent, and it was almost as if the two had a language all of their own. They became accustomed to each other’s likes and dislikes, moods, and habits despite the prince’s silence.
The years passed, the prince and the young woman growing happier with each other’s company, but the village folk growing ever warier. The rapid aging of the man who accompanied the suspected witch didn’t slip by them unnoticed. Eventually, Prince George could no longer make the journey, both due to the weakness of his own body as well as his desire to protect Alora from further rumors.
Yet the rumors persisted, and they only grew worse with the coming of a new friar who was horrified that the village even tolerated Alora and her companion. Alora eventually began returning to the mill with a wheelbarrow full of unsold flour. Occasionally, there would be worried tears in her eyes and bruises on her face as the villagers grew more superstitious and hostile. Instead of laying herself down at the foot of the aged prince’s bed, as best as an owl could, anyway, Alora spent more and more nights perched near the window, her nocturnal eyes scouting the road and fields for unfriendly people. When the dawn came and she regained human form, she would spend the morning sound asleep while the prince did his best to ration their dwindling supplies into a small, but suitable, breakfast. Despite the fifth year approaching, he wondered if they wouldn’t be slain in their sleep first, or succumb to starvation.
Time continued its slow march, each new year seemingly passing by more slowly than the last. The mill seemed to grow ever more dilapidated right along with the prince’s body. Just as his hair turned to white, so the few railings and whatnot that had some paint began to fade and chip away. His body grew stiff and sore just as the mill groaned more fiercely than ever as the machinery struggled to hold together as it did its relentless job.
Alora, for her part, refused to go near the village, preferring them to believe they’d died. She permitted no candles to burn after evening, snuffing them out with a gust from her wings if Prince George even dared strike a match, which he often did. His eyesight, too, had been growing dimmer, and darkness meant near blindness for him. He often relied on a flurry of hoots and taps from Alora to find his way about in the dark.
The final winter of the fifth year was the most brutal. The mill was battered with icy winds whose fingers found every crack in every wall. With supplies running short, even the river freezing up and putting a complete halt to the production of flour, it was difficult to keep up with the sewing as clothing and blankets were snagged on loose nails and splinters. Often Alora broke down in tears, as though Father Time himself would hear her cries and hasten the spring.
Finally, the winds subsided and the snow slowly receded. The familiar sound of birds returned to the trees, and Alora’s sharp owl eyes could even spot a rabbit or two roaming the meadows at night. Spring had come at last, and soon the bushes would yield their berries to the starved companions. But though their prospects increased and their mood had lightened, Alora continued her watch each and every night.
Prince George sat with her for as long as he could, which seemed to grow less and less all the time. One night, he seemed to retire early, leaving Alora to continue her vigil. She did her normal scan, taking note of the many nocturnal critters that amused her. Rabbits and field mice would scurry about, bats would fly in zigzags as they pursued insects, and the trees shook from the many squirrels gathering their food at the very last minute before heading to bed.
Her eyes zeroed in finally on a doe and her young fawn. They’d stopped for a drink at the river before slowly foraging their way to the road. When they arrived, they didn’t cross as planned. The doe’s ears pricked up, her stare focused hard on something in the distance. Alora tried to position herself for a better view, but whatever the doe saw was just out of sight. With a sudden burst of energy, she and the fawn bolted across the road and into the thicket beyond.
Now Alora could see it. Torchlight approaching from the main road, its soft light growing close enough to be reflected on the window’s glass. Alora sat still, taking rare comfort in knowing that humans couldn’t see in the dark nearly as well as she.
So focused was she on the approaching stranger that she didn’t even notice Prince George rising. A loose string on his leg had gotten snagged on something within his bed of straw, but try as he might he just couldn’t free himself. Without a second thought, he lit a candle and spied the small pin that his gown had gotten tangled about.
Alora swooped down and snuffed the flame out quickly, bouncing so frantically that even the derelict prince knew something was wrong. Rising as quickly as he could muster, he hobbled to the window and peered out. Alora frantically scoured the road, then the grass, then the trees, but she saw nothing. Whoever it was had gone, but Alora was overcome with nervousness.
When the sun rose, she immediately explained to Prince George what had happened, often stopping to scold him for lighting the candle.
“I don’t know why he was here,” she went on, “or why you had to light that stupid candle! Who knows what could’ve happened, or what he plans to do!”
Prince George sat in thought, silently cursing himself for his carelessness. “Perhaps he was just passing by and didn’t even notice the candle. It was a small one, after all,” the prince thought. Of course, there was nothing he could say about the matter. He’d once tried writing some of his thoughts down, but Alora was illiterate. All he could do now was watch her pace back and forth, whiter than a ghost and rubbing her hands together nervously.
Prince George tried to pry himself away, but the frightened and frustrated men had a strong grip on his robe. They swished their free arm frantically at Alora; with their other, they pulled at the tattered old robe. Prince George could feel the robe - the sign of his acceptance to endure his curse - pulling free. Just as his shoulder started to come free, he was seized with a warm sensation. He doubled over and grit his teeth and the owl collapsed to the grass below, staring wide-eyed at the men.
The sensation was a pleasant one, and within moments the prince felt his strength return. His legs felt strong and sturdy, his shoulders rejuvenated. He turned to find the men staring at him with astonishment, Alora sprawled on the ground and very human.
“It’s done!” the prince cried, almost forgetting the chaos around him. “I have broken the spell!”
The men were speechless as they beheld the regal figure before him. Tossing the robe aside, he looked down to see that his rags had turned back to fine silk, the ring on his finger once again a royal emblem. He held it out to the astonished figures before him.
Jumping to her feet, Alora swiftly came to his side, her own happiness stifled by the calamity of the mill. She watched with horror as the friar, his face aghast by what was surely his first real experience with magic, came rushing ahead of the mob. “What brand of sorcery is this?” he called.
“It was a dark and evil magic,” the prince said, offering the ring now to the friar. “I assure you it’s truly me. My friend Alora and I are at last free of the spell a witch once placed on this mill.”
For a long while, everyone just stood back, staring open-mouthed. There were no murmurs, mumbles, or even the softest of whispers until one lad finally turned to the friar and asked, “What should we do now?”
The friar hung his head, muttering prayers asking for discernment, or, if the appearance of the prince was merely an illusion to throw them off, for God’s wrath to plunge down upon them both. As it was, the only sign of wrath was in the form of a great burning mill behind him, a roaring bonfire now with none of its former self untouched by the loathsome flames.
“I would say,” Friar Gustaf started, clearing his throat, “that this is indeed our young prince. Allow him to return home, for his father will know the truth of his identity. Satan can appear as an Angel of Light, you know, but all illusions pass quickly.”
With that, the crowd dispersed. The prince returned with Alora to his castle and his exuberant father and brothers. The royal family celebrated the youngest prince’s return all through the month, at the end of which Prince George and Alora were officially married, though the king simply told people she was the estranged daughter of some noble and not a poor farmer’s child.
As for the village, they drove the friar from their town, and the archbishop himself came to see what the fuss was about. In the end, he too decided it best for the friar to leave. “After all,” he explained, “it is the duty of a friar to be a man whom others may confide in. None should have to hide for fear that God will misjudge them to be witches or evildoers.”
Noted