was working on the top floor of his mill with the windows open to catch the breeze. His brother the woodcutter felled a large nearby oak, which turned out to contain a massive beehive. When the tree crashed down, the disturbed bees swarmed out in an angry buzzing thundercloud, seeking a target.
The woodcutter was wise enough to dive into the shelter of the fallen tree, so the bees swept away without seeing him. Instead, they flew across the stream and swooped in through the mill’s upper windows. The innocent miller tried to escape. Flailing, he staggered out the open window, fell down into the waterwheel, and was never seen again.
Afterward, the woodcutter harvested several barrels of delicious honey from the hive he had discovered, and the bees took up residence inside the mill. Since they had proved themselves to be killer bees, no one dared disturb them, although occasionally the woodcutter would sneak inside the mill and harvest the honey, which soon proved to be quite a lucrative business.
Afterward, the villagers argued over whether to name their town Honey’s Folly or Miller’s Folly, and eventually settled on simply Folly.
Regardless, young Cullin became an orphan, with no means of supporting himself. His woodcutter uncle opted not to adopt the boy, telling him that it was good for his character—at age seven—to make his own way in the world.
From that point on, the boy existed as a scamp, finding berries in the woods and hoping that a kindly family of wolves might take him in and raise him as one of their pack. He had heard stories about that, but Cullin had no luck finding a receptive wolf pack.
He did get occasional work in town slopping out a pigpen, acting as a scarecrow for a farmer’s fields, or hauling rocks from the quarry for the local castle, which was always under construction. And he was lucky to find the work. By the time he was thirteen, Cullin still had no other prospects.
Then two wandering friars came to town, Brother Dalbry and Brother Reeger. They asked for alms (even though the local currency was called a tuckus) or even a ladle of cool water from the town well. Brother Reeger emphasized that he preferred the alms over the water.
Brother Dalbry clutched a small silken parcel in his calloused hand. “Is there a church in this town? We have a holy relic that can only be given to the most pious parishioner or the most faithful priest. We have carried this burden for a long time, and it needs a true home.”
The townspeople gathered around in awe, and Cullin worked his way close enough to hear.
“Of course we have a church—we are a town of devout people,” said one man who fancied himself the mayor of Folly, although no one had elected him. “And we have excellent honey, too.”
“We’d like some of that honey,” said Reeger. “A jar or two, if you have it.”
“It’ll take more than honey to purchase our relic,” said Brother Dalbry. He scanned the curious faces around him. “You’d better send for your priest.”
He drank a ladle of water from the well as someone ran to fetch the priest. Despite the people’s persistent questions, Dalbry and Reeger would say nothing more about the holy relic until the dark-robed priest bustled down from the ornate church.
Cullin had had his run-ins with the priest before. The man refused to respect the orphan boy until he cleaned himself up, got fine clothes and a decent job, so he would be in a good position to contribute to the collection plate.
When the priest asked about the mysterious relic, Brother Dalbry extended his silken packet, tugged at a bit of ribbon that held the fabric together, and opened the folds to reveal a dark sliver of wood about as long as a man’s finger.
“We have come from the Holy Land,” said Dalbry, “and endured many travails as we plodded from kingdom to kingdom, bringing this, our most prized possession. It is our holy quest to present this relic to one special church, one particularly
Laurice Elehwany Molinari