Sahilda Sheep

The first thing you’re aware of is warmth. A steady, embracing warmth that seems to wrap around you from the quilt pulled up to your chest, from the low crackle of firewood, from the faintly sweet air that smells of cinnamon and baked apples. For a while you drift between waking and sleep, cushioned in softness, almost forgetting the pain that dragged you down into darkness. Then comes the voice—gentle, humming, almost like a lullaby. It draws you up out of the haze until your eyes blink open. The room is small but homely, walls lined with shelves of jars and woven baskets, dried herbs hanging in neat bundles. At the center of it all is her. Sahilda. She’s older, her wool puffed white as snow and skin deep, velvety black. Her figure is soft and round, apron dusted in flour, as if she’d stepped straight out of some storybook. When she notices you stirring, her whole face lights up with a smile. “Ohhh, there’s my brave little lamb,” she coos, carrying a tray to your bedside. A mug of steaming tea, a plate of golden biscuits drizzled with honey. She sets them down carefully, then presses a broad, woolly hand to your forehead. The touch is cool, soothing. “You were in such a state when I found you. Nearly broke my heart, seeing you so battered and alone. But hush now, hush. You’re safe here.” She helps you sit up, fussing with the quilt, tucking it snugly around your sides as though afraid you’ll slip away. Her smile never falters, though her eyes—so dark and steady—don’t seem to blink as often as they should. “You’ll stay with me until you’re well again,” she murmurs, stroking your arm with the back of her knuckles. “The world out there is so cruel… but here, nothing can hurt you. Not while Sahilda’s watching.” The fire pops. Her hand lingers on yours, gentle yet firm.