He was a small, stubborn boy at the age of eleven. While running through the endless fields of corn, looking like a golden sea, he would become invisible. During hide and seek with the children, he was always the last one found. The other kids would tease him, calling him "Girl Hüseyin," but he never got upset. What did it matter if he were a girl? His sister was beautiful, after all.
He sighed while looking in the mirror. That day, his father had spoken with the village chief and nominated "Girl Hüseyin" as the new shepherd for the village. “Let him come at the morning prayer and take the sheep,” said Mahmut Efendi. But he added, “If he fails, I will keep you responsible.”
His father had lied; Hüseyin had overheard from behind the door. He had no experience as a shepherd—what would he do with 100 sheep and only one shepherd dog in the mountains? Besides, he was afraid of that dog, the beast. His father had bowed down, holding the chief’s hands and kissing them repeatedly. The chief was disgusting. He would sit cross-legged all day on a grand couch, his huge belly stretching his trousers, as if the buttons would pop off and break the misshapen pink vase in front of him.
When his father bowed down, kissing the chief's hands, the chief had said, “What are you doing, man?” but Hüseyin knew. The chief enjoyed the power he held over the tiny village. He thought again: what a disgusting man.
Then his thoughts turned back to his sister. How beautiful she was. Her hair reached down to her waist, chestnut brown, with eyes like honey. When she looked at Hüseyin, his heart would fill with warmth, and he would tear up thinking of their mother. His sister looked just like their mother—full of love, with gentle, soft hands. During nights, when Hüseyin wet the bed from fear, his sister would take him by her side and stroke his head with those soft hands. Hüseyin would drift off to sleep slowly, his eyes barely closing. He would think of his mother, then hug his sister tighter and pray for the moment never to end.
What a disgusting man the chief was, he thought again. The night the chief came to propose for his sister came to mind—it had only been a week. In one hand, he held a bouquet picked from the cemetery; in the other, a box of Turkish delight and biscuits bought from the village’s only shop. He had taken off his muddy shoes with exaggerated courtesy and smiled, showing off his single gold tooth. Hüseyin felt sick; what a disgusting man.
His attention was drawn away by a black fly that had landed on the mirror. Greedy like the chief. He spotted a piece of newspaper on the couch in the corner. His father couldn’t read, but he would ask for the old newspapers from the shop owner once a week and have Hüseyin read to him. He would be amazed, laugh, and sometimes cry. Hüseyin rolled up the paper. “I’ve got you now, black fly,” he thought. He swung at it with a slap, but the fly was quicker and escaped.
What a disgusting man the chief was, he thought again. The night the chief came to propose for his sister flashed in his mind again. His father had forced Hüseyin’s stubborn hair down with lemon, trying to tame it. Hüseyin cried, sniffling and muttering. He got smacks, and his father kept trying to manage his unruly hair.
On the night the chief came to propose, he seemed even fatter and uglier to Hüseyin. But his sister? She was delicate and petite, just like their mother. Hüseyin sighed, thinking, just like their mother.
At that moment, his sister burst into the room and pulled him by the arm. “What are you staring at yourself for, Hüseyin? you know we’re expecting guests? Stop wasting time in this room. Go and see if Hatice has any bread; if she does, take two and tell her to put it on credit. Say my sister will pay it off after the wedding.”
Hüseyin clenched his teeth at the word “wedding.” It didn’t suit his sister’s mouth at all; where had this wedding come from? What a disgusting man the chief was.
Night had fallen. “I’m scared to go get the bread. There’s a big dog on the road,” he said to his sister. But she was determined; the bread had to be fetched. “Fine,” said Hüseyin. He grabbed the lamp by the door. He pressed the button, but it didn’t light up. He shook it a couple of times, and a faint beam lit his path.
Hatice’s house was only on the other street, 10 minutes away. The best bread in the village came from Hatice’s oven, and his sister would only buy from her if someone important was coming. Hüseyin knew who that someone was—the greedy chief. Since he had come to propose to his sister, he kept coming back every night. His father didn’t want any gossip, but he lacked the courage to tell the chef stop coming to the house until wedding day. Hüseyin had told him, “Let me chase the chief away.” His father and sister had laughed, “Girl Hüseyin, who are you to chase away the chief? Get out of here.”
Hüseyin ran the ten-minute route in five. He was terrified of the dark. He knocked on Hatice’s door, no answer. He knocked again, still no answer. He cursed his luck—had he come all this way for nothing? His sister should have checked before sending him.
On his way back, he thought again about the night the chief came to propose and how much his sister had cried. She had sobbed throughout the night, and when she woke up in the morning, her honey-colored eyes seemed to have sunk to the bottom of a deep well.