by M.C. O'Neill
***
Two miles away from Sammian’s point of launch, Tam’laa Na’rundi parked her coach in the dingy little back alley of On’dinn Jak’sin’s downtown tenement. The young male was relieved to see that there were no police cordons or bright yellow crime scene ribbon wrapped around the side door to his family’s little apartment. Ever since explaining his situation at the party, he had come to the realization that he was pretty much off the hook as far as the civil wardens were concerned and this bathed his mind in a feeling of well-being. Nearby, an alley cat screeched a welcome to the pair in its late-night joy.
“Thanks for watching over me tonight.” He slumped back in his seat and met his driver’s dark eyes.
“Not a problem, On’dinn,” she flashed him one of her contagious smiles which he matched.
“Look, tomorrow, I have to find Minn’dre. I have a few good ideas where I may find her, but I also have a few bad ones too.” He looked down at his lap for a moment with a sense of shame. “If I hadn’t been through so much adventure including getting the snot beat out of me left and right for the last three days, I would set out to find her right now. But seriously, I’m about to collapse.”
“Don’t feel guilty!” she touched his hand. “You’ve been through a boatload and if you were to attempt any searches right now, you’d be liable to make the situation worse.” Tam’laa was always so sensible about dramatics, and it was one of the reasons she was never too eager to get caught up in them. Right then, On’dinn wished he was more like her. “Listen, when you’re up to it, call me and I’ll help you find her.”
“Thanks, I will, I just…,” she cut him off with a kiss to his cheek. He hadn’t grinned so big in days, perhaps weeks, and it made his nose hurt for a second. “Uh, yeah, I’ll do just that. Tomorrow, okay?” He couldn’t wipe the happy smirk off his face.
“Yeah, you better!” she answered with a mock threat and On’dinn laughed.
As he stood at the chipped alleyway door, he watched Tam’laa’s coach disappear into the steam of the narrow lane and off into the slate-grey early morning. He chanted his way into his abode. It may have been scummy, but it was still his home. As he was in a half-slumber, he all but forgot about the song of the doorbell:
“Greetings, Master On’dinn,” it wailed a tune much too loud for that hour. The shock to his dulled senses was great, but at least it didn’t manage to rouse his father who was passed out on their old and sagging sofa. If his father had been aware of his absence for the past few days, he was apt to get an earful tomorrow, but sometimes the lad wasn’t sure the old fool cared one way or the other. At least he was still breathing, he could see as the elder Jak’sin’s slight chest was rising up and down with life.
On’dinn’s room was his sanctuary. The walls were lined with posters of protests, political campaigns, and a few featuring countercultural musicians. Sure, On’dinn liked the Gonduanna Princes as they spoke to their listeners with righteous messages of freedom and equality, but there were other bards and troubadours out there who weren’t so mainstream and polished. Those were the real musical mavericks that weren’t afraid to push the sociopolitical envelope and get down to the meat of the matter. Maybe they didn’t sound quite as professional as the Princes, but such sonic luster wasn’t their concern; they all had a message to be heard. Naked Caster was his favorite, as was Maladroit. Neither was afraid to forego surreal pop imagery to convey their message and he appreciated that. Sometimes one had to be blunt in order to change things.
On his bed, On’dinn’s head was too full to fall asleep as fast as he had planned. Minn’dre’s whereabouts charged at the forefront of them, but so did tonight’s victory against that young tyrant Hyrax Arcovis.
Sammian. That was one lady he never wanted to meet again, but he had the sneaking suspicion that he was going to have to make such an encounter if he ever wanted to find Minn’dre. In the back of his mind, the young elf feared that times much more great and terrible than Hyrax and the civil wardens lay ahead.
Not long after he filed through his never-ceasing worries and strategies, On’dinn fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed of better days long ago when he and his father and mother were strolling through the park. On’dinn was peddling a yellow toy coach designed for little elflings and he was giggling without care. Father was clean, sober and happy for the first and last time in his memory. Due to his abject poverty, On’dinn sometimes feared that it might be the only coach he would ever pilot.