Mischa

Long ago, far from the ocean, where rocky hills rolled over the horizon, a family toiled day after day corralling a flock of burly, wooly sheep.

Mischa, the youngest of her brothers and sisters, often rode on their backs, her switch in hand, tapping their round buttocks at her father's direction through shallow valleys and over bubbling streams.

Mischa loved the sheep. They were her friends. Their wool kept her warm at night, when the air was still and the stars were clear. Their meat, swirled into a stew by her mother, filled her stomach at day's end. And their teeth, brown when they died but worn snow white after miles in Mischa's pocket, adorned the string about her neck.

One day, when Mischa was old enough to carry her father's staff, her family left her to watch the flock alone. Her brothers went off to hunt, her sisters to forage, and her father and mother to trade.

Light, gray clouds crawled over the wide, steppe sky like river ripples. The air was crisp and cool, the breeze gently brushing Mischa's bright hair.

She heard a distant howl, and she cocked her eyes and ears towards the horizon. She caught sight of a wolf's tail as the pest retreated beyond a distant, rocky hill. Her heart skipped when she thought of the sheep, and her hands tightened around her father's staff. She retrieved her trusty switch and moved the flock towards the other side of the vast steppe, away from the wolf-laden ridge.

Mischa had settled against a sitting sheep's wooly back, the cool breeze having chilled her neck, when she heard yet another howl. The clouds had rolled closer, veiling the far ridge in darkness and dampening the determined spirit in her heart.

Her gaze swept the landscape, but she saw no sign of her brothers or sisters. Fearing for the sheep's lives, Mischa stood and began to move the flock once more. This time, she thought, higher ground might prove safer, so she urged the sheep up a small hill.

A third low howl, muffled by a stormy rumble, stretched across the steppe towards Mischa as her foot landed on a loose rock.

She stumbled and yelped, and her father's staff hit the earth with a deafening thwack. The sheep bleated in shock as they scrambled up the hill, pushing dusty rocks down it towards Mischa as she struggled to plant her feet.

The sheep began to run, away from the wolves, but also from Mischa. Their bleats frightened each other, and their panic spread until the flock was a stampede, frantically crashing across the earth.

Their hoofbeats echoed in Mischa's bones and their cries lifted heat into her ears. She hefted her father's staff and rushed after them, her little legs flying faster than an eagle, her bright hair brushing streaks into the sky.

As her lungs began to burn and her feet began to slow, the herd appeared to dwindle. Like meat in her mother's stew as it flipped over the lip of the pot and into her bowl, the sheep reached a cliff and fell.

Panic set Mischa's heart on fire, and she ran, but not fast enough. She watched each and every wooly beast tumble to their deaths. She dragged her feet to the edge, and her father's staff hit the earth again as she looked down at the sheep’s bodies, a carpet of dust and blood slowly seeping into their white wool.

Tears streaked through the dust on her face as Mischa clamored down a steep nearby hillside. Her breaths shook as she neared the sheep, scattered like seeds upon the ground. Drops of rain pattered in red puddles as sorrow pulled her to her knees. She curled her fingers into their wool as she whimpered. The sky opened, and Mischa wailed. When her sobs grew too heavy, she slept.

Overnight, she soaked in the flock's blood and the sky’s rain. Her bright hair, drenched in the ill mud, darkened and turned. It retained its luster, but not its light. Her skin paled in the steppe's clear breeze, the warmth of the flock's bodies absent for the first and last time.

In the morning, when the eastern sun pierced her closed eyes, shooting golden visions into her pounding skull, Mischa woke and peeled herself off of the earth. She pulled a single tooth from the nearest sheep’s mouth and slipped it into her pocket. Then she left her friends to search for her family.

When they were reunited, Mischa's mother bathed her. She rinsed her ruddy hair day after day, but the red glint remained. Her brothers would go on to tease Mischa as she grew and the color deepened. Her father trusted her with a new flock, but never again with his staff. Her sisters envied her newfound allure. Her mother called her red head a curse.

But Mischa, who cherished the last ruddy traces of her friends' warmth, prayed for the flock's peace in golden steppes beyond and left her hair forever at the mercy of the wind.

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This myth was written in response to the Mythmaker Challenge issued by Vocal: “Write a myth to explain the fabled origin story of why something exists.”