by Susan Bruck
She picked another tuft of wool from the bush. Her back ached from bending and reaching, but she needed just a bit more. The shepherds laughed at her. They called her the Woolgatherer, or sometimes Hey Ewe. But she hardly minded anymore.
They all thought she was an old woman. That’s because she had made herself a wig of white wool. They never saw her unlined face underneath, and that was how she wanted it.
She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she ran away from home. She remembered that life like a dream. I am a woolgatherer in more ways then one, she thought to herself. She remembered the balls were dances rather than puffs of wool, and they were filled glittering chandeliers and thousands of beeswax candles that made the…
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