by Jon Etter
“We’re not having a staring contest, you two,” Shade said wearily, too glum to come up with a proper insult. “We’re trying to figure out how to stop a war.”
“Oh.” Ginch reached over and took off the Professor’s glasses. They looked at each other and nodded. “Then we help you too, but the solution is the easy-the-peasy.”
“What do you mean?” Viola asked.
“Whatta you mean whatta I mean? You’re-a the princess, he’s-a the prince. You just say ‘’Ey, we’re-a the prince and princess and we tell you to knock it off,’ and ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom: everybody knock it off. Easy-the-peasy!”
“We tried that,” Beow grumbled. “Nobody listened.”
“Of course they didn’t.” Viola leaned her head on her hand. “We may have titles and crowns and other stupid junk, but we’re still just a couple kids. Nobody ever listens to kids.”
“Then we have to make them listen!” Shade slammed her fist down on the table.
The Professor leaped to his feet and slammed his fist down too. Then he did it again. Then he took a wooden hand out of his coat and slammed that down on the table. “Okay, paisan. That’s enough.” Ginch reached over and shoved the hand off the table.
The Professor nodded and took a seat. All five sat in silence. Heads were scratched. Chins were stroked. Fingers were drummed on the table. Temples were massaged. Many, many sighs were sighed.
A tear rolled down Viola’s cheek. Beow and Shade placed their hands on hers. “It’ll be okay,” Shade said.
“No, it—I don’t—” Viola wiped at her eyes. “I don’t want my uncle to die.”
Tears welled in Beow’s eyes. “And I don’t want my mother to die.”
“I don’t want my mother to die either,” Shade said quietly. “No child does. And if this war happens, we won’t be the only three.”
In that moment, everyone sitting at that table felt utterly hopeless. But hope is a funny thing. On your walks to school, have you ever spied a dandelion growing out of a crack in the sidewalk? Of course you have—they’re hard to miss—but have you ever marveled at its tenacity, its defiance in daring to grow there in the middle of a stretch of unforgiving concrete? Hope is like that dandelion. No matter how bleak things seem, no matter how deeply we despair, hope always finds a little crack in the gloom and plants itself there and has the audacity to grow. And that’s just what happened as all five fairies sat there, eyes wet from thoughts of those they had lost or were in danger of losing.
“I … I think I have an idea,” Shade said hesitantly at first, as hope found its purchase and began to take root. Then it began to bloom. “I do. I definitely do. It won’t be easy.”
“We’ll do whatever it takes,” Viola said.
“We’re going to need a lot of help.”
“We’ll get it or die trying,” Beow vowed.
“Sacrifices will need to be made.”
“Anything! You say ‘you gotta give up the cards’ and I give up the cards!” Ginch declared. “I no gotta give up the cards, do I? Because the card-sharping, that’s kinda my thing. That and the stealing and the con-jobbing and the—”
“You won’t have to stop cheating at cards, but we’re all going to have to work our butts off over the next couple days if we’re going to pull this off.”
The Professor reached behind him, pulled out a rubber bottom, and slammed it on the table.
“Gross.”
“So what’s-a the scheme?” Ginch asked.
Everyone leaned in and Shade began to walk them through her desperate plan to end a war before it began and prevent even one single drop of blood from being spilled on the fields of Elfame.
I know, dear Reader, I know. Right now you want more than anything to read what Shade has planned, even more than you want that shrunken head you keep hounding your Aunt Ethel for, and we both know how badly you want that. But, alas, I can’t tell you yet. The professional narrator’s job is to tantalize and cliff-hang, and I am a consummate professional. Dreadfully infuriating, I know, especially since it is now your bedtime, but that’s how these things are done.
However, you do have that flashlight you keep in your sock drawer that you sometimes use to read those horrid comic books like, I don’t know, Captain Punchy and Klobberwoman and whatnot, well after you are supposed to be asleep. (Yes, I know you do this—you are sly and clever, dear Reader, but not quite as sly and clever as you think you are.) Normally I would never dream of encouraging you to forgo sleep—pun intended and, I hope, appreciated—or to disobey your parents by staying up past your bedtime so that you could read on and find out Shade’s plan, but … maybe this one time it would be okay. I won’t tell if you don’t.
In which speeches are made, commands are given, and lollipops are requested …
The day of the great battle, the one that would determine the fate of Elfame, had arrived. The armies of the Seelie and Sluagh marched through Stormfield to the agreed-upon field of battle: the Bucket of Blood, a valley surrounded on all four sides by high hills. No place in Elfame had seen more fighting, no ground in Elfame had drunk more battle-spilled blood, and that day the ground seemed especially thirsty.
The two armies assembled on the hills, black banners emblazoned with the red Sluagh rose held high atop the eastern ridge, green ones bearing the white Seelie rose atop the western. The air was eerily still, as if the wind were holding its breath in anticipation. Lightning crackled in the dark clouds above, impatient for the carnage to commence.
And under those flags stood the troops. Nobles, clad in shining bronze armor decorated with elegant engravings and flourishes, seated on expensive custom-made saddles atop thoroughbred war ponies, gazed across the field and dreamed of honors and lands and the stories they would have to tell guests over cups of mulled wine in front of a roaring fire in their grand hall on cold midwinter nights.
Soldiers, their armor and weapons nicked and scratched in places from previous use but well-oiled, sturdy, and sound, some riding on the backs of old but reliable steeds, others standing in boots that had seen their share of forced marches and grim diggings-in, considered their opponents and the grounds and thought of training and duty.
But the bulk of those there were the common fairy folk, forced from their spinning wheels and forges and workbenches and home fires to fight in the name of rulers who, truth be told, didn’t really seem that different from those of their foes. These fairies, clad in work clothes and the odd borrowed chainmail shirt or ill-fitting leather tunic and clutching whatever weapon had been thrust into their hands, looked at their feet, the ground, the hills, the sky—anywhere but at those they were expected to kill or be killed by. Their thoughts were of their homes and families; their prayers, that they would live to see them again.
The two forces in all their horrible glory stood in silent solemnity on their hilltops, waiting to be addressed by their rulers.
“All right, move those hinders! Come on, mediocrity, make way for His Excellency!” King Julius called as he rode to the front of the Seelie forces. His armor was of the finest white gold with a mother-of-pearl rose on the chest. Around his neck he wore a silver torque made to look like a two-headed serpent with emeralds for eyes, and on his head was a slightly too big emerald-encrusted crown. Though the suit of armor had been made especially for him, he looked so out-of-place in it that he resembled a child playing dress-up more than a warrior-king. Finally, at the forefront, he paused to admire his army.
“Wow, look at the size of this crowd! I bet if you scoured the history books of Elfame, you wouldn’t find a record of a bigger group of patriotic Elfamians turning out to support their beloved ruler. If you do, let us know, or you could just tear it out and burn it yourself.
“Now let’s talk about this battle. I’ve heard some people grumble that they wish we had more people here on our side, and to those people I say, ‘Whim-wham!’ The fewer the fairies, the more honor for those of us fighting here today! And honor’s like candy: you can never h
ave enough and who wants to share it? Nobody. Speaking of candy, does anyone have any? I could go for a good sucker right about now, and it sure looks like I’m surrounded by a lot of them. But getting back to my main point, if there’s anybody here who doesn’t have the stomach for this fight—although it sure looks like some of you do have the stomach for pudding and a heck of a lot of it—you can go on back home. This is the land of the free, after all.” A bunch of the commoners looked quite pleased and started to walk off. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
The commoners looked confused. “Um, you said we could go, Your Excellency.”
“I didn’t really mean that. I was just being inspiring! Now be good little pieces of arrow fodder and get back in line or you won’t live long enough to die in battle.”
“I thought this was the land of the free,” one of fairies grumbled.
“It is. You’re free to do exactly what I tell you to do.” King Julius cleared his throat and continued. “Today is the Feast of St. Figgymigg. Those of you who survive today will perk up every year around this time and tell your neighbors, ‘Hey, tomorrow’s St. Figgymigg’s Day.’ And they’ll say, ‘Yeah, we know. We’ve got a calendar and we’ve been seeing the sales signs in the shops for months.’ But you’ll keep going anyway, because frankly you’re a bit of a bore, and then you’ll roll up your sleeves and say, ‘These wounds I had on St. Figgymigg’s Day.’ And then your neighbors will say, ‘What about that mole?’ And you’ll say, ‘You know, I don’t think I’ve seen that one before,’ to which they’ll reply, ‘You should probably get that looked at,’ and they’ll be right.
“Old fairies will forget, yet you’ll remember what was done here today and by who. Over flowing cups of mead, you’ll remember your sweet King Julius and Lord What’s-His-Name, Duchess Something-or-Other and, um, that guy. Over there. With the stupid mustache. Him. And then after a few more cups of mead you’ll forget those names and do things you’ll have to apologize for the next day.
“Not a St. Figgymigg’s day will go by but we’ll be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers and sisters, for you that shed your blood today shall be my brothers and sisters. Figuratively speaking, of course, because getting everyone together for a family picnic would just be a nightmare. Actually, you’ll be more like second cousins once removed to me. You know, like that one weird cousin nobody really likes to talk about. That’s what you’ll be. And those in Elfame now in their beds will think themselves cursed and hold their fairy-hoods cheap while any speak who fought with us upon St. Figgymigg’s Day!”
King Julius grinned, held out his arms, and closed his eyes. The Seelie forces were silent. The king peeked with one eye. “That was an applause line, people.”
The troops clapped quietly. There were a few perfunctory yays and a couple half-hearted woos.
The king rubbed his hands together. “All right, now that you’re thoroughly inspired, good luck out there. If anyone needs me, I’ll be back in my tent, where I’ve a nice pickled herring waiting for me and a chilled bottle of Chateau le Froufrou to get pickled with. And try not let the fighting get too loud, I might squeeze in a nap later.”
“I’m afraid you won’t, Your Excellency,” said the elven noble on the pony to his right as a guard grabbed the harness of King Julius’s pony. “It is tradition for the ruler of the Seelie Court to lead the first charge of the first battle of every war.”
“Really? Well, we’ll see about that. Jamison! Jamison!”
“Jamison is back at Dinas Ffaraon, Your Excellency,” the noble on his left informed him.
“Then I’ll just pop on back and have a few words with her while you take care of this battle business.” King Julius tried to turn his pony, but the guard held it in place.
“I don’t think so,” the first noble replied.
King Julius leaned on the horn of his saddle and rested his chin on his hand. “If I survive this battle, remind me to fire Jamison as soon as we get home.”
The two nobles smirked at each other. “Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about that, Your Excellency.”
•
On the opposite side of the valley, Queen Modthryth, clad in black chain mail, rode up and down her front line, looking each warrior in the eye as she passed.
“We fight, as we always have, to survive,” she shouted so that all could hear. “And that is what we will do today. We will fight, and we will survive. And we will do it with honor. We hereby decree that those Seelie who surrender will be taken prisoner and those too injured to fight will be spared.”
Lady Perchta snorted at this. The queen rode up to her. “Does the Duchess of Sighs dare to question her queen’s commands?”
Perchta’s face flushed; she clenched her fists. A wulver nobleman behind Perchta cleared his throat. Through gritted teeth, Perchta muttered, “No, my queen.”
The queen glared at her for a moment longer, then turned away. Perchta looked to several nobles nearby, all of whom gave her short nods. Perchta sat up straighter in her saddle and smiled, the perpetual sneer of her scarred cheeky looking even sneerier.
Queen Modthryth drew her sword and raised it high. “For the Sluagh Horde!”
The Sluagh soldiers raised their weapons. “For the Sluagh Horde!” they cried.
Queen Modthryth turned her pony to face her foes, sword still raised. “On my command, my Horde!”
On the opposing hill, King Julius turned to the noble next to him. “So, how’s this work, anyway? Do we do a countdown or something?”
“You raise your sword and tell us to charge.”
“How about I don’t and we send someone over and see if we can’t settle this with a game of pinochle or something.”
“Guard, help out His Excellency,” the noble commanded. A guard came over, drew Julius’s sword, forced it into his hand, and then shoved his arm up in the air. “On the king’s command, Seelie Court!”
Two armies held their breaths, awaiting the order to attack. Two rulers held their swords aloft, wishing there was another way to settle things. Two sets of traitors eyed those they were sworn to serve, wondering when their chance to kill them would come. All waited for a sign. Some with eagerness, most with dread, a small few with hope, but all waited in silence.
In which an awful lot happens …
That silence was shattered by a deafening BOOM! that made fairies jump and ponies start. For a moment, everyone thought it was just an especially loud thunderclap, but then it was followed by more booms and crashes as fireworks exploded in the sky. Under the flashing lights, a small shack rose up over the crest of the valley’s northern hill. It continued to rise and rise until all could see the gigantic, striding chicken legs that it walked upon.
When at last the hut’s chicken feet reached the hill’s summit, it squatted down and sat. Baba Ingas stepped out of the doorway and waved her arms and wiggled her fingers. When she was done, she cleared her throat and said, “Testing. Testing.” Her voice echoed through the valley. “Okay, we’re good.”
Shade stepped out of the hut followed by a bushy-bearded dwarf, a terrier-headed goblin, an elegant merrow, and a wizened old brownie. The commoners amongst the two armies gasped.
“Hoo!”
“Wat!”
“Wy!”
“And Howe!”
“Who?” someone asked.
“Yeah, he’s right there.”
“What?”
“Him too.”
“Okay, I don’t get what you’re—”
“Free fairies of Elfame, it’s time for B.A.R.F. to rise!” Shade shouted.
“Throw down thy weapons and join us in opposition to the tyranny of the nobility!” Fielden Hoo called.
“Let them toffs kill each other if they loike, but we’ll not shed another drop o’ blood for ’em,” Wat the Tiler declared. “And they’ll no longer wring their bread from the sweat o’ other fairies’ faces either!”
“Down with sweat bread!” Howe cried.
/> “I’ve always kind of liked sweat bread,” a hobgoblin on the Seelie side muttered. “As long as it’s not too salty …”
“And brothers and sisters of the Court and the Horde who believe in equality, join us as well!” Lady Wy shouted. “Walk away from the injustice of privilege and help us return to the righteous commonwealth of old!”
Spears, bows, and swords clattered to the ground and dwarves, gnomes, pixies, goblins, hobgoblins, wulvers, trows, pechs, leprechauns, and many other fairies joined arms and marched north. A few Seelie and Sluagh nobles dismounted and joined them as well, ignoring the shouted orders and threats of the Seelie and Sluagh generals. As they marched, they sang:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the rising of the B.A.R.F;
Nobles are gagging on the privilege they all so want to snarf;
From this day on we’ll knit for them not sock nor sweater nor scarf:
Our day has finally come!
Rise up, rise up, all of Elfame!
Rise up, rise up, all of Elfame!
Rise up, rise up, all of Elfame!
Our day has finally come!
“See? I told you writing an anthem wasn’t a waste of time,” Howe said to the others triumphantly.
“I don’t think those second and third lines scan terribly well,” Wy whispered to Hoo.
“Hush, thou. Let her have her moment,” he whispered back as all the deserters, arms still linked, sat down together on the hillside. Only a quarter of each army remained.
“There! You hear that, you sapheads?” Shade shouted. “If you want to have your stupid war over a kingdom that won’t even exist after today, you’ll have to dingle-dangle fight it out amongst yourselves!”
“Once we deal with these Sluagh curs, we’ll see teach you upstart peasants your place again!” a Seelie general bellowed.
“You’ll submit to Sluagh rule and beg for forgiveness once you see what we do to these Seelie fops!” a human warrior for the Sluagh retorted. “Queen Modthryth, give the command!”