The beaches of Ensis were simply for solitude; not for scenery, romantic charades, or even warmth, for the sea breeze was always chilly and the thin sunlight shone only over a lonely lighthouse, lending little heat to the cold, coarse sand. He still visited every day, though, dark leather jacket wrapped tightly around himself. Every day he followed  the same routine: take the nine hundred ninety-nine steps from the castle gate to the beach’s rocky entrance, stand there with military precision for ninety-nine seconds (one minute and thirty-nine seconds), then mark out a spot nine feet away from where the waves hit the sand, there to sit, cross-legged, staring at the ocean waves. The only part of his performance that seemed to have no formula was how long he sat each day before rising silently and disappearing without a word--one day it would be ten minutes; the next, he would linger for nearly ten hours.

By all guesses, he was between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, but his stoic demeanor made him seem much older. Behind his eyes shone the dangerous evidence of pain and fiery resolve that no one expected to see in a boy, and nothing anyone did could break his reverie. He never even showed the slightest crack in his well-kept facade, leaving the wavering questions of curious passersby blatantly unanswered. The silence just stretched on and on, until the inquirers would begin to understand that it was not from lack of effort that the local villagers had failed to find out the reason he had come to Ensis. Nobody knew why he came, let alone who he was. There was some speculation, mostly centering around his relation to the royal court— but even those who had followed him back to the castle gate were refused admittance, and the guards watching there had all denied knowledge of the mysterious boy, no matter how large a bribe they were offered. Then the matter would be laid to rest with a shrug and a sigh, the mystery perpetuated until eventually forgotten. He was, and had been for the past five years, simply The Visitor.

His real name was Dylan.

2: Chapter 1 - Incomplete

Chapter 1:

It was chillier than usual: foggy, lingering, and dreadfully lonely the day the cab pulled out of the streets of Mason and headed for the train station. The young boy inside was bouncing off the cushioned seats, and the mother, looking rather young herself, was gazing out the window without so much as a smile. She had a winsome face, but her brows were furrowed and her hair was thrown into a hasty bun.

"Mama, will there be mermaids at our new house? Lu said there would be."

"When is Father coming back?"

"Mama,...?"

A word or two, a slight nod here and there was all by which Mrs. Ida Henderson acknowledged her six-year-old son, though it did very little to dim his enthusiasm, if, indeed, he even noticed at all; you see, Mrs. Ida Henderson's thoughts were very far away from the jolting of the hansom and the constant inquiries. In fact, her attention and trains of thought were focused on a place just about 356 miles away from where she was at that moment, far enough away that when the cabby opened the door to help them out, she didn't notice until he'd called loudly for Miss to please come out and not block up the road. Blushing and embarrassed, she took the offered hand coldly, hardly waiting to tip the driver before taking her carpetbag in her left hand, grabbing her son's hand tightly in her right, and walking up the road as gracefully as her emotions would allow. Her pace slowed slightly as they entered the noisy interior of the train station; it was just a bustle of motion and several cordial greetings of “Good day, Miss,” before they were in the train. Little Richard went back to bouncing in the cushioned seats, and Mrs. Ida Henderson went back to her far-away thoughts. In the background, the train started slowly, building up speed until it came whistling and roaring out of the tunnel.

Suddenly, little Richard was whispering in her ear. “Mama, look! That man looks like Father.”

Mrs. Ida Henderson looked, said, “You’re right, Richard,” and fainted.

The man in question, seeing her crumple to the ground, seemed to fly to where she lay senseless on the floor. Little Richard was sobbing in fright.

Turning to him kindly, the stranger soothed him, saying, "Ah, don't cry, little man. Your mother will be fine." Then loudly, he called, "Quick, someone! Smelling salts, if you have them!"

A bottle was hastily produced from some lady's purse and accordingly thrust into the man’s waiting hands. Little Richard, sniffling and rubbing his eyes, felt that only a miracle could save his mother from certain death, and so skeptical was he of the fancy green bottle that he buried his head in his knees when he saw the stranger lean over his mother to administer them. Mrs. Ida Henderson began to stir.

She opened her eyes to see once more that startlingly familiar face, and immediately she felt an intense desire to slap him for his look of worry. Oh, it was too much for one to stand! Clenching her fists to fight the urge, she closed her eyes again stubbornly, trying to sort out her jumbled thoughts.

At this point it is important to note that the train that the Hendersons were on was bound for a destination yet many hours away. Of course, it is impossible to say for certain, but perhaps Mrs. Ida Henderson had already recovered sufficiently to realize that however she chose to respond, she would be trapped for the rest of the journey with the twenty-some people who had seen both her plight and her rescuer. Whatever the reason, she did a surprising thing. After a few moments' silent thought, she swallowed her pride, sat up, and thanked the man with a shaky smile, hugging little Richard close to calm him. Little Richard, quite overcome by the whole affair, had taken his head out from behind his knees, making a new shield of his mother from behind which he could peep shyly at this strange person who had performed a miracle and saved his mama.

The man helped Mrs. Ida Henderson up and took a seat beside her. Soon, they were engaged in friendly conversation. Little Richard grew quite accustomed to the stranger, and went back to thinking curious thoughts. Once in a while, however, although she tried her best to mask it, he noticed a look of shock or pain flitted across Mrs. Ida Henderson’s face that worried him a little.

When the train pulled up at their destination three hours later, the stranger whispered something in her ear. Mrs. Ida Henderson stood up at once, and, not deigning to reply, walked out indignantly with her carpetbag. Confused, little Richard followed. He was marched uncomfortably off the train and onto the platform, where his mother stopped to speak with the white-bearded stationmaster in a navy-blue uniform.

“Sir, would you please give me directions to the lighthouse?”

“Ah,” he said in a gruff, but pleasant voice. “So you’re the family that will be moving in there, then?”

“Yes. Richard here and I will be taking up residence there, hopefully to stay for at least a couple years. I’m Ida Henderson.”

“Pleased to meet you. Most folks around here call me Mr. Philips.”

Mr. Philips. Little Richard digested this piece of information and tucked it away in his busy mind. As Mr. Philips and his mother chatted, he looked over the platform again and spotted the man who had saved his mother. The man was staring back. Little Richard couldn’t understand why he looked so sad. Feeling rather subdued himself--it had been a thoroughly confusing day, he tuned back into his mother’s conversation.

“When Smith said that he was going to start renting out that old lighthouse, I was surprised, but if you’re looking for a nice, tranquil place to stay, you chose the right spot. The folks here are fine, heart-warming people. Now, for directions. If you go straight out these doors you’ll be in the heart of Ensis. Just keep heading that way, and you’ll see the wharf in a few minutes. You can’t miss it. Once you reach the wharf, there’s a fellow there by the name of Hodgins. He’ll ferry you across to the lighthouse. That will be far more pleasant than trekking over there on foot, though it will take five minutes more.”

Mrs. Ida Henderson thanked the stationmaster cordially and said her goodbyes. As she turned to leave, she found herself face to face once more with the man from the train. Her face turned pale, but she looked straight into his eyes and said softly, “You aren’t lying?”

He shook his head. Taking Richard’s hand again, she averted her gaze and half-whispered, “Prove it,”  before leaving Mr. Philips and the stranger on the platform gaping after her.

Suspiciously, Mr. Philips asked the man, “Son, there’s trouble between you and the lady?”

“Trouble that I didn’t create intentionally. The story is rather incredible; I doubt you’ll believe it.”

“Try me. I can bet you a gold dollar that I’ve heard crazier yarns.”

A small, sardonic chuckle broke the short silence, and the man said quietly, “I’m Ida Henderson’s husband, and she doesn't believe me.”

Living in a lighthouse was like a fairytale for little Richard. For Mrs. Ida Henderson, it was an unfamiliar world that brought all sorts of new troubles. Getting to the wharf was simple enough, but she then had to find the ferryman; and then once she got to the lighthouse, she had to find the proper stone that hid the key; and once she found the key and unlocked the door, the lighthouse had to be cleaned, and her maid, Lu, wouldn’t be arriving till late next week, and the new maid she'd hired, a girl named Mary who was the daughter of a fisherman, was late. And then who knew if she would be competent enough to be of any help?

It was in this state of mind that Mary found her new employer, when Mrs. Ida Henderson opened the door and let her in. It's hard to say who was more shocked. Mary had been expecting a rich city lady with furs and satin gowns, but instead she found a girl who looked worried, frazzled, and not more than thirty years of age. Mrs. Ida Henderson was thinking just the opposite. Mary didn’t look like a fisherman’s daughter, she noted to herself in annoyance, although part of her peevishness was probably due to the strangeness of the day. And, of course, in all honesty, her observation wasn’t entirely incorrect. If the average picture of a fisherman’s daughter is a square-shouldered, robust, tomboy wearing trousers and a slack, white handwoven shirt, Mrs. Ida Henderson was absolutely right. Mary had a healthy hue in her cheeks, but she was an undeniably comely girl, and, Mrs. Ida Henderson noticed, was wearing a fashionable, though rather plain white dress. She looked to be about seventeen years of age, and carried daintily on her arm a small wicker basket covered with a red, patterned cloth.

Mary curtsied slightly to break the tension. Smiling, she spoke up.

“Good day, Mrs. Henderson. I’m here to help tidy up. My name is Mary Sealove.”

“Right, Mary, please come in. This is my son, Richard. Richard, say hello to Mary.”

"Hello, Richard," she said in a fun and friendly voice. "You know what I've got in my basket? I've got a sugar cookie shaped like a bunny-rabbit. If you ask your mother, you can have it."

"Mama, may I have it, please?" He begged piteously.

His mother smiled.

"Yes, Richard, but you must wait until after supper to eat it. Perhaps Mary should hold onto it for now, lest you gobble it up too early."

"Oh, I won't, Mama. Please!”

To be finished at a later date.

3: Chapter 2

Dylan was sparring with his swords master in the courtyard near the guard’s hall, when a middle-aged man rounded the corner and called out to him.

“Lord Dylan!”

Dylan lowered his practice weapon and acknowledged the Duke’s secretary with a curt nod.

“Yes, Eaton?” he said, waiting.

“His lordship the Duke would like to speak with you. Eight o’clock in his study, he said.”

“What time is it now?”

“Fifteen till eight, your lordship.”

“Thank you, Eaton.”

The loyal servant bowed out, and Dylan’s swords master, the captain of the guard, clapped him on the back and left as well. Dylan strode over to a weapons rack and hung his practice sword in its proper spot. Then, taking a rag from a nearby bench, he dipped it in a basin of water left for that purpose and wiped his face. That would have to do; he didn’t have time to make himself more presentable. He grabbed his jacket and walked briskly through the decorated halls, smoothing his hair as he went.

The duke’s study was fairly large and just as ornately decorated, if not more so, than any other room in his palace. There were tall windows, thickly-woven purple curtains with gold threaded edges, and a great mahogany desk that dominated most of one side of the room. Everything was dusted, dusted again, and painstakingly polished—every brass, gold, or silver object in the room shone dutifully, for if it did not, who knew what dreadful consequences might befall. Guards stood on either side of the door, almost as if the duke were a king in his meeting hall; and overall, the room gave off a very impressive air. Indeed, with the duke himself present to complete the scene, it could at times be most intimidating.

Dylan paused outside to catch his breath before presenting himself at the doorway. Bowing low, he greeted the duke.

“You wished to see me, Father?”

“Yes, yes, my son. Sit,” the duke replied, gesturing impatiently at a chair placed just opposite of the great mahogany desk. (The duke was sitting on a comfortable, plush chair much larger than that which Dylan was supposed to take his seat upon, but he was, of course, The Duke—and besides his rank, though no one would have ever dared insinuate it, he was, shall we say, a heavy-set man.)

Dylan quickly sat down upon the not-quite-so-plush chair, (which was still extremely fancy nonetheless) and waited for his father to continue.

“Dylan,” the duke intoned, “your sixteenth birthday will be in a few days. This is a time of great responsibility for you, my son.”

His son nodded respectfully.

“—for it is yet to be determined whether or not you have kept yourself worthy of the task set before you.”

“Yes, Father.”

There was a long pause, and the duke sighed.

“I have heard reports from your masters that you have not been applying yourself as of late.”

Rather ruefully, Dylan remembered at that moment the sympathetic pat his swords master had given him before leaving that morning. He winced inwardly.

“Son, I understand that your daily visits to the beach are part of the prophecy, and therefore your responsibility and duty. However, the other aspects of your training are not to suffer as a result.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You are jeopardizing your future. No, rather, you are jeopardizing our future, for if you fail to carry out your responsibilities, everyone around you suffers. Our family will be the scorn of Ensis, and you—you will fail to be worthy of the prophecy. As the duke’s son, you must—”

“Do my duty, yes, I understand. May I go now?”

The duke frowned at his impertinence.

“That is for me to decide, Dylan. Do not think to supersede your place simply because the prophecy has chosen you,” he said warningly, with a dangerous look in his eyes. “Everyone in the castle is observing you closely. You are their hope. You have a few days before your birthday in which you have the chance to redeem yourself in front of your masters. If you succeed, then all is well. If you do not, remember that you have brought the consequences upon your own head.”

“Yes, Father,” Dylan said, with a herculean effort managing to keep his tone respectful. Then getting up abruptly, he left the duke’s study and escaped into the hall. Thoughts whirling through his head, he kept walking, he knew not where… so long as he was getting farther away from where his disappointed father sat in his glorious study.

“Dylan, wait for me!”

Dylan whirled around defensively, then relaxed as he saw his six-year-old sister, Belle, emerge from behind a turn in the staircase. Belle was a lithe little figure with picturesque features that matched many in her older brother. Her shoulder-length hair was dark like his, her eyes the same shade of chestnut brown. Dylan leaned against the wall in his dark leather jacket, trying to maintain a careless air, and watched as she ran to catch up, not smiling, but gazing at her with a look of obvious tenderness.

“I can’t wait until your birthday, Dylan!” she exclaimed happily.

He nodded, picking her up and tossing her in the air to make her giggle. Finally, he put her down, crouching down to lift her onto his back. As he carried her through the cold, stone hallways of the castle, Bella prattled to her "strong, brave knight."

"Dylan, when you turn eighteen, you won't have to be gone for so long every day, right? You'll be able to come ride with me, right?"

Another nod, this time somewhat hampered by the small hands wrapped around his neck.

"Ah, I'm so glad, but I wish it was this year. Two years is an awfully long time." She said this last with a little sigh that hurt him to the core; it was the perfect reflection of what he felt.

Well, he had committed to this, and there was no turning back now. Whatever the cost, he would finish the job he had started, for the sake of his parents, his kingdom, but most of all, for Bella.

His sister didn't notice the tension that her words had brought about, but catching a glimpse of their mother, started wiggling impatiently, saying, "Put me down, Dylan, please."

Obligingly, he let her slide off, and she paused to fuss at her hair and knee-length dress before gliding gracefully out onto the castle's open upper walkway, where their mother was taking the air with a few of her attendants. Escorting his sister ceremoniously, Dylan smiled silently to himself. Only six, and she already had perfect court manners. As Belle continued to tuck nonexistent fly-away strands of hair behind her ear, he wondered which of the ladies she was trying to emulate now.

They reached their mother, and, bowing low in respect, Dylan restrained an inner sigh. When one was Belle’s age, court held more novelty than responsibility, but at almost sixteen years of age and only two years away from the time he would fulfill his destiny, court was simply a restriction, for here he was trapped in his role, never able to escape his hard realities. Every second was a reminder of what he had pledged to do, and worst of all, perhaps, the people inside the castle gates knew his task and idolized him for it; unlike Belle, he had never learned to enjoy the servants waiting on his every want or need. He wanted to do what he needed to do, but he craved the ability to be able to do it alone.

His mother said something in her high, cultivated voice, something about hoping Dylan was in good health. He simple gave one of his silent nods in response.

“Oh, Dylan, dear,” a lady tittered. “I am certainly looking forward to that glorious reception you’ll be having next week. Sixteen years is the perfect time for celebration, don’t you feel, Minerva?”

“Definitely,” the lady in question replied. “You mustn’t forget that it brings great responsibility, though.”

Other ladies broke in, one made some exaggerated comment about how darling he was, another about how mature he was getting. He simply nodded absentmindedly whenever they addressed him. It was enough, for they never expected more.

All the court ladies were relatives in some manner, but Dylan never thought of them that way; they had never been close enough to be called aunts, and he felt that they were too superficial to mean all the nice things they were continually saying to his mother. Court was to them a strategic game where all were meant to find their way to the top. Lady Minerva was the only one Dylan trusted to care about his feelings and understand the pressure he was under.

After a while, Belle deserted him to go to her dancing lesson, and, gazing up at the position of the sun in the sky, he also turned away, a tad haughtily, as if his time was to be spent on more important things. He would not let the court ladies condescend to him any further, and moreover, he still had to visit the beach.

Taking the shortest route to the castle gates, Dylan walked through the hallways like a tiger: fiery gaze, moving aside for no one, ignoring the servants that lowered their eyes respectfully. His soul rankled under their silent pronouncement of his doom, but his face showed no emotion but the slightest hint of pride. Court is a strategic game, he told himself as he struggled to maintain his facade. It is nothing but a game, and you have to do what you have to do, and no one here is going to care, and you must not let things slip, and you must not make a mistake. As soon as he heard the heavy, black gates clang behind him, he let his emotions go, berating himself as he counted his steps automatically.

Fool, you’ve been doing this for five years. Get over it. Even after you turn eighteen, this isn’t going away. This is the rest of your life. No, actually, this is your life. This is what you were born to do.

At least when he was outside the gates, no one else knew.

It took four hundred fifty-three steps to get through the crowded marketplace of Ensis. Shouts, yells, arguments, children playing. Then it was three hundred steps to cross the wharf. Same fisherman sitting in the same small fishing boat, men dressed like pirates, cargo being loaded onto the ships, the creaking boards of the dock.  Finally, he took the two hundred forty-six steps to the rocky entrance of the beach, where gulls cried out, desperate, like him.

He sat, cross-legged, in the sand. When he wasn’t with Belle, here was the one place he could feel like a person, nothing more and nothing less.

Staring out across the meaningless, vast, cold, tank of dirty water, he waited, and listened, and watched as wave after wave after wave rose, crested, and collapsed. No matter how many times they tried, they were always defeated. If only one would make it to where he was sitting, he thought, now that would be a sign. Not one ever did. Dimly, he asked himself why he still watched for one to succeed. The cold wind numbed his face, and he pulled his leather jacket tighter to himself, wondering when the pain would be over. Slowly, his mind began to drift back to where he was thinking nothing at all, and he relaxed. The sun began to set, and he headed back home, silhouette dark against the dying fire.

4: Chapter 3

When little Richard woke up the next morning, he knew something was different. Carefully opening one eye, then the other, he finally opened both of them and inspected his surroundings suspiciously. Hm… this was strange. He didn’t remember falling asleep in this room. At least the ceiling seemed safe, he thought. There was some peeling paint, but otherwise things were relatively benign: no cobwebs or water stains. His bed was not extremely comfortable or warm, as it only had a thin pad, but his blanket was the same as the one back home in Mason. Richard faintly remembered cuddling down into it when it had gotten cold the previous night; he loved it, for his grandmother had quilted it for him. Someone had changed his outfit for his favorite pair of sailor pajamas, the one that was all white with dark navy blue edging. There was an unfamiliar whooshing sound coming from the window next to his bed, the kind of window with shutters that you could open and close. There was some dim sunlight streaming in, and he could hear what he thought were seabirds, crying out into the humming air.

Rolling carefully out of bed, he landed on all fours, the hardwood floor slightly textured and very chill, solid beneath his fingers and through his cotton pajamas at the knees. The room was not quite as large as he had supposed. His mother’s bed, empty and made, was against the opposite wall, not more than five feet away, and the room fit only these two large pieces of furniture and a small wardrobe closet. There was a clock on the polished, wooden wall, which he read in his head proudly—Lu had taught him how. It was 7:45 in the morning. Finally, he remembered what he had meant to do, and crawled along the floor to the farther window to peek out curiously. The sun was already in the sky, making the cold sea sparkle and dance; and the world was so redolent with cheerful splendor that little Richard just knelt there, absorbing the picturesque scenery.

He eventually began feeling a little hungry, so he tiptoed downstairs, where Mary was already preparing breakfast.

“Good morning, little Richard,” she said, pausing a little between preparing slices of bread. “Your mother just went out to take a walk.”

“Mhm,” he replied absentmindedly, for he was rather preoccupied with surveying his surroundings. He had been in way too much of a flurry yesterday to have noticed much anything important. Wandering around, he eventually reached the mahogany table and sat down, looking for all the world like a Peter Rabbit who finds no better way to indulge his curiosity than by searching around with his quick eyes and sniffing with his tiny, rounded nose. He finally sighed in content and laughed. Mary glanced up at the sound; Richard was surprising her more and more every moment. He seemed to be more quiet and meditative than she had originally supposed, and here he was, sighing like one hears an adult sighs and then laughing at nothing at all.

Richard had had a horrible, secret fear, that he was not where he had thought he was and that he would never get to see the ocean and live with his mother and Lu in a tall, white light-tower like the storybooks. Fortunately, he was finally able to put that thought to rest, for he was definitely not dreaming as he had feared. The salty tinge to the air was undeniable, and once he was downstairs he could again hear the gulls calling to each other in a friendly manner. Today he would ask Mary to take him to the beach, and then he would finally see whether or not Lu was right that there would be mermaids and all sorts of pretty things.

Mary finished slicing the bread, and placing one thick slice on each of the three plates, she took them from the tile counter over to where he sat.

“Thank you, Mary,” he said gravely, as she took a seat beside him.

Mary started, then smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

He started eating his toast and eggs shyly, taking small bits with his fork one at a time.

“Mary, are there mermaids here?” he asked between chews.

“Certainly, little Richard.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure that if you look long enough, you’ll find them.”

“Really, Mary? What do they look like?”

“Well, I’ve heard that they’re very pretty, and that they sing beautifully.”

“Oh,” he said in delight. “Mary, will you take me to look for them?”

“Yes, I’ll take you. I’m sure you’ll see one. My great, great-grandfather did once.”

“Your great, great-grandfather?”

Mary nodded confirmation.

“What was he like?”

“Well, I never got to meet him, but he used to tell all kinds of stories to my grandfather, who told them to my father, who told them to me and my brothers.”

Richard digested this quietly.

“I can tell you one, if you want,” Mary said, sensing what he was too shy to ask. Richard’s eyes lit up, and she could see the excitement that started to rise. “In fact,” she continued, “if you’re good, I think I’ll tell you one every night, just before you go to sleep.”

“Oh, Mary,” he breathed, “that would be splendid.”

Splendid. What was a six-year-old doing knowing words like that?

“Mary?” he asked breathlessly, taking a break from gulping down his milk.

“Yes?”

“Can we go to the beach now?”

Mary raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Now?”

Richard nodded his head up and down in emphatic excitement until Mary laughed and acquiesced.

“All right, then. We should leave a note for your mother, though. She’ll want to know where we’d have gone. I do hope she gets back soon, though; her breakfast will get cold.”

Scribbling a hasty explanation on a piece of paper and covering Mrs. Henderson’s plate with a napkin, Mary took Richard’s hand and headed for the door.

Let me give you a picture of the lighthouse and its placement in the duchy of Ensis. In the most general terms, the tower stood on a small, southeastern peninsula. Its immediate vicinity had no real trees, the salt spray would never allow that; but closer to the mainland, there was a vast pinewood forest, the likes of which are hardly ever seen today. The lighthouse itself was tall and was built of white bricks, covered in some places with moss that gave the whole place the air of a rustic sort of beauty, like stepping out of a fairytale. The entrance, by which Mary and little Richard had exited that morning for their excursion, was very nearly the doorstep of the sea, with only ten to fifteen feet of land on the three sides that bordered the ocean. Imagine the intimacy that this view provided! It; it is impossible to say how many times a person has stood at the front steps of lighthouses like that one, forced to pause and marvel in their own humanity, illuminated in the powerful waves of an ocean trying to lap up the land where we frail creatures choose to place our beacons of progress. Yes, the utter nearness of the sea is breathtaking; it is no wonder that little Richard caught his breath when he looked out his upper-story window and saw for the first time the ocean adorned in all its morning glory.

There was a short dock placed alongside the lighthouse, where anyone who was ferried from the mainland could alight, but there was a dirt path from the door through the forest as well. You could travel half a mile along that road without meeting another soul; but closer to the end of the path, you would begin to hear the sounds of a bustling neighborhood. Ensis had always been sparsely populated along the southern coastline, but where the peninsula met the mainland, a large and prosperous village had sprung up. I say village—the truth is that it really should be called a town and was in its own right more of a city, with cobblestone roads, a dock, fisheries, and a busy marketplace. The only thing to differentiate it from being such was the fact that it had staunchly refused to industrialize; the beauty of its quaint, little streets was still untainted. There were no dirty, starving orphans, faces half-covered in soot,. There were no factories belching out smog. There were no flats, with two or three families crammed into one small room. And so the picturesque spot attracted many a tourist, and even the Duke of Ensis had chosen to set up residence there for nearly forty years.

That morning, Mary and little Richard took the dirt path to the village, the one strolling gracefully, the other walking along in a shy manner, not saying a word. Mary was perplexed and a little troubled; she wanted to break Richard’s silence, but wasn’t quite sure how. Just a second ago, he had been so eager to see the beach…. And now? His little eyebrows were furrowed in deep concentration, and the sparkle which had been exposed during his excited outburst was once again hidden. She silently resolved to give him time to adjust. He must be flummoxed, what with all the changes to his routine life, which had hitherto been spent in the urban city of Mason. She could wait until the next time his sparkle came to light—and then wouldn’t they be good friends! (Mary would never know it, but Richard was at this moment wondering whether there were really naiads hiding in the pine trees, and had decided to be as solemn as the occasion required. It wasn’t every day that a child his age could enter the wood faeries’ home for the first time, after all.)

It turned out that Mary didn’t have to wait as long as she supposed, for children of little Richard’s age can never stay single-mindedly focused for much more than a few minutes. As they rounded the bend upon the village, Mary saw her little charge perk up as he surveyed the area interestedly. This was an entirely new scene for him, for they had taken the ferry to the lighthouse the previous day. Richard fell in love with the village immediately. They were in the section that held all the cottages, and although it was still early in the morning, it seemed as if everyone had already woken up and started the day. There were people everywhere. The women were opening shutters, hanging laundry on the line, brushing dirt out the front door… Children helped their mothers, or else were running through the street, kicking ball or carrying errands; some were helping their fathers with small repairs around the house. It was a Saturday, but even so, most of the men were kicking on their boating gear, getting ready for a day fishing on the sea or working out on the docks, and some of the older boys were preparing to join them. You see, in those days, the only real day for rest was Sunday. The children were home from school on Saturday, but there were so many things to be doing; all the chores would have to be done before they could play. Not that it was all drudgery—surprisingly, a lot of work can be made enjoyable with a little imagination or a few friends to help alongside with. Overall, it was a happy, busy scene that met Richard’s eye.

He finally spoke up. “Mary, where do you live?”

Mary, seeing that he wanted to linger, smiled indulgently. She pointed out a house on the right, and Richard’s eyes widened in wonder. It was a little larger than some of the other cottages, but that was not the only striking aspect about it; the most important part of the house was the flowers. Tulips, daffodils, and crocuses of every color imaginable dotted the front yard.

“Mary,” Richard whispered, “it’s beautiful.”

“Tomorrow I’ll take you to visit, then.”

“I would like that,” Richard said contentedly, now willing to resume his original quest to see the mermaids. He did a little hop and a skip as they continued on their way, and Mary was happy to see that his mood had lightened considerably. He even began to hum a little ditty as they passed through the marketplace and down the length of the docks.

“Here we are,” Mary said as they entered the rocky entrance, gesturing with one hand over the spread of the land. “Richard, welcome to the beaches of Ensis.”