Feast of the Elfs

by John C. Wright

  The Cook bowed, and brought it out, and dumped it on Gil’s trencher. He assumed from the gasps and guffaws that everyone else there saw unspeakably vile sewage. Gil saw beneath the ugly glamour a filet of sole baked into a crust of salts and spices, garnished with mushrooms.

  But the Cook, as he leaned over Gil’s shoulder to deliver the dish, whispered, “I am Tobias Moth. Some of us remember her. Touch it with an iron nail, and it will be fair and sweet again.”

  The Cook was gone before Gil could thank him.

  Gil seated himself, and looked dubiously at the delicious fish painted over with a foul smelling illusion. He was not sure he wanted all these kings and elfs watching him to see him eat filth. The music in the room was sly and mocking, a flutter of strings, as if everyone were holding his breath to burst out laughing when he took his first bite.

  But, unfortunately, he did not happen to have an iron nail on his person at that moment. Gil sighed. There seemed to be nothing to do but to sit and eat and let the elfs laugh at him. He was still very hungry and it was still a delicious fish dinner.

  Gil crossed himself, folded his hands and murmured, “Bless us, Lord, and bless this food that comes to us from your bounty. Amen.” And he remembered also to lay the napkin given him in his lap, as his mother taught him.

  The music crashed into silence.

  Gil looked up in surprise, not sure what was going wrong now. A low hissing roar of dark emotion ran through the chamber, and many of the ladies there clutched their ears or clucked their tongues.

  Several noble women spoke at once, speaking behind their fans, and knights and warlocks murmured to each other, “I don’t understand. Whence comes he?” “Who let him in?” “What is he? Man or elf?” “He is not of the Partholan race, nor a Fear Bolg.” “I wager he is a satyr walking in elf boots!” “A minotaur with a centaur’s head!” “A merman who shed his tail!” “How dares he to speak such uncouth names?” “He insults the Dark. Will no knight here take up sword, and slay him?”

  The murmurs trailed into tense silence. The elfin lords were motionless, eyes narrow, teeth clenched, clutching their dinner knives, clearly wishing a swords and lances were at hand.

  6. The Dish

  Gil looked down. The spell had broken. Gil was not sure when the illusion vanished, but it had. The pile of filth before him had resumed its true appearance as a savory dish.

  The little red-haired King Brian hammered his goblet on his golden dish, and called into the tense silence. “Niall the Harper! Strike your strings! Now is not the hour when old quarrels should wake! Lull them away! Let play! For now it is the feasting time of kings!”

  The purple haired elf gestured to his company of musicians and singing creatures, and laid his hands on his harp, and filled the air with wonder.

  The goat-headed man four seats away was munching happily on the leather boot. “By the blue face of Vishnu! This is the best boot I’ve ever had!” And he toasted Gil with his mug.

  Chapter Six: In Fair and Noble Company

  1. Billy Blin of Man

  Course after course came, including delicious meats from long-extinct beasts and fowls most succulent, and anointed with spices from Hyperborea or mustard from Utgard or cooked in wine from drowned Atlantis. There were no further tricks: the food was what it seemed.

  Except some was too fantastic to be food. One dish held weightless bubbles of iridescent colors, which popped in the mouth releasing a spray of flavor with no substance. Another was a crystal nugget which brought the taste of the last thing eaten back into the mouth as a memory, but made it taste better in hindsight than it had in life: these were eaten with slices of a bitter and salty black fruit Gil did not know the name of, which tasted sweet retroactively.

  Most of the wines and brandies came from grapes or peaches, but some were distilled from starlight, and made the soul soar into poetry without intoxicating the blood, or were fermented from the fires of the Northern Lights, and brought warmth to the heart but a cold clarity to the wits. Gil was not sure if he were old enough to drink wine, so he sipped it sparingly, mixed with a double helping of water from a carafe, and it did him no harm.

  As he ate, Gil had many questions for the Glashan seated next to him. The Glashan, whose name was Billy Blin, proved to be a willing talker.

  Gil glanced at Ruff, who was looking at him with worried eyes. Gil remembered something Ruff had told him, so he asked the Glashan, “I have heard that those who eat of fairy food can no longer take pleasure in the bread and meat of men. Is that true?”

  Billy Blin said, “It is part of the art of the come-hither, the Black Spell of Spells, that allows the masters to lord it over men. It is not all elfin food, not at all. It is a venom elfs brew from the tears of witches to put into the food to curse all other foods besides, and beseem them tasteless: but since witches cannot cry, as you can imagine, this comehither venom is rare. There are other forms of the Great Black Spell: it can be sung as a song or written as letters in a book. This song, once heard, cannot be fully recollected nor fully forgotten: or such an elfin book, when some poor mortal reads it, other books become crabbed and crass, and the joy is gone from them. But let us not blame the elfs entire! Men of good digestion, whose appetites are tamed and temperate, who go to confession and say their paternosters, can drink the comehither venom by the bucket, and be unharmed. There is no such dark working in this provender here. Do you think these kings would eat such stuffs themselves, in a celebration?”

  “What is the point of this black spell? Just to make people unhappy?”

  “The Black Spell draws those who place a toe in fairyland back hither, where they work in our mines and fields. In older times, men knew how to strike a harp or an anvil, and the women to sew, but few these days are handy at useful crafts. Ah! I remember year gone by when men could see us, and the one note from a churchbell could throw us back, or the smallest bonescrap from a dead saint. Now, the Church is broken in pieces and dying like a pond in the desert, smaller every hour. The Black Spell spreads discontent and makes men forget the past, even what is written in their histories is ignored and rewritten.” The Glashan put his muzzle into his mug and lapped up the brew, then leaned back with a sigh. “Why the elfs plays such pranks, no one in the Night World knows. But there are worlds darker than night!”

  “You are not an elf?”

  “Are you mad? I am of the Night Folk, sure that is as that can be, and ageless, but I am no elf! I am an old Glashan from the Isle of Man, and I know where the Manx cats hide their tails! There lived I, under cold and starry sky, long before the druids crossed the sea or raised their tall, dark stones! I mow for the farmers and mend for their wives, and can do a fortnight of chores in a single witching-hour, when all the clocks stand still. They wrong my name, those who say I wait by fords in the shape of a docile steed to drown men!”

  “Do you? Drown men, I mean?”

  “It is the scoffers who skip their shriving that I smother in the water’s rage. Their sin weighs heavy on my tender spine!”

  “It is wrong to kill people.”

  “Why should that be? They are not like us. Pah! Soon the mortals would die anyway, curse them all, and escape this life of bitter tears.”

  2. Delicacies

  Their talk was interrupted by a blare of trumpets and a round of toasts, and then the butlers brought spiced wine, and maidens brought bowls of pomegranates, raisins, red apples, purple plums, peaches, cheeses, wafers, candied flowers, and what looked like candle flames one could pick up with one’s fingers to dance in the mouth and sputter and explode into liquid sugar on the tongue.

  While they ate these delicacies, the Glashan said, “Tell me, Swan Knight, what brings you here? Are you on a quest?”

  Gil sighed and glanced at Ruff, who was listening intently, while pretending, not very convincingly, to stare at the ceiling and whistle. Gil said, “First, I seek to right a rank injustice, and that task starts here, even if I never live long enough to see the end of i
t. Second, I seek a master to train me, for I am untested in the arts of knighthood. And third—third, ah!—was simple curiosity.”

  The Glashan made a sound that was a bit like a chuckle, and a bit like a neigh. “And how has your curiosity been sated, stranger?”

  “I have never seen so fair and noble an assembly.”

  And this was true. Despite that most or all of the creatures and people here were bent either on great mischief or small, Gil could not help but be impressed and amazed at the sheer beauty of the place and those within it.

  The men were strikingly handsome, if slighter and quicker than human beings, and the sylphs and nymphs and fairy maidens with their slanting eyes and pointed jaws were as charming as children, as elusive as flame, as graceful as ballerinas, and as beautiful as delusions from a fever dream.

  Gil wished Nerea his cousin were here to see this. He smiled to himself, just imagining how a smile of wonder would have brightened her face.

  Gil said, “Tell me who is who?”

  The Glashan said, “There are seven races of Nightfolk, of which Elfs are the foremost. Seated below the lords and knights are the Efts, whose eyes are lamps and mouths are bright with fire. These are the marchwardens of the elfs, and hold the frontiers against a darker world than night. Next in rank are Nibelungs, who ravish the world for gold, and forge and embellish the elfin arms and ornaments. The Nibelung architects recapture in stone and silver of the elfin palaces the lost glories of the place whereof it is best not to speak! Next are humans among us, warlocks and witches dressed in dark cloaks and hoods. Poor fools! But they perform our rituals and abominations, and they outrank those seated below them: proud six-fingered Nephilim who are children of the Watchers, the Nemedians who are children of the Sea, Fomorians who are the sons of Winter. Lowest of all we sit, Pookas and Bookas, Leonshee and Banshee, and other beastly things.”

  “That is eight.”

  “The witches are not a race, but Daughters of Eve adopted by Lilith for a season. And then they are gone. And they are ugly where elf maidens are fair. Gaze upon them all! Who would you say is the most splendid lord? The fairest lady?” asked the Glashan, making a wide sweep of his arm.

  Gil thought that this was not the kind of question a true knight would answer, so he said, “Whoever is the bravest lord is best, and the most chaste lady and true is fairest, for what lies within is better than any outward show.”

  The Glashan squinted at him. “No elf speaks so. There is something strange about you.”

  “The great lords there. Please tell me their names.”

  Billy Blin the Glashan pointed with the mouthpiece of his clay pipe at the dignitaries gathered there. “Beneath the canopy of green and gold is Alberec the Summer King, whose house this is: but, as you see, he is put from his seat these twelve days, and must sit in a lower place, to make room for his son, the Emperor.”

  3. Moths and Villains

  Gil looked. When last they had met, Alberec’s visage had been hidden beneath a gold mask. As it turned out, the mask was like the man, save for one wound. Alberec was missing an eye. His features were hawknosed, harsh, but handsome. His left eye was emerald green, and changed in hue to blue or silver-gray as the light caught it. The right was covered by an eyepatch.

  He seemed neither young nor old, for streaks of grey striped his black beard or touched his temples, and lines of care were etched about his mouth and at the corner of his eyes: and yet the look of him was of a youth entering into his first strength, a young veteran returned unscarred from his first war.

  In a taller chair, Erlkoenig sat beneath a canopy of black and silver, images of full moons above him, crescent moons to either side. Gems were in his antlers. Two solemn officers holding axes tied inside reed-bundles stood behind him, and their heads were the heads of black crows. A winged chimera sported at his feet, eating from three golden bowls on the floor, one of oats, one of raw lamb, one of hot coals. Behind him a blind mastodon munched hay contentedly while grooms with golden rakes combed his fur. Gilberec wondered how he contrived to eat with a mask of ice covering his face.

  Billy Blin continued: “Alberec is seated with Nimue of the Lake, a queen of the naiads of Broceliande. She acts in the place of his lost wife, as hostess, to pour wine and to sing soprano. Nimue’s champion is Bran of Ys, that giant seated opposite from Balor. He is called Bran the Blessed for a reason too shameful to say. He sits in the chair of Sir Bertolac, the King’s Champion, who is absent this day. Sir Bertolac has never been defeated in combat, save only by Bran the Blessed. Erlkoenig is seated with Empousa of Tartarus…” Billy Blin’s voice trailed off. He drank deeply from his mug before continuing in a subdued voice. “No elf of the Night World is she, but a power from the Darkness, whom the pagans worshipped of old and called a goddess.” He shivered and quaffed his drink again.

  Gil asked, “Why is Alberec’s son Emperor, if he is still alive?”

  The Glashan tossed his mane. “Without the High Queen to bless his wars and belt his sword on him, how could Alberec be Emperor any longer? Some say it was wisdom that bade him abdicate the imperial throne to his son, others sorrow. Perhaps the barons and warlocks, grandmasters and villains pushed him off the throne, or a darker power from a deeper place spoke up. We who serve are never told the truth.”

  “You said the villains helped push Alberec off the throne. Does villains mean bad guys or does it mean villagers?”

  “In this case, it means both. The human world is the suburbia and slum of elfin lands, the part outside the walls where all the filth is thrown, to rot in the sun. All the cities of man are but villages to us. We have swineherds to keep mankind in their sty. Halfbreed and halfwits! They are our churls, serfs, and villains: Peaseblossoms and Mustardseeds, Moths and Cobwebs.”

  Gil perked up at the name, but then tried to hide his downcast expression. “So the Moths are bad guys? They help the elfs ride herd over Man?”

  “I don’t know much about the Twilight People. There are four big clans of them, and some little clans. The Moths are the biggest clan. After Titania was lost, they broke faith with the king, and carry on her strange ways.”

  “Strange ways?”

  “Titania would interfere with Alberec—but he was called Oberon then, back when he was Emperor—when he would steal children. Titania would give the children back to their parents, often with gifts and blessings. There was this one Indian lad they still talk about. His mother was a votary and friend of Titania who died in childbirth, and so Titania took the boy for a season, and raised him, but instead of the normal fate of changelings, she granted him the power to conquer many lands, and the name Alamgir. Titania sent visions to the widower to build the Taj Mahal in his dead wife’s honor, to allow some of the beauty of elfland to touch the human world. Don’t you think that is strange?”

  “So Moths are friendly to Man?”

  “Of course.” The Glashan squinted at him. “You should know that, being Arthur’s man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Merlin, your Arthur’s counselor, is descended from Joseph of Arimathea. Enygeus, Joseph’s sister, came with the saint from the Holy Land as the first Grail Maiden, and she wed the Fisher King, from whom all the Moths of England claim descent.” The Glashan gave him a suspicious look. “If you are really from the Table Round, you would know these things! Don’t you talk to Merlin?”

  Gil said, truthfully, “I joined after he was gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Merlin’s student seduced and betrayed him. She trapped him under the roots of an oak tree with a spell he himself taught to her. There he sleeps to this day.”

  The fork fell out of the Glashan’s hand. He stooped down to pick it up, and when his horse’s head was below the table, at about the level of Gil’s knee, he said, “You sound truthful, but don’t speak such truths so loudly! Nimue is sitting next to Alberec, and is the hostess of this feast, which might end with your head on a platter if she hears such words!”
/>
  The Glashan straightened up again. He whispered, “Did she really do such a thing? Is that what become of Merlin? Iron nails! No, never mind. Don’t tell! What I don’t hear cannot be plucked out of my soul.”

  Gil nodded, stealing a glance at Nimue. Was she truly the selfsame Lady of the Lake who had trapped Merlin the Magician? The idea was as strange and dangerous as meeting a saber toothed tiger. No matter how deadly, it thrilled him to discover things of ancient myth still at large in the world.

  But, despite any danger, there were questions he had to ask. “What else can you tell me about the Moths and Cobwebs? And the other clans of the Twilight?”

  “Not much. I know that the Cobwebs swore loyalty to Erlkoenig; but the Mustardseeds swore to Alberec and his Nibelungs, and forge his swords and make his clockworks. The Peaseblossoms swore not to return to the human world. Everyone is bound by vow; no one is free. Erlkoenig keeps some Cobwebs as his special servants, as hunting hounds, or to do deeds unworthy of elfin hands.”

  Gil carefully looked at the knights seated at the King’s table. Some were slender, and dressed in silver cloth woven with moonstones and moonbeams, but others were more thickset and slow of speech, and wore silks from the orient over jerkins of linen or wool, or other earthly substances.

  “Not all his knights are elfs, are they?”

  “Not so loud! But those there seated below the salt were once of the twilight world, or the sunlit world, and have joined their fate to ours, and shed their bad habit of growing old. He in the brown and amber is Sir Breunis Sans Pitie, and he is the most pitiless knight now living, save perhaps for Sir Garlon of Listenoise, who possesses the Mantle of the Mists. Other stalwart knights of Alberec are Sir Ossian the Young, Sir Laundfal the Generous, and Sir Orfeo of the Harp. Sir Sacrapant the Saracen is the one dressed in dragon hide.