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DargonZine Volume 09 Issue 06
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 9
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6
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DargonZine Distributed: 11/02/1996
Volume 9, Number 6 Circulation: 610
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
A Shadow of a Life Mark A. Murray Mertz 1014
Falsehoods Alan Lauderdale Melrin-Autumn, 1004
In the Garden Jim Owens Late Summer, 1015
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 9-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 1996 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>.
All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual
contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without
the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
Those whose only contact with DargonZine is having issues emailed
to them might well interpret the interval between issues as evidence
that there isn't much going on in the Dargon Project. It ain't so!
Over the course of the summer, eight new writers joined the group,
and you'll begin seeing their works very shortly. And our veterans
haven't been idle either; as if writing for DargonZine wasn't enough,
Rogers Cadenhead has co-authored the newly-released "Teach Yourself
SunSoft Java WorkShop in 21 Days". One of the examples used in the book
is an interactive graphical map of Dargon, which displays callout
descriptions of certain geographical and political features when your
mouse hovers over them. You can try the example out and explore the map
online at http://spiderbyte.com/java.
Meanwhile, we've continued to enhance the Web site. The Online
Glossary now sports a new look, and includes hyperlinks to the stories
where any given Glossary entry is mentioned. Another new feature is a
street map of the city of Dargon, with credit going to Mark Murray for
doing the legwork. Other enhancements include a handful of pictures from
the 1996 Dargon Writers' Summit in Denver, some new graphs depicting
annual output of the project in the Author's Master Database section,
and updated results from the Web-based reader survey and questionnaire.
The questionnaire responses have been very valuable in telling us what
you want from the project, and I'd encourage everyone to send us your
responses, so that we know how we're doing and what we need to do better
at.
All these enhancements to the Web site are available from the
"What's New" page. That's where to go to find the most up-to-date
information about the project, the magazine, and the Web site. It's
really worth a visit, because the Web site offers a lot of services and
information beyond what is available by email.
In this issue, Mark Murray begins a new thread with Matty, a young
boy growing up in Dargon. Mark is currently working on additional
stories which feature Matty, so expect to see more of this character in
coming issues.
In "Falsehoods", Alan Lauderdale picks up the story of Mouse, his
diminutive heroine who was the protagonist in "I am my Lord's
Possession", which appearred in DargonZine 8-2. Alan, too, has already
written a followup story, so more stories about Mouse on the way!
Finally, Jim Owens, one of the writers who helped found the Dargon
Project back in 1985, returns to his Barel family and delivers a strong
commentary in his "In the Garden".
With the end of the war between Baranur and Beinison having taken
place in our last issue, we hope to return to a more balanced mix of
light and heavy stories, as your Reader Questionnaire responses told us
you prefer. I think this issue is a first small step in that direction.
And, as always, let us know how we're doing and keep spreading the
word about DargonZine, because word of mouth is our biggest source of
new readers! And look for our next issue, which should be out toward the
end of December.
========================================================================
A Shadow of a Life
by Mark A. Murray
<mmurray@ionet.net>
Dargon City, Mertz 1014
He watched from his window as several boys gathered in the alley.
They always showed up in the early evening and talked for a while.
Sometimes they would laugh and he wondered what kind of jokes they were
telling. There was an older boy, much older than him, who looked like
the leader. He wished his mother would let him stay out later so he
could join them. He didn't have any friends and watching the boys
together made him long for friends even more. They looked to be real
good friends. Sighing, he moved from the window and climbed into bed.
Wishing they were his friends, too, he drifted to sleep.
"Wake up, Matthew," his mother called from the kitchen. He rolled
over and pulled the blanket above his head. Maybe she'll let me stay
home by myself today.
"Matty," She said as she shook him. "Come on. We have to go to the
market today." He felt his mother sit on the bed and draw the covers
from his head.
"Mama, can't I stay home while you go to the market?" he asked.
"No. It's not that I don't trust you by yourself, Matty, but I
don't trust this neighborhood. When I get a better job, we can move to a
better section of town and then you can stay home all you like." she
answered.
"Can I stay out as late as I want, too?"
"By the time I get a better job, you're going to be staying out as
late as you want whether I want you to or not," she answered smiling.
"Aw, mama!" he cried. "I didn't mean years from now."
"I know. Now get up and get dressed. There's some bread and soup
left on the table." He sat up and let his legs swing over the edge of
the bed. Hopping down, he went to the corner of the room where his
clothes were piled. Searching through the small stack, he pulled out a
pair of pants and a shirt. Slipping the large shirt off that he slept
in, he pulled on the pants and put on the shirt.
"Mama, I'm growin' again," he told her as he noticed that his pants
did not reach his ankles.
"You're growing all the time, Matty. Really! I just can't keep up
with you. If we can find some material cheap enough, I'll make you
another pair. Now come on." He went into the kitchen where she was.
"Here's your soup and bread," she said handing it to him. When he
was done, she took his hand and they went out the door.
They walked to the market area and his mother started shopping for
food. It was always the same. Mama would spend time looking for cheaper
prices, even though she usually bought the same thing at the same vendor
every time. Throughout all of this, she never let go of his hand. When
he tried to shake her hand loose, she would stop and ask him if anything
was wrong. One day, he even explained to her that he was a big boy now
and he would stay out of trouble. She just smiled and kissed him *in
front* of everyone. He felt his cheeks go warm when she did that. It was
the last time he explained anything to her in public.
"Quit day-dreaming, Matty. It's time to go home," she told him. "We
have to be at work in a few bells, and I want to eat before we go."
"Are we gonna work late again, mamma?"
"I don't know. It depends on how busy the inn is," she answered as
they started home.
When they got home, she started a small fire in the fireplace,
cleaned some vegetables, and poured some water into a pan. She set the
pan on top of the oven and started chopping the vegetables.
"Matty, can you go outside and get a little bit of the dried
mintleaf? It should be hanging by the window," she said. He went out the
door and turned the corner. The dried mintleaf was hanging where she
said it would be. He grabbed a few of the dried leaves and carried them
back inside.
"Here it is, mama," he said putting the mintleaf on the table.
"Mama?"
"What?"
"It's not that I don't like mintleaf, but do you think that we
could look for something different next time?" he asked.
"The next time we get a day off, Matty, we'll go outside of Dargon
City and look for some different herbs."
"Really? That would be fun! Thanks," he said as he hugged her.
"Why don't you go play. I'll call when the soup is done," she told
him. He ran outside and down the alley. It was a short alley and when he
got to the end, he stopped. He knew he wasn't allowed beyond the end of
the alley, but that didn't keep him from looking up and down the street.
"It's them," he said as he saw the boys. He just stood there and
watched them. They were playing some sort of game. There was a small
object that was being tossed in the air, only they weren't using their
hands to toss it. They were using everything else but their hands, and
some of the boys weren't playing. The object flew towards a boy's face
and he caught it with his hands. The boy said something that Matthew
didn't understand and threw the object on the ground. He stepped over to
where the other boys who weren't playing were and the game continued
without him. It went on like this until there were only two left -- an
older boy and someone Matthew had not seen before. The older boy finally
won and the rest bunched in to congratulate him. Laughing and shouting,
the boys walked up the street away from Matthew.
"Don't go," he said quietly. He thought of shouting to get their
attention, but was too afraid to do it. Wishing they would have come his
way, he watched the boys until they were out of sight. "They sure looked
like they were having a lot of fun," he thought as he picked up a stone.
He dropped the stone and hit it with his foot. The stone came straight
back up and he hit it with his elbow. It sailed higher and after coming
back down, he tried to hit it with his other foot, but missed.
"I bet they'd have let me play if I was allowed in the street," he
thought as he picked up the stone again.
"Matthew!" called his mother.
"I'm comin'," he yelled back as he ran back down the alley.
It turned out that the inn wasn't very busy and both were sent home
early. His mother wasn't very happy about it.
"Don't be mad, mama," he said as they walked home. "I was gonna
wait until we got home, but I guess I can show you now."
"What are you talking about, Matty?" she asked as they stopped.
"Old Garth gave me somethin' as I left. He said it was for both of
us," Matthew explained as he opened his coat. He beamed proudly as he
showed her the small piece of meat that the cook had given him. He had
hidden it against his side under the coat and in his waistband.
"Why, that grizzled old man. May Stevene watch over him," she
prayed. "Did you thank him for it, Matty?"
"I did, mama. He smiled and said I was a good kid."
"Let's go home and have supper then. Tonight hasn't been all bad,"
she said as they started walking home.
He looked out the window as his mother cooked the meat. It was dark
and he couldn't see very far, but he knew the boys were there. He could
hear them laughing and talking, but he couldn't hear them well enough to
understand what they were saying.
"Matty, supper is done," his mother called. He turned away from the
window and went into the other room. Standing at the table, he ate
supper.
"This meat is good, mama. I wish we could have it more often."
"I do too, Matty," she said. "I do too."
Nine days passed before he actually saw the boys again. Matthew and
his mother had the day off, and he was playing in the alley when he
heard laughter coming from the end of the alley. He ran towards the
street and stopped at the end of the alley. The boys were only a few
paces in front of him to the right and they were playing the game. He
watched them until one of the boys noticed him and the game stopped.
"What'ya want?" one of the boys asked. Fear paralyzed him.
"This is my chance," he thought.
"Well," the boy said.
"Can I play?" he mustered the courage to ask.
"He wants to play," the boy laughed. Matthew wanted to run, but
somehow he couldn't.
"What's yer name?" the oldest boy asked stepping forward towards
Matthew.
"Matthew," he answered.
"Ya got a home, Matthew?" the oldest boy asked. Matthew nodded and
pointed down the alley.
"Ya got parents?"
"My mom," Matthew said.
"Well, *we* don't have any parents, and *we* don't have a home. All
*we've* got is each other. We're shadow boys. So, go back to your mom
and your home!" the oldest boy shouted. Matthew tried to move, and
couldn't. The shadow boy stepped closer. "Go on!" he shouted and shoved
Matthew down. "Get out of here I said!"
Matthew got up, ran down the alley and into his house. He couldn't
see through his tears and ran into his mother.
"Matty? Dear Stevene, what's wrong?" she asked as she kneeled down.
"I ... uh ... they ... " was all Matthew could say between sobs.
"Shhhh. It's alright, dear. Hush," she said comforting him and
pulling him close.
"I only wanted some friends, mama. I wanted ... to play ... with
them," he sobbed.
"Who, Matty?"
"Some ... the boys ... by the street."
"Oh, Matty! Those boys aren't good boys," she said. "You don't want
to be around them. They'll get you into trouble."
"Why didn't they like me, mama?" he asked, finally getting his
breath. She only hugged him tight as an answer.
"Maybe it is time we moved. I've saved up a little money, and I
heard that there's an opening at another inn. A better inn," she said.
Matthew's mother was walking home from work. She was walking home
alone, and she wasn't worried too much about Matthew. Rachel was
watching him. It was amazing how much her life had changed so quickly.
She thought back to just a few days ago when the new inn opened. She
applied, but it was too far away from where they lived. Then she met
Rachel and Rachel opened her home to them. The inn hired her, and things
turned out well, except for Matthew. He cried when she told him they
were moving. She didn't understand his crying, but eventually she
learned that he still wanted to be friends with those boys. She told him
that he would make better friends in their new neighborhood, but he
didn't want to move. He was still upset over their moving when she had
left this morning.
She turned the corner and was at her new home. It was a much
shorter walk, and a safer one.
"I still can't believe I got the job," Matthews's mother said as
she entered the house. "Just five days ago, I was working in that rat
infested inn. I wouldn't have been able to do it if you hadn't shared
your home. Thank you, Rachel."
"It's nothing, really. You looked like you could use some help, and
since we are both new at the inn, I thought it would be alright for you
to stay with me," Rachel said.
"Mama, mama!" Matthew yelled as he came running in the house.
"Guess what!"
"I don't know," his mother said.
"I ..." Matthew started but stopped as he looked around. "He was
right behind me."
"Who was right behind you?"
"Ben! He's my new friend!"
"A new friend?" she asked smiling.
"Mama, what are you smiling at?"
"I love you, Matty," she said.
"Aw, mama, not *in front* of everyone," he said turning to go back
outside and find his new friend.
========================================================================
Falsehoods
by Alan Lauderdale
<lauderd@phadm1.cpmc.columbia.edu>
Melrin - Autumn, 1004
Melrin, 1004
Aardvard Factotum gazed across his desk at his visitor. He was the
leading merchant of knowledge in Dargon and apparently did quite well at
his trade. His office was opulent. His expression, however, was
oblivious of the riches surrounding him, being intent solely on sizing
up his visitor. Cahill felt appraised.
Cahill was Sir Ongis' clerk. He was visiting Dargon because Sir
Ongis had come for the Melrin festivities and brought him along.
Originally, Sir Ongis had hoped to present to the Duke during the
festival that faerie princess he'd briefly possessed. He'd even made the
mistake of sending the Duke a message he'd meant to be private. The
message had promised him a gift that he would find truly unique and a
surprise for the rest of the court. That plan was dashed when the faerie
whatsit had escaped from Sir Ongis' dungeon.
So Sir Ongis had come hoping he'd only have to explain why he
thought a two-headed trout, which had regretably died and rotted
quickly, was so unique and wonderful that it had merited boastful
advance notice. What he failed to appreciate was that no private message
to the Duke remains that way. Behind his back, he and his unpresented
gift were the subject of much speculation. And Cahill hoped to profit
from his lord's no-longer-desired notoriety.
As for Aardvard, he was well aware of the speculative ignorance
surrounding Cahill's master. When he became aware (less than a mene
after Sir Ongis' entourage entered the city) that Cahill had information
on the matter that he could be persuaded to share, Aardvard went so far
in making himself available to the servant as to provide him with mount
and discreet escort from Ongis' lodgings to Factotum's own humble
dwelling.
And now here was Cahill in Aardvard's office, having spoken to
no-one else first. It was going to be a wonderful festival this year,
Aardvard just knew it.
"So," Aardvard said, wondering how ignorant this servant might be
of the value his knowledge held for some in Dargon, "what can I do for
you?"
Cahill glanced around the office and then looked back at the
merchant. "You could set me up quite comfortably for the rest of my
life," he suggested.
"I could," Aardvard acknowledged. The way he liked to appear to be
living, it was hard to argue with the assessment. "Why would I want to?"
"You collect information, don't you?"
"Aye, but it's such a perishable commodity, you know." Aardvard
Factotum sighed. "You pass along some tidbit of knowledge to me. So then
I have it and maybe I pass along some tidbit of coinage to you. But the
exchange is hardly fair, hardly fair at all. And why not? Because, my
friend, while you've given that information to me, you've still got it
also. But the coinage I give to you is forever sundered from my grasp."
"Ah, but the information I have to share --"
"Yes, I know. It has the court buzzing. Your master sent along a
warning to his duke that his present this year would be remembered for
decades. Well, sir, if that isn't an advertisement to start the idle
tongues chattering, I don't know what is."
"So everyone wants to know what Sir Ongis' present will be?" Cahill
asked cautiously.
"Naturally."
"Including you?"
"I take a professional interest only, you understand," Aardvard
explained quickly. "There are people I know who would be very grateful
to be informed -- before the actual occasion -- what the great event
will be. They like to appear powerful by appearing knowledgeable."
"So what would you be willing to reward me with in exchange for
this information?" Cahill asked.
"Shall we say ..." Aardvard paused. The servant seemed eager, too
eager. The information could be extracted for cheap, that seemed clear.
But Aardvard suspected that his source still knew something about the
upcoming transaction that he didn't know. He hated that. "... five
Mint?" He placed the coins on the desk.
"Fine," Cahill barked. Violating all the customs of bargaining, he
swept the coins off the desk into his own hand without even a token
argument. "My lord will be giving the Duke a fish story."
"A what!?" Aardvard shouted.
"A *dead* fish story," Cahill clarified quietly.
"Your master will be presenting the duke -- his liege's liege --
with a dead fish? And he had the -- the temerity to proclaim that that
would be a present the court would remember for years?"
"Of course not," Cahill said calmly. "A dead fish would stink. My
Lord Ongis will merely present my Lord the Duke with a tragic accounting
of how that marvel of nature, the two-headed brook trout got away. It's
almost a passable tale, full of pathos and gnashing teeth. He's been
coached by old Bernard --"
"Never mind the damned gnashing teeth! Has your master lost his
mind?"
"No," Cahill admitted. "But he has lost the original present."
"Ah, ha!"
Cahill grinned at Aardvard. Aardvard grinned back. So what if the
story cost an extra five Mint, it promised to be an excellent festival.
"And what was that original present?" Aardvard purred. Cahill
smiled and tapped the desk. Aardvard laid out some more coins on the
surface. Cahill shook his head and tapped the table again. Aardvard
frowned. "That's as much as a gold Sovereign," he grumbled at the coins
already on the table.
"At a generous trading house, perhaps," Cahill said, "assuming any
such exist. Come now, Factotum," he urged. "This is no piece of
information that will be generally revealed in just a few days. Lord
Ongis won't be telling anybody about the one that really got away when
he gives the Duke his fish tale. This knowledge will be yours to control
exclusively for as long as you like -- provided you make it worth my
while to keep your confidence."
"Hmm ... This had better be worth my while -- and my gold,"
Aardvard muttered sourly, adding two Cues to the heap on the desk. He
was actually still a Mark or two shy of his budget so the sour
expression was mostly good acting. He still hated parting with the
coins, though.
Cahill moved the coins to his end of the desk. "Sir Ongis got
himself a faerie princess," he said.
"Oh?" The syllable was colored by twinges of doubt that Aardvard's
money was well-spent.
"His men found her in the forest. She was crawling up through a
hole in the floor of a shallow cave. They brought her to him --"
"Did you see her?" Aardvard asked impatiently.
"Yes." Cahill grinned at the merchant of tales. "Oh, she was real,
all right, and no taller than from your fingers to your elbow. She was a
pretty little one too, with her face all set in grimness. And grime. She
shouted over and over in her weak little voice that she wanted to go
home --"
"What, under a mushroom somewhere?"
"No. She said that her parents were a couple of Ongis' peasants.
She said her name was Mouse when Ongis wanted to call her something
faerie -- Melissa, I think."
"But she said her name was Mouse?"
"Right on. Can't say her parents didn't have a sense of humor."
Cahill relaxed in his chair. "And she wanted to go back to their hovel
instead of staying at the keep. Well, she was a little brat -- no
question about the 'little' -- and only ten summers old, you see."
"How do you know that? Did you talk to her?"
"Me? No." Cahill grimaced. "Ongis' little faerie was too delicate
to be bothered by the servants. He did all the bothering himself. No. I
just paid me a little visit to the Stevene house and had a look at their
Naming records."
"You can read, then."
"Of course I can read. I'm Ongis' clerk, aren't I? Why do you think
he brought me along for the Melrin? It surely isn't to be his dancing
partner. Anyway, if there's one thing that idiot Henri could do, it was
write neatly. I found it easily, noted quite clearly: 'Born the 4th day
of Yule, Mouse, daughter of Sophia and Gregor of Kervale.' Ongis' little
faerie is ten summers old."
"And where is the little peasant now?" Aardvard leaned forward,
betraying some of the eagerness he felt.
Cahill glanced at his pile of coins. "Not sure that I recall the
answer to that one," he admitted. "After all, if I knew that, old Ongis
would be wanting to know too."
"So she's missing?"
Cahill stared in a silent and rapt contemplation at his money.
Aardvard contributed a few more Mint to the display. Cahill sighed
deeply. Aardvard growled and slammed down one more Cue on his desk. He
was very close to budget. He was also certain that he knew from whom he
could recoup this investment.
"Yes," Cahill said, biting on the Cue thoughtfully. It was a
once-in-a-lifetime experience, chewing on gold. He savored it. "The poor
girl's missing. Ongis took steps to try to find her -- you can't fault
him for making an effort."
"What did he do?"
"He interviewed Gregor and Sophie, of course. They're the two that
were supposed to be the girl's parents and if a girl's parents don't
know where she is, it's pretty often bad for the girl. When they didn't
tell Ongis quickly enough where she was, he killed them."
"It doesn't sound like he's very skilled at extracting information
from people," Aardvard observed regretfully.
"Not what you'd call velvet treatment," Cahill agreed. "Still,
there are other ways of finding these things out."
"Which you know."
Cahill smiled and nodded. "I met a traveller --" he began.
"The traveller have a name?" Aardvard interrupted.
"Darcy of Magnus is what he said, though I have no way of knowing
whether he used that name often or never. He said --"
"Do you know where he was going?"
"North -- Dargon, I suppose. I'm not sure he told me --"
"And where was he coming from?"
"Well, the south, of course."
"Of course."
"Well, I saw him at the Feathered Pig. He staggered in, breathing
heavily like he'd been running --"
"Running?" Aardvard stopped the story. "A traveller running? Had he
misplaced his baggage, lost his horse?"
"I didn't say he *had* been running, just that he was panting like
he'd been. Anyway, I introduced myself and explained that as Sir Ongis'
man, I took an interest in anything untoward. So he told me that he'd
encountered something untoward on the Dargon road --"
"Between Sir Ongis' keep and Dargon?"
"No. Beyond Sir Ongis' keep from Dargon. He was walking along --"
"Walking?"
"His horse was walking and he was riding, all right?"
"Fine with me." Aardvard poured himself some wine. After Cahill
pointedly twirled a goblet that was near him, Aardvard poured some into
that goblet also.
"So Darcy was riding the road and dusk was falling," Cahill
continued. "But he saw her."
"Your faerie princess?" Aardvard asked.
"Right. And she was walking toward him --"
"Toward Dargon."
"No, damn it. Away from Ongis' keep *and* from Dargon."
"Ah."
"Well, seeing a little person like that gave him quite a fright --"
"Why?"
"Why?" Cahill repeated.
"Why would a tiny little girl no taller than my forearm frighten an
experienced traveller like this Dracy is supposed to be?"
"Well, he hadn't seen her like before, had he?"
"So he turned and ran back up the road to the inn?"
"Of course not. She noticed him, melted into the forest, and he
came on to the Pig -- which was where he'd been intending to come
anyway."
"All panicked and breathing heavily and it's your opinion, based on
this story, that the princess is heading south."
"Correct. And that ought to be worth something, I'd think." Cahill
tapped his stack of coins.
Aardvard shook his head. "I don't willingly pay for fiction," he
said.
"Are you --?"
"And now I have to decide whether what I already paid for is the
same sort of fabrication. I don't know and now I may have to waste time
getting corroboration of your story. I'm very disappointed with you,
Cahill. Very disappointed indeed. Get out."
"But --"
"And even if the princess is real," Aardvard said, dismissing his
protest, "why were you so emphatic about her direction of flight when
you couldn't even remember the name of your putative source -- Darcy or
Dracy or whatever? You're not very good at this game, so you'd best take
what you're given and clear off."
Glowering, Cahill departed. On Aardvard's spiteful orders, he was
obliged to walk back to Sir Ongis' rooms.
Yule, 1004
Mouse lay on a branch, smiled up at the sun and thanked her god
that she had found the perfect tree.
Her perfect tree had a hollow fairly high up that she could just
barely squeeze into. Since she could just barely squeeze in, the place
was unattractive to anyone or anything much bigger than her -- so this
was good. The hollow had just been vacated by its most recent prior
occupant -- at least, she hadn't had to argue with anyone about her
right to move in. How the dwelling became vacant she didn't ask.
Her perfect tree was fairly close to a little river, so she had
convenient fresh water. It was also in the forest on the edge of a
village named Riverside. The inhabitants valued their stream too. Mouse
liked having the people and the village nearby, though she hadn't
introduced herself to any of them. She missed her family and was tempted
to try to make new friends. But she had no idea whether Sir Ongis' reach
extended this far and Sir Ongis aside, she didn't know whether she might
make the mistake of introducing herself to someone too much like him.
But she had her perfect tree, her perfect old olt tree with its
many large leaves to hide within, and every afternoon in fair weather,
Master Pfevver, the nearest the village offered to a sage, gathered the
young under the tree and taught them about life, the great wide world as
he understood it, history, and so on.
So, of course, the perfect tree offered Mouse a perfect branch upon
which to audit the lectures.
(And other conversations, such as the one she was half-listening to
now. The trunk of the old olt tree was a frequent site for people of
Riverside to gather together and talk. Sometimes, the conversations were
animated and sometimes they were just lazy exchanges of slight
insights.)
The only thing wrong with her perfect tree, Mouse knew, was that it
probably wouldn't be warm enough to get her through winter. At home, she
had spent the winter months shuttling between the fireplace and sunny
spots on the lee side of things. And a fireplace simply wasn't practical
in a tree. At the moment, she was considering the possibility of finding
perfect rafters atop one of the houses in the village or giving this
area up and continuing the long arduous journey to wondrous Dargon. But
she was so loath to leave her perfect tree until she had to. And
besides, it wasn't even midsummer yet.
"... really great," Tonuil Greno was saying, down by the trunk. He
and a boy named Kraen Barbar were talking about Kraen's father. "It
must've been fun, having him tell you all those stories."
"Yeah," Kraen agreed. "I miss him and Mom both."
"Why'd you leave them?"
"I couldn't stand Mom's baked yams!" There was a yell and a
scuffle, the sounds of wrestling and then a pause.
"No, really --" Tonuil began.
"Really, it was the sweet potatoes," Kraen told him.
"Kraen, nobody runs away from home over sweet potatoes."
"Well, the beans were sometimes a little undercooked, too."
"Come on, Kraen, why'd you leave?"
There was a sigh and another pause. "Dad had a brother named
Tirian," Kraen said at last. "Younger brother and a little crazy. When
Mom and Dad were getting married, at the wedding feast, Tirian was there
drinking the wine and celebrating and dancing and everything. But at one
point, just as the headman of the town had gathered everyone's attention
so he could formally congratulate Mom and Dad, Tirian stood up with
another full goblet of wine and started prophesying."
"What'd he say?"
"He said there'd be a lot of headaches the next day!"
"Kraen!" There was another round of wrestling, ending finally with
Kraen's pinning Tonuil.
"What did your uncle prophesy?" Tonuil asked again.
"He said," Kraen replied slowly, "that Mom's first child would be a
boy who would grow up to be a brave and famous hero, going on many
perilous adventures."
"Wow! Really?"
"Uh huh. And then, I was born. And Mom and Dad celebrated that. And
again there was wine and dancing and the headman getting everyone's
attention in order to congratulate Mom formally. And Uncle Tirian did it
again."
"The prophesying?"
"Yeah."
"So you're going to be a brave and famous hero?"
"That's what Uncle Tirian said -- twice."
"Wow. When're you going to start -- and can I come with you?"
"I don't know. I mean, I'm not really sure how to go about it. And
I haven't noticed any dragons flying around that needed slaying."
"Nope, me neither."
"And, besides. I don't think I want to start off with a dragon.
Maybe work my way up to one."
"So what're you going to start with, an earthworm? That'll be real
heroic: Brave Sir Kraen, Slayer of Fishbait!"
"I'll fishbait you --!"
There was another interlude of wrestling. Mouse sighed, feeling
homesick suddenly. They were just like Cedric and Con, including the
wrestling. But she knew the home she longed for no longer existed. Her
parents were dead and her brothers likely had no time for wrestling.
"Give!" Tonuil gasped. Almost immediately after, he asked "Did you
leave home on an adventure?"
"Sort of. See, everyone at home knew what Uncle Tirian had said, so
they all kept watching me to see what fantastic things I'd do. Always I
was expected to be best -- and heroic."
"Neat!"
"Not neat. Heroes are supposed to behave themselves -- always. Dawn
to dusk and all through the night. Every day. And any time I was less
than excellent, they were disappointed. 'Kraen, I'm very disappointed in
you.' I kept hearing that til I'd cringe simply in anticipation. Yuck!
It was awful."
"Yeah, I guess -- so what was the adventure, the one you left home
on?"
"I decided to find a place where people would be less disappointed
in me."
"Huh? What kind of adventure is that?"
"The one that brought me here. Look Tonuil, do me a favor and don't
tell people here about Uncle Tirian's prophecy. Mom and Dad never talked
about it and I kind of understand now what they were doing. After I've
had some adventures and become a famous hero -- well, then you can tell
people you knew about it way back when. But right now, it's kind of
silly. So keep it a secret, all right?"
"All right -- but I get to come along when you get started."
"Well, I don't know. Adventures can be pretty dangerous."
"Oh come on! How dangerous can it be killing a bunch of
earthworms?"
There was a growl and a shriek and the two ran off, repeated cries
of "Fishbait!" trailing back after them.
"... If that's all, then," the Collector said, "I will take my
leave."
"That is not all," Lord Edward Coranabo corrected him. "And you
will take your leave when I give it to you."
Keeping his expression unchanged, Wolf sighed inwardly. The list of
desired trinkets this Baron had already given him to look for was
disappointing, to say the least. At least half of it was of legends,
another quarter was of known frauds, and the remainder was a miscellany
of insignificance and sketchy descriptions. After all, what was he to
make of a request for "the Rat of Saint Michel-on-the-Hill, stuffed"? If
he managed to turn up anything at all on that list and sell it to this
customer, he would consider himself lucky.
The Baron eventually composed himself and explained.
"I want you to look for a faerie princess," he said.
The Collector arched an eyebrow.
"I have been advised," the Baron continued, "by an extremely
reliable source that Sir Ongis -- he is in Barony Connall -- recently
came into possession of a faerie princess."
"A faerie princess?" Doubt coated the Collector's question.
"She may be genuine or she may simply be a midget peasant," the
Baron said. "In fact, I care not which. She is said to be only as tall
as my forearm. If she proves no less human than you or me (except for
her size) then I expect I'll give her to Danza to play with. But if
she's genuine .... "
"My Lord," Wolf said, "you said that a Sir Ongis possessed this --
this creature --"
"I did," Lord Edward agreed. "He did. But he lost her again soon
after. She's missing and I want you to find her."
"But being in the Barony Connall, isn't she Lord Fionn's?"
"Perhaps she would be -- if he knew of her. But right now, the only
significant people who know of her are Sir Ongis, myself and you -- and
my reliable source, of course."
"I should like to know who this reliable source is," the Collector
remarked.
Lord Edward frowned, but could see no reason to withold the
information. "Aardvard Factotum," he said.
The Collector's eyebrow rose again. The likelihood of the
information's being true had just increased from insignificant to high.
More interesting, though, was the fact that Lord Edward had to have paid
-- and paid significantly -- to get information from that source.
Aardvard never divulged anything -- not even the first name of the Duke
of Dargon -- gratis. Wolf wondered what it might be about a faerie
princess that would interest Lord Edward especially.
"Well," the Collector said, completely persuaded, "methinks it will
be worth the trip."
"You'll be discreet in Connall," Lord Edward warned.
"My passing will be as unnoticeable as a soft, gentle breeze," the
Collector assured him. "How long ago did Sir Ongis lose her?"
"It's getting close to two months now."
"That's a pretty cold trail."
"You're good at cold trails. Besides, her legs are awfully short
and she'd be worried about being noticed on the roads. I doubt she'd've
gone far."
"Hmmmm. Any guesses which way she might've gone?"
"Aardvard guessed that she'd make for Dargon, but made it clear to
me that he was only guessing."
"Well, a guess from Aardvard is better than any diviner's quivering
rod, I say. Anything else, my Lord?"
"No. That's all," Lord Edward dismissed the Collector with his
usual civility. "Get out."
Yuli, 1004.
Again, Mouse lay on the branch, smiled up at the sun and thanked
her god for another lovely day and for her perfect tree.
But it was time for Pfevver, and on as glorious a day as today,
there would surely be a gathering. Mouse got up from her sunning branch
and made her way down, wondering what the subject of the day would be
for the sage's disquisition.
She reached the auditing branch and settled in, listening to people
beginning to arrive. She dared not peer over the side too much since if
she could see, she could be seen and one never knew where a briefly
bored listener might be looking. But she liked to hear the voices. They
were comforting voices --
(That was Rupi. He was always first and usually loudest.)
-- They reminded Mouse of Sophie and Gregor and her brothers. Rupi
reminded her of Dorian. Mat and Winz she thought of as more like Con. It
wasn't so much the tones of voice that reminded Mouse of home, it was
the things they chose to talk about and the way they spoke. These, the
villagers under the old olt tree, unlike that Sir Ongis and his lot,
were real and worried about real things like weeds instead of silly
ideas like melisandes.
And they worried about each other, like the way Sophie worried
about Gregor and Gregor worried about Sophie -- or maybe even better.
Mouse broke her reverie to pay attention to the arrivals on the
ground below. This was at least as interesting to her as Pfevver's
actual lecture. For example, Lerin and Daelia were arriving together
again -- only not really. Mouse gazed through the leaves at the pair,
who had paused together at a distance from the tree before coming into
the gathering separately. At least once, they had both "happened" to
stay at the tree after the session broke up, so Mouse knew that Lerin
and Daelia had parents who disliked one another as much as was possible
in a small, close community. The fondness Lerin and Daelia had for each
other was therefore a secret -- a poorly kept secret, perhaps, but they
did observe the routines clandestine. Ignorant though she might be of
almost everything about Lerin Potterson and Daelia Greno, Mouse thought
their love very sweet and decided that she liked them very much.
Last, came old Pfevver himself. It was more dramatic that way. He
was accompanied by Tonuil Greno and by the sage's assistant, Kraen
Barbar.
Kraen followed Pfevver into the gathered circle bearing with great
care, and a little ostentation, Pfevver's book. A sage couldn't be a
sage without at least one book and that was what Pfevver had -- one
book. It was a large book. (If you're going to have only one, you might
as well make it a big one.) Pfevver frequently accepted -- or created --
the opportunity to consult his book and to read to the gathering a
vaguely relevent passage or two from that tome. Mouse loved to listen to
Pfevver read because -- and this was the truly marvelous trick --
whenever he read a passage on the same subject, the words came out
exactly the same way. Mouse thought it very impressive.
As always, Rupi bellowed the meeting to order and Pfevver commenced
another explication. All might yet be right with the world. Mouse
listened and was edified.
Sy, 1004
This day, Mouse made sure that she was up very early and her
ablutions completed promptly. This day was special. This day, unless the
plans she'd listened to the two making had gone awry, Lerin Potterson
and Daelia Greno were going to meet before dawn at the old olt tree and
then leave Riverside together, fleeing to a new life in Dargon. Mouse
wasn't thinking about going with them; she was still putting off the
decision about how to survive the coming winter and besides, they knew
absolutely nothing about her -- not even about her mere existence. For
her to try to go with them would likely disrupt irreparably their plans.
No. She only wanted to see them off because the drama of their departure
was taking place right under her perfect tree. So she went down to her
auditing branch and watched in the predawn stilldark for the lovers.
Lerin appeared first. There was gloom and then, suddenly, there was
a man leading a well-behaved horse. He led the horse into the gathering
circle, walking all the way up to the trunk of the tree as if checking
to make sure it was the tree and not a magically transformed Daelia.
Having satisfied himself that the wood only appeared magical, he stood
irresolutely in the cool gray and then, unable to remain still, began to
pace. His horse, much more at peace with the situation, remained still,
absorbed in equine contemplation.
Before Lerin could damage any grass irreparably, Daelia finally
joined him. She was actually only a short while later, but Lerin had
managed to make the wait appear to be several bells long. The pair
embraced and then, showing the firmness of their resolution to depart,
broke the embrace again. Lerin helped Daelia up onto his horse and then
the horse and lovers went off on the Dargon Road. Mouse sighed as she
watched them out of sight, which happened soon enough, wishing them well
in the great city.
Such a future, however, became very unlikely. Far too soon, the
sound of several voices and the light of several lanterns came toward
the old olt tree from the houses of Riverside. Mouse, concerned for
Lerin and Daelia, watched and listened to the approaching group.
The villagers came to the trunk of the tree. The one in the lead
knelt and examined briefly the grass. Then he turned to the trio who
were on horseback.
"Yes, Theris," he said to Daelia's father. "The horse stopped here
for a bit. Then it looks like they went off toward --" He started to
point the way.
This was bad, Mouse thought. This was terrible. Lerin and Daelia
had gotten almost no distance at all. Daelia's father would catch up
with them easily and they would never get to Dargon, would never get to
be happy. Not unless Mouse did something about it. And there was not
really time to deliberate. Mouse acted.
"They went that way!" Mouse shouted. She jumped to her feet on her
tree branch and pointed in the other direction. "I saw them. They went
that way!"
Theris looked up at her. The whole group of some half-dozen, their
jaws slack, stared up at her.
"Who are you?" Theris demanded. "*What* are you?" he added as an
afterthought.
"I'm -- uh --" Mouse looked down at all those eyes. They'd been
*supposed* to thank her and go hurrying off in that wrong direction. It
was very annoying when people failed to do what they were supposed to.
It forced you to think very quickly of creative answers to tricky
questions. "You can call me Melisande," Mouse decided.
"I see," Theris said. "And, Melisande, could you please tell me
*what* you are?"
"Hurry!" Mouse suggested, pointing again the wrong way. "They're
getting away."
"Of course," Theris answered, glancing at his own tracker. The
latter shook his head and pointed in the correct direction. "But if they
*are* going that way, I think Morain will catch up with them soon
enough."
"Morain?" Mouse repeated. "Lerin's father?"
"Of course," Theris replied. "I may be risking the loss of a
daughter in this escapade, but he's looking at losing his son.
Naturally, we're working together to cover the two roads out of our
village. Melisande, just how much do you know about this business?"
"Uh, they want to get married," Mouse said.
"I'm glad to hear it," Theris said dryly. "I should be more upset
if they'd run off together and *didn't* want to get married. Anything
else I should know?"
"Um, you're not going to stop them are you?"
"Only from leaving the village this morning this secretly. Morain
and I need to talk to them, you see, before they do something as wild as
running away to Dargon --"
"Running away to Dargon is wild?" Mouse asked.
"It --" Theris frowned. "Melisande," he asked, "what *are* you? No,
let me get my house in order and then perhaps I can come back to
converse with forest spirits. Come on, men: The Dargon Road."
"But --"
Theris clicked to his horse and guided it away after the runaways.
Mouse, puzzled about what he'd said (as opposed to what Lerin and Daelia
had said about him) stood on the tree branch, hands on her hips, staring
at the pursuit party as it disappeared into the fog. After the sound and
sight were both enveloped in the mist, she looked down again. Tonuil,
Daelia's younger brother and the assistant sage's disciple, was still
gazing up at her.
"Oh," Mouse said. "Hi."
Tonuil said nothing. Unnerved and upset about the unraveled
romance, Mouse ran away into the upper branches of the tree.
Seber, 1004
"You're sure you saw her here?" Kraen Barbar whispered to Tonuil.
Tonuil nodded.
It was more than a fortnight after the Great Elope. Much of
Riverside was occupied with preparing for a wedding that had almost
slipped out of town. But for those who still had a spare moment to
gossip even with all of that going on, the matter of the tree spirit
Melisande, with whom Theris had briefly -- and perhaps impertinently --
spoken, was the next most popular topic of conversation.
The subject was fast drying up, though. Since Theris' conversation
with the creature, which was witnessed by the five men who were with him
and was therefore undoubtable, no certain encounter had occurred. Pathys
the Cobbler had claimed to have met her one evening by the well and said
that she tried to tempt him into falling down the shaft. But his word
was unsupported, and had been found to be unreliable before. Several of
the boys had climbed up the tree, looking for Melisande's palace -- or
any kind of dwelling -- but they found naught but the usual birds' and
squirrels' nests. And after young Enris fell out of the tree and injured
his shoulder badly, such expeditions were discouraged. Pfevver decided
to move his class to a less haunted location, though.
But Tonuil had come to Kraen and quietly told him that he'd seen
the faerie again. And he'd been at the tree when Theris was there, so he
knew what she looked like. His second sighting was on the bank of the
Curlane early one morning -- so early that the sun had scarcely cleared
the hills and the light was still pink and mist-shrouded. Tonuil had
been sent to check the nets. (Daelia had decided that pickled fry should
be fed to the guests at her wedding. It takes all kinds of brides to
make a world ...) Anyway, Tonuil had been down to the river in the dawn
silence and he saw Melisande there. She was crouched down right at the
edge of the water, having a drink and a splash of the water on her face.
Tonuil froze. He stared. He didn't move again until she'd finished and
disappeared again into the mist and rushes.
And then he'd told Kraen -- but only Kraen.
Now the two of them were back at the same location, trying not to
disturb the same dawn stillness as they waited for the faerie to
reappear. Silently, Tonuil pointed out the precise spot on the bank
where he'd seen her before.
Kraen sighed -- softly. This was it, he hoped. This was the sort of
thing his uncle must've had in mind when he had that vision -- that
sending, that whatever -- at Kraen's parents' wedding feast. When Uncle
Tirian had rolled his eyes into his skull and declared that the first
child of Bran and Nurnia Barbar would perform great deeds that would
make the minstrels weep, it had certainly made for a memorable dinner.
And it had created a burden that Kraen had been forced to carry since
birth. But here, finding a faerie named Melisande -- not that he was
sure what he should do about her -- might prove to be a good
semi-glorious deed. A warm-up exploit, Kraen imagined.
Now all he needed was for this Melisande to show up and -- and he
still wasn't sure what. Capturing her didn't sound quite right -- unless
she was the sort of faerie who granted wishes in return for letting her
go. That didn't seem likely, considering how Tonuil said she'd acted
with Theris. She seemed a little bit too mixed up and easily confused to
be allowed to grant wishes -- but you never knew with those faeries.
Now, if Kraen had a wish right now, what would he ask for first? An
enchanted sword, probably, so he could get on with some seriously
glorious deeds, like --
Tonuil tugged his arm and pointed. At the place where Melisande was
supposed to come, the calm surface of the slow river was broken with
ripples. "She's gone swimming," he whispered. At that moment, a tiny
head broke the water's surface again. A small hand joined it and pushed
the faerie's hair out of her eyes.
"Do faeries do that?" Tonuil whispered. "Go swimming?"
Kraen shrugged slightly -- only as much as was necessary to
communicate his belief that the question was entirely irrelevent. His
gaze -- his attention -- was fixed on the magical sight before him. The
pink, horizontal light and the long low shadows; the wisps of mist
hanging here and there over the river and its banks; the stillness and
the swimmer -- who was returning to shore.
"Are we going to do anything?" Tonuil whispered again. "Net her or
--"
"Shh!" Kraen ordered. He watched the faerie wade ashore and start
to climb up the bank to where her gossamer clothing presumably lay --
though Tonuil had never mentioned anything about her clothing being
particularly fey. Indeed, the descriptions from Theris' men had been of
a homespun dress and chemise -- though small, of course.
"What was she wearing yes --?" Kraen started to ask, but broke off
with a bark of surprised, proprietary anger. Some man broke out of the
rushes immediately in front of Melisande and grabbed her. Her scream was
just barely audible as he straightened up, still holding her.
"Hey!" Kraen jumped up from his own hiding place. "What're you
doing?" he demanded. Tonuil immediately popped up next to him. But the
man holding the faerie scarcely glanced at the two boys before
disappearing again through the rushes. The boys chased after him,
splashing across the stream and crashing through the rushes and finding
that the man had had a horse and was already riding off.
Quickly, Kraen and Tonuil raced back to the village. Kraen strapped
on his best -- his only -- sword.
"I'm going after them," he told Tonuil. "I'll need to borrow a
horse."
"We'll need two," Tonuil replied.
Kraen sighed. "Just one," he insisted.
"I'm coming too."
"I need you to tell Pfevver where I've gone for me. And explain
about the borrowed horse. And --"
"We could wake Lerin for that," Tonuil told him.
"There's a lot of people we could wake for that," Kraen agreed.
"Look, Tonuil, this could be dangerous. That man who abducted Melisande
-- he's probably desperate. I don't think I'll be able to get her back
without a fight --"
"So you need me along to help."
"No. There's only one of him. It wouldn't be heroic."
"And you've got to be heroic, don't you?"
"I told you --"
"Yeah, all right," Tonuil conceded. "Let's get you a horse. And you
tell me all about it first when you get back."
"Sure."
So Kraen, Slayer of Fishbait, rode out from Riverside in solitary
pursuit of the foul abductor of the fair faerie Melisande. His most
loyal friend Tonuil Greno remained behind to explain courteously to
Willem Chandler where his second-best horse had disappeared to. Many
days the Slayer of Fishbait was obliged to continue his pursuit. Many
were the small incidents and minor obstacles Kraen Barbar encountered
during this journey, but they were scarcely unusual enough to be noted
by any bard spinning a tale of manageable length. And, though his quarry
traveled quickly and purposefully, Kraen's failure to overtake him was
mostly due to the fact that his tracking skills were rudimentary at
best. He guessed wrong at several crossroads and then had to double back
after asking people if they'd seen the miscreant and receiving several
negative answers. Finally, though, Kraen caught up with Melisande's
abductor:
Wolf, the Collector, was fairly pleased with his trip, all things
considered. It had been fairly successful in terms of trinkets acquired
and very satisfactory in terms of injuries avoided. And most surprising
of all had been the last item: The faerie princess actually existed and
he had succeeded in acquiring her. She hadn't been happy about being
taken, but he'd been firm and had refused to take any nonsense from her.
Now, she lay in the rucksack he was carrying at his hip. Her small form
secured against his side warmed his heart with thoughts of the treasure
he would be able to extract from that Lord Edward in exchange for her.
He had only to stop at his favorite hiding place outside Dargon to pick
up the other, previously acquired curios. Then, after one more short
day's ride, he would be in the city and his fortune would be made.
Perfunctorily, he tied his horse to the convenient tree outside the
ruined chapel. Some lord with a fondness for gods and hunting had
erected the building, along with a lodge a long time ago. Now, the lord
was long gone and only a few foundations of the lodge lingered. The
chapel, suffering perhaps from more divine favor than the lord or lodge
did, was relatively more intact. Much of the roof was gone, as were any
windows, of course. And portions of the walls were now lacking. But much
remained, enough for an interior still to be clearly defined. And the
interior still boasted a white, stone altar, though the altar was the
only furnishing remaining. And the altar covered a secret compartment
which was still quite secure against the elements.
Wolf stepped through a gap in the chapel walls and walked to the
altar. Reaching down behind the white table, he found and released the
catch. The altar pivoted away from the secret chamber below. With
pleasure, Wolf contemplated the fruits of his season of scavenging: With
the right words (unfortunately unknown), for example, that greenish
stole might render its wearer unseen, like the infamous thief Pelleas.
And here was a chalice said to be used by the legendary wizard K'am to
brew his many exquisite potions. There was an amber oak branch
"acquired" from that forest cult to the west. Whether or not it
contained any power in its golden leaves, it was a beautiful piece of
art. And that necklace of glittering stones had once adorned Queen
Earnfled -- or so an old man had claimed. Of course, Queen Earnfled was
supposed to have once adorned the legendary Fretheod Empire, which made
the story's truth all the more unlikely --
"Varlet!" a young voice broke his pleasant reverie. "Come out of
there, you scoundrel!"
"Who's there?" Wolf called out. Quickly, he took off the rucksack
containing the faerie and dropped it into the chamber.
"It is I, Kraen Barbar," the voice outside the chapel replied. "You
have taken a faerie princess captive and I intend to free her."
"Oh?" Wolf pushed the altar back in place and secured the latch.
"Come out of there! I'll not be killing you on holy ground."
"That's nice of you," Wolf replied, walking to the chapel entrance
that he customarily used. "What makes you think you'll be killing me
anywhere?"
"Will you release the princess otherwise?" the boy asked.
Wolf looked -- and laughed. It *was* a boy. It was the boy who'd
seen him scooping up the princess at the river when he'd taken her
coming ashore from a swim. Now, he was standing beside two horses,
Wolf's and presumably his own. His stance attempted to project casual
confidence, but he brandished the drawn sword with an awkward
inexperience. The picture might have been cute except that the sword
looked sharp.
"No, I think not," Wolf answered the boy's question. "At least, not
to you. I doubt you could meet my price."
"I'm not offering you money," the boy said bravely. "Instead, I'll
give you justice. Release Melisande now, else my justice will be sharp."
He waved the sword meaningfully.
"I quake," Wolf said dryly. "I tremble. Verily do I fear thee." He
drew his own sword. "Now go away."
The boy sighed. "I didn't expect you to give her up without a
fight. Come out then."
"Boy, I don't think you understand me," Wolf said. "I don't hand
that little bitch over to anyone except in exchange for a lot of money.
This is serious. This is about my livelihood. If you force me to use my
sword against you, I will use it to kill you. Is that what you want?"
"If you will not surrender the princess otherwise," the boy said
grimly.
Wolf sighed, and shrugged. He'd dealt often enough before with
fools who refused to part with treasures they valued overmuch. His sword
had taken more than a few lives. He was used to it. He walked out of the
chapel toward the boy and, with an economy of preparation, attacked him.
First blood proved easy to draw. Despite the lad's brave words, he
hadn't truly realized that he would be fighting for his own life as well
as Wolf's. After a few casual passes, Wolf clarified the situation for
him.
And the boy's comprehension was naked. He yowled as Wolf's sword
bit into the young flesh on his arm. He jumped back, eyes wide.
"Had enough?" Wolf asked, implicitly offering him an out that would
leave him his life.
For an answer, the boy almost leapt forward in an absurd, frenzied
attack that would no doubt have been quickly suicidal. But then he
stopped, quivering. His eyes narrowed and he merely shook his head very
slightly. Matching Wolf's own economy of action, he closed again. They
resumed and Wolf now found him a much more interesting opponent. The
injury made him a little more cautious, more considered. But he wasn't
tentative. He was concentrated. He was challenging.
But Wolf didn't want challenging. Wolf was a professional, who
fought for other purposes than the pleasure of striving with a stupid
sword. Wolf ground his teeth and set himself to getting this witless
exercise over and done with.
"You fight well, boy," he panted, stepping back for a moment. "Have
you a name?"
"I am Kraen Barbar."
"Really?" Wolf's eyes flashed. Here was something he could probably
use to bring this ridiculous waste of time to a quick conclusion.
"And who are you?" the boy asked.
"You can call me Wolf," the Collector allowed. "Do you know a
Tirian Barbar?"
"Yes," Kraen said. "My uncle. Left home years ago," he added around
swordstrokes.
"Your uncle?" Wolf said. "I met him. Some years back. Good
fighter." He paused, exchanging another flurry of thrusts and parries
with the boy, and letting Kraen Barbar start to wonder what in
particular the older man might know about his missing uncle.
"I killed him two years ago."
Quickly, Wolf feinted and thrust. The sword broke through the boy's
chest and into his heart. Kraen's eyes widened. Even after the long
struggle and blood, the boy was surprised to find that he'd lost.
"But I was going --" Kraen gasped before sagging forward and
falling.
Wolf released the sword, forgetting about it and the dying boy. The
Collector was preoccupied with other vexing matters. Most vexing was the
fact that Kraen had ignored Wolf's feint. The boy had apparently ignored
everything. He'd stood stock still at Wolf's last remark and Wolf, with
his own devious footwork, had impaled himself on the boy's motionless
sword. The sword was still in Wolf's gut; the boy had let go when he
fell. And it hurt. It hurt horribly. Wolf staggered toward his horse. In
his pack he had some bandages and a few medicines -- dried herbs,
nothing more. But they might be better than nothing.
"This," he wondered to himself, "this was *winning* a battle?"
He looked at his bleeding gut, looked at his miserable collection
of rotten herbs, and decided that he needed to look for help. He dragged
himself up onto his horse, realized that the animal was still tied to
the tree, tried to lean forward to untie it, and fell off. Dazed, he
stared up from the ground as he continued to bleed. His horse whinnied
in panic. He tried to crawl to his feet again and found him
self staring
at a pair of eyes.
It was a wolf. A real one.
Tonuil took responsibility for the failure of Willem's second-best
horse ever to return. It took him several years, but eventually he did
reimburse the chandler. Baron Edward scarcely noticed the failure of the
Collector ever to report back about the faerie princess. Baron Edward
had a lot of other things to think about. And beneath the altar in the
ruined chapel outside Dargon, Mouse, the faerie princess Melisande,
slept under the magical glow of an amber oak branch.
========================================================================
In the Garden
by Jim Owens
<gym@ncweb.com>
Late Summer, 1015
Sarah walked steadily into the village square, two baskets of
apples suspended from a long pole across her shoulders. In a sling
around her neck was suspended a more precious weight -- her new
daughter, Taffy, just two months old. She smiled down at the tiny
bundle, swaying gently with her mother's every step. She was a sweet
baby, mild-mannered and quiet -- not like the last two. It made trips
such as this possible.
She crossed the well-trodden grass to a tumble-down hut on the far
side. As she walked she surveyed the small town. The war had left its
toll here -- several huts were little more than rubble, and few still
had roofs. The raiding party that had struck had been in a hurry,
though, and had not had time to do a more thorough job of destruction,
for which all were grateful.
"Good morning, Sarah," called a thin voice from the hut ahead. From
inside a gaping window hole a wrinkled, old woman, in her late sixties,
leaned out. "Come to visit today?"
"Not today, Hanna," replied Sarah, setting both buckets on the dry
ground, then carefully selecting a few apples from one. "I've been
gathering, and decided to bring you some of what I got."
The old woman took the gift with unsteady hands. From the inner
gloom another head appeared, this of a woman in her thirties.
"Hello, Sarah." The new woman peered through the hole where the
window had been. "What have we here?"
"Apples, Jenna," Sarah replied. "Want one? We have plenty."
"As would others," came a growl from inside, followed by a man's
sneering face, "except they went when their lord called!" He leaned out,
the tops of crutches showing under his armpits.
The younger woman inside turned on the apparition. "Hush, Josha!
Perhaps some have better sense than others!" She gave him a light push,
and the man staggered back into the dark. "Perhaps we wouldn't be
missing so much if others had as much sense as Levy Barel." The look on
Jenna's face was sober, almost angry.
"I, I'd best be going," Sarah said softly, turning back for her
apples.
"Pay him no mind, Sarah," Jenna replied as Sarah was packing up.
"He and his like will cool off." Sarah nodded silently, then headed onto
the remainder of her rounds.
The warm sun seemed cooler as she returned to her house outside
town, her apple baskets empty. As she approached the house and the
accompanying buildings, Levy appeared from his workshop, a small smithy
he had made.
"How is the town faring?" he called as she approached, but she
merely glanced at him, then ducked her chin and continued on.
He caught up with her in the house.
"What have they said this time?" he asked softly.
"Oh, nothing," she began, but continued. "Josha made a comment
about us not losing as much as they did, and Tremen didn't say anything,
but just looked hard at me."
Levy held her a moment. "I can understand their anger. I would miss
a leg, if I had lost one like Josha, or an eye, like Tremen." He looked
long into Sarah's face. "But that doesn't mean I feel any different
about that war."
"I know." Sarah again held him close. "I ... I still have dreams
that you ... you had been taken away to fight, and didn't ... all ...
come back." She held on a moment longer, then the baby started to fuss.
"Mattan will be coming with a wagon," Levy remarked as they pulled
apart. "I've promised a third of a sack of barley and a basket of
potatoes to the commons."
"We give them so much and still they hate us," Sarah remarked
bitterly, rewrapping Taffy.
"Let us not hate them back," Levy replied. Sarah sighed and nodded
as he left to return to work.
That evening Levy and Sarah, along with their children, were back
in the village. Levy's father, Eli, was in his seat as the village
Elder. The gold and copper of the family seal, a grant from the Duke of
a century before, gleamed in the light of a dying fire. All around were
silent, listening to him. Their faces were content, the remains of the
commons meal lying about on plates and bowls.
"... three bags to the relief of Stamma, two miles north," Eli was
saying, reading from a list. "I am also sending Stamma a basket of
Levy's apples, for their children and them."
"Apples?" grunted a voice from the dim outer circle. Sarah thought
it might be Josha's but she wasn't sure. "Isn't barley and potatoes
enough? We can't send all our food away! We must save enough for
ourselves!"
"We have more than anyone else," Eli replied. "We have been blessed
with an abundant harvest this year. It would incur the wrath of both
heaven and earth not to share it." He looked out around the circle.
"Here we sit, having fed on the commons. How can we eat the food others
freely bring us, and yet deny that same food to others?"
"Father is right," replied Mattan, reclining before the seat with
his wife and child. His voice was a large as his frame, and all
listened. "We receive so that we can give, especially in these hard
times."
"Besides," replied Young Eli, the Elder's oldest son and heir, "it
is better to give your food up freely, than to have the Duke's men come
and force you to give it up. At least then you have the choice of how
much to give."
There were mutters round the fire. Not all who had fought had gone
willingly.
"What is ours is ours, to give or not to give," continued Mattan.
"We choose, because of God and our own desires, to give it to others.
That is both our right, and our duty."
"Then it's settled," Eli concluded. "Eli and Mattan will be about
for the donation," he emphasized the word slightly, "tomorrow at dawn.
Please come down to my warehouse and help them load it up."
There were a few scattered mutters, then all rose with Eli's
gesture of dismissal. As the others left, Levy, Mattan, and Eli joined
their father at the council seat, while Sarah moved to where her
sister-in-law, Greta, stood.
"I heard you've been having a hard time in the village lately."
Greta matter-of-factly stated as Sarah approached.
"Yes." Sarah doubted Greta had. Greta seldom had trouble with
anyone -- anyone with any sense enough to leave her be, that is. "They
are envious, because Levy stayed behind, while the other men went to
fight."
"Perhaps we should remind them whose grain they're eating," Greta
remarked. "While the others were off fighting that fool war, you and
Levy were feeding their families."
"Still, many of them had no choice."
"Nonsense," Greta replied. "There's always a choice. You may like
one road more than the other, but you still have to choose it."
The next day Sarah and Levy stood in front of the Barel family
barn, watching as Mattan and Eli pulled the grain cart away up the road,
toward Stamma. There were oxen to pull the cart, but it was decided
that, as many people in Stamma had lost all their cattle, it would
appear better to draw the cart by hand. She looked at Levy, watching his
brothers on wend on their way.
"Levy, is it wrong for us to have more?"
Levy looked at her, startled. "What?"
"Is it wrong for us to have more than the others?"
He considered the question as they turned and headed back to their
house and fields. "If we work harder, we will have more. If heaven or
luck smiles on us, we will have more. It's inevitable."
"But is it right?"
He thought about it as he walked. "The old proverb says that the
cook ought to taste the stew. We have the right to enjoy the taste of
our hard work, so long as others are not going hungry."
"I feel guilty because I have enough food to feed my children. I
feel guilty because I have a roof over my head." She took his arm. "I
feel guilty because I have a husband who is not hurt, who walks straight
and tall, and who can still look another man in the eyes. Yet how could
that have been otherwise?"
"How could it have been otherwise?" he agreed. "What I did was the
right thing."
"And it was not the easy thing," she replied quietly.
"You are carrying a large part of that burden now," he added.
She lifted her shoulders and squared them off. "Then I too have the
right to taste of the stew."
Sarah and Levy sat on the step of their house in the evening dusk,
the day's work done. Inside the children slept, and the couple was
enjoying a well-deserved peace. While Levy surveyed the sweeping fields
and hills that were his domain, Sarah ran her arm across her man's
shoulder. She was lost in thought, thought about him. She had been
thinking a lot lately, especially today, after what she and Levy had
discussed that morning.
For so long she had waited as a maiden, alone in the world. Now
that she had her man, her Levy, she wanted to hold onto him forever. She
was not going to let anything take him away from her. Nor did she need
anyone to tell her that was wrong. This was one possession she would
never share. Spontaneously, she wrapped her arms tight around him. He
was somewhat startled, but returned the warm embrace. She put her lips
to his ear.
"Let's go down to my special garden," she whispered. "I want to
taste the fruit of my hard work."
He kissed her earlobe and together they arose. Leaving the quiet
house, they moved off into the evening light as the sun lowered itself
toward the horizon. They left the house behind, with their sleeping
children, and passed the barn, which Levy had lent to a family from the
town, whose house had been burnt. They waded through the tall grass and
over the crest of the next small crest, out of view of the homestead.
Finally they were alone, clothed in the soft, warm, moist, evening
air. Sarah watched Levy's eyes as he took in what spread before him, the
sight of its gentle hills and valleys captivating. She knew what he was
feeling, for she was feeling it as well. This was something that they
possessed together, or perhaps that possessed them together. With
Sarah's hand atop Levy's, the two moved like the young lovers they still
were. Moving together up gentle slopes, they headed for but never
reached the summits, turning to race across the smooth valleys, then,
whimsically, up the other side. Down the smooth, flowing slope Levy led,
Sarah's eyes locked onto him in the fading light. The natural line of
the plain led the two of them gently down to where her secret garden
lay.
They slowed now, savoring the moment. Sarah travelled with her
husband, one hand softly caressing his broad, strong shoulder. She lay
her head on it, breathing deeply the fragrance of his hair. Thoughts of
the day's work, the trouble in the village, the war and its horror, all
were behind her. The time had come for them, and they deserved it,
regardless of what others thought or said. Together, carefully, they
passed through the bush, up over the mound before the garden, then down
into the secret darkness. Together they paused, and kissed some more.
Sarah closed her eyes, and listened to the sounds around her, smelled
the fragrance of their fruit, felt the soft breeze stirring her hair.
She felt alive and whole. When she was finally ready, Sarah turned her
attention to the tree in the garden, the one with the stones at the
base.
"Help me. I'm going up," she said to her mate. Levy placed his
hands firmly on her hips. Without a hint of weakness he lifted her high,
holding her firmly and comfortingly, until she could grasp the tree. She
took it tightly between her legs, as if to crush it. She tossed her
hair, exhilarated by the feeling that came every time she made this
climb. Her arms held her aloft while her thighs clamped down, propelling
her toward her goal. The rough texture beneath her skin always felt
foreign, but after days and weeks of the commonplace, something
different was welcome. Climbing in the orchard never felt like this did.
Levy was following, with her on every movement, his powerful touch
guiding and helping her. She revelled in this exertion, one more effort
in a lifetime of work. It was a long, slow climb, her breath growing
ragged, but she drove on, harder and harder. Levy followed slowly,
pacing her. Soon she was feeling Levy's heated breathing close to her
skin, and could feel him tremble with the effort. Still they continued,
working off each other, pushing each one on. Finally, her muscles
trembling, Sarah was in reach of her goal. She placed her fingers among
the soft foliage to feel the hard, smooth roundness of what she desired.
She made that last final push, and then finally she was tasting it,
sweet and satisfying, her skin wet with juice.
Having gotten what she came for, Sarah let Levy ease her back down
to the grass, where she fell laughing to lie flat, breathing heavily.
She pulled her husband to her, kissing him hard and long. Together they
lay there, their fingers entwined with the grass in the garden.
"If only we could never leave the garden," she whispered to him.
"I would be the happiest man in Dargon," he replied.
They giggled softly in the dark.
"Do you feel guilty now?" he asked.
"No, not any more. You were right. We have the right to what we
have worked hard for. And there are some things that you never, ever
give up."
The next morning was again clear and sunny. Sarah stepped outside.
Levy was again up to the village, this time to help someone with
planting the fall grain. She looked over to the potato patch, where the
two oldest children were working. Her eye fell on a sack, lying near the
workshop. Levy must have forgotten to take it when he left that morning.
She walked over and opened it. A familiar smell emerged.
"Apples," she said to herself. She took one. Remembering, she
smiled, and took a big bite before continuing on with her day's work.
========================================================================
