Her name was Odette Estefania Cassandra Alexandra Klimczak Hackleford, born in a tiny tool shed at eleven o’clock midnight, the freezing air flowing through the crack under to door from the forest outside.
Her proud mother, Ruth Hackleford, carefully lay Odette down in the small supply of hay at the corner of the shed, breathing hard, uneasy breaths of wintry air into her lungs. Then, scrambling onto her feet tiredly, she went to the door and opened it with a shaky hand.
Contemplating on whether she should leave her baby in search of food, she finally left, vowing not to be long.
I’ve got to get warm, I’ve got to get food, I’ve got to get warm, I’ve got to get back to Odette, I’ve got to get warm… the woman repeated the unorganized phrase to herself over and over again, starting for the forest in search of some pine bows and blackberries, if there were any at all.
Planning to find food to bring back to the shed, along with some wood for a fire, the woman bent down drowsily to collect some dried wood found from the remains of an old tree. She could soon feel wetness at the knees of her woolen leggings where she knelt, and realized she’d been in a puddle alongside a small creek.
Ruth hadn’t eaten in days, and her consciousness was draining rapidly. Her stomach growled angrily and grey rings formed under her eyes from lack of sleep for countless days. But she stumbled around in the night in search of food and wasn’t stopping until she found something.
Suddenly feeling short of breath, she paused to take in a raspy gasp of the cold midnight air.
Ruth shivered, her teeth chattering, but stopped. Her Odette yet awaited her return, which made Ruth’s heart thump, feeling a want to go on through the cold.
She shut her eyes hazily, thinking, just for a moment. Just for a moment, I’ll rest. Still stacking wood into her overturned skirt hem, she lay down on the frozen ground, having not realized how tired she’d been before.
A small urge caused Ruth a slight alarming feeling. Odette. But Ruth couldn’t hold up her head, nonetheless get up and find her way through the maze of trees to get back to the shed to her baby. Then, almost instantly, Ruth Hackleford curled up and said to herself, in the morning. In the morning, I’ll find my baby. Relief swept over her, and she fell asleep, not waking until morning.


The young babe suddenly felt herself being lifted up into the sunlight with the need to squint away the brightness. Just then, a hard voice, like a crust of wry bread, struck the humid air. “What’s this? But… how… how did you get into my shed?” Odette could feel warm hands on her, then a soft sensation.
She opened her eyes to see a gruff woodsman figure holding her out in front of him, looking, she noticed, and observing her. He seemed uneasily alone, and, though blocking it slightly, she could see a small cottage behind him: his house.
He had wrapped a red wool jacket around her, and, soon smiling, brought her inside and lay her on a blanket next to the fire.
“I can’t fathom…? There’s no one around for miles… nothing, except the—” he stopped to sigh “—castle.” The man spit into the crackling flames, causing his spatter to fizz into nothing. “I don’t suppose you’re a runaway’s child,” he frowned, pulling his boots off and throwing them in the general direction of the door.
The woodsman hated the castle’s slaves. They would always run away, stealing tools from his shed to take with them across the border to the neighboring country, Allehnah, where they could be free.
“Well, I guess a slave that leaves stuff in my shed is better than one that takes stuff from it.” The woodsman murmured on about slaves and castles until leaving out the back door, returning with a bucket that he set with a clang on the table. “I… this is from... our goat, Nanny—” he looked around the room, “—ah!” Grabbing a small vase from his nightstand at the far end of the room, the woodsman flung the flowers out the window, and washed it thoroughly before filling it with the fresh, creamy goat’s milk.
The baby cooed as she lay in the man’s warm arms, devouring Nanny’s milk. The woodsman smiled down at the child with his bushy, wiser-browed face, then looked up at the bookshelf next to him, a red-covered novel, in particular, that caught his blue eyes. It read The Encyclopedia of Edible Plants by Alex Dawson.
“That’s it, young child. That’s it… Alex.”

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 05.03.2011

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I dedicate this book to true family