The Concordia Writers

Baron Lear and Rick Dering

2009-03-10T22:11:00.000-07:00

These are the two main characters of my Irish story as adults.

Four Leaf Clover

2009-03-10T20:20:00.000-07:00

The Emerald Shamrock

2009-03-10T20:06:00.000-07:00

The County of Kent, England, 1802

The Frog-child, the Snake-child, and the Man of la Mancha

A strong blow to the head knocked Rick to the ground. “Ha! I have vanquished thee, knight!” bellowed his attacker.

“Dem it, John! Can you try not to kill me, for a change? It’s only a game!” shot back Rick as he rubbed his sore skull, his thick brown hair clutched tightly in his fingers. “That’s the third time you’ve knocked me over the head today!”

The boys were both about twelve years old, though John was clearly quite well-built for a boy his age and Rick was comparatively diminutive.

“Come along, Rick. I was the windmill. I was supposed to knock your block off. That’s the way the story goes, doesn’t it?” said John throwing his thick mane of black hair back away from his eyes with a cocky shake of his head.

“Humph!” Rick snorted. “Fine. But do it again and I’ll trounce you!”

John laughed heartily at this. “I’d like to see you try.” The altercation ceased when John got a sudden idea. Spotting a stick the length of his arm on the ground, John adeptly placed his foot underneath it, kicked it up into the air, and caught it with a flourish. “What say we play at fencing?”

Rick thought a moment. “Fine. Just don’t poke my eye out, will you?” he sighed as he kneeled to choose his own weapon. “Can I be Robin Hood?”

“Perfect. That means I can be Prince John. I was named for Prince John you know.”

— “Well then, Prince John, have at thee!” cried Robin Hood unsheathing his sword. Robin of Loxley danced lightly around his larger opponent, countering and parrying with rare finesse. Sparks flew from the heavy, double-edged blades as they clashed. With blinding speed, Robin pressed in on his opponent, keeping him at close quarters. Robin was aware that Prince John, with his longer limbs and sheer physical strength, would gain the advantage if he had enough room to use full swinging blows. The two grappled, pressing their swords against each other with all their might. Though John had more weight, Robin had seized the high ground. The daring outlaw forced the tyrant’s own sword to his throat!

Then John did the unthinkable.

Releasing a hand from the hilt, John thrust his elbow squarely into Robin’s nose!—

“All right! That’s it!” Rick threw his every ounce of his frail body into John. The two lost balance and painfully tumbled down the hill, swearing and exchanging blows as they rolled one over the other.

—Years later, when both of those men reminisced about the day they first met, they might have been reminded of that old folktale of the snake-child and the frog-child, who were as different from one another as it is possible to be. (The Honorable John Lear was the only son of Squire Lear, an aristocrat born and bred. Rick Dering was the son of a humble law clerk.) These two, frog-child and snake-child happening upon each other one fine day, wiled away the hours playing together. Snake decided to teach frog lessons on how to slither around on his stomach. (John decided to teach Rick a lesson, and punched him in the stomach.) The frog, likewise, taught snake how to hop up and down. (Rick, likewise, hopped upon John’s back and rained down blows on his head.) Though they had only known each other one day, the frog-child and the snake-child formed a fast friendship.

Surprisingly, so would Rick and John.

John finally collapsed under the weight on his shoulders, and both boys lay exhausted on the ground.

“Well…fought…Rick,” gasped John.

“Not…so bad yourself…mate,” wheezed Rick.

“Next time…let’s not get so rough…agreed?”

“Right.” Both stood up, shook hands, agreed to meet the next day, and returned home, all transgression forgotten.

And it occurred to John of all the aristocratic snake-children he had ever played with, not one had ever stood up to his bullying. Rick had earned far more than John’s friendship that day.

The Grey Man

An old adage stipulates that a house must be full of life to become a home, otherwise the building itself seems to die. At the sight of a dilapidated old house, many have observed the edifice’s need to be “lived in.” Perhaps one could take this wisdom a step further and suppose that, as the exterior of a house reveals the presence of inhabitants, the interior of a home reveals something of their nature. Some houses are warm and inviting, suggesting that a charming personality lives there; others are immaculately well ordered, suggesting that the owner is a strict, no-nonsense sort of person; still others are sullen and grey, indicating the somber disposition of the owner.

The Dering household was a somewhat schizophrenic combination of the three.

The building itself had two floors. The sight which first greets the eyes when entering the door is a decidedly dull room: its walls bare, except for a few rows of thick, dusty books on law, its grey stone fireplace unused, and its scant articles of plain furniture—including a ponderous black desk covered with organized piles of paper work—are consigned to the corner areas, leaving the wide wooden floor chillingly empty. The silence is broken only by the ticking of an ancient, towering grandfather clock near the desk.

However, as one ascends the spiral staircase, a transformation seems to come over the whole abode. The setting sun shines through the tall windows of the second floor, illuminating the many decorations in strange and wondrous ways. Watercolors of the seashore grace these walls; these landscapes are certainly not the works of a professional painter, but are pleasant to look at nonetheless.

Up this staircase and through these rooms Rick dashed, into his mother’s chamber. She seemed to be the center of warmth of the whole house. She lay still in her bed, but her round face shone brightly. It seemed she loved to surround herself with beauty. Everything from the chairs, to the bedside tables, to the bed itself was a remarkable work of craftsmanship, and at least a dozen of the joyful watercolors adorned the walls. Of course, the good lady herself was the artist; in fact, she was in the very act of completing a brush stroke as her son entered. Seeing her darling boy, she laid the brushes and colors haphazardly in their wooden box and placed them on a marble table at the side of her bed.

“Rick, dear. You were out later than usual. I was beginning to worry when I saw that it was past seven and getting dark,” she said, gesturing for her son to come sit in the ornate chair by the side of her bed.

“I’m sorry, Mum. I lost track of time while I was playing,” he explained. He always felt guilty when he left his mother alone in the house for such a long time.

“You didn’t spend the whole day alone again, did you, dear?” she inquired seriously.

“Mum,” Rick said, rolling his eyes. He loved his mother, but she was always worrying about how much time he spent with other boys his age. “As a matter of fact, I made a new chum today.”

“Excellent!” his mother exclaimed, her perturbed look gone. “Tell me all, Rick.”

“Well, he’s a—” Rick searched for the right word, “—not mean—he’s a boisterous boy. He’s always talking about the military, and he loves to play at combat.”

“Which explains your bloody nose,” his mother added dryly.

“Oh,” Rick crossed his eyes as he tried to examine the offending injury. He should have known he couldn’t hide anything from his mother. “Yes, I suppose we did have a bit of a row at the end. But we shook hands afterwards, and John promised we wouldn’t fight next time.”

“Well, that’s something. And now I have a name, ‘John.’ And to whom does he belong? You’d best tell me dear as I’m determined to know everything,” she demanded as she sat up and rested her merry round chin on her palms, looking interested. However, the exertion of this simple gesture seemed to tax her strength and she sat her head back against the bed frame almost immediately.

At the sight of his mother’s weakness, Rick had become far more concerned with her state than with talking about his friend. “—Lear—he’s Squire Lear’s son,” Rick said absent-mindedly. Fortunately, this news seemed to breathe new life into Mrs. Dering.

“The son of a gentleman! Wonderful! Squire Lear is our landlord. I never knew he had a boy your age. You shall have to invite your friend here and introduce us, Rick.” This discussion was interrupted by the eight heavy chimes of the grandfather clock echoing through the household. “Eight o’clock. We can expect your father at any moment. In fact—go to the window, Rick, and tell me if you see him coming.” The lad scurried to the window and peered through it. The rain had chilled the warm summer day and resulted in a thick mist at dusk. However, through this mist, the coach bearing his father was clearly visible, punctual as always.

“He’s coming now, Mum,” he said looking at her. Rick began to move back to his seat, but his mother stopped him.

“Well, don’t just sit around up here. Go meet your father at the door,” she said, shooing him gently. Rick scampered down, and just as he reached the bottom step, the door inched open to reveal Mr. Gregory Dering.

Upon seeing Mr. Dering, one might vainly rub his eyes to check that all color had not drained from the world. Mr. Dering’s eyes were the color of steel, and his hair, which had once been a rich brown like his son’s, had gone prematurely grey. The chilling mist, clinging to his grey traveler’s cloak and his grey top hat, gave Gregory Dering the appearance of some ephemeral spirit, rather than a living man.

“Hello, father. How was your—” the question died in Rick’s throat as Mr. Dering silently brushed past his son.

Mr. Dering alighted up the staircase, the fog winding its way behind him. Rick followed the dissipating trail back to his mother’s room, where the grey man already sat bent over at his wife’s side. Holding her hand in his, Mr. Dering’s face flushed with what might have been color. “Hello, my sweet,” he whispered in his grave voice. At the sight of his son, Mr. Dering stiffened. “Richard, I would prefer if you left your mother and me in peace.”

“It’s all right, Greg. Let him tell you about his day. We don’t have long before he’s off to school again. Come and sit here, Rick.”

“Actually,” said Rick at the sight of his father’s cold eyes, “It’s getting late, and I’m tired. I think I’ll retire for the night.” And so, as Mr. Dering bent back over his wife, his lips twitching into what might have been a smile, Rick closed the door behind him.

The Irish Nationalist Army

John and Rick met, as promised, the following morning, and, as promised, John refrained from more bullying (however, as the rain started up again before noon, John did not have much time to break said promise). As John would not hear of Rick walking two miles back home in the rain, he invited Rick to his father’s manor, which was a good deal closer. If the rain stopped, Rick could return home safely. Of course, both boys hoped the shower would grow to a tempest, so that Rick would not have to return home.

When Rick glanced out of the window in the comfortable library of the Lear family abode, he was confident that his hopes had been answered. The heavy rain drops pelted the windows so hard, nothing could be seen. Rick turned his attention back to his cultivated friend, who was warming his rump at the fireside. “You look very dignified doing that,” Rick teased.

“What? I’m an aristocrat! I can do just as I please,” the Squire’s son answered obstinately. “I’ll admit most noblemen wouldn’t be caught dead in this position in front of a peasant like you, Rick. But I prefer not to freeze my rear end off, thank you.” John stared at Rick defiantly, waiting for his new friend’s retort. When he saw that Rick was not going to argue with him, John straightened up. “Come along, Rick. I’ve been wanting to show you something I think you’ll like. No sense letting the rain ruin our fun.”

Rick followed his host through an ornate mahogany door into a dusty, dimly-lit room. As Rick’s eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that the room was enormous! Dozens of tall, heavy tables were arranged in rows, and there was still plenty of room to move about. Curious, Rick approached the nearest table.

On each side of the huge table, there were hundreds—no—thousands of small soldiers. Upon examining one, Rick saw that each must have been individually hand-carved, possibly from ivory. The figures all carried medieval weaponry, with armor to match, and each had been painted to the finest detail, even the links in their chain mail. Furthermore, each figure seemed to be unique: most charged headlong towards the soldiers on the opposite side, some successfully engaged the enemy, while others kneeled clutching at arrows penetrating from their arms, their chests, their eyes! The top of the table was not flat wood, but rose and fell, and was painted to resemble rolling hills, creating a vast, miniature landscape for the combatants. Rick felt as he was viewing a real battle from the skies, frozen in time.

“The Battle of Hastings,” pronounced John with pride in his voice.

“You did this?” Rick asked in awe.

“Father helped me with this one, but since then, I’ve become intensely interested. All of these, I set up on my own,” announced John, gesturing to the rows of tables, each of which represented a separate battle. Rick saw Hannibal, high astride one of his elephants, and Alexander the Great, setting siege to a great city, and Julius Caesar, smirking as he stared down his little Roman nose at the battle below, seeing that victory was imminent. Most of all, there were British troops, resplendent in their sharp red uniforms, facing all manner of enemies.

“I want you to help me recreate a battle from scratch. This is the table,” said John gesturing to it. “It’s going to be the Battle of Oulart Hill. You may even remember it. We were both probably about five years old when it happened.”

“Wasn’t that a victory for the Irish?”

“I’ll say. I don’t think much of those demmed Catholic peasants, but I can’t pretend it wasn’t a brilliant victory. There were 1,000 rebels, many of them not even armed, and they decimated the North Cork Militia.” From the sheer energy John used in his explanation, Rick could tell that this was no mere hobby for Lear. It was his passion. “Here’s how they did it. The rebels were camped on a hill near the village of Oulart. The militia, which was mostly comprised of loyal Irish Protestants, tried to lure them out by burning some cottages, but the rebels didn’t take the bait. The cavalry of yeomen cut off the only escape route the rebels could have taken. Well, that was their first mistake. Men always fight harder when there is no chance of escape.”

Rick nodded. He could see himself trapped on that hill, surrounded by a rag tag band of poor farmers, knowing that the only chance of survival was victory.

“The second mistake the militia made was to make their move without waiting for artillery support. That fool Colonel Foote disobeyed orders and led his troops straight into the rebel’s base. And here is how the rebels did it!” As John explained, be began placing the militia soldiers almost absent-mindedly.

“The rebels selected a group to hold their position and act as decoys. These were the men the North Cork Troops saw as they approached the top of the hill. However, the rebels had prepared an ambush. Every man with a firearm was hiding at each side of the hill, at a right angle to the path of the approaching soldiers. The decoys stood their ground as they were fired upon, and couldn’t fire back because they were unarmed, until the moment the troops had marched right into their trap. Then, every Irish man with a gun barraged the militia with constant gunfire, round after round!”

There he was! Rifle in hand, Rick targeted the astonished troops. He and his companions stood undaunted against overwhelming odds!

“Then every man together rushed the survivors from all sides! Four militia men escaped with their lives, including Foote. Just four! The Yeoman Calvary retreated, and the Irish only suffered six casualties. The victory inspired all of Wexford to join the rebellion.”[i]

Victory! “Incredible,” whispered Rick. John nodded. For a minute, the two were silent as they arranged the miniature soldiers.

Finally, Rick asked a question which had been on his mind, “How did they lose the rebellion? The Irish?”

John’s smile disappeared. “Lack of unity. The rebels at Wexford weren’t even connected to the United Irishmen, the Protestant traitors who wanted to secede from England. The leaders simply couldn’t control the mob of Catholics, or organize them into a fighting force. In the end, the whole rebellion unraveled and fell apart.”

“They still made a brave attempt though,” said Rick impressed.

John stiffened.

“Don’t feel too much sympathy for the rebels, Rick. Do you know what they did to the prisoners they took from the North Cork Militia? Butchered them. Their own countrymen, fellow Irishmen. They were an uncontrollable mob, Rick, just like the French in their revolution. There were entire families of Irish Protestants executed for no reason!” John slammed a figurine down on the table, cracking its base. “Like wild animals.”

Rick was sobered somewhat by this revelation, and did not pursue the subject. However, the two conversed lengthily as they created the detailed scene. Mostly, they argued about who was dreading the start of the next school term the most. It was only a week away, after all.

A Time for Joy

By the time the rain ceased, it had grown dark, so John’s father sent one of his servants to inform Rick’s parents that their son was spending the night.

The next morning, Squire Lear arranged for a grand horse and carriage to return Rick home.

The Squire’s manor was located in the country just outside of Dartford. Dartford, of course, was a small town in Kent, not too far from the outskirts of London. Because of the proximity to the capital city of England, Dartford remains to this day the home of many commuters, though in those days, the population was a little over two thousand residents, each of whom were expected to tip their cap when they met Squire Lear on the road.

The moment the coach arrived at Rick’s strange little home, the boy nimbly leapt down from the carriage to the cold, muddy street before the doorman even had time to assist him. Waving to the coachman over his shoulder, Rick skipped up the grey stone steps and pushed open the imposing black door.

The morning sun lighting up the living room, which doubled as his father’s study, seemed to choke on the fog of grey dust. A harsh voice from the shadows shattered the silence, “Richard, your spending the night with young Mr. Lear has been an extraordinary inconvenience.” Mr. Dering sat erect behind his ponderous black desk, grey top hat held firmly on his lap. As Rick’s father placed it on his head stiffly, he stood with a jerk, as if he were a wooden marionette yanked roughly by its threads. “I had to remain here all morning and wait for your return. Now, thanks entirely to you, Richard, I shall be late to work.”

“I couldn’t help it,” protested Rick, but at the sight of his father’s glare, he hastily added, “sir.”

Needlessly, Mr. Dering adjusted his tie. It was already perfect; everything about him was immaculate. Not one speck of the thick dust dared to rest on his shoulder. “You know I don’t like leaving your mother alone Richard. That’s why I had to wait for your return. She finds your presence comforting. This is the second time in a row you’ve left her all alone in this house for the whole day to play with that aristo’s brat!”

“Mum wanted me to play with someone my own age!”

“That’s because your mother is an unselfish creature, Richard. She puts your happiness above her safety. What if there was a fire in the house while you were out playing? Have you considered what would happen to her in her condition? Let me make myself clear to you, Richard. You are not to leave your mother’s side until I return home, no matter what she tells you! That is all I have to say to you.” As Mr. Dering glided towards the door, he glanced through the window. At the sight of the carriage, he added sardonically, “What courtesy you receive from Squire Lear. I could not afford such luxury with a month’s wages,” and disappeared into the thick autumn fog.

Rick stomped up the staircase, into his mother’ chamber. Clearly, he looked as furious as he felt, because, as Mrs. Dering immediately observed, “What’s wrong, dear? I heard raised voices.”

Rick sat down huffily. “Father. He hardly ever speaks to me, and when he does, it’s only to criticize me.”

Mrs. Dering listened to her son’s tirade quietly, and chose her words carefully, “If your father has a fault, it’s that he…worries about me too much. He probably thinks the earth will open up and swallow me if I don’t have someone around to watch my every movement. The summer days have flown by again this year, and I don’t want you cooped up with me during your last week of freedom, Rick. A boy your age needs more than an old cripple like me for company,” she said chuckling.

“Don’t talk like that, Mum,” Rick reprimanded with a shake of his finger.

“Humbug! It’s only the truth! Now, I don’t care what your father said. You will have a jolly time this summer, or so help me, I will stand from this bed and expel you from the house!” she pronounced with a jolly boom of a laugh. As her beautiful laugh finally died down, she settled her head back on her pillow. “Would you read to me, Rick?” she asked with a gesture to the nightstand where a Bible rested. Immediately Rick obliged her, opening the Good Book to the page they had left off two nights ago.

“Ecclesiastes 2.”

“Charming, just what I need to cheer me up!” said Rick’s mother, her voice full of her merry irony. “More of Solomon’s woe and misery on the lack of meaning in life!”

“We could skip it, if you’d like.”

“No dear, we shouldn’t gloss over Scripture.”

“Very well.” And Rick began to read aloud thus: “I said in mine heart, Go to now, I will prove thee with mirth, therefore enjoy pleasure: and, behold, this also is vanity. I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?”

At this, Mrs. Dering couldn’t help but chortle, looking almost offended.

“Disagree, Mum?”

“If laughter makes one mad, I am a menace to all of God’s creation! I’m sorry, Rick. I didn’t mean to scoff at Scripture. I think what Solomon is saying is that there is more to life than laughter, which is true. Laughter alone won’t give you a meaningful life, but I still say you can’t have life without it. Keep reading, Rick.”

As Rick finished the last verse of the chapter and closed the Book carefully, his mother nodded to herself, pondering the words. After a moment, she perked up. “Rick, I have the solution! You invite your friend here! I can meet your new friend, you can spend time with him, and you can still keep an eye on me like father wants.”

At the sound of this idea, Rick’s mood suddenly brightened. But the mention of his father brought them crashing down again.

An aristo’s brat, those had been the words Mr. Dering had used. Rick wondered if his father was right in his assessment. Remembering the wondrous mansion where he had spent the previous night, Rick wondered how John would react if he saw this cramped, gloomy residence.

Rick tried to make up an excuse, “I – don’t think there is enough time. John leaves for boarding school this Sunday.“

“Oh, there’s time, Rick! There’s always time,” assured his mother.

Biting his lip, Rick persisted, “No. Last night both of us knew we might not get a chance to see each other again until next summer. We pretty much said our good-byes already.”

His mother nodded, looking a little disappointed. Settling back down, she asked Rick if he would kindly read her just one more chapter. “You have such a beautiful voice, Rick, it brings the words to life for me. If you wanted, you could become a fine pastor, like your grandfather Patrick.”

“Ecclesiastes 3.”

“Oh! I love this passage! Read it to me, and you’ll see why it’s one of my favorites

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…”

* * *

As it turned out, the two boys did see each other one last time before John left, though only briefly. Rick waved to his friend as he watched him disappear in the fine coach. Rick’s final week of freedom was joyfully spent in his mother’s company, until the time came for Mr. Dering to deposit Rick at Pummelham’s Hall, the boarding school for young men. “Good day, Richard,” said Mr. Dering brusquely, and he too was whisked away by a carriage, this one dingy and grey. Mr. Dering had nothing else to say to the son he would not see for a full year.

The Gentle Art of Pummeling

Charles Fairfield was hyperventilating. Tucked away in a dark corner of the grounds, he listened for any voices. Had he lost them?

“Patty! Cum on out Patty!” boomed a coarse, insipid voice.

Patty. That was their name for him.

Charles closed his eyes and laid his head back against the cold stone wall.

“What are you doing back here?” came a small voice from right in front of him!

Charles started and looked around.

“I’m down here,” explained the voice. Charles looked down and discovered the speaker: a boy a full foot shorter than he with a thick crop of brown hair.

“You’re a new student, correct? I don’t remember you from last term,” said Rick Dering.

“Fairfield! We still wanna see an Irish jig! Don’t you want a potato, Patty?” bellowed a revolting child as he appeared round the corner, a potato gripped in one pudgy hand, a heavy stick grasped in the other. At the sight of Rick, the boy’s limpid eyes filled with recognition and rage. “Dering? You stay away from me, or I’ll have the headmaster whip you black and blue!” squealed the piggish bully, backing away.

“You’ve gotten nicer, Pummelham! Why not do it yourself and save your uncle the trouble. I know you enjoy it!” answered Rick, his tone ironic.

“Oh no! You’re not going to trick me into fighting you, Dering!”

“I see you’re much too clever for me, Jack!”

Momentarily forgotten, Farfield stood between the two and witnessed this confrontation, a perfect picture of comic confusion.

“What’s going on here?” rang another voice, and two boys almost as hideous as young Jack Pummelham appeared, similarly armed with sticks. “Who’s this?” asked one, pointing to Rick. “What are you waitin’ for, Jack?” the other inquired. The two seemed to speak only in questions.

“Leave him be! That’s Rick Dering!” ordered Jack, but the two paid him no heed, and began accosting Rick.

“Why are you afraid of him?”

“Isn’t he tiny? Barely up to me middle?”

“How old are you, six? He’s not our age, is he?” The two poked and prodded Rick as if he were an odd sea creature they had discovered washed up on the shore.

“No, I am not six, but twelve years old, same as you both; and yes, I am short for my age. Remove your hands from me or I will trounce you both.”

“Can he even reach high enough to hit us?” guffawed one.

The other racked his brain, trying to think of a clever jibe as well, but in the end, could only think to say, “Yeah, how high can you reach?”

“I have no problem reaching this!” roared Rick as he slammed his foot straight down both their shins, one after the other. The two wailed pitifully, each grabbing his bruised leg and hopping about on one foot.

“You know, come to think of it, I would like to see an Irish jig,” said Rick with a threatening glare at Jack Pummelham.

The very fat in Jack’s cheeks trembled as he spoke, “Don’t you dare! I’m going to have you beaten for threatening me!”

“What a shame. But if I’m going to get thrashed anyway, I might as well get thrashed for having done something,” growled Rick, advancing on the rotund antagonist.

At this, Jack Pummelham seemed to suddenly change his mind. “All right! You win! I won’t tell! You got my word!”

Rick paused for a moment, contemplating this offer. Jack wiped the sweat from his brow relieved.

“I’m afraid your word is meaningless, Pummelham. I’m going to get whipped no matter what. Oh well.” And with that, little Rick pounced on the screaming Jack Pummelham.

* * *

“Spare the rod, murder the child!” The old cliché, amended by old Henry Pummelham for greater emphasis, was engraved above the great gate entrance to Pummelham’s Hall, the boarding school’s founding maxim.

In all of the Hall’s distinguished history of academic excellence through child abuse, it had always had a Pummelham as its headmaster; that is, until Henry’s grandson Paul Pummelham reached the age where his arm was simply too frail to cause delinquent students the same degree of pain it had been capable of inflicting in bygone days. At least, not the level of agony he felt was necessary to maintain order. No, those happy days of yore had gone, and little Jack Pummelham was only two, still too young to fulfill that fundamental requirement for a successful schoolmaster: the ability to intimidate the student. Then again, little Jack was such a hideous toad of an infant, he might have fulfilled this requirement after all, but, sadly, was still incapable of beating a ten-year-old to a pulp. Therefore, the position of headmaster was grudgingly surrendered to Jack’s uncle, Wesley Scuttles, who had married into the family.

This, of course, put the poor Scuttles in a unique situation. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the moment Jack Pummelham came of age, he would, in the tradition of Prince Hamlet, claim his father’s throne from his usurper uncle. The lad had no higher ambition in life than to succeed his father, and from the age of five had already started practicing by pounding any living thing smaller than himself. Strangely enough, the application of the rod was deemed unnecessary for little Jack’s education. Pain was as absolutely vital for the proper education of any child, except a Pummelham, of course.

Altogether, Wesley Scuttles, affectionately christened “The Scuttler” by his students, was not a cruel man. Fortunately, this failing did not prevent him meeting out the necessary discipline, though he almost always conscripted older students to do the honors for him. The Scuttler despised Jack, but remained his slave, because it was clear that, eventually, Jack would grow to be larger than he. Much like death, Jack’s ascension was inevitable . Perhaps, Jack would retain his services as a school teacher. The Scuttler pondered this thought, his one shred of hope, as he delivered Rick and Charles into the hands of the prefects. Weskey Scuttles was even skinnier than Charles, with wispy, glistening black hair, shining eyes like a lost creature’s, a trembling lip, and no distinguishable chin.

“Once again, Richard Dering, you persist in antagonizing your betters, such as the esteemed Jack Pummelham. I thought we had cured you of this last year, but after only two days, you have returned right to where you left off last term,” wheezed Scuttles. A part of him admired Rick for standing up to that snobbish toe rag, something he was too timid to do. However, the timid part preferred to have job security. “I would advise you to simply ignore young master Pummelham if you cannot stand him. He will have you whipped every time without exception.” With this sage advise, the Scuttler escorted the boys into the caning chamber, where hung the birch switches, hickory sticks and willow canes, shut the oak doors behind them, and left, again musing on the joyous possibility of his having a position under Jack Pummelham six years from now.

The two prefects, having forgotten the way the beatings had felt when they were younger, how the drubbings had deadened their spirits, grabbed Rick and Charles by their collars, dragged them to the desk, and bent them over to receive, not six-of-the-best, but sixty. Rick Dering fought them every step of the way.

* * *

The Hall seemed to be comprised exclusively of smaller halls, each unpleasant in its own way. Charles and Rick were silent as they marched through the high-ceilinged, chilling halls, past dull, empty lecture halls to the repugnant, messy dining hall.

One long maple table serviced all of the Hall’s fifty odd students. Charles sat down painfully at the end of the long bench closest to him; Rick took the place at his side without flinching. “So, Patty. Short for Patrick?”

“That’s not my name. I’m Charles Fairfield,” he murmured. “They call me that because I’m from Ireland.”

Intrigued, Rick quickly swallowed the cold porridge so he could pepper the new boy with more questions. “You’re Irish? But I don’t even hear a hint of a brogue in your voice.”

Charles wasn’t a talkative boy, but he tried to answer Rick’s questions. “I was born in Sussex, but spent most of my childhood in Scotland. My father owns a rich mansion in Ulster, though, and our family used to spend every summer there. Ulster is in northern Ireland, and we’ve spent quite a bit of time there. In fact, just a year ago, my father decided to move to our house in Ulster permanently, though we still own our home in Scotland.”

“Then why do you attend school in England, if your family is all in Ireland?”

“Almost everyone in Ireland is Catholic, even a lot of the folk who claim they’re Protestant. Father didn’t want me educated by a Catholic, and he said you can’t trust an Irishman not to be a papist, whatever he tells you. Only an English education will satisfy him, you know, maintain my roots with the motherland, receive an education from persons of quality. I’ll be going back next summer though.” Charles tried to return to his own porridge, but Rick’s curiosity was insatiable.

“What is Ireland like? Is it a beautiful place? Are the people there as bold as I’ve heard they are? Are they witty and poetic and musical, like they are in stories? Do they really have those beards and drink a lot like they’re portrayed in the cartoons? Have you kissed the Blarney Stone? Does it really give you the gift of eloquence?”

“Yes.” Charles was completely flustered. “Well, except that last one, no. I mean, the one before that. I haven’t kissed the Blarney Stone myself. I’ve heard some people swear it gave them the gift of gab, but I’m not sure if it’s just a legend.” Charles finally thought of a question of his own. “Why do you want to know so much about Ireland, anyway?”

Before Rick could answer, a small voice screamed, and the buzz of conversation died.

Jack Pummelham had pinned a younger student to the table. “You think I’m ‘portly’ do you? Well, I’m not stupid! I know what ‘portly’ means. And now I’m going to teach you the meaning of a word: ‘respect.’ Now, since I’m so ‘portly,’ it’d be best for me not to eat so much in one sitting would it? In fact, I’ll share my meal with you!” Crushing the boy’s head to the table with one hand, Jack lifted his bowl and spat full into it. Pressing it against the crying boy’s mouth, he crooned, “What’s a-matter? Not to your liking? Eat up, skinny!”

“Oy! Pummelham! Best be careful. You never know when you’re going to pick on another person who isn’t afraid to fight back!” Rick called as he hopped up on the table.

Jack suddenly grew serious. “I’m not bothering you, Dering.”

“You’re making me lose my appetite going on like that,” shot back Rick cockily.

Jack was the sort of fool who had brains. He knew enough not to challenge Rick again, but he also didn’t want to lose face in front of the entire class. A wicked idea suddenly occurred to him. “What are you going to do about it, then? I’ll just have you whipped again,” he taunted.

“One good turn deserves another,” Rick whispered as he took one single step.

“I know you don’t care, Dering, but what if I have him whipped as well?” he gurgled as he twisted the small boy’s head around by his hair. Rick paused. “And what about your new friend the papist? Is his hide as thick as yours? Don’t mind having that on your conscience? Then take another step, just one single step forward.”

All eyes were on Rick, waiting for his response.

“Seems you have me in check, Pummelham. You’re right, I don’t want anyone whipped on my account, so I can’t step forward. But if I step down, you’re going to keep tormenting that kid. I can’t have that on my conscience either. So I can’t move one way or the other. It’s your decision, Pummelham. Does the pleasure you would derive from having two innocent boys whipped outweigh the discomfort you will immediately experience, right here in front of every boy at the Hall, if you do not leave him be.” There was no doubt Rick was telling the truth.

Deciding that it was best to cut his losses, Jack reluctantly relinquished his victim, and marched away.

Rick returned to his seat triumphantly, but Charles gazed at him in disbelief. “You almost got me whipped, again? That would have been twice in less than two hours since I’ve met you!”

“I didn’t get you whipped, Pummelham did. And it would have been Pummelham who would have gotten you whipped the second time also.”

“Yeah, but it’s you he hates. And every time he wants to get back at you, I’ll be the one who gets the sore end of the deal. Being your friend is too painful for me.”

Rick bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.

Charles instantly regretted his words. “Oh, I don’t mean I don’t want to be your friend. After all, you probably saved me from much worse when you stuck up for me. And that’s what you were doing for that other lad, too. Guess I’m just going to have to get used to the floggings.”

“Oh, the canings are a fact of life here, whether you’re my friend or not. And you do get used to it, eventually. In retrospect, first time’s always the worst.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Hind sight is always 20-20. So, that settles it, we’re mates.”

Rick clapped Charles on the back so soundly, Charles gasped. The welts stretched across his shoulders and back as well as his bottom. “Glad to hear it, chum. Besides, backing out of a friendship because you’re afraid of Jack is actually giving in to him. The weaker he thinks you are, the more he torments you,” said Rick bitterly. “Looks like your stuck with me!” he added, brightening up.

“Sounds like you speak from experience,” Charles groaned. “Would you mind telling me why there’s such animosity between you two?”

Surprisingly, Rick seemed eager to discuss the subject. “I don’t mind at all. Of course, it’s not that hard to guess. When Pummelham first saw me, he astutely observed that I was short for my age, and concluded that I would be an easy target. He can throw punches much quicker and stronger than I ever can, he can dodge most of my blows, and he can always have me whipped for good measure when he’s done.”

“Then why on earth is he so deathly afraid of you?”

Rick grinned as he continued, “Because every time he fought me, I hurt him a little. Even if I only got in one good punch for every ten of his, that was enough. He can’t stand even a little pain, Charles. He could beat me every time, but he grew more and more hesitant to fight me, because he knew it would be a little painful for him too. I guess fighting is something that anyone can learn with enough practice, and as I grew more bold, he grew more timid. Who knows? Maybe he could still beat me in a fight if he tried, but he doesn’t dare.”

“Incredible.” Charles mulled his words over before speaking. “Are you sure you should be butting heads with him all the time though? Why not turn the other cheek? Didn’t Christ say that? ‘That ye resist not evil?’”

“Yes, he did. Do you think I was wrong to stop Pummelham from abusing that kid, though? Should I have not stood up to him on your account either?”

“Well…”

“Didn’t Jesus also craft a whip out of grasses and drive the thieves and merchants out of his Father’s temple? He was standing up to a lot of evil people by doing that.”

“I think that’s different.”

“You’re right. A slap on the cheek is just an insult. Pummelham will insult you all the time, but you’ve just got to ignore it. When he moves beyond insults, though, and starts beating up kids half his size – I know what that feels like. If he were doing that to me I’d pray for someone to have the courage to stop him. I’m just trying to do for others what I would want them to do for me if I were in their situation, and I don’t think Jesus meant for us not to do that.”

Charles nodded, “Makes sense to me. You should be a priest.”

“My mother’s always saying that. My granddad Patrick was a pastor.”

“‘Patrick?’ That’s an Irish name, if ever I heard one. Are you named for him?”

“Actually, I’m named for my father’s father, Richard. My middle name is Patrick. Hey! Rick is short for both, isn’t it? That’s never occurred to me before! I’m named for both my granddads!” guffawed Rick, comprehension dawning in his face.

“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard!”

“You’re one to talk, ‘Patty.’”

“Hey! Don’t call me Patty! I already told you, I’m an Scotsman through and through,” said Charles, clearly affronted.

“I don’t know, you’re hair’s a ruddy shade of red!”

“It is not red! It’s brown!”

Rick thrust his fingers through his own mane. “No, this is brown. That is red.”

“It’s a little redder than yours, but it’s still brown! Look, I’ve seen what real red hair looks like, and it’s nothing like this! I know someone in Ireland whose hair is the shade of a scarlet pimpernel!”

During this discourse, Charles was vehement in his objections, while Rick was more reserved, almost detached from the conversation. Now, his interest was piqued. “Whose hair?”

“She’s one of my father’s servants, the daughter of the Irish woman who is the house-keeper of our family manor.”

“Oh, an Irish girl. With red hair. Long?” Rick asked carefully.

“It flows all the way down her back,” answered Charles dreamily. Rick fought to hold back his smile.

“Not like yours,” Rick asked, innocently.

“No, nothing like mine. It’s lustrous and flowing, and such a shade of red…” Charles’ voice drifted off.

“Beautiful?”

“Yes, she…” Charles seemed to be gazing far into the distance, perhaps across the seas all the way to Ireland. Instantly, that far-away look flickered out of Charles’ eyes. “Wait. What are you asking me about?” he asked, glaring suspiciously at Rick.

“You seem to know an awful lot about this servant girl’s hair, that’s all. Her hair is like a scarlet pimpernel? That’s quite a poetic comparison,” said Rick with a knowing smirk, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Charles stammered “I--What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I didn’t say anything!” said Rick, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You’re the one who’s clearly smitten by this bonnie wee lass.”

“I am not smitten!” Charles objected, with the same level of energy he had shown when Rick had accused him of having red hair.

“Of course not!” Rick crooned sympathetically.

“No! She’s a servant girl in my father’s employ! Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Yes, yes! How silly of me! You don’t love this girl, and you don’t have red hair!” protested Rick, his voice full of sincerity.

“Thank you,” sighed Charles.

“But you do have a bright red face.”

First Impressions

Dear Master Charles,

Master Fairfield shared your letter to home with me and mum, and we were pleased to hear from you.

I am writing to you with glad tidings: I am a new sister. Mum’s baby was delivered this month, and it’s a beautiful wee boy. His name is Conall Donelly. He has quite a grip for such a tiny fellow. Master Fairfield remarked that little Connal can already boast of a strong handshake with either hand.

I hope that terrible Pummelham boy doesn’t bother you anymore. I’m glad to hear you’ve made a fast friend. I cannot wait to meet Mr. Rick Dering. From what you’ve told me, he reminds me of my dad.

Your close friend and humble servant,

Kelly Donelly

Having found a steady companion in Charles, Rick felt that the school term did not seem to drag on for eons as it had in past years. Time slipped by, England resumed its war with Napoleon Bonaparte and the spring flowers bloomed, a welcome sign to the boys that their prison term at the Hall was fast approaching its end.

Rick started awake when his friend burst through the door of the boys’ sleeping quarters, roaring, “Rick! My father is coming!”

“Wha?” mumbled Rick groggily, still bleary-eyed.

“Are you still asleep, Rick? It’s six o’clock in the morning! Day’s half over already!”

“It’s Saturday. Can’t a bloke sleep in once in a while?” Rick yawned.

“Well, I already had breakfast and picked up the post. Now that this is our last week of classes, my father is coming to bring me home to Fairborough, our manor in Ireland!”

“Swell,” sighed Rick, pulling the thin cloth blanket back over his head.

“Rick, you idiot! He’s coming today! I’ve told him all about you and he’ll be anxious to meet you. Make yourself presentable,” ordered Charles, grimacing at the sight of Rick’s tangled, flying locks of hair. In response, Rick shook his head like a dog. His hair was still everywhere, but at least it wasn’t flat on one side anymore.

“Finished. When did you tell your dad all about me, anyway?”

Not satisfied with Rick’s erratic appearance, Charles explained “Well, I’ve been writing home all year.”

“Bully for you. Any letters to your bonnie wee lass?”

Charles cheeks flushed as he tried to flatten Rick’s mane, “Of course not! I’ve told you again and again, Rick, Kelly is a servant girl. It wouldn’t be appropriate –” Rick knocked Charles’ hand away, and his bangs sprung back up into the skies.

“(Hands off my head.) Come on, you bloke! She’s going to feel like you don’t even know she exists. Do you really want to subject her to that?”

“No,” stammered Charles.

“Of course you don’t! In fact, it would only be gentlemanly to show her proper courtesy, wouldn’t you say? The very next opportunity you have, Charles, I want you to make sure that she knows that you know that she exists.”

Still attempting to straighten out what Rick had said, Charles also tried to straighten out the hair on the back of Rick’s head. In one swift motion, Rick spun around, grabbed the offending arm, and pulled himself out of bed. This threw Charles off balance, and he ended up flopped down on the mattress himself.

“(My hair is fine at it is). Furthermore, Charles Fairfield, I personally think you should go above and beyond the call of behaving like a gentleman towards her, which you ought to do whatever the case may be. However, you’ve as good as admitted to me on a dozen occasions, friend, that the sight of this girl sends your heart a flutter. Well, either act on your inclinations or forget them. ‘Those who today spend their time pondering on what might be will tomorrow speculate on what might have been,’ as my mother often says,” quoted Rick as he marched circles around the bed in military fashion, the very image of a drill sergeant but for his hair. “Therefore, my friend, the very next time you meet Kelly face to face, act decisively.”

“Um, Rick.”

“Decide if you’re going to endeavor to win her affection, or (if you simply cannot look past her station in life) forget your feelings. But for God’s sake, Fairfield, don’t go on sighing and swooning whenever you think of her name. Every time you see a red blossom on the roadside, you are reminded of her hair. Don’t act surprised, Charles, it’s obvious every time I see you. You love her, but if you’re so convinced that you can never court her in the future; well, you’re driving me mad with this endless pining!”

“Rick, she’s accompanying my father here. I’ll see her face to face in under an hour.”

Rick froze mid step, and stared at Charles, completely taken aback. Then he dashed over to the wash basin and submerged his whole head under water. When he straightened up, water dripping from his hair, he shouted, “Well, come on, you idiot! You’ve got to smarten yourself up!”

Dressed in their Sunday clothes, the two schoolboys stepped lightly through the high-ceilinged halls, the light of dawn reflecting in their eyes. “Your hair’s still damp, you know,” said Charles. In answer, Rick shook his head like a dog. “Hey! Don’t get me soaked!”

“Well, don’t worry about me, then. Worry about yourself. Fix your collar.”

“Rick, it’s my father! It’s not like I’m meeting a prospective employer. And my marks were good considering it’s my first year. What could go wrong?”

“It’s not your father I’m concerned about. You’re not going to win any hearts by being fifth in a class of twenty!

“Would I win more hearts if I were, say, sixteenth?”

“So long as I’m ahead of Pummelham and his ilk.”

“Isn’t Pummelham twentieth? Your ambition is inspiring. What I don’t understand is that you’re smarter than I’ll ever be. I never would have survived The Iliad without your help. Maybe if you hadn’t played sick for a week –”

“I told you, I wanted to finish Robinson Crusoe,” Rick said defensively, as he pushed open the tall doors of the entrance way and stood underneath the school’s motto engraved above, “Spare the rod, murder the child!”

The coach bearing Dick Fairfield had arrived. He was a plump little plum of a man, with his golden yellow shirt stretched over his belly, framed by his violet overcoat and trousers. His waving white hair was swept back exactly like his son’s, his cheeks were red, and his ever-squinting eyes were grey. “Top o’ the morning, son!” he boomed, with barely a hint of an Irish accent in his voice. “Kelly! Bring my luggage. You asked to come along, so best hop to it!” he barked, slipping back into his native Scottish/British accent. Kelly Donelly, whom Rick had heard described by Charles so many times, stepped into the sunlight, precariously hugging three over-stuffed suitcases to her chest; she pinned the corner of one between her arm and her left side, the second resting of her left forearm, gripped by her fingertips, and the third was so large she needed her whole right arm to carry it. She looked very awkward, yet at the same time, this display of skill and balance was impressive. “Shake my hand, son! Fifth in a class of twenty! Not bad, sir, not bad! Haw hoo-hoo!” brayed Mr. Fairfield, having completely forgotten about Kelly.

Richard, on the other had, was transfixed by this his first glimpse of Ireland: a child bearing an impossible load.

There was an audible “Thump!” as she hopped down to the ground from the interior of the carriage, and she walked lopsided, due to the weight on her right side. “And you must be Mr. Dering! Shake my hand, sir!” bellowed Mr. Fairfield.

Dick Fairfield was the sort of fellow who judged a man’s character by his first handshake. Fairfield’s judgments were final, irrefutable, and, as far as he knew, invariably correct. Of course, a young boy could not be expected to shake one’s hand with the same confidence and strength of a full-grown man, but Dick Fairfield never abandoned his practice. Regardless of age, the first handshake told him almost all he ever needed to know.

Unfortunately, Rick was so distracted, the handshake took him by surprise, and he did not make quite as good a first impression as he might have.

Tolerably firm, not extraordinary, concluded Mr. Fairfield.

Rick ended the handshake brusquely, and immediately moved to assist Kelly, leaving Dick Fairfied chatting amiably, and loudly, with his son.

“You’re Kelly Donelly? Charles told me all about you. Please, allow me to assist you,” offered Rick, gesturing to the suitcase tightly pinned by one corner under her left arm.

“Nossir! I have this under control,” she reassured. As if Kelly’s full concentration were the only thing suspending it in air, the suitcase in question slipped a few inches before she tightened her grip, and adeptly secured it under her arm again. “Hold that,” she pleaded, nodding her head to the left.

“Of course!” Eager to please, Rick eased her of the burden. When she set down the second small suitcase, Rick assumed she meant him to take that as well, but when he bent down to grab it, she snatched it back up.

“T’aint heavy. It’s just a matter o’ balance.” She now held the large suitcase in front of her with both hands, so she could rest the smaller articles on top of it. “I’ll be takin’ that back now, young sir,” she said.

“It’s no trouble, I’m – ” Rick started, but Kelly interjected.

“Oy! Do as you please. Makes no difference t’ me, one way or t’other.”

Now that the suitcases were not hiding most of her face, one could see that Kelly was a very pretty girl; not beautiful, but charming in her way. Freckles spotted her nose and cheeks, and her curly red hair tumbled madly down, much like Rick’s had that morning.

“Hoo hoo, haw!” guffawed Dick Fairfield. His laugh was something like the hoot of a wise owl, or maybe the bray of a donkey; it was impossible to tell. “And where are we staying tonight? Never mind, Charles. I shall submit inquiries to your headmaster, this Scuttlery fellow.”

“Wesley Scuttles, father,” corrected Charles.

“That self-same man! Ah, Haw, Hoo! Is that he?”

The Scuttler himself had appeared, framed by the great doorway to the Hall. “My Lord,” greeted the Scuttler, slouching into a bow.

“Oh hoo! None of that! We are all gentlemen here!”

This won a rare smile from the Scuttler, who thanked Mr. Fairfield profusely.

“Shake my hand, man!” interrupted Mr. Fairfield, extending his broad hand.

Taken aback, the Scuttler hesitantly offered his hand, and let his wrist flop around limply as Mr. Fairfield shook it.

“Hmm! Well, show me to my quarters, then!” ordered Dick, using the same tone of voice he had reserved for his servant Kelly moments ago. Charles made a small, indistinguishable noise.

As the two adults discussed the details of Mr. Fairfield’s accommodation, Charles stepped back and took Rick aside as they walked. “Rick, I meant to tell you – well, I guess it’s too late now – but, have you ever heard the expression, ‘You only get one chance to make a first impression?’”

“Yes?”

“Well, that’s especially true of my father. And the only way to make a good first impression with my father is a good handshake. He thinks it tells him all he ever needs to know about a person.”

“You’re pulling my leg?”

“Not at all. Furthermore, it can be hard to change his opinion of you, once he’s formed his first impression.”

“How’d I do?”

“Not great, but well enough. I’ve seen him do this a thousand times. Of course, a child may change over time, which he takes into account, but for adults, his judgments are final and irrefutable. You saw how the Scuttler shook his hand?” Rick quickly observed the Scuttler jovially droning on about the history of the Hall, while Dick Fairfield looked on ahead stiffly, clearly bored. “Lord, I hope father will let me come back next year,” muttered Charles. “That was not impressive.”

“You’re telling me a handshake could affect where you’re educated?”

“When he’s hiring Irishmen to work his fields, the handshake is the deciding factor.”

The mention of Irishmen reminded Rick of a particular Irish girl Charles seemed to be ignoring. “Charles, stop worrying and say hello to Kelly!” whispered Rick.

“Oh, hello Kelly,” greeted Charles.

“Ello, master.”

Charles seemed to think that was sufficient, but Rick goaded him on silently.

“Erm,” Charles’ mind raced for the right words. “May I help carry the luggage?” Kelly’s green eyes flicked ahead towards the back of Dick Fairfield.

“Master Dering already offered, didn’ he? I’m fine, but thank’ee, sir,” she answered stiffly.

“Mr. Fairfield, or shall I call you Dick, eh?” chortled the Scuttler with sickening familiarity.

“Hmm,” mumbled the landlord from Ireland.

“Erm, what shall we do with the girl?”

Dick snapped back to attention. “What do you mean? Didn’t you prepare a room for her arrival?” he barked.

“Well, you did not – I mean, I did not know of her presence until I saw her just now!” explained the Scuttler, shocked back into timidity by this rebuke.

“Understandable. So tell me, Scumler, where shall the girl stay?”

“Well, she might take a bunk in the boys’ sleeping quarters, just for –”

“Absolute nonsense! I know what brutes those prefects can be! I wouldn’t entrust another person’s child with them for a minute, especially a little girl!”

“Of course not! We might get some blankets and put two tables together in the cellar.”

“Ah! I see! Kelly will take the private room you prepared for me, and I shall sleep in the cellar!”

“No! Lord! What I meant was –”

“I know what you meant, Scrubler. Surely you must understand that a proper gentleman would not snooze in a warm bed while his valued servant shivers in a cellar,” Dick remonstrated, while affixing a steady gaze on the Scuttler. Now that the Irish lord had ceased squinting, the Scuttler saw that one of his eyes was glass. It was terribly unnerving, with one eye staring him straight in the face while the other seemed to point down straight through his trembling heart. “Now, what are we going to do?” continued Mr. Fairfield. “Kelly will have the quarters you had prepared for me, and I? What accommodations can you arrange for my sake?”

“I could,” began the Scuttler. The Lord nodded for him to continue. “Give you my bed.” The Irish Lord nodded and made an affirmative grunt to show his approval. “And I shall sleep in the cellar,” finished the Scuttler, looking quite pleased with himself for working out this solution.

“Do as you wish!” laughed Mr. Fairfield, returning to his cheery voice and manner, his eyes squinting again.

Scuttles looked only partially relieved. Rick believed he understood why the Scuttler was more nervous than usual. Clearly, Mr. Fairfield was a rich man in Ireland. The Hall was a distinguished academy; Rick’s father often complained about the immense cost of tuition. To disenfranchise a visiting aristocrat might have dire repercussions for the Hall’s credibility and Wesley Scuttles’ employment. The Scuttler’s head darted in all directions, until he spotted what he was looking for. “You boy! Come help this guest to his quarters immediately!” he shouted down one of the halls. Most unfortunately for the Scuttler, the boy turned out to be Jack Pummelham. Rick actually felt sorry for Scuttles.

“What do you want, Uncle?” demanded Jack.

“I would like you, please, to show this man to my private room, where he will be spending the night,” implored the Scuttler.

“And why would I do that, then?” crooned young Pummelham.

The Scuttler whimpered, “Jack, Mr. Fairfield is a gentleman, a man of breeding. People like that are some of your father’s closest and most important friends, Pummelham.”

“Jack Pummelham? Ole Paul Pummelham’s son? I knew your father, boy! Shake my hand!”

Jack seized the hand in his and did his best to crush the elder man’s fingers.

As his smile vanished, Mr. Fairfield opened his squinting eyes wide, shocking the impudent boy with a glare from his one good eye.

Charles jabbed Rick in the ribs. “Watch this,” Charles whispered excitedly.

“Well, you’re a hardy lad,” Mr. Fairfield growled. Then, wearing his wan smile again, he added cheerfully, “Here, Kelly, hand those over. A strong young man like you, Mr. Pummelham, should have no trouble with these,” as he retrieved his luggage from Kelly and thrust the suitcases into Pummelham’s fleshy grasp.

“Hey! I never agreed to—” spat Pummelham, but Mr. Fairfield clicked his tongue forcefully.

“Tsk! Tsk! Tsk! I’d say it’s your duty as a gentleman!” stipulated Mr. Fairfield as he turned the rotund boy around and clapped him soundly on the back. “Lead on, Master Pummelham! Lead on!”

And Pummelham lead them to a comfortable, fully-furbished bedroom.

“These are the quarters we prepared for you, Mister Fairfield,” said the Scuttler. “Though, now it seems you want them for your – servant girl?”

“If they are to her liking,” chimed Mr. Fairfield, “What do you say, Kell?”

“Oh, it suits me fine, sir,” said Kelly, respectfully.

Gasping, Pummelham had dropped the heavy luggage the moment he entered the room. Noticing this, Mr. Fairfield immediately added, “Smashing. Then, Squire Warbley, let us proceed to my new quarters directly. Master Pummelham, I’ll need the luggage of course.”

“Can’t – Can’t you get your servant-girl to carry it for you?” said Pummelham through gritted teeth.

He was silenced by Dick Fairfield’s crooked gaze. “Is it so heavy, that Paul Pummelham’s boy can’t manage without a little girl’s assistance. Come boy! I know there’s strength enough in your hands for the task!” His pride stung, Jack Pummelham gruffly lifted the load and proceeded out the door after his Uncle. Mr. Fairfield followed, then popped his head back through the door to address his son, “Charles! You two don’t have to follow us all the way back, if you don’t have a mind to. As it’s almost seven, what say we just meet in the mess hall for breakfast?” Charles agreed. “Capital, see you all then,” beamed Mr. Fairfield, and then his head popped out of sight behind the door again.

Now it was only Rick, Charles, and Kelly left in the room.

Closing her eyes, Kelly sighed. Then her serious expression vanished, replaced by a toothy grin. “How are you, Charles?” she asked warmly, pulling him into an embrace.

“It’s good to see you, Kelly!”

“Rick Dering, thank you for protecting my friend from that Pummelham brute all this year.”

“You know about that?” said Rick modestly.

“Charles only talks about you all the time in his letters to home, don’t he? By the way, I’m sorry I was so aloof earlier. You see, Master Fairfield doesn’t like it when I act too familiar towards English fellows,” Kelly explained cautiously.

“Think nothing of it, Kelly,” answered Rick, somewhat distracted by her vibrant green eyes.

“Well, to quote Master Fairfield, ‘Shake my hand, sir!’”

Rick grasped her hand in his. She did not try to impress him by overpowering his grip, neither did she meekly offer her hand and allow it to be wagged lifelessly. It was purely a handshake offered in friendship: simple, straightforward, and sincere.

Perhaps one might call Mr. Fairfield’s practice of judging a person only by a handshake eccentric or ridiculous. Perhaps he was set in his ways and unbending in his opinions. But, perhaps, there was just a shred of wisdom in his judgment after all.

* * *

Early Tuesday morning saw the Fairfields and Kelly making the final preparations for their journey home. Classes were over, and a glorious summer holiday, two whole months away from the Hall and the Scuttler, was ahead for the boys.

Minutes before Charles’ departure, Rick pulled him aside.

“Charles, listen to my advice: I want you to write a few letters.”

“Write you from Ireland? Well of course I’ll do that!”

“No, you chuckle-head! I mean I want you to write letters to Kelly, tell her how life is treating you.”

“Well, Rick, isn’t that a bit pointless? I’m going home for the holiday. I’ll see her every day at Fairborrough –”

“Fine. When you get back here next term, you are going to write to Kelly. Not just letters to home! I mean letters specifically addressed to Kelly!

“Rick, isn’t that far too forward?”

“Of course not! Write her every day if you want to!”

“Well –”

“Charles, you only get two months out of the year with your family in Ireland. Don’t you think Kelly would care to hear from her best friend more than once or twice a year?”

“Of course.” Charles seemed to be holding an internal dialogue. “You’re absolutely right, Rick, I should write to her. Kelly’s been my best friend for years. And you’ve been just as good a friend to me this year.”

“Then it’s settled. Til next term, mate!”

“Yes.” Charles bit his lip before adding, “Rick, do you –”

“Do I what?”

“Do you – want to get revenge on Pummelham?” Charles said hastily.

“Always! You don’t mean right now, though? Your dad’s practically about to drag you our the door!”

“Next term. We can talk more about it when we write.”

“I look forward to it.”

Despite their starkly contrasting personalities, the two schoolboys shared this in common: neither liked prolonged farewells.

When Rick was out of earshot, Charles whispered to himself, “Kelly and I, ever the best of friends. And now you too, Rick. But, I wonder. . .”

Man Bites Dog

“This is deplorable,” scowled Mr. Gregory Dering.

“Have you any sense of pounds, schillings and pence, boy? Do the words carry any weight with you to the slightest degree?”

Rick was silent in the overpowering presence of his father.

“Because when I look at your marks, all I can see is pounds, schillings and pence. Why is that? Is it because they indicate that my son is on the path to a lucrative career? No. I see the countless pounds, schillings and pence wasted. Your mother asked me to send you to Pummelham’s Hall, you know. It is a reputable school, but perhaps if you did not have so many holidays, you would have time to apply yourself, Richard. There is another school I wanted to send you to, Richard. They have no summer holidays there, quite an innovation, in my opinion. Furthermore, the tuition is far more affordable. Unfortunately, it is a good deal away, in Yorkshire, so there would be no point in you coming home, even for Christmas.” When Mr. Dering spat the word “unfortunately” it could have been clearer that he was expressing his wife’s choice of words, not his own.

“So, for now, you attend Pummelham’s. To an extent, I suppose I can lay the blame on that institution for my wasted pounds, schillings, and pence. However, no matter what consideration is given, you yourself, Richard, bear the lion’s share of the blame for my wasted pounds, schillings, and pence. When a man owes me a dept, I demand restitution of him, if I must seize his furniture, his paintings, the very dresses from his wife and daughter’s closets, I shall have recompense. And I will have some restitution from you Richard, for my lost pounds, schillings and pence.”

And Mr. Dering took it from Rick, pound for pound, with his cane.

* * *

A few peculiar moments from our early youth remain engraved on our minds for years for no apparent reason. One can perhaps recall an event in vivid detail, though why that particular moment should be so clearly engrained in the memory is a mystery.

When Rick was about four years old, years before he had met and befriended John, he had been walking alongside his father and watched Mr. Dering tip his cap to the Squire, Henry Lear. What had made a particular impression on Rick was the stark contrast between the politeness of the gesture and the grudging, debased expression in Mr. Gregory Dering’s face and manner when he gave it.

Ironically, Rick could vividly recall this brief interaction with Squire Edward Lear, but not once had Rick been introduced to the Squire since meeting John.

During the first few weeks of that glorious summer holiday, Rick visited John Lear practically every day. Rick told John so much about Charles, John remarked that he felt as if he knew Charles already.

For the Squire, it seemed, long absences were common place. It was not until late in July that the honorable Squire returned home.

The Squire was completely bald, but his pride and glory was his military moustache. Except for a few flecks of white, it was black as India ink, and he had styled it after the moustaches of the upper-caste Hindus he had met during his service in India. Amongst the lower caste, men’s facial hair had to droop down; only the members of the upper-caste were allowed to curl the tips of their thick moustaches up, so that they pointed to the heavens.

Though this was his most distinguishing feature, his pugnacious face was equally imposing; the Squire was noticeably squat, certainly not as obese as Jack Pummelham, but hefty.

After being introduced to Charles’ eccentric, charming father, Rick was curious to see what sort of person Squire Lear might be.

With respect to eccentricity, the Squire was the equal of Mr. Fairfield, though that was the only comparison that could be drawn between the two.

It had been the Squire’s custom, these many years, to study The London Times thoroughly every morning (the paper was simply known only as The Times in those days). Of course, this “morning ritual” is not at all uncommon, except that, in Squire Lear’s remarkable case, the “morning ritual” was the only thing the he did all morning, whether he was home or abroad. Hours were spent examining every word of The Times, and when he finished he might turn to The Observer, the Morning Chronicle, or the Manchester Guardian. Eventually, though, he would return to his favorite, The Times, and even return to some of its older issues.

“There is nothing so useless as yesterday’s newspaper.”

Never, under any circumstances, would one utter this obscene cliché in the presence of Squire Lear.

Stacked next to his favorite arm chair was an orderly pile of older editions of the Times. If anything, the Squire regarded these with even greater respect than the current issue, not less. Like fine wine, the newspapers had only improved with age, for as the Squire was fond of stating, “The news of the day shall soon pass into history, so in a way reading the newspaper is like peering into the future. What the next generation shall record in its history books, we can read in advance!”

Furthermore, it is doubtful that he ever spoke this many sentences in a row to his wife. The marriage between Squire Lear and Mrs. Lear had been arranged by both their parents. Mrs. Lear was a simple creature, timid, kindly, but utterly incapable of understanding anything outside the cloistered borders of her little life.

That isn’t to say she hadn’t been offered exemplary educational opportunities as a child. But anything that is offered must be received, or it is useless. She had gleaned little from her expensive instruction, understood little, and was interested by little.

This shortcoming frustrated Squire Lear, who, having gotten the duty of producing a male heir out the way, felt that he had fully fulfilled his marital vows and, therefore, further conversation with his wife was purely superfluous. If seems cold-hearted on the part of Squire Lear, it should be noted that any conversation with Mrs. Lear was superfluous, and that, on occasion, he did try to start a conversation with her. These blunt attempts on Squire Lear’s part occurred during the “morning ritual,” and rarely met with success.

As Rick watched the Squire read the paper, he was oddly mesmerized.

“Those thrice-damned Irish papists are on the rampage again!” snarled Squire Lear, not looking up from The Times.

“Are they now?” inquired Mrs. Lear, not looking up from her knitting.

“Insurrection in Dublin,” he proclaimed, forcefully tapping the headline the of the July 30^th edition of The Times. “They butchered poor Lord Kilwarden, the Lord Chief Justice of Ireland! Where have I heard that name before?” he said to himself, scratching his chin pensively.

Mrs. Lear, who thought he was asking her a direct question, panicked. Surely he would expect a response? What could she say to such an inquiry? If only he would ask her as to the state of her knitting, or for a detailed account of the cats who trespassed in her garden, then she could converse with him for hours. “Perhaps, you read it in the newspaper,” she suggested. Without question, this was the single most brilliant deduction she had made in her small, quiet life.

“Indeed!” The Squire glanced at the stack of newspapers at his side. “Not The Times,” he recalled as he lightly caressed the more recent issues, “one of the older ones.” Lear was referring to the mountain of newspapers stacked behind his favorite chair, which may have represented a decade of history. Calculating in his tremendous bald head, he reached around behind him and felt for the right issue. Aided only the sense of touch, he retrieved the exact issue he sought without looking. “Here it is! Ah, Arthur Wolfe, that was the Lord Kilwarden’s name. He was the one who did such an excellent job prosecuting that Willim Orr character, the United Irishman.”

“Arthur Wolfe? He wasn’t related to Theobald Wolfe Tone, was he?” asked Rick.

Only then did the Squire seem to recognize that someone else was in the room, apart from his wife and son. He was slightly annoyed by being interrupted by a strange child, yet at the same time, impressed by this boy’s interest in current events.

“Who are you?” the Squire said to Rick, but he looked first to his wife then his son for the answer.

“I’m Rick Dering,” he answered for them.

“Richard?” The Squire asked.

A nod.

“Friend of John’s?”

Another nod.

“Dering. Now where have I heard that name before?” the Squire mused, though this time, the papers would not provide the answer. He furrowed his brow slightly, and then still further, until his whole bald fate was wrinkled in concentration. “Gregory Dering. One of the law clerks. For Mr. Jaggers. Your father, correct?” Rick nodded again. “Good firm. Your father’s a good worker,” Lear added bluntly, failing to conceal his smile, which was clearly visible despite the stupendous moustache, when he spoke the word “worker.” The idea of someone having to work for a living always elicited a smile from Squire Lear, who never needed to toil for his earnings. “So, you know who Theobald Wolfe Tone is, do you boy?”

“I’ve heard his name, and I’ve been taught that he lead the Irish war for independence, but I’ve always wanted to know more about the man. Was he a relative of this Arthur Wolfe?”

“Now, that is a topic of immense speculation,” said Lear as he again reached behind his chair. “Arthur Wolfe was a cousin of one landlord named Theobald Wolfe, Wolfe Tone’s godfather (and very likely his natural father as well, though Tone was raised by a local coach-maker).”[ii] Almost absent-mindedly, he had found the exact issue he was looking for. “If Lord Kilwarden was related to Theobald Wolfe Tone, that certainly would explain – ” as he opened the paper, the squire’s voice suddenly became belligerent “ – why that weak-kneed lawyer defended that bloody, murderous, pernicious, revolutionary!” he roared.

“Did he now?” asked Mrs. Lear. “There were two cats in the garden this morning. An orange one and the brown one with the white belly and tan markings, and I chased them off.”

“What did Theobald Wolfe Tone do wrong?” asked Rick.

“Do wrong? Why, nothing much. He was only the leading figure in the Irish revolution against the Empire! He only allied himself with the butchering peasants of the French Revolution! It made no sense! The Protestant blood on the streets had not yet dried, and Lord Kilwaren was more worried about Habeus Corpus for the man responsible. Humph! In the end it made no difference I suppose. Wolfe Tone slit his own throat while cowering in his cell, rather than face the noose. Coward!” With an audible “Humph!” which set his moustache a flutter, Squire Lear settled back comfortably.

Rick wanted to say that he had been told all that already, that he wanted to know what specifically Wolfe Tone had done to deserve death, but Rick didn’t risk testing Squire Lear’s temper.

“Squire,” John finally chimed in, “what you said reminded me: do you think we could set up a historical battle?”

“Hmm? I suppose. You’ll have to choose the battle you want to do beforehand, and make sure you have all the soldiers you need, so as not to waste my time.”

“I already have three battles we could do, and the soldiers. All that’s waiting is to set them up.”

“Very good. Remind me again later.” Snatching the current edition of The Times back up, Squire Lear spoke to his wife as if the two had been chatting amiably for the past few minutes without interruption, “Well, Lord Kilwarden’s pro-Irish sentiments didn’t save him from the Irish revolutionaries in the end. That is irony.”

Mrs. Lear, who had no understanding of the concept of irony, took her husband’s word for it that it was.

“And here again,” Lear continued, “no sooner does England renew the struggle with France than the Irish start stirring up trouble again. Would they stand with us against Napoleon? Of course they would not. I’ve always said that when the time came to take a stand against France, England would be standing alone against the chaos! Not only do we stand alone, between that diminutive French tyrant and the world, we must do so while suppressing conflict in our own territories!” he growled, clutching The Times so tightly, the periodical was in danger of being torn in two.

“The least those Irish could do is actually fight a decent revolution! I could respect that (figuratively speaking, of course). If they actually had any chance of succeeding, of winning the freedoms for which they opine ceaselessly, it would be logical for them to resist our authority, (unjustifiable, still, but logical). However, they persist with the struggle when it is painfully obvious that no good will come of it. This so-called rebellion in Dublin is laughable! A few score of boys try to seize control of Ireland’s capital city, quickly lose control, and end up going wild settling their old grudges against wealthy protestants. This battle is remarkably reminiscent of the whole Irish independence movement: No discipline, no order, no sanity!”

* * *

The morning ritual dragged on uneventfully, John and Rick grew bored, and left to find something to entertain themselves. John took Rick to the highest point of the manor, a terrace where they could see miles of green countryside.

Rick started when John Lear casually straddled the guardrail and sat leaning back, dangerously close to falling into nothingness.

“You know, I’m surprised you got my father to have a decent conversation with you during his morning ritual. You and he seem to share a common interest. The Squire and I usually just talk about the military.”

“That’s why you and he like to set up those massive miniature battle scenes?” asked Rick tentatively.

“Yes, though, we haven’t done one for quite a while. The Squire is abroad most of the time,”

“You’re lucky. My dad seems to be omnipresent, he thinks he’s omniscient, and as far as my life’s concerned, he is omnipotent.”

John made a noise to himself, which may or may not have been an agreement, then twisted around where he sat to stare out into the distance. The wind was blowing forcefully, sending John’s mane of black hair fluttering.

Rick hesitated, then nimbly climbed up and sat beside him, gripping the rail to keep himself from slipping to his death.

“Rick, have you ever seen the white cliffs of Dover?”

Rick shook his head, hoping that his white knuckles were not noticeable. “I did once,” continued John Lear, “Years ago, with my father. I’d like to see them again before I join the service. I love Kent, but there are many places in this world I’d like to see with my own eyes: India, the Americas, the Orient. Rick, do you have a place you want to visit before you die?”

Rick thought a moment, and though he did not answer, in his mind’s eye he saw himself and his mother, living alone together, on the Emerald Isle.

Provoke Not Your Children to Wrath

“Have you grown at all, Rick?” asked Mrs. Dering.

Rick had been lost in his own little world for a moment, but snapped back to attention. He himself hadn’t told his mother about his altercation with Mr. Dering, but he was still fuming about it silently.

With a motion of her hand, Mrs. Dering gestured Rick to stand against the tall bed post as she sat up. “This is the best way to tell. Lord, I hope you gain a foot or two, at least! Even standing up, you’re still shorter than I am!” She hummed to herself as she instructed her son to stand straight against the bed post, which was the perfect instrument for such a measurement. It was a simple design, but the carpenter had added a slight ornate flourish to the post: the wood undulated in repeating waves, each about an inch from crest to crest. Mrs. Dering counted the waves silently and quickly, then, arriving at the final figure, announced, “A gain of two inches! Well, that’s some progress at least.” Something in his mother’s voice told Rick that there was more on her mind than trivialities like his height. Sure enough, she sighed, and added, “I understand you and father are having difficulties.”

Perceptive as always, thought Rick. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he assured her.

“No, Rick, I think this does concern me, whether or not your father agrees. He caned you, correct?” Upon receiving an affirmative answer, Mrs. Dering’s expression grew grim. “How hard?”

“Didn’t count,” Rick answered honestly, “Over a dozen strokes.”

“I wish he had consulted me,” she muttered to herself, quite perturbed.

“He didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself,” Rick continued indignantly. He was used to beatings from the prefects, but his father’s biting lectures, his refusal to hear anything his son had to say, violated Rick’s sense of fairness. “He’s never interested in what I have to say. He only gives orders and threats and –”

“That’s enough, dear. You have not been performing your best and you know it. Your father and I expect you to be diligent in your studies. Do you want to enter the church?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, undisciplined men should never become preachers. I’d prefer they become lawyers, or doctors for all the good they do me! What good is a shepherd if he’s more foolish than the sheep?”

Understanding that this last remark was directed at him, Rick’s pride was stung.

“I’m not a fool! Don’t call me that! I’m as bright as any boy in my class.”

“In that case, even worse! Rick, look into my eyes. God gives all of us, every one, certain gifts, though some are more gifted than others. It would be better for you to have no brains, no potential at all, than to shirk from using God’s gifts to you to their full potential. Where’s that father of yours? When is he due back?”

“Any minute,” Rick answered, chastened.

Mrs. Dering sat up straight, folding her hands in front of her with an air of authority.

“Dear, bring me my Bible,” she said, pointing to where he had set it down by the window. Rick retrieved the book and placed it in his mother’s grasp. She opened it almost forcefully, then regaining her composure thumbed through the pages respectfully. However, even the act of sitting erect seemed to tax her strength. She turned the pages more slowly. Rick watched the trembling hand, heard her heavy breathing, and understood that she could not even turn the pages now. “Son, help me find Ephesians 6:4,” she instructed calmly, as if nothing was the matter. Rick leaned over and located the page for the trembling little woman.

Straightening up, Rick realized that his mother had been wrong about his height. He was a bit taller than her now, when she was seated and he was standing up. Of course, she would have been taller if she was standing, but Rick had never in his life seen her do so. It struck Rick, now, how minute his mother was, not just in height, but in every respect. A slight frame, perennially draped in a nightgown, with delicate wrists and thin arms, even her voice sounded like a tiny creature’s, except when she laughed; only then did her rich voice fill the room.

There, the clatter of the coach, Rick knew without looking, bearing his father, still trailing the fog of London.

“Let me speak with your father privately, dear,” ordered Mrs. Dering.

Rick went directly to his room, not wanting to meet his father on the stair case. Minutes slipped by, and he caught the sound of raised voices.

“Do not quote your book at me!” roared his father.

“You would do well to listen to it, sir, and remember it!” she answered in her loudest voice, which Rick was barely able to catch. Her voice returned to normal again, and though he was unable to discern her words, he knew she was reciting Scripture.

“Enough! I wish to enjoy your company, and you think and speak only of that boy!”

Her answer reverberated through the empty hallways, “Our son!” Then she began to read her passage out loud again in her normal voice. Rick crept to his door and opened it cautiously, straining to catch his mother’s words.

“No! I will hear no more from that book. I do not share your views. If your religion offers you some comfort, then I have nothing to say for it or against it, but I need no crutch!”

“You call this a crutch?” she remonstrated. “Surely you speak the truth, for that is exactly what it is, a crutch! And all men are cripples, too prideful to admit they need it! To stand up and walk!”

Mr. Dering burst from his wife’s chamber and stormed to the stair case, coming right towards where Rick was peeping through his door! Rick leapt back out of sight, but too late. His eyes and his father’s had met for an instant.

The footsteps approached slowly, and with a gentle motion, Mr. Dering eased the door open. “Despite her condition, you’re mother is as spirited and energetic as ever. Those qualities are what attracted her to my attention, once, when we were young.” He seemed to be thinking out loud, not really addressing Rick. Mr. Dering needed to put his thoughts into words, and as no one else was around to listen, he had turned to his son. “She is as determined and incorrigible as ever,” he growled.

“And I love her for it,” he added meekly.

Suddenly, he addressed his son directly, as if Mr. Dering had only just become aware of his presence. “Thank you, Richard, for ruining my evening.”

Mr. Dering closed the door behind him, leaving his son shaken and thoroughly confused.

The Epitaph of Robert Emmet

“They finally caught that bastard, Robert Emmet!” Squire Lear startled everybody when he made this frank declaration.

“Did they, now?” Mrs. Lear answered.

“He’ll be hanged of course. Oh, I do hope he is spared being drawn and quartered,” said Lear, feigning distress at the thought.

Mrs. Lear, ever deaf to both the utterance and the notion of sarcasm, answered, “I agree, dear. It’s a dreadful punishment!”

“How dare you foolish woman!” boomed Squire Lear, his bald head reddening. When there was nothing but bad news to be reported, it always put Squire Lear in a foul mood. It spoiled what was always his favorite part of the day.

Startled by this outburst, Mrs. Lear hid her face behind her knitting. Misunderstanding her husband’s statement, she had forgotten to give a non-committal answer. This always seemed to happen when they discussed politics. Oh, why couldn’t he ask about how many cats had defecated in the garden today, and whether she was greatly distressed?

It was the 28^th of August, and term started for Rick in three days. He and John had seen each other practically every day that summer. They had assembled a few more battle scenes, mostly involving Napoleon, and though Rick was not nearly as astute as John about military matters, he enjoyed arranging the figures. It was like chess, with more room for artistic expression. Also, John had introduced Rick to Shakespeare that summer, and the Bard quickly became one of Rick’s favorite authors, alongside Cervantes, Defoe, and Jonathan Swift.

“He didn’t get that far,” continued Squire Lear. “No man can escape justice from the British empire! They caught him on the 25^th at–” the Squire’s eyes scanned the text for the name of the place “–Harold’s Cross. That’s in Dublin, yes. He’ll be put on trial this September.”

“How did they find him?” asked Rick. He had heard so much about Robert Emmet over the past few weeks that he was curious to see how the story of Emmet’s infamously ineffective revolution had come to a close.

“Apparently he had a safe hiding place in – Rath –” Mr. Lear held the paper away and squinted, having trouble making out the name of Emmet’s hiding place. “Rathfarnham, where is that? Oh, it’s a town in southern Dublin. But he left it to be near his mistress. Whore, I’d expect. No, even worse, Sarah Curran, daughter of an Irish attorney, fellow named John Curran. Papists dressed in suits, that’s what they are. Oh, they think themselves upholders of the law, but they do as much harm as the revolutionaries. Damn them all, troublemakers, especially that fat, silver-tongued, pernicious little Daniel O’Connell. He’s the worst papist lawyer of them all!”

Having finished his rant, Squire Lear turned the page with a grunt.

“Father,” said John tremulously. The tone of John’s voice struck Rick as unusual. John often spoke in a bold, cheerful, roaring manner, as if he was ready to conquer the world single-handed; there was always laughter in his voice and a slight edge of sarcasm in his speech, as if he found the whole world tremendously entertaining. Right now, Rick observed, John sounded quite timid in the presence of his father. John coughed, and lowered his voice an octave. “Sorry, my voice must still be cracking. Squire, what do you say we put together a historical battle today. I have several we could do: Bunker Hill during the American Revolution, the Battle of Falkirk, where William Wallace was defeated, and I still have to do the Battle of Marathon. Whichever one you prefer.”

“Hmm, yes,” grunted Squire Lear. “Though aren’t you getting a little old for playing with toy soldiers, John? Soon enough, we’ll have to start considering your enlistment in the army. You’ll be a real soldier yourself, then.”

John looked crestfallen. “You’re right father, I suppose I am getting a bit old for those toys.” With an effort, he regained his usual voice, full of laughter. “Can’t wait to give Napoleon hell!” he joked.

With a chuckle, Squire Lear nodded, then returned to the newspaper by adding, “I see little Mr. Bonaparte’s still making a right jack-ass of himself. French shite, that’s what he is. Shite stuffed in a silk stocking.”

“Three cats defecated in the garden today. I was greatly distressed,” stated Mrs. Lear, clearly believing that this comment followed naturally from Squire Lear’s.

After another burst of swearing by the Squire, Rick and John crept out of the room unnoticed.

* * *

In the library, John Lear was noticeably quiet. Rick’s eyes flicked to the ornate, mahogany door, where all of the battle scenes were stored away.

“Would you like to set up one of them with me, John? I’d like to learn more about William Wallace, actually.”

“We could,” sighed Lear. “Though, you know what would be more exciting? Some time, we should go on a fox hunt.”

“You’re inviting me to the hunt? I’ve never even held a gun before. Besides, we’re only thirteen, John.”

“I think I’m old enough for the hunt,” snapped Lear. “Though, you’re right, perhaps we should do it another time. Next summer, I’ll show you how to handle a rifle.”

Lear paused, then added, “I’ll be able to hunt the fox with father next year. He loves the hunt.” He spoke as if he had to reassure himself.

John clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Well, let’s put together the Battle of Falkirk, then. It is a bit dull though, don’t you think?”

“Well, I think it’s fascinating,” said Rick hesitantly. Truth be admitted, Rick was not as interested as Lear in the military, and studying historical battles in detail was not something Rick would ever have thought to do for fun before he met John Lear. But Rick loved to learn, and he enjoyed sharing this hobby with John because John was his friend, and the military was John’s passion. When John talked about the military, about complex strategies and important victories, he somehow made it interesting for Rick.

“If you’re sure, we might as well. Better than sitting around doing nothing, at any rate,” said Lear, without emotion. “Have you ever considered the military, Rick? Britannia needs sharp soldiers to face down that blighter Napoleon. You have the makings of an officer, in my opinion.”

At the idea of being dressed in the uniform of a British officer, Rick laughed. “Me, an officer? Do you think they could find a uniform small enough for me? I think the sight of Rick Dering in a baggy uniform with over-long sleeves and the hat down over his eyes would just instill the French with courage!”

John Lear laughed thunderously. “Well, if Napoleon has proven anything, it’s that even midgets like you can make smashing soldiers.”

Still Life With Iris

2009-02-25T22:07:00.001-08:00

This week, "Still Life With Iris" is performing at Concordia. That's been keeping me so busy, I haven't had much time for writing. I've just fixed some grammar problems and such.

Anyway, definitely come to the show if you weren't planning to already. It's a family show, so kids will especially enjoy it. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 7:30 pm, in Weller!

Dragonia

2009-01-26T13:37:00.000-08:00

Yeah, hi. This is a section from my novel, bout halfway through. I'd like some commentary on the characters and the writing. Thanks.

"You have evoked the Right of Council, and as such I have no choice but to listen to you," Countess Alsella sat down brusquely at the head of the council, "so speak."

"My Lady," Rayenor began with a bow, "as well as all other members of the esteemed Council of Mellon, city of the Five Sisters, Beacon to the lands of..."

"Get on with it!" Bellowed one of the councilmembers.

"Very well. In short, we invoke Vae Faeug Maechūk upon two young dragons you hold here, the new breed."

There was silence as the Council dusted off their Ancient Draconic lessons. "The Law of Fair Bonding?" One ventured.

"Indeed," Rayenor grinned, "If you will look at the ancient laws laid down by our mutual ancestors, every tribe, or nation in this case, is allowed to field candidates for the first bonding of a new breed of dragon. We invoke this right."

"Get the lawbook." Alsella said. Rayenor could see the fear in their eyes. Unlike those in the service of Chegpana, these fools didn't even know the ancient laws. They would find the passage, discover its implications, and he would throw it in their smug little faces. Rayenor grinned; he would enjoy this.

A page come in with a large, old book, which he placed in front of the Countess. "Please excuse us... sir." Rayenor's grin widened at the forced nature of the title, "But this may take some time..."

"Article twenty, section five, subsection four, clause six." Rayenor recited.

"...So it seems." Alsella spat, "Very well. In accordance with the ancient law, one of your men will be present at the bonding. Now remove yourselves from the city until..."

"Actually, if would care to look at clause nine of that same section, you will find we are allowed to field as many as you do."

"Fine. We will inform you when the bonding is to take place; now get out of..."

"And if you turn to amendment one, section seventeen, subsection fourteen, you will note that it is the burden of the host to accommodate their guests, as we now are."

"Lovely. Bailiff, escort these men to the dun..."

"Guests, Alsella, not prisoners. If you look to amendment..."

"Yes! Fine! Do what you want, I'm sure you can throw some other thrice-damned section of the old law in my face to justify it! Just get out of my council chambers!"

"As you wish, Milady." Rayenor bowed, then led his men out of the chambers. He chuckled; the image of the Countess, paragon of repose and calm, exploding at him like that would sweeten his dreams for some nights to come.

NaNoWriMo! (In February)

2009-01-12T11:32:00.000-08:00

Do you ever feel like there's a novel buried inside you which you might write someday? Why wait?

Chapters Books & Gifts is hosting their own NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Usually, it's held in November, but who has time to write a novel when finals are fast encroaching? I'd encourage members of the Concordia Writers to give this a shot. Bryce Tellmann participated in the official NaNoWriMo last November and was very successful.

Starting Feb. 1, your goal is to have written 50,000 words by midnight, Feb. 28.

If your interested in viewing my progress, scroll down until you find the picture of the four-leaf clover.

The story is set in England and Ireland in the early nineteenth century, shortly after the Revolutionary War in Ireland had been crushed and Ireland was forced into the United Kingdom.

Mot from Photodyne

2009-01-10T11:13:00.000-08:00

This is an illustration of Marty Kois' character, Mot, from his story Photodyne. Hopefully, Marty will post this work in the near future.

He was fairly pleased with this representation of his character, and I'm happy with how it came out. If anyone would really like an illustration for their stories or poems, let me know.

Lorendell

2009-01-05T22:24:00.000-08:00

This is an excerpt from my fantasy novel. It is the chapter in which you meet one my characters, Lorendell. The other important characters included in this chapter are Luthin, my main character, Alfeon (both elves), Hradac, a dwarf, and Verduin, the villain. If you find that you need/want more context, let me know. Enjoy!

The sun was hanging low in the sky, having burned the back of Lorendell's neck long since. The scent of the food being prepared inside made its way to his nose, and his stomach complained and wished his mother would call him in from the fields. Impatiently he continued his work, straining his ears for the sound of the dinner bell.
Eager as he was, he briefly mistook the sound of the jingling bridles for the bell. The sight of several horsemen on the road quickly brought him to terms with his blunder. He frowned unhappily, much preferring the idea of food over that of travelers, but his curiosity was awakened when they turned up the lane to his house.
Skewering his shovel into the hard ground, Lorendell made his way to the squat cottage that sat at the base of the hill. Smoke rose from the clay chimney, laden with the smells of his mother's cooking, and even as he watched the horsemen dismount, Lorendell hoped it would not be long before supper.
"Evening, good sirs," Lorendell's father was saying as he approached. "Is yer lost?"
"Nah," replied the dark haired man who appeared to be the leader. "We knows where we are. My men and I are hungry, and we was hopin' you'd share your meal with us."
"Ah, times is hard, sir, and we ain't gots the eatin' to spare wot to feed over a dozen grown men. Y'all'll have to go elsewhere."
"Aye, times are hard indeed. In fact, I am surprised you think yourself able to afford to not befriend myself and these fine gentlemen that accompany me." The suave man's followers chuckled intimidatingly behind him. Lorendell's father tilted his head ever so slightly in an inquisitive fashion and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"And whose friendship might I be refusin'?"
"My name is Verduin," the man said, bowing graciously as he spoke.
"I knows you," Lorendell's father replied, stepping backward and pointing an accusing finger at the man. "You the thief. The highwayman. You and yer men been prowlin' these woods fer months. Get off me land. No criminals will be welcomed in me home. Go!"
"You fool. Do you think you can keep me from what I want simply by telling me to leave?" he laughed.
"Don't you speak that way to my father!" Lorendell shouted, coming forward. He had been watching the whole discourse, and he was seething. "Who do you think you are? He told you to get off of our land. Do you think you have any right to stay? Go, or I'll escort you off myself!"
"You're a feisty one, aren't you?" the man said, his cool eyes seeing Lorendell for the first time. "We can't have that. Take care of him."
Before Lorendell was able to react, three men lunged forward and took a hold of him. Alarmed, Lorendell's father took a step towards the leader, ready to fight for his son, but the man quickly knocked him down with the back of his hand. Lorendell shouted and kicked violently, trying desperately to escape the grip of his captors. Instead, all he gained was a fierce blow to the head that set the world spinning.
Lorendell fought his dizziness and continued to thrash in the grip of the men who had seized him, but his attempts at escape were weak and feeble. It was hard to see, and he was aware of little. The men dragged him away and bound him to a tree. He continued to squirm and shout, and one of the men, growing impatient, hit him on the head a second time. Blinking, Lorendell watched them laugh as they left him. As his consciousness slipped away, he was dimly aware that there was much more smoke coming from the chimney of his home than there had been before.
***
The small group had been awakened by the smell of smoke. It had not taken long to locate the burning cottage, but by that point there was little to be done about it. They spent the remainder of the night sitting on top of the hill, watching the flames and vaguely hoping it would not spread elsewhere. By dawn, the flames had died, and the building was smoldering weakly.
Luthin picked her way through the rubble of the dead building. Very little had survived the flames. Most of what was left was unrecognizable, and the rest was ruined. Her footsteps kicked up small clouds of ashes, leaving her boots a dull, ugly white. Suddenly, amid the dirt and ashes, she noticed something shining dully. As she reached down, she saw that it was a sword. It was not particularly nice, but she supposed that it could probably be sold for a fair price, and so she strapped it to her belt alongside Diadris.
Meanwhile, Alfeon was absentmindedly picking through the rubble on the other side of the building. He kicked casually at a fallen beam, dislodging a piece of broken plaster. His stomach turned inside of him as he saw what was underneath.
"Luthin!" he called. "Come over here!"
Luthin stepped carefully through broken crockery and smoke stained furniture over to where Alfeon stood. Face ashen, he pointed at the pile of rubble. Under the debris, pale and scorched, was a pair of feet. Luthin shivered.
"Luthin!" echoed Hradac's distant voice. "Alfeon! Leave that bloody pile of ashes and get over here!" The red bearded dwarf was on the opposite side of the road, kneeling beside a tree. The two elves abandoned their own discovery and made their way to Hradac. As Luthin saw what Hradac had found, she quickened her pace and hurried to his side.
"I found him tied to the tree," Hradac said of the unconscious boy at his feet. Luthin dropped to her knees beside him.
"Someone hit him," she observed, pointing out the blood on his forehead. "Alfeon, will you dampen a rag of some sort for me please?" She placed her bag under his feet and took the dripping cloth from Alfeon's hand.
"Your sock?" she laughed drily.
"It's all I've got," he replied. Luthin shrugged and began to clean the dried blood from the boy's face.
"So this was no accident, then," Alfeon said quietly, looking back at the burned house.
"I would think that getting hit in the head and tied to a tree is not usually evidence of an accident," Hradac stated drily, gnawing on the stem of his unlit pipe. Alfeon glared gently at him, not much amused by the dwarf's sarcasm.
"You two aren't helping much," Luthin retorted. "Why don't you see about getting some breakfast put together? I'm starving."
Starting a fire was not hard. Alfeon and Hradac quietly worked together to assemble a combination of still smoldering debris and untouched firewood in something of a burnable pyramid. They were interrupted by a sudden ruckus from across the road. The young man had awakened, and despite her protests, he was quite determined that Luthin would not keep him where he was.
***
Lorendell ran to the charred remains of his home, his ears ringing. What the elf had said could not be true; he refused to believe it. She had lied. His parents had only left, in search of him, probably. They would return soon enough. The elf had been wrong. They would be back.
But if he did not believe her, what was he searching so desperately for?
Lorendell threw the debris across the ruined house. He overturned a table, flung a scorched, brittle blanket across the room, kicked his mother's brass kettle and smashed clay pots beneath his feet. Finally, flinging aside a beam, he finally found what he had been looking for, but hoping he would not find.
His parent's charred bodies lay together, their arms wrapped tightly around each other against the flames. The elf had not lied. They had indeed died, and their disfigured forms lay before him. Suddenly aware of the throbbing pain in his head, Lorendell collapsed beside his parents.
Luthin slowly approached the young man's trembling form. She was not at ease with disrupting him at this moment, but neither could she ignore him. She hesitated a moment, then spoke.
"We are preparing some food. You're free to join us whenever you like." She waited a moment, but he did not reply, so she turned and left him.
Lorendell uncurled slightly, watching the young elf walk away. His mind was numb, and it took some time to process what she had said. Food. The word food crept slowly into his brain, awakening his senses. He had not eaten for several hours. Yes, he needed food.
Sitting up, his head spun. The sun was already growing hot, and he felt a little nauseous. He forced himself to his feet, teetered a bit, but did not fall. As he stood there, in the middle of the ruins of what once was his home, he slowly realized what had happened. His home was destroyed. His parents were dead. Not just dead--murdered. And for what? What had they done wrong? They had done no more than try to protect their home, their livelihood. Now they were dead, and it was all the fault of one man.
Verduin.
"His name is Verduin," Lorendell announced. The three traveling companions looked up in surprise.
"Whose name?" the male elf asked.
"The man who did this," Lorendell said impatiently, as if they should have understood immediately. "He said his name is Verduin. He murdered my parents and burned my home without any remorse. And now I will find him."
"Find him?" exclaimed the dwarf. "And do what? You can't intend to kill him."
"And why not? Tell me what else he deserves. Do you believe he deserves to live?"
"Oh, perfect!" the young elf cried, shaking her head as she stood up. "Solve the problem of death with more death! Brilliant!"
"And original," muttered the dwarf, putting his pipe back in his mouth.
"Do you think to defend the fiend?" Lorendell shouted accusingly. "You are in cahoots with him!"
Luthin swatted away the finger the boy was pointing at her. "Don't accuse me of anything! Do you think you know who we tie ourselves to? You're a fool."
Lorendell lunged at her. "Who do you think--." Suddenly Lorendell found himself on his back, looking up at two irritated elves and a very perturbed dwarf, and pointed at his nose was his father's sword.
"You are in no shape to go out vengance-ing," the young elf at the opposite end of the sword said. "Not to mention that you've disrupted our breakfast. I don't know about these two, but as for myself, I am very hungry, and I just want to eat. I don't want to think about some crazed pup bent on retaliation. Now, sit down, shut up, and eat your breakfast. We made extra for you."
Stunned, Lorendell sat up. A plate of food was shoved into his hands and he was reminded of just how hungry he was. He buried himself in the food, the first meal he had eaten since noon the day before, completely unaware of those watching him.
"So, kid," Luthin finally said, interrupting his stomach, "what's your name, anyway?" He looked up, surprised. He had quite forgotten about making any sort of introduction, and it had not struck him that these companions did not yet know who he was.
"Lorendell," he announced, his mouth full. "My name is Lorendell."

The Unknown Betrayal

2008-12-10T15:27:00.000-08:00

By Matthew Greenwood Joshua Duncan
This is a fantasy story I am working on with a friend from high school.

Chapter 1
My mother was the only family I had ever known. Though my time with her was short, she had cared for me dearly. It was by pure coincidence that I did not also die in that old farm house. I was found by a teenage boy, who was delivering a letter to my mother on that fateful day. The neighbors took over my land and sold me off as a slave.
This slave encampment had been my prison for the past fourteen years. At about twenty, I was one of the oldest of the slaves and was still the healthiest. No one had survived as long as I had through the hard labor they made us do every day. Dark scars from the whips intertwined across my back and around my sides. Though I became accustomed to pain, I was in no way content with my life. Talk of escape was popular among the slaves. Freedom for us was a golden dream, almost a figment of our imaginations.
James, only a year younger than me, was by far my best friend and stood up for me no matter what the cost. He was devious and planned escapes daily. Though we hadn't attempted any of them, they brought us a thrill. Today, his uncle had come to visit him. After an hour the guards escorted James back out and he came to find me.
“Mathias!” James whispered in excitement. “We may be free at last! My uncle is going to try to bargain us out!”
Freedom sounded nice, but he had come to me many times before offering the same thing.
“And how might he do that?” I asked.
“He does not plan to bribe the king this time, but he sends word to look to the sky tomorrow night when the moon is highest. He wants you and I to be at the east gate,” James' voice cracked.
“We cannot go near that gate without guards firing on us! How do we escape then?”
“He told me to trust him ... I will trust him,” James said defiantly.
I sighed, “I wouldn't mind dying here soon James, but if there is a chance at all at freedom, I'll take it!”
“Matthias,” James whispered, “it is almost sunset.”
I looked up into the bright red clouds. “Yeah, when did you say he was going to break us out, again?” I asked.
He seemed to be disappointed that we were still trapped and did not answer. I followed his gaze to where he watched, longingly.
“Stop staring!” I whispered more intently, anxious. “If you stare the wall will know!”
Sighing, James returned to looking down at the ground. “Sorry Matthias, you might be right. I’m getting second thoughts,” he said, sitting cross-legged.
I joined him, very close to the roaring fire. The fire was the only thing keeping us alive through the night during the winter. Around the fire were shacks that kept the snow off the ground, when it did snow. Every once in awhile the fire would crackle and James would look up in excitement, only to grow more anxious. Then something occurred that hadn’t in a very long time.
The forest started to sing out with incredible force!
I looked at James, wondering if this was his great-grandfather at work, but he looked back in confusion. Perhaps, I thought, he didn’t notice the forest.
Then, swift as a lion chasing its prey, came a crack from the wall. A huge section was blown to pieces. Guards sprang into action, holding up their long swords that gleamed in the remaining sunlight. Two horses charged from the debris straight for our fire. James smiled for perhaps the first time since I had met him so long ago, and stood up. His great-grandfather brought the horse to his side and helped him up onto it. James reached his hand for mine, but his great-grandfather galloped away, without me. Tears ran down my cheeks; it was then that I decided to make my final escape or die. As if invisible, I ran past the guards who now held back the escaping prisoners. I looked towards the town, and saw a brigade of men coming my way on their steeds. The town was no longer a safe route.
Turning to my only escape route, I plummeted headlong into the forest. Though the trees were dense I seemed to be able to pass through them with incredible ease. I ran until my legs gave way to the strain. Then I lost my footing and dropped like a rock to the ground, my head smashing into a fallen tree. A burning sensation coursed throughout my neck, and then the blackness engulfed me.
Much later, it seemed, I awoke. My head throbbed with pain and felt moist as if I had been sweating. My muscles ached as I turned my body around to face the clear blue sky of the morning. I wiped the sweat away with my hand, and then noticed that it was not sweat but blood that I had wiped away. The burning increased and a deep desire to sleep washed over me. I remained awake, but was barley able to hold my head up. The forest seemed oddly quiet now, as if listening to my every breath. Animals would stop and stare at me before they passed on, all leaving in the same direction. When the sun had risen fully, and my frost-bitten skin had started to warm again, I headed in the direction all the animals were going, desperately hoping for some water to satisfy my thirst.
I followed the deer tracks through the forest, which led me straight to a large river. My body trembled and shook as I got on my hands and knees, bending as low as I could to drink. The forest seemed to grow in sound. Chirping birds darted my head. A wolf in the distance howled, as if the moon had been full. I looked in the water, and saw two fish, larger than full loaves of bread staring up at me. I had no time to think before I jumped in after them, hoping with all my heart that I would catch one. I was no match, though, for the frigid water. As my upper torso mixed with the water, a quick spike of cold knocked the wind out of me. My body writhed with the sudden coldness and I locked up. In fear and with the urge to survive I opened my eyes and bolted upwards but was not tall enough to reach the top of the water. Something in my body told me to flap my arms like a bird, and run like I was on tiptoe. Miraculously I seemed to be able to break the surface of the water and breathe. However, another pure shock of icy water stunned my legs and I was swept under by the current.
My eyes opened. I thought this was it. I saw a gleaming light and I knew I must be inches from meeting my Maker in heaven. This would be paradise at last! However, the light seemed to pass under me. My heart wrenched in fear. If I missed the light would I be banished to hell? With whatever strength I had left, I did everything in my power to go back to the light. I wanted heaven, eternal paradise! The current, I thought, was Satan pushing me back, wanting my soul to eat and burn in his body. My head spun and my chest began to spasm, I wanted to breathe in, but water surrounded my mouth. Just as I wanted to give up, I was within reaching distance of the light! With every ounce of strength left in my body I reached out and grabbed the light, closing my eyes.
A terrible realization came to me as I noticed it was only a stone. My lungs felt unbearably heavy, as if a large man had sat on my chest. I had no strength left to do anything. I wanted to see the sky for the very last time, to watch how beautifully the clouds had formed. Feeling foolish, I clenched onto the stone that I thought would save my life. My vision blurred and my head burned even worse now. I felt, as my body gave way to my command, branches that held me down in the water. A memory popped into my head of my mother’s smile, then darkness.
The memory of my mother seemed to stick into my thoughts. She moved, but only slightly back and forth. I remember looking up at her and I felt happy. Her finger looked huge and nuzzled my stomach. I giggled and felt my arms and legs moving up and down, side to side. But then, the door smashed open, revealing a large figure who I had not remembered before. They spoke, but their words were unrecognizable. I burst out into tears and screamed uncontrollably. My view changed to over her shoulder. I still cried, but felt a couple of soft pats on my back. Feeling comfortable I stopped. She started to sing a very familiar song, one that made me want to sleep. My vision, as clear as it was, slowly faded inwards, until all I saw or heard was her song.
I slowly came to. A warm feeling had come over my body. Cracks and pops resounded in the near area.
“Matthias! I thought… well… I thought you might be dead!” a familiar voice said.
I raised my head from the soft pillow that had been comforting my head. A large piece of cloth had been tied around my head. Opening my burning eyes I looked at James, who was fully dressed in the finest clothes.
“When I heard you had escaped I came looking for you in the forest. My conscience, guilty, I did not stop searching for you, even after nightfall. I am so sorry, brother, for leaving you behind!” James cried aloud.
I coughed, trying to speak. My throat was sore and felt as if it had been scratched on with the toughest sandpaper.
“Do not talk, I had to pump the water out of your lungs. You had swallowed quite a lot! Let it heal and dry out,” James said, his tone unchanged.
My vision was very blurry, in fact I could barley pick out James from the trees. I sat back again, resting my numb head, and yawned.
“Matthias, I need to report to my grandfather, will you be alright?” James asked quickly.
I tried to piece words together, but without a doubt I knew that he was already mounting his horse.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise!” James said, and I heard him swat his steed. The horses’ hooves kicked the ground and I felt the rhythm die down as he paraded off into the unknown. I sat there, thinking not only of my pain but also of the one memory that had stuck in my head. My mother had been very beautiful; I didn’t know why she had been killed. I knew nothing of my father, not even a vague memory. I thought perhaps he had been enlisted in the army and had no time to see me.
Then it occurred to me. I was still clenching the stone that I had found at the very bottom of the river. The stone that deceived me into believing I was going to heaven. My eyelids spread open and I once again raised my neck. The fire seemed to be a haze of red that dashed up and down. Angrily I threw the stone into the fire, or at least as best I could. I heard a couple taps as it bounced around on the various pieces of wood that had been set up to create the blazing fire. Again the picture of my mother appeared, this time stronger and clearer than ever. As she held me up on her shoulder and patted my back, I heard again the song she used to sing. Silently I mumbled it to myself. My throat was in no condition to sing at her level, or at any level to be specific. The words came out as if they were an ordinary simple sentence. As I finished, the forest exploded with sound.
From the largest predator to the smallest pray, all the creatures in the forest sang a melody in rhythm unlike any other. The melody was soft and smooth, a melody that seemed to make all else fade away. The fire, as blurry as it was, flickered to the rhythm. A light, brighter than any other, shone inside the fire. The fire was sizzling, as if someone had put water on it, yet the flames stood high and tall. Then, as the melody increased, so did the flames. The flames started to create a humanistic figure, a female. The forest drowned out my thoughts entirely as the sound got more intense to the point where I could feel my skin vibrating. It was as if every animal was standing around me, shouting whatever sound it was making straight into my ears. The image of this female grew stronger and stronger. Suddenly, the image and the fire flashed and died, and the music of the forest died as well. A buzzing sound stuck in my head, irritating me. I noticed just then that the figure had stayed put. It moved, frightening me. I tried to stand up but my body was drained as if I had just been running for my life. I breathed quickly, fearing the worst. A hand touched my head, and a soothing relaxation came over me. I was not able to think, speak, or control any part of my body. I just stared endlessly up into the sky.
The hand was removed, and a female voice broke the silence.
“Rest, friend,” she said, softly. “You are safe now.”
I tried to stay awake, but as the time progressed my eyelids began to bear the weight of the day’s trials. Slowly I fell asleep, knowing full well that whatever had appeared out of the fire was right at my side.
* * *
As I started to awaken, a deep fear sprang to life within my heart. I had witnessed a girl standing in the fire, fire that would burn your skin if you dared to touch it. I acted as if I were asleep, but peered around through a crack in my eyelids. As my eyes fell upon the rekindled fire, I saw the woman’s back. She had tattered clothing that might once have been a very fine, very tight, green dress. Her straight, dirty blond hair stretched to the middle of her back. My fear dulled a little and a wave of courage overwhelmed me. Opening my eyes, I sat upright to view her and the fire.
“Hello?” I said boldly.
She spun around surprised with a look of horror. “W-where am I?” she said, her dashing green eyes glaring at me.
“In the forest, I don’t know which one…” I sighed.
She wore a look of complete confusion, her eyes darted from me to the wildlife which seemed to be more quiet than ever.
“Are you a warrior?” she asked, her eyes wandering to my arms.
“No…” I paused, “I was to be a slave for all my life.”
She looked appalled. “A slave?” she asked, “We… We fought for freedom, we won that battle! There are no slaves!” Her voice cracked.
The forest grew louder, and a look of terror griped her face.
“Whom did you serve?” she asked, her every breath more intense.
“No one really knows his name besides the higher chain of command. Most of us are told what to do and they do not accept questions.” I paused to think of anything I knew of this king whom had enslaved me. Then it came to me. “He is a very fat man who has riches beyond any man’s wildest dreams! He is the keeper of the most sacred and valuable stones, Elf Stones.”
Her eyes closed and her knees bent. Her body came rushing down to the ground, tears built up in her eyes until they came tumbling down. Her hands gently wiped away her tears and for a brief moment there was only the sound of the fire dashing about inside the circle of rocks.
“How…?” She asked aloud.
Several minutes passed before she regained her composure herself and sat back. Her soft face wore a completely devastated look, as if she had just lost a close friend. Confusion struck me; there had been slaves now for a couple thousand years. How could she have fought against slavery? As I peered into her beautiful face, I noticed that her ears were longer than usual. Her body, though skinny, looked very strong.
The fire… how had she appeared in the fire? Then I remembered, I had chucked the stone into the fire! Was this some kind of enchantment? She must have noticed my confusion because she smiled at me. Her teeth were as bright as the snow that layered some of the forest ground. The smile intrigued me.
She stood again. “Who are you?” she asked, walking closer to me.
“I’m Matthias,” I paused for a few seconds as she got closer to me, “Who are you?”
“My name is Maria,” she said, now a few feet from my side.
I was tempted to stand up, but laid there on the soft pillow. She bent down on her knee and placed her hand upon my chest.
“I’m going to try to mend your wounds. This might hurt a little,” she said, her eyes glowing slightly.
She squinted and her green eyes glowed fiercer. That was when I noticed a trickle of pain in my chest. A couple seconds later the pain had grown immensely, but my body would not allow me to move. The glow of her eyes seemed to travel down her neck, to her arm, and finally down through my chest. As soon as the glow strengthened the pain stopped, though I could feel my bones popping back into place, and my skin stretching over my gashes.
The glow dimmed quickly. Her eyes relaxed and looked at mine. “That will be good enough until we can find someone who can really heal you. I am without much training,” Maria said, lifting her hand from my chest.
My body felt renewed in certain areas but in others I was still hurting, just not as much. I could not stop staring into Maria’s green eyes, nor could I for a moment grasp what had just occurred. What was she and where was she from? She looked from my face to the ground, as if she had made a poor decision.
Quickly I smiled, “Thank you.”
She stood, holding a hand out for me. “Do you know where the nearest town is?” she asked as she heaved me up to my feet.
“Well, kind of. If we get to the river all we need to do is travel north until we find the footpath and travel east. They will be looking for me though. If I go back…” I paused, terrified. “If I go back, they will kill me.”
She smiled as the forest started to chirp. “The forest thinks differently.”
I looked at her, and simply nodded my head. I took nearby gravel and snow to put out the fire. After I had done so, a chill ran over my body. I was freezing! I looked at her, though, and noticed she had no protection either. I looked around at the surroundings and saw the pillow that I had been propped on.
Tearing a hole through the top I handed it to Maria who laughed. “I am not cold, in fact I am quite used to this weather. You need it,” she said, and would not accept it even after I tried to force her to grab it.
The empty pillow provided some slight warmth, but would not last long in this weather. I waved for Maria to follow me and we traveled through the forest on a deer path. Soon we found the river and started heading north. Maria insisted on being in front. I was curious but not enough to ask why she insisted. The sun seemed to set itself behind the clouds today, creating winds that chilled my spine. My face burnt as if it was on fire, but I knew full well that it was colder than ice. We trudged onwards, not stopping for water or food. As the sky seemed to darken a little we found the path leading into town, though we were a long ways from it. We traveled east for some time, then she finally decided to stop. She plopped down on the side of the road, and patted the ground next to her.
I sat next to her, but kept my distance. She sighed and moved towards me, then stoically wrapped her arm around my waist. “If we keep together we will be warmer.”
Feeling warmer I squeezed in against her. My muscles ached and my stomach writhed. I hadn’t eaten anything in a long time.
Maria and I sat there, as if frozen to the spot. I was waiting for Maria to tell me what we were doing, but she stayed silent. It was an hour or two before she stood up.
Maria looked up into the sky, which was growing redder by the minute. The sun would soon appear over the endless tree tops. Maria’s gaze swept from the red sunrise to me.
“We should get going," she said and helped me up.
Both of us stayed silent for quite some time, until at last the road lead to a familiar area. The slave camp!
"The wall..." I whispered, hoping it couldn't see me.
Maria looked at the wall, and then to me. She understood exactly what I meant. "Don't worry, I promise you will never have to go in there again." She paused for a moment. "Can you trust me, Matthias?"
I paused to think. Why did she ask me if I could trust her? After all, I had not questioned her up to this point. I looked into her beautiful face, and nodded approvingly.
"I'll be back as soon as I can with some food and clothing. We can't walk you past the gate in that clothing!" Maria said.
I looked at Maria and at what she was wearing. How was she any better off than I was? She sprinted off towards the wall, leaving me to myself.
I attempted to entertain myself by throwing rocks as far as I could. Soon that got boring and I laid back into the tree line. I stared up into the wide deep blue of the sky. The tree branches created more bizarre looking paintings in the sky than did the clouds. As time moved, so did the clouds and their patterns. Soon the sun touched the tip of the tree line and the clouds turned red as blood.
I was worried now. I had no idea what I would do if she didn't happen to come back, and if she did, what worth am I to her? Her beauty swept my thoughts away when she was near. It was the very passion of wanting to know her that had kept me going along this far. Other than James, no other person had given me any sort of chance at friendship. I wanted to be a part of her life.
Though I had been a slave all my life, there had been female slaves among us men. The females did not appreciate me as a someone, even when I would take their full load for them! I was nothing more than just another person in the prison.
The moon rose softly upwards into the sky. It wasn't long after that, that the crickets started to chirp. Every once and awhile an owl would coo or a wolf would howl. My eyes started to strain with the weight of the day. It had been exhausting waiting for Maria. Soon time itself stopped and all that had once been on my mind ceased to be.
A loud hum woke me up. The hum strengthened until it became a string of words, "Matthias, wake up!"
I opened my eyes and Maria stood there looking down at me. She was wearing a large coat and thick pants that made her look fat, and in her hands were another coat and pants. As I stood up she handed me the jacket and pants, which weighed a considerable amount. Quickly I put them on, and instantly felt my skin start to warm up. I smiled at Maria, and she smiled back. She waved her hand at me, asking me to follow her. I did so, happy to know that she had come back. We walked eastward to town, it was right as we were about to pass the slave pins when a guard with a noticeable face stopped me and Maria.
"Hey, you! Do I know you from somewhere?" the man asked, his gaze searching out my face.
I looked down towards the ground, trying to avoid his eye's, "No sir, I don't know what your talking about" I said.
"Sir," Maria said, "Do you know who I am?"
The man looked puzzled, "Uhh..."
"I am your lord's wife! Do you not recognize me?" Maria whispered angrily.
The guard looked stunned as if he had been stricken, "If you..." he began, but Maria cut him off swiftly.
"I will hear no more of this matter!" she said sharply.
The man seemed to be locked up for words to say, so with his hand he gestured us away. We got quite a bit away when Maria stopped.
"I'm sorry I took so long. I have found us a place to stay though, the elf is a very old friend of mine who has been guarding quite a few elf stones. He may be able to aide us," she said smiling.
I smiled at her, "Thanks for the clothes." I managed to say.
"For a human you are extremely shy!" she giggled.
I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry." I replied, dropping my head down.
"No, don't be sorry Matthias!" she paused and lifted my chin up. "It is good to be shy."
She pushed softly on my back, wishing me to march on with her, and I did so. The town was visible in the near distance, fire trails lit by the sun led up far into the sky. The night had been awfully cold and I was amazed that I had lived through it. The closer we got the town, the louder the sounds got. Soon we arrived at the front gate and two fully armored guards with long spears walked over to us. Their plate mail suits both had an emblem on the front of it that looked like a (to be designed later!)
"What is your business?" one of the guards asked.
Maria smiled up at the left one, "Don't you remember me?"
The guard at once nodded and they both returned back to their spots. Maria and I walked forward past the guards and into town. My heart raced and my head burned as if it was on fire. I had never before been into a town of free men. Never had I been equal with anyone but my fellow worker! This was different, and hard to fathom. Maria led me north west of town to a two story house with a shack next to it. The building was surrounded by a metal gate that bore a sign. I could not read what it said, but it had a skull on it meaning something about death. She unlatched the gate and we entered the front yard of the house. It was a large and very old wooden house that had vines crawling up its sides. It's once marvelous stone patio was in ruin. The door, however, was new and contained a hefty lock on the front of it. Maria stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the door. Nothing stirred inside, but Maria stayed still in front of the door.
"Who is it?" an old voice yelled out suddenly.
Maria smiled, "It's me, Maria," she replied back.
A huge thud emitted from the door as the lock spun around. An old man leaning heavily on a strong wooden staff appeared in the doorway. My first impression was that this man was in his dying years.
"Is this him?" he asked Maria in a low, gruff voice.
Maria nodded. "He is the one who freed me.”
“He is welcome then! We shall have a feast!” the old man declared.
He turned slowly, waving us to follow. The scent of old parchment filled the air. The sound of the door closing echoed through the hallway. Warm air rushed around my body as the old man lead us deeper into his home. He brought us into a newly furnished room. He sat down at a cedar table next to the blazing fireplace, which lit up his weathered face dramatically. All his hair was white, and his thick, well-trimmed beard defined his strong chin. Harsh wrinkles marked his stern face, but when he smiled, kindness filled his bright eyes. I sat down in the chair he had pulled for me, close to the fire. Maria decided to stand instead of taking the chair closest to the old man.
“Welcome to my humble abode. Maria, if I remember correctly you had told me that this man released you from your imprisonment?” he said boldly.
Maria nodded, “Yes, though I do not understand how a human managed the task.”
“Neither do I.” The old man paused. “Mathias is it?” he said, looking at me.
“Yes,” I answered.
“I’m Nahado, a very old friend of Maria’s and a defender of sacred Elf Stones.”
“What do you know about Elf Stones, Matthias?” Maria asked.
“Well, they are the most valuable rubies in all the world! They are said to heal even the deepest wounds!” I thought out loud.
“You are right Matthias, however, there is something deeper you should know about them…” Nahado paused and looked around. “Each one carries a life within it.”
“A life? What do you mean?” I asked.
Maria looked to me with sadness in her eyes. “A life like myself.”
"You’ve been a slave all your life, correct?" inquired Nahado.
"Yes," I answered.
"Have you had any education?"
"I learned to read and write before I was sold off to slavery."
"Do you know anything of the history of your race?"
"No."
"Very well. We do not have time to go into it in great detail, but I will give you an abridged account of the history of Man." Nahado thought for a moment, then began his tale:
"What you must first understand, Mathias, is that the world as you know it is not how it seems. This land is not truly ruled by the King of Men. No. The true power belongs to an elf, who for generations, has used the human king as his puppet.
"You see, your race is relatively young. Only a few thousand years, actually. Before that, elves ruled the earth, and when Man and Woman emerged, we did not think much of you humans at first. Your life spans were so short, the average elf had not reached adulthood before several generations of men had passed away.
"However, as your race grew in number, we elves feared you would someday threaten us. So, sadly, we enslaved your people. However, our greatest king, Lord Dnno, fought for your freedom. But he met fierce opposition from some of the elvish lords."
"If he was your king, who could oppose him?" I asked.
Before Nahado had a chance to answer my question, Maria chimed in, "You must understand, our culture was much different than yours. Our king did not wield the unbridled power of the human dictator who now rules."
Nahado continued, "At any rate, slavery persisted in many parts of the land in spite of Dnno's best efforts. Until the slaves, growing tired of their state, rose up under the leadership of a slave named Olgi. At first, their attempts were pathetic. Olgi was little more than a nuisance, but he was clever. He found a way to use black powder, an ancient art we elves took for granted, to create a weapon. He called his device 'the gun.' With his guns, he fought his first successful battle and freed many slaves."
"Good," I added heartily.
Nahado looked furious for a moment, but controlled his temper. "I understand that as a human you are inclined to side with the slaves, but Olgi was a monster. He killed all elves, regardless of whether they supported slavery or not. And when he eventually came to power, he enslaved his own people. As time went on, he created larger and more powerful guns. They shattered our defenses and laid ruin to our mightiest cities. Lord Dnno was forced to take action to prevent our extinction--" Nahado suddenly stopped. He looked like he was in pain.
Maria continued the story for her friend. "Dnno instructed all elves, except for guardians like Nahado to take the form of an Elf Stone. In this state, we would sleep peacefully until it was safe for our people to reemerge. Elf Stones are nearly unbreakable, but if one is destroyed, the soul contained inside it is destroyed as well. That is why at least one elf must remain in order to guard them."
Nahado continued, "Dnno appointed seven of his most trusted servants, including myself, and divided the stones among us. Never did we suspect there was a betrayer amongst the guardians. How could we predict such despicable treachery! The locations of our temples were divulged to Olgi, who had by now appointed himself as King of Men. He invaded all the temples simultaneously. I barely escaped myself, but could do nothing to protect my charges."
"Who was the betrayer?" I asked.
"I have no way of knowing for sure," Nahado said dejectedly. "Dnno must have learned of the treachery almost immediately after it occurred. I suspect he did not know who the betrayer was, but I know he took precautions to make sure that he would not suffer the same fate. It was far too late to undo what had been done,” Nahado added.
“Why would he abandon his people?” I asked.
“I do not know. I can only have faith that Dnno had good reason for what he did,” Nahado responded.
“So where is Dnno’s stone?” I wondered out loud.
“That is the question I am hoping to answer soon. Now, Maria, I’m going to tell you something that not even you know. One of the guardians, Nelrion, escaped as well. But, unlike me, he managed to save a number of his stones. They have formed a last sanctuary deep in the forest of Greenwood. That is where I want the three of us to go.”
“Why me?” I asked, shocked.
“Maria trusts you. And you can help us carry our heavy equipment,” Nahado said grinning slyly.
“You look tired and worn out from your day's adventure. We’ll purchase supplies tomorrow, but tonight let’s get some sleep,” Maria said to me.
I stood up to leave. "Aren't the two of you going to bed?" They looked at each other curiously.
"I wish to choose a few of my precious books to bring with me. I have so many, it will take me a while," Nahado answered.
Quickly, Maria added, "Mathias, Why don't you go on to bed while I help Nahado?"
"All right," I said. As I left, I watched the two out of the corner of my eye. They didn't move, at least not until I left the room. I was suspicious to say the least. What could they be discussing without me? Why wasn't I privy to it? With a pang of fear, I wondered if they could be planning to return me to the slave traders, but I suppressed that suspicion. Though I had only known Maria for a short time, I was confident that she wasn't planning anything like that.
However, I heard their voices carrying through the door. Instead of ignoring the voices, I pressed my ear against a small hole in the wall. I could make them out clearly.
“All right, Nahado. What are you not telling me?” It was Maria's voice.
“I’m sorry?” Nahado answered.
“Why are we going to Qarsak?”
“I need your help to discover the resting place of Dnno.”
“No, there's more to it than that. What do you know about Mathias? Why do you want to bring him to Qarsak?”
“I should have known I couldn't hide it from you, Maria," he laughed. "I do not know anything for sure. Let me just say that I find it intriguing that Mathias, a human, could release you from the Elf Stone. Indeed, it is disturbing. If humans have developed a way to break the power of the Elf Stones, Nelrion must know immediately.” There was a hint of fear in his voice.
“I think it unlikely that humans would simply develop such capabilities. What if—could it be something about Mathias? ”
“I have considered that possibility as well. Either way, it will be of immense interest to Nelrion.”
Suddenly, the two began to approach the door! I jumped away from the hole in the wall. Seconds later, Nahodo came out of the study. I was sure Nahado had not noticed me jump, but as he looked at me, my heart pumped furiously. “I am sorry," said Nahado. "I forgot to tell you. You and Maria will have to sleep in my shack. It's comfortable enough. I'll show you the way.”
Nahado lead Maria and me out the door and towards the shack. I leapt when I saw two beastly cats who had poked their heads out from the tall grass. The two black beasts appeared to be overgrown cats with pointed ears and black fur. Most fearsome of all were their ruby red eyes.
Nahado laughed at my shock, “They are quite friendly, so long as you are with me.”
The cats followed us as we walked towards the shack. The sun had set in the distance. The night’s chill swept over me, causing me to shake. The small wooden door which lead into the shack was only as high as my neck. Nahado stepped forward, opened the door, and bent over to tip-toe in. Maria and I followed him. The shack's appearance would have deceived anyone for the inside was filled with furniture and beds, as if to hold many guests. In one of the corners were several pillows clawed nearly to shreds, and in the middle of the wall was a large fireplace. It was not until the door that lead into the shack was shut that I felt the warmth from this fire.
“You may take any of these beds. They are as fine as they come,” Nahado said at once, then turned to the door.
“Thank you Nahado,” Maria said.
I smiled at Nahado as he left through the door.
“Which bed would you like Matthias?” Maria asked.
I walked to the nearest bed and collapsed on it. The weight of the day had indeed taken its toll. Maria took the bed, opposite mine. I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, comfortable sleep that I had never experienced before.
Chapter 2
Something pounded onto my chest and I woke with miserable pain! As my vision cleared a large cat appeared. The beast licked my chin and purred. Hastily I threw it off of me, not knowing whether it was trying to be playful or mean. It cowered away to the pillows in the corner where another beast was asleep. I looked around for Maria, but she was no longer in her bed. I jumped out of my own bed and headed for the door. To my surprise it sprang open; Maria stared at me.
“Ready to go into town?” she asked.
I nodded and she helped me through the small door. Slowly we walked, not talking to each other, to Nahado’s house. Nahado greeted us at the front door. He wore dark green garments that matched his new staff.
“Are we ready?” Nahado asked.
“What are we going to be doing in town?” I asked.
Nahado smiled, “We must get supplies for our quest.”
“Quest?” I asked.
“Matthias, there's something you need to know. I wanted to tell you last night, but I could not bring myself to do so,” Maria started, but Nahado raised his gnarled hand.
“Maria, the two of you can discuss these matters later!” Nahado paused, “We'll need supplies for our trip. Food, water, and clothing!”
Maria looked to the ground, disappointed. Nahado raised his hand and set it on her shoulder. He spoke in a foreign tongue to Maria, who looked up and smiled sadly.
“Come come! We have much to get done today!” Nahado said at once.
We ventured south towards town. None of us spoke. However, I noticed something unusual about Nahado. Despite his age, Nahado had kept the quick pace with Maria and me. In fact, his gait was almost soldierly. But just as we were about to enter town, I thought I saw him subtly stoop over, putting more weight on his staff, and he shuffled his feet a little.
This thought was driven from my mind when we entered town. Scores of people bustled about, conducting all sorts of business. After weaving our way through the long streets and crowded marketplaces we found the local baker. Nahado spoke with the baker and arranged for twenty loaves of bread. The baker asked us to come back later that day, when he would have our order ready.
“Now we need clothing,” Maria insisted.
Nahado lead us to an old store that had very few tailors. The woman, who was taking orders, glanced over at Nahado and smiled. “Welcome Nahado! You do not venture out here that much!”
“Hannah, it’s so nice to see you!” Nahado replied cheerily.
“Who are these two?” Hannah asked.
“This is Mathias” said Nahado, pointing to me, “and this is Maria,” he added, gesturing to Maria. “We are in need of some...” He paused and winked at Hannah. “...Some clothing,” he said softly.
“Right, come with me,” she whispered.
She led us back into a broken down shack, closing the door behind her. She lit a couple of candles to light the room up a bit, then bending over, she picked a floorboard up out of the ground.
“Right this way,” She said and ducked down into the now open hole.
We followed her down into a room filled with majestic clothing.
“You have quite the inventory today Hannah!” Nahado whispered, as he straightened his back with a crick.
“Thank you, I’ve had more free time these days. Still, I dislike how I must live,” Hannah sighed. “What can I help you with Nahado?” she asked.
“The three of us are leaving on a journey, to finish something that I should have done long ago.” Nahado paused. “We need to be ready for any sort of trouble we come across, whether it is just against the cold winter winds or the blades of an army.”
“An army?” I interrupted.
“You don't seriously expect us to waltz right into the path of a hostile army, do you, Nahado?” Maria laughed. She waited for an answer, but Nahado said nothing.
Several seconds passed.
Nahado's silence was eloquent, I thought.
“We need two pairs of clothing each. Can you fit us?” Nahado asked, looking at Hannah.
“Yes, but must I wear this feeble costume?” Hannah replied.
“No, you can trust these people,” Nahado said.
Cracks from Hannah’s back echoed through the room. She grew four inches, and her gray hair turned to blond. Her wrinkles stretched out and revealed smooth skin. Her appearance changed completely.
“Well that’s better!” she said excitedly. “Come here, Maria, we’ll clothe you first.”
Maria walked over to her.
“Which colors do you like better, dark green, dark blue, dark purple, or black?” Hannah asked.
Maria chose the dark green and dark purple robes.
“Very well. Matthias and Nahado, turn away to give Maria some privacy.” Hannah paused then addressed Maria, “Put these on, Maria.”
Nahado and I turned around. I heard clothing hit the ground, then the sound of clothing being put on.
“Lovely, just lovely,” Hannah said.
“Your turn Matthias, come pick the colors that you like,” Hannah said.
I turned around, noticing that Maria had now changed into her forest green robe.
I, however, loved dark blue and chose black to go with the dark blue.
“Put one of them on to make sure it fits. We’ll turn around for your privacy,” Hannah said.
When they had turned around, I slipped off my old garments and put on the new ones. The garments were quite a bit lighter but very tough.
“I’m finished,” I said.
They turned and looked at me.
“You look very nice!” Maria said, looking me up and down.
I smiled at her, “You look great too!”
“So how much will these cost?” Nahado asked.
“You can have them if they are going to be put to use against the betrayer,” Hannah replied.
Nahado smiled, “Thank you Hannah, I am indebted to you.”
“I need to finish some business down here, I will see you later?” Hannah asked.
“Thank you again, Hannah.” Maria said.
Nahado led us back up out of the secret basement. As we got out Nahado handed me my second pair of clothes.
“Let's get some breakfast. We should have one last full meal before we depart!” Nahado said.
We followed him to a smoking hut that smelled greatly of venison. Inside, four men who stank of whine sat and ate juicy meat. The sight caused my mouth to water. When I had been a slave, the guards would eat in front of our faces. Every time they had, our stomachs would writhe.
“We’ll take three medium pieces, tender please,” Nahado asked the butcher.
“Yes sir,” the butcher said and went into the back.
We stood there, waiting for our meat. I noticed that Maria seemed on edge. It was as if she desperately wanted to say something, but kept holding it back.
“Nahado,” Maria whispered plaintively.
“Maria, there is a time and a place for this conversation. That time and place is not here,” Nahado said, looking away from Maria.
I was confused, what did they mean? Was this about their secret conversation? I looked at Maria trying to find an answer in her face. The silence was terribly akward.
“Matthias, have you ever wielded a sword?” Nahado asked, trying to change the subject
I shook my head. “No, sir, I’ve never been allowed,” I answered.
"Mathias," interjected Maria, but Nahado jumped in.
"No Maria, we'll discuss this later, in a safer place!"
Maria shook her head. "It's not that! Mathias--" she whispered so softly in my ear that even I could barely catch her words, "--we have to be careful what we say. If someone overhears us discussing what you haven't been allowed to do during your life, they might grow suspicious. These villagers must have been alerted of the breakout from the slave camp by now!" Nahado and I suddenly realized! Carefully, I checked around the tavern, trying to see if anyone was eavesdropping on our conversation.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two men staring at Maria. They were smiling wickedly, their eyes glazed over. A deep feeling of resentment filled my heart. I looked away from them, and held my breath. The greed in their eyes as they stared at Maria, it was disturbing.
“Here they are, sir,” the butcher yelled to Nahado.
Three medium sized servings plopped down on top of an old wooden plate.
“That looks very good Nahado, thank you!” Maria smiled.
“Your welcome, here take your piece,” Nahado answered.
I picked up a piece and tore away some meat from it with my teeth. The meat tasted wonderful, making my mouth salivate more! I had never experienced the taste of meat!
Just as we stood to leave, the four men stepped from their table as well, and followed us to the door. "Will you hurry it up?" grumbled one, his words slurred. Without warning, he slapped Maria’s butt.
Maria didn't even blink, but she seemed at a loss for words.
Furious, I grabbed the drunk by the collar. “Tell her you are sorry!” I yelled. He stared at me venomously.
Now that I thought about it, he was a lot larger than me. In fact, he was at least a foot taller than I was! Before I had time to act he swung back his arm and with all of his might he hit me with it. If I had not tried to dodge his attack he might have bashed my head right off my shoulders. Instead I was knocked down to the ground, my head stung like it had at the river. Things became a lot blacker than they had been. A second later, my body felt nothing at all and I could hear the sound of my heart beating. I jumped up to my feet and with anger that I had never experienced before, I swung at the giant, hitting him plain in the chest. Again and again I hit him, my anger channeling through each punch. He tried to fight back, but his blows no longer affected me. Soon he was falling backwards, but still I threw my fists into him. My anger felt unending. By the time his back touched the ground my knuckles were bleeding furiously. The man covered his head with his hands and cried out for mercy. My anger wanted to hurt him more, but I held out against it. I stood straight up and looked over at Maria, who was being held back by Nahado. I felt horrible now. I had just made a fool of myself in front of her. In spite of all my anger towards this man I gave him my hand. He took it and stood up. Slowly he trudged off with his three friends. They glared at me fiercely, but I understood why.
I stared down at the ground now as I walked back to Nahado and Maria. I didn't know whether I had done right or wrong.
"Mathias..." Maria said quietly but Nahado silenced her.
"Come you two, we should return to my cottage," Nahado suggested.
Maria silently paid the innkeeper for the damage to the furniture that had resulted from the brawl.
As the three of us stepped outside, I could feel the angry glares from the four troublemakers at the back of my neck. We stepped slowly towards Nahado's home, Maria never looking at me. Finally, I broke the awkward silence, "I'm sorry I lost my temper. Maybe I went a little too far."
"It wasn't worth fighting for at all," said Maria with a voice like steel.
I certainly hadn't expected that. "Maria, he struck you!"
"He was drunk. What does it matter? You could have gotten yourself killed or worse. What if you got arrested? What if they discovered that you are a slave?"
"What was I supposed to do? Stand by and do nothing?"
"I am fully capable of protecting myself, Matthias. Please do not feel that you need to
leap to my defense, because I'm not a weak little girl."
"I didn't fight him just because you're a weak little girl! I had other reasons." Maria just gave me a stony look. "Wait! That didn't come out right. I didn't mean I think you're weak!" I corrected. Nahado was doubling up with silent laughter. "You're not weak. It's just that what that man did was degrading and-" as she turned away I just gave up.
I stared dumbly as she walked briskly ahead of us. Nahado suddenly appeared at my side and whispered into my ear so Maria could not hear, "Nice right uppercut!"
I looked up to Maria, but she made it a point not to look at me. This saddened me greatly. All the way back I tried to justify what I had done, but every time I thought deeper about it I knew Maria was right; I had overreacted. I hated myself for what I had done.
All three of us entered Nahado's house and sat at the great table inside. Maria closed her eyes, waiting for Nahado to speak.
"The sun will set in a few hours, then we will leave for the secret elven city of Qarsak, the last refuge for elves. I wish for you to meet my closest friend, for I have many questions that only he can answer."
In our last few hours before our departure, I tried to keep myself busy, so I would not have to awkwardly endure Maria's silent treatment. While Maria packed our food and other necessities, I helped Nahado with our equipment: knifes, rope, lanterns, tools for making fire, our swords, and "just a few" of Nahado's precious books, three bags full. All of this was mine to haul through the forest. I didn't mind. After all, I had borne much heavier loads as a slave. In fact, I was prepared to carry the food, until Maria lightly snatched it up. "I'll be fine carrying this, thank you," Maria stated, giving me a look which clearly meant, "Unless you think I'm too weak and frail to manage it on my own."
Nahado looked from me to Maria, then back to me. "Shall we depart, friends?" he asked us, emphasizing the last word slightly.
Both Maria and I nodded in assent, and the three of us marched to the door, eager to begin our journey. As I swung the heavy door open, I couldn't wait to see the wide open fields and scenic paths which led to the forest. The sight which greeted me was not what I was expecting. At least a dozen men were huddled outside Nahado's home. Dusk had fallen. Warm light flickered from out of their torches and eerily lit up their faces. One of them stepped forward, raising his rough voice, "That's him! That's the man who tried to kill me! I told you he was staying with crazy old Nahado!" It was the drunken man I had fought earlier, but he was fully sober now.
Two other men, both in uniform, stepped from the group and marched towards us. "What business do these strangers have in our town, and why are you harboring them, Nahado?"
Nahado was stooped over again, and he spoke to the villagers in a cracked, feeble voice. "These are merely travelers, sergeant. They wished to purchase some of my books. I was just escorting them out of town."
"I don't believe it! Who cares about your books, old man?" shouted someone I could not see, but one of the soldiers raised a silencing hand.
"I cannot allow these strangers to leave, Nahado. They must be brought in for questioning. After all, this one attacked an innocent citizen," barked the soldier, pointing to me.
"Sir," Maria interrupted, "the man who stands behind you, the one who accuses us, was so drunk I am surprised he even remembers the fight. He was rude to me, and Mathias felt it was his duty to defend my honor. A silly thing to quibble over, I admit, but clearly Mathias was not in the wrong." With a winning smile, Maria added, "Don't you agree, sergeant?"
"Well," the sergeant seemed to be mulling it over. "I suppose that's fair. But I'm going to have to ask you to leave town at once."
I felt relieved. Leave town? Was that all? That was exactly what we wanted to do! However, the man I had fought with was not satisfied. At the soldier's words he seized his opportunity, "Yeah! I say we drive 'em out of town, right now!" The others cheered their assent, and the two soldiers looked nervous. If the small mob grew violent, the two of them would not be enough to suppress them. They placed their hands firmly on the shouting man's shoulders, hoping to calm him down, but their gesture had just the opposite effect. Feeling threatened, the brute shook the soldiers off, clubbing one with his torch. The other villagers roared and charged us!
In response, Nahado stuck both of his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. The deafening whistle lasted for five whole seconds. Everyone paused dumbly, including Maria and me. Since he now had everyone's attention, Nahado took this opportunity to speak his mind, "Now, gentlemen, I'm sure there is a rational, civilized way for us to sort this all out." A few hundred feet behind the villagers, I saw two shapes leap out of the old shack in response to the whistle and came bounding towards us. Listening intently to Nahado with their backs turned to the shack , none of the villagers noticed them. I realized what was about to happen.
"And this, my friends, is not it," finished Nahado, in a strong, powerful voice. The time for acting meek was over. The two black cats pounced ferociously at the back of the group. At that instant, Nahado charged the distracted men in the front, staff in hand. Before Maria and I even had time to rush to Nahado's aid, it was over. Six men lay sprawled on the ground, some unconscious and others rubbing their skulls looking confused. The rest were fleeing as fast as they could.
"Shall we take our leave?" invited Nahado as though he had just finished having a quiet tea with the villagers.
Stepping over the bodies, I expected to see a lot of blood, but it seemed Nahado's pets weren't trained to kill. "They'll be alright. I only hit their heads," reassured Nahado. "For decades, I've been cooped up in this village, gathering what information I can about the monarchy, trying to make a living selling these ignorant bigots books, which they couldn't care less for," he said to himself.
And so, the three of us began our journey. After witnessing Nahado's feat, I found it ironic that Maria and I were carrying all the supplies for the old man, but I didn't bother to mention it.
We walked headlong towards the forest. Every now and then I would glance beside me and try to catch Maria's eye, though each time she noticed me, she would avert her gaze. The trees were sparse, but gradually grew thicker as we progressed. Birds small and large flew in and out of the different trees. Creatures crawled around the area, never taking notice to us as we passed through. The noises of the forest became almost unnoticeable. An hour or two passed and the forest looked just as bland as it had been at Nahado's house. Every once in a while we would run into a meadow where only grass grew. I sighed in relief as we entered another clearing. It was much easier travel! "It's so beautiful here," I observed.
To my surprise, Nahado slammed his staff sharply to the ground. I looked at him uneasily.
“These meadows. Do you recognize them, Maria?" he muttered.
"I think so," she answered, hesitantly.
"This field is the final resting place for the elves who fought against humans at our last stand. This is a cursed place. The blood of those soldiers has laid dormant under the grass for hundreds of years, preventing the growth of trees. I remember visiting here shortly after the massacre. I was so young then, just a religious acolyte.” Nahado swallowed hard.
Maria walked over to him and wrapped her arm around him. In their language she spoke softly to him. Nahado wiped the sweat from his brow. "Senseless. Why did it have to happen? Dnno was making such progress. He had already secured freedom for thousands of humans. One by one, he convinced the elvish nobles and the church leaders that slavery was intolerable. There were only a few godless fools who refused to listen to the words of their king, and even their resolve was weakening. But that wasn't good enough for the humans. At first, Olgi's mob was content to hunt down and butcher their former owners. Soon, they were strong enough to overthrow the elf lords who had supported their enslavement. Dnno often spoke of his vision, a world where our races could stand as allies, where every man, woman, and elf lived free." Nahado knitted his weathered brow. The gentle wrinkles which showed his age seemed to ripple away, replaced by waves of anger. His voice grew bitter as he continued, "But Olgi believed that as long as a single elf remained alive, there was a threat to his race. Every day, we would hear new accounts of destruction and carnage at the hands of humans. Whole cities were purged, even those where slavery had long been abolished. Dnno’s dream was destroyed by the very people he sought to liberate—humans!" The last word was a dangerous whisper. Nahado looked up and our eyes met for a brief moment. I cannot easily describe the feeling that came over me. It was as if Nahado was looking at me, but all he could see were the atrocities that my ancestors had committed. There was fear, pain, hatred in those eyes. But in an instant it was over, and kindness filled his eyes again as he looked back to Maria.
Slowly, Nahado raised his staff and continued walking. I was shaken, but I tried to control myself, the way Nahado had controlled the look in his eyes. Did he hate me because I was human? Did all elves harbor similar resentful feelings? A terrible thought occurred to me: what if he was leading me into a trap? I remembered his conversation with Maria behind closed doors, about my unusual ability to unlock Maria from her stone. That was one reason why we were going to Qarsak, one they didn't want me to know.
What exactly was going to happen to me when we arrived at Qarsak?
But at the sight of Maria, my doubts vanished. I couldn’t bring myself to doubt her, after all the kindness she had shown to me. As if she was trying to vindicate my trust, Maria ended her silent treatment, and the three of us began chatting amiably again.
Chapter 3
As we went deeper into the forest, the man-made paths started to disappear. After some time I became suspicious that Nahado had no idea where we were going.
“Nahado?” I asked, when I realized we had abandoned the paths altogether.
“Yes?” Nahado responded.
“Are we lost?”
Nahado chuckled slightly and glanced at me. “Lost! No, of course not. We are right on track!”
Maria seemed amused as well, but her laugh faded in her throat. She was staring at something moving on the path ahead of us. When I saw it, I understood why she wasn’t laughing.
A gigantic bear was bent over the carcass of a deer. It looked up from its kill, fresh blood staining its fangs and claws, and stared right at us with its empty, black eyes. Step by ponderous step, it trudged towards us, breaking twigs under its mighty paws. I looked from Nahado to Maria, waiting for them to react. I was about to tell them not to panic, as if that would have helped, but Maria's face lit up, not with terror, but with sheer joy!
“Nahado! May I?” she whispered in excitement.
Nahado nodded and Maria approached the beast at a swift pace. I started to run after her but Nahado griped my shoulder tightly, holding me back. The bear stood on its hind legs, towering over Maria.
Just then, Maria held out her hand to pet the bear which allowed her to do so freely. I was stunned. Nahado pushed me forward, directly in front of the animal. Maria smiled at me reassuringly as she took my hand. My heart raced as she extended my arm to the warm fur which felt smooth to the touch.
“Mathias," she said with a laugh, amused by my expression of terror, "you will find that, with our help, creatures of any kind can become your allies. We elves have a special connection with nature. It has been that way since the beginning of time, until your race…” She ended abruptly and hung her head.
Nahado cleared his throat. "We had best be on our way Maria. We are about to cross the border,” Nahado insisted.
The bear seemed to understand Nahado and fell to the ground with a thump, looking dejected. I forced myself not to laugh at the sight: a ferocious monster looking more like a lonely puppy. Maria said something in her language to the bear and it bounded away.
Maria seemed to be very happy to have encountered that beast. Her smile was infectious.
As we traveled through the forest, the trees had grown progressively larger and closer set. Now, they almost formed a solid wall. As we carefully winded our way past the thick trunks and branches, I was starting to get claustrophobic. I also had a strange feeling of déjà vu. I thought I could hear something unusual, besides the noises of the forest life; its volume would sometimes increase and then fade away, only to increase again even louder. It was like music. The same music I had heard before.
“This music. Nahado, I heard this same song on the night I escaped the slave encampment!”
“Indeed?" Nahado looked interested at this news. "Was there anything else strange you noticed that night?”
“No…” my voice trailed away as I thought. Then, the trees jogged my memory. “Wait, there was something. When I fled from the slave camp, the trees had been blocking my path. I haven’t thought about it until now. I guess I was too concentrated on escaping. But I remember now that the trees had almost seemed to -- shift out of my path, like they were letting me through.”
Nahado nodded. “Intriguing.” There was a moment as he pondered my words. “This is an enchanted place, Mathias, as you may have gathered. The music you hear is the Song of the Forest. The trees here can move, if they wish, and think, and sometimes even speak.” He paused dramatically. I thought he was waiting to see if one of the trees would do something to prove the truth of his words. None of them moved, but he continued unperturbed, “What I find strange is that, since humans inhabited the outer regions of this wood, the Song of the Forest has only been heard in the deepest areas of the forest, far from human ears. The trees do not trust your race as they do mine. One more question for my friend Nelrion.”
Nahado’s gaze flicked to the heavy satchels and sacks I was hauling. “Here, let me take some of your load. I’m sorry, my books must be a terrible encumbrance.” I knew it was his subtle way of suggesting that we cease talking and move on, but I didn’t mind. I was satisfied with his answer. Also, I was thankful to be relieved of his heavy book bags. Without the extra weight, it was somewhat easier to maneuver around all the brambles and foliage.
By now, the sun was almost completely blotted out. “Tread carefully here,” advised Nahado. “Don’t worry, there is another source of light in this forest. We should come across it before it becomes pitch black.” A minute later, I looked up, and sure enough, a hazy green aura seemed to emanate from the forest canopy. It was like a thick fog, glowing eerily.
As I looked at my surroundings I noticed there were vines thicker than my arm spiraling up most of these trees which were covered with beautiful flowers. This flower was similar to a sunflower, its center a cluster of thousands of florets arranged in a gorgeous spiral. But unlike a sunflower, its petals were blood red and relatively thick. Nahado noticed my fascination and grabbed my extended hand before I could pluck one. “Careful,” he cautioned. “The head of this flower, the center, has remarkable recuperative properties,” he said as he delicately broke one off at the stem. Before I could ask what he meant by “recuperative,” he answered my question, “It naturally speeds up the healing process. However, the red petals are highly venomous. Even a slight touch could be dangerous. Or is it the other way around?”
“Nahado!” cried Maria.
“I’m only joking. I know the difference. Though medicinal herbs were never my best subject. Nelrion is an expert on botany. You’d best be careful or he’ll talk your ear off!” Nahado gently flicked the flower away, making sure not to let the red petals brush his skin.
The red flowers were not the only dangerous plant life. The sparse plants that grew on the ground had no flowers but thorns, which tore at my sandals. Another hour passed and the trees became as wide as cottages. Some of the smaller plant life that had been hindering us before had stopped growing in these parts. Off in the near distance we saw a large cat-like animal that stared us down. Its fur was long and well kept. Nahado's walking was uninterrupted by this beast, and as we moved closer it ran off.
Maria suddenly gasped.
Nahado and I turned at once to view why. Apparently she had tripped over something and was laying face down on the ground. I rushed to her aid and wiped the mud from her face.
“Thanks...” she whispered, then turned to look at what had tripped her.
“Nahado!” she screamed and the old elf ran towards where she was pointing.
Nahado picked up the end of an old and weather-beaten pole that had long since fallen over. Attached to the other end was a skull of a human. I looked to Nahado. His face was grim.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means we’ve almost arrived at Qarsak,” he answered bluntly without looking at me, as he buried the skull with the loose dirt that surrounded it. “Maria, what do you think we should do? I’m hesitant to set up camp here, but we’ve been traveling all day, and it’s another half-day’s walk to Qarsak.”
Maria thought a moment and answered, “I think we should set up camp here. It is getting late, and I don't think we should travel through this part of the forest if our minds are tired and groggy. We should get a few hours of sleep.”
“But it’s still nearly bright as day,” I said, confused.
“Because of the mist, it’s almost impossible to tell how long you’ve been in the forest. It’s probably past midnight outside the woods,” answered Nahado.
In the distance there was a giant tree that had fallen over. It was hollow and had a crack down the center of it. Nahado seemed interested, and motioned us to follow him. It was a beautiful place. A few hundred feet away, I could see a shimmering pool of water. But as I stumbled on one of its giant roots and caught myself, I saw something which drove the pool of water to the back of my mind. A centipede, about a foot long and three inches thick, was crawling up my leg. I screamed and struggled to brush the thing off me!
“Humans!” Nahado laughed as I wildly kicked it away from me. “Here, let me put a protective charm around the three of us.” Nahado started chanting words in a foreign language, and a large sphere of green sparks began to form around his staff. His eyes began to glow slightly. As he raised his staff, I felt a warm sensation travel through my whole body. “Very good,” Nahado finished. “Now, for your sake, let me do something about these insects.” Lightly, he tapped the hollow log and every creature who lived inside it came running out. An ant the size of a small cat was the last to leave!
“That should keep them out until morning. Come – let us get some rest,” Nahado declared.
We entered the log and I unloaded the baggage to the ground. While Nahado decided to sleep on the flat ground, Maria lay her head on the end of the log opposite from me. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. She was really beautiful when she smiled.
Maria quickly drifted into a deep slumber. On the other hand, I twisted and turned fitfully, unable to get comfortable.
I awoke late that night and couldn’t get back to sleep. My mouth was irritatingly dry, so I thought some water might help. I blinked, trying to find the water pouches, and finally saw then tucked by Maria. There was no way of getting them without disturbing her.
I tried to force myself to sleep. Of course, that didn’t work. Finally, I made up my mind to go and drink from the natural water source I had noticed earlier, and crept my way past my two friends to the pond. The moon was just barely peeping through the branches high above, and its reflection gently shimmered in the dark blue water. Even if it was stagnate, I wouldn’t have cared. But as I approached, I noticed it was clearer and fresher than any water I had ever seen.
Strange.
I bent my head over to drink.
But I did not see my reflection in the water. Someone else’s face was staring back at me!
Stunned, I backed away from the spring with a gasp. Blinking, I checked the water again, but this time, it was my own distorted reflection. Was it just my tired mind playing tricks on me? My thoughts were interrupted by a deep, clear voice. “Well, are you going to take a drink, or are you going to sit around all night muttering to yourself?” the voice resonated. Startled I looked around for the speaker.
“Where are you?” I asked desperately.
“I’m in the pond,” said the voice full of sarcasm.
I stared at it incredulously. “In the pond?” I thought out loud.
“You are very quick,” the voice added in that same sardonic tone. It sounded almost bored. “Here. Let me take on a more palpable form. It has been a very, very long time since I have had someone to speak with.” In the center of the pond, the water began to rise. Slowly, it took the shape of a creature like an elf and stood unmoving where it had appeared. Though it was made of liquid, the elf-like figure had distinct features: hands, ears, hair, and shining blue eyes. “Now, what manner of creature are you? You look like an elf, but clearly you are not,” it inquired. The figure’s mouth moved, but the voice seemed to emanate from deep underwater.
“Well, what sort of creature are you? You look like an elf, but clearly you are not,” I said, imitating its doleful voice.
It laughed stiffly. “Well, it’s seems you are not without wit. Very well, I shall go first. I am a sprite. Now, it is your turn, I believe.”
“I’m a man. Haven’t you seen a man before?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. When I saw it shake its head, I replied, “How long have you been here, anyway?”
“Oh, centuries probably. It’s almost impossible to determine time in this forest, as I’m sure you’ve observed already. Tell me, how long have mans been around?”
“You mean ‘men,’” I corrected.
“So sorry,” it said, looking impatient. “But really, I could not be expected to know that, could I? After all, I've been here since before your race of 'men' emerged. Now, could you answer my question, please?”
“My race is thousands of years old,” I informed the sprite.
“I figured that I must have been trapped here at least that long.”
“Why can’t you leave here?”
“As a sprite,” it began, “I have complete control over the body of water I inhabit. But I am limited to said body. As all rivers eventually lead to the ocean, that restriction usually isn’t a problem for sprites, but I got stuck in this pond.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Oh, bit of a fracas between myself and some elves. They lured me to this pond through a stream which led here, then used their magic to cut me off. Dreadfully tricky creatures, elves. You can’t trust them.”
I thought of the two elves whom I traveled with, sleeping soundly back at the camp site. Could I trust them? I hadn’t forgotten their secret discussion about my presentation to the elf, Nelrion. “Why would they do that?” I wondered out loud.
The sprite, who must have thought the question was directed to him, answered, “I suppose they were jealous of me. Envious of my power. Elves covet magic above all else. That tendency has marked their race since the beginning of time, eons before your race of men came about, when sprites and elves and other creatures inhabited this world together.”
It had been my power that had interested them, hadn’t it? I remembered the concern in Nahado’s voice when he considered the possibility that men had developed the power to awaken elf stones, and the fear in his eyes when he looked into my eyes at the ancient grave. Did he fear retribution? That my people would seek vengeance against those who had enslaved us long ago? I brooded on this question.
“Something is troubling your mind,” the sprite observed. “What is it?” he inquired, curiously. I was hesitant to answer. After the moment’s pause, the sprite hazarded a guess: “Are you having troubles with elves, yourself?” I was astonished by the sprite’s powers of observation.
“I—I’m not—” my voice was hoarse, and I stammered.
“You’re throat is so dry, you can barely speak. Why don’t you have a drink to restore your voice?” it offered, invitingly.
“Are you sure? I mean, aren’t you the water?”
“I am a spirit which inhabits the water. ‘Sprite’ is derived from the ancient elven word for ‘spirit.’ Drinking the water will not harm me, so long as you do not drink the spring dry, which you look thirsty enough to do,” it joked. I laughed, but the strain on my voice sent me into a fit of coughing. The sprite’s liquid eyes filled with concern at the sight. Finally, I decided I was thirsty enough to accept his offer. Opening my parched mouth, I bent over the freezing water. I could feel the wonderful chill against my face—
“Mathias, what are you doing?” It was Nahado. As I turned to look at him, I saw his eyes were wide, his mouth agape with fear, breathing deep, quick breaths. “Step away from that water,” Nahado whispered every word firmly.
“What is this? An elf? Here?” the sprite cursed.
"What sly words have you spoken to this boy, demon?" demanded Nahado, his staff raised.
"You dare to threaten me? You think I am intimidated by one such as you, a decrepit, pointy-eared fool?" growled the sprite.
"Nahado, what's going on?" It was Maria. At the sight of the sprite, she trembled. I'd never seen her that frightened. "Mathias, get away from there!"
The sprite repeated her words, "'Mathias'?" He directed his attention back to me. "They know you? Are you traveling with these elves, Mathias? Are these the elves who are deceiving you?"
"You're one to talk about deception, sprite," Nahado spat the final word.
I didn't understand why Nahado was so furious. "What's wrong with you two? This sprite has been very friendly to me. Why do you accuse him of deception, Nahado?"
"Mathias, that sprite is an evil spirit. Get away from it now!" he implored me.
"They're lying to you," the sprite shot back.
I stood between the elves and the sprite, not knowing what to do. Seeing my hesitation, Maria spoke to me gently, "Mathias, we haven't lied to you. You can trust us."
I answered coolly, "Oh, then tell me, what exactly is going to happen when you hand me over to this elf, Nelrion?"
“You know?” she whimpered.
“Yes, I know. I overheard the two of you speaking behind my back!”
“You’re no fool, Mathias. They thought you would follow them blindly, unquestioningly. But it seems you have questions they need to answer. Why are they taking you to Nelrion, Mathias?" the sprite asked.
"Because I awoke Maria from her elf stone," I answered. Suddenly I found myself asking the questions that had plagued my mind out loud. "Has a human ever been able to do that?"
"We don't know, Mathias. That's why we're taking you to Nelrion," Nahado answered timidly.
"And what will they do to determine the answer, Mathias? Experiment on you?" suggested the sprite.
"If we thought they would hurt you, Mathias, we would never take you to them," reassured Maria.
I kept turning my head as each of the three spoke to me. I was growing frustrated. Their words came at me from all sides like arrows, overwhelming me. "Enough! Stop your chatter! I'm no different from anybody else, am I? Is there something wrong with me? Am I a freak? I just want to know the answer! ”
The sprite seized his opportunity. “A fair question, Mathias. In effect, the question you are asking is, ‘Who am I?’ It is a question which every sentient creature has pondered. I am an ancient being, Mathias, as old as the very race of elves. My knowledge is vast, deeper than the oceans. I may have some of the answers you are looking for.”
“Tell me!” I demanded.
“I can do better! I can show you! Step into the water, Mathias. Submerge yourself in my knowledge, and you will see it all with your own eyes!”
Yes! Full of confidence, I stepped into the water, and prepared to dive deep into its recesses, when Maria’s desperate scream rent the silence of the forest. “NO! Mathias, the sprite will drown you, or possess you! You see the shape it takes? That of an elf. A sprite can only take the shape of that which is in the water. That is an elf. A drowned elf!”
I turned to the liquid elf. “Is it true?”
“There are two sides to every story, Mathias,” said the sprite, stonily.
I stared into the sharp blue eyes. “You’re right,” I said. At this, Maria’s screams died in her throat.
“And I want to hear theirs,” I added sternly making my way towards the shore.
The sprite's voice grew more menacing, "No!" I tried to move my legs, but it was as if they were encased in stone. Shouting for help, I reached for my friends, and Nahado rushed to the edge of the pond, extending his staff to pull me ashore. I grasped the staff with all my might, and Nahado pulled me towards him with surprising strength, but the sprite quickly reacted. Tentacles of water shot forth, coiling around my waist and chest. Nahado's staff snapped in two under the strain and I was yanked underwater.
The water distorted the sounds of the elves' shouting, but I could hear the sprite's voice clearer than ever. "Now we shall learn what makes you special, Mathias." I felt water trickling down my throat. Clamping my mouth tight shut and pinching my nostrils with my hand, I tried to keep the water out, but it pushed with tremendous force, wrenching my mouth open. It flooded down my throat!
A shock wave coursed through my body. Suddenly, I was being lifted up, out of the water, into the air! I plummeted to the hard ground. Nahado and Maria appeared at my side, propping me up. "Mathias, you need to vomit! Vomit out all the water before he can possess you!" Nahado didn't need to ask twice. I doubled over and forced the water out of my system. There was little more than a trickle, though. "Mathias, is that really all?" demanded Nahado.
"Yes," I answered weakly.
"It didn't try to possess you?" Maria realized.
"Bah," came the sprite's voice from the pond, "there is nothing unique about him! I learned nothing, except that men are weak creatures. They are, aren't they, Mathias? I saw the flaws inherent to your race: cowardice, aggression, selfishness, greed, arrogance. And you are no different."
The sprite said no more.
* * *
I was buzzing with questions, but the elves didn’t want to discuss anything until we were far away from the sprite. As we walked, the three of us remained silent. Nahado seemed irritable, but didn’t have the heart to lecture me. Once in a while, Maria looked at me shame-faced. Finally, Nahado seemed satisfied that we were far enough away from danger and we all sat down.
I wasn’t sure which question I should start with: why did you keep me in the dark, did you already know about the sprite, why was I able to unlock Maria from her elf stone.
“What the hell happened?” I asked numbly.
Drumming his fingers on the broken halves of his staff, Nahado answered curtly, “What happened? You almost liberated one of the most incredibly dangerous magical creatures in existence! That is what happened!”
“What was that thing – the sprite? What do you mean when you say I almost liberated it?” I demanded.
“I’ll tell you,” growled Nahado. “Eons before you or I ever existed, that sprite murdered an elf in the royal family. In response, the elves lured him into the forest and trapped him in a pond. He was condemned to remain there for all eternity. He saw you as a means of escape. If he could get you to drink some of the water, the sprite could have entered your body, and escaped!” I recalled how the sprite had insisted repeatedly that I have a drink.
“Don’t lecture me!” I shot back. “You didn’t warn me about any of this. It was your fault!” The two of us stood and glared at each other, our fists clenched.
“Stop! Please!” It was Maria. She stood between Nahado and me, a hand on each of our chests. “Mathias, I’m sorry we kept secrets from you about our suspicions,” she said with defeat in her voice.
I looked into her eyes. “Why was I able to free you, Maria?”
“I don’t know, Mathias. I just don’t know,” her voice broke, and tears filled her eyes.
Trying to comfort Maria, Nahado began explaining, “Don't ask us why, Mathais. We do not know why it happened.” He looked deep into my eyes. "All I know is that it did happen. Somehow, you did it, you freed Maria. And for that, I thank you, Mathais. Maria was like a daughter to me before the tragedy of the betrayal. Her stone was lost. I thought I'd never see her again, but you have brought her back to me. I swear to you, I will never let any harm befall you. You must trust us!" Nahado fought back tears. It was the first time I had seen him show such emotion.
"I believe you," I said finally.
Breathing hard, Maria smiled, her tear-stained cheeks filling with color. "Thank you, Mathias. We're going to take you to Nelrion, and he'll have the answers. We'll find out what makes you special, I just know it!"
I was smiling myself, but the feeling of happiness suddenly died. Her words had reminded me of the sprite. "Maria, don't you remember? The sprite said there was nothing special about me."
Nahado laughed hard. "Feh! Lying as usual. Mathias, think for just a minute. Why didn't the sprite possess you when it had the chance? You were probably the only opportunity for escape it will ever see. Something prevented it from possessing you. One of the most ancient and powerful magical creatures in this world, and something about you stopped it!" He grasped my shoulder triumphantly. "If there is one in the world thing I am sure of, Mathias, it is that you are no ordinary human!"