by M. M. Perry
Eventually Cass and Gunnarr began singing bawdy songs about a maid named Polly to kill time while they waited for their guide to arrive. After running through all the more traditional verses first, they began competing to see who could make up the most outlandish lines about what exactly Polly was doing, how frequently and—in graphic detail—how enthusiastically, when a strange little fellow appeared suddenly at the fireside. He just appeared, as if summoned, so quietly and inconspicuously that it took everyone a moment to notice him. He was swaying his head in rhythm with the song, watching Cass and Gunnarr with great interest, a big grin spread across his face.
What he wore barely qualified as clothing, consisting of only a loin cloth. He had a bag slung over his back, stuffed to bulging with something, and one of the odd pipes Cass had played earlier hanging from a cord around his neck, but nothing else. His hands and bare feet seemed quite large compared to his small body. His skin was the color of the Red Sands Desert. His arms and legs were disproportionately long compared to his squat torso. His dark hair was tied back in a tight braid that fell to the middle of his back.
“Tampoto!” Cass shouted in greeting as she jumped up, hurried over and then leaned far over to hug the little man.
Gunnarr stood and greeted the little man in a similar manner, but the effect was more comical with Gunnarr towering over him. Viola watched unblinkingly, in shock as her preconceptions were smashed.
The little man replied in a soft voice, his language indecipherable to everyone besides Cass and Gunnarr.
“Yes, let’s do that. And we thank you for the honor. Do you have enough for our mounts as well?” Cass replied. Callan realized the man must have understood common, even if he didn’t speak it.
Tampoto shrugged his bag off and reached inside. He pulled out a scoopful of small purple fruit. Gunnarr and Cass each took several of the fruit when he offered it to them, then busied themselves feeding some to the horses and the donkey. The rest of the group stared at the little man in silence, eying him curiously as he stood there, watching them. He smiled at them all again, then reached into his little bag, pulled out another scoop of the fruit and offered it to Callan.
“Ah… no thanks,” Callan said, watching as Cass’ horse greedily took the fruit she was offering it, “I just ate.”
After the horse finished off all the fruit she had, Cass returned to Tampoto and took another handful.
“And you’ll eat again if you want to survive the next day and a half,” she said, popping a fruit into her mouth and chewing industriously.
“What do you mean?” Callan asked as Cass shoved several pieces of the fruit into his hands.
“This is the only thing that will keep you from getting scooped up into a house sized set of jaws,” Cass said after she swallowed the last of the fruit in her mouth, “if it’s any comfort you would be swallowed mostly whole. Although, chewed to death or digested to death… that’s a tossup as to which is worse in the gruesome yet avoidable death category.”
Almost in unison, Viola and Nat immediately shoved several pieces of the fruit into their mouths. Callan reluctantly did likewise, but not before sniffing it and wrinkling his nose in disgust. The fruit had an incredibly pungent scent up close. He took a tentative bite, began chewing and almost spat it out. It wasn’t that the fruit was unpleasant, but it was unexpected. It was extremely salty and the flavor was even more intense than the smell. As they all chewed, the flesh of the fruit released even more scent, and it soon hung in the air around them so thickly that Callan couldn’t smell anything but the little fruits. Nat took some of the fruit to Inez, who was still sleeping in her wagon. Inez stirred herself just long enough to shove down two huge mouthfuls without questioning it, then she went back to sleep.
“How many do we have to eat?” Callan asked after he managed to swallow the last of his first fruit.
“To be safe, as many as you can stomach. I know they don’t taste all that great right now, but the odd thing about them is that you’ll actually start to crave them after you’ve been away for a while,” Cass said chewing, “after you muscle through that first set, that is.”
Callan raised an eyebrow doubtfully as he began eating another fruit. He looked over to see the mounts all chowing down on their own piles of fruits, using their flexible lips to scoop up the diminutive fruits, juice running down their lips into the dirt as they chewed.
“How does it work then?” Callan asked.
“Well, you can smell that, right?” Cass asked.
Callan just shot Cass a disgusted look.
“Well so will the beasties,” Cass said.
“So what’s to stop everyone from just eating a bunch of these little fruits and going through the woods whenever they want? They could just post signs that said something about eating them before you entered.” Callan suggested.
“Well, you’d have to get to the fruits first, and they are in a grove deep inside the woods. At least that’s the only place I know where they can be found. I know people who have tried growing them elsewhere, from seed, but it doesn’t work. And they begin to rot unless they are eaten within a couple days of picking them. So unless you know how to summon one of the aboriginal folk like Tampoto to meet you at the edge of the wood, you’re stuck going around the whole forest. And that takes at least several days,” Cass said.
“Right,” Callan said scratching his chin and watching Cass through slitted eyes, “So… how did these aboriginals originally get to the grove to get the fruit they needed to survive… whatever it is they need to survive?”
Cass turned to Tampoto and they shared a conspiratorial look.
“It’s a mystery of the ages,” Cass said grinning.
“Of course it is,” Callan muttered irascibly.
“What do they want? In return for the fruit I mean,” Viola asked. “Surely it must have considerable value to them. Their lives depend on it. What do they want in exchange for helping?”
“Less than you might think,” Cass replied. “They love a good story. They once told me they learned our language just so they could understand our tales of adventure better, rather than in translation. They never leave this wood, so they are generally quite isolated. And their customs are very strict about interacting with visitors. One of their people unexpectedly came across some foreign people travelling the edge of the wood. He approached the group which happened to be a band of warriors. As you’ve no doubt discovered by now, getting us to shut up about our adventures is harder than a gordonna’s backside. It didn’t take long before the aboriginals recognized that warriors had the most colorful stories to tell. Ever since, they kept an eye out for us. If they see a warrior passing near the wood, they’ll offer to take us through, on the condition that we share a few tales of glory on the way.”
“So they speak our language?” Callan asked.
“Not most of them. They can all understand it, but few choose to speak it. They’ve taught enough warriors their own language over the years that it’s become expected by them that all warriors in this area can understand it. Learning the language of these people was part of my training,” Cass replied.
The little man spoke up then. His voice, though soft, had a musical cadence to it as he spoke to Cass and Gunnarr. He gesticulated enthusiastically with his long hands when he spoke. When he finished, Cass nodded and turned to the rest of the group.
“We have to spend the night here. The fruit needs time to do its thing. Tampoto suggests we each tell a story before we sleep for the night,” Cass said.
“Sleep… here?!” Callan asked looking around. “There’s no room to set up a tent. Are we just supposed to go to bed on the ground? It’s wet everywhere, and there are things in the woods there,” Callan said gesturing toward the darkening tree line, “that you claim are waiting to devour us whole. It seems a bit unwise to me to set up camp here. Perhaps we can leave our things here, with this nice little man, while we cross the river again, sleep over there, and then come back in the morning
?”
Callan’s face and voice were pleading. Cass leaned back on her hands and looked at Gunnarr. The big man looked over at Callan apologetically.
“Sorry, your lordship, but the donkey bit the rope in half. We can’t go back until we get more rope,” he said.
Callan buried his face in his hands in misery. Cass patted Gunnarr on the shoulder.
“We’ll be fine here. Time will fly once we get a few tales in, right?” Cass said energetically.
Nat nodded enthusiastically, while Viola and Callan alternatively glanced at the tree line and then each other, trepidation clear on their faces. A loud snore rattled out of Inez’s wagon.
“Alright then,” Cass said, a little less energetically this time. She could see not everyone was in the storytelling mood just now. She tried to think of a story that might distract the party from their fears. “Let’s see. Well, I guess I could start. Have you ever heard about the elves of Ledina?”
“Ledina?” Nat asked. “That’s the eastern continent, right?
“Yes,” Cass said.
“How many of the continents have you been to?” he prodded further.
“All of them. Even Xenor, though I wouldn’t suggest anyone go there,” Cass said.
“Why not?” Nat asked.
“There’s nothing on Xenor worth visiting,” Gunnarr offered.
“He’s right, there really isn’t,” Cass said.
“But you went there?” Nat asked confused.
“Yes,” Cass laughed, “a warrior goes where the work is. And those few people who do foolishly choose to go to Xenor often need rescuing. But let’s put that tale aside for another time. I was telling you about Ledina.”
“What are the elves like?” Nat asked.
“Oh please, no,” Callan said, his voice dark. “I don’t want to hear about the faerie folk. I’ve heard more than any man’s fair share of stories about the damned elves from my sister. Elves among the trees. Elves in love with all the animals. Oh the beautiful elves, with their beautiful eyes and their beautiful hair. Every bard she ever brings to court wants to sing about some elf or another. Always a foppish love story in the mix that has all the ladies swooning and dreaming of running off with some fair-haired, pointy-eared, flower-draped, lover that periodically bursts into songs about their love for them.”
Gunnarr and Cass glanced at each other for a moment before bursting out in hearty laughter.
“What? What did I say?” Callan asked confused.
“Elves aren’t like that at all. If you ever talked to anyone from Ledina, you’d learn that right quickly,” Gunnarr said.
“They aren’t? Really? Well now that is something. I’d love to go back and tell my sister how wrong she has it,” Callan said, his interest piquing.
“As well you should,” Cass said. “Elves are a menace.”
“They steal human babies, to start with,” Gunnarr began.
“Bewitch women, rape them, and leave them pregnant and alone,” Cass continued, “no memory of what happened to them, but certain they’ve been assaulted.”
“And they sing badly,” Gunnarr said.
“They… sing badly,” Callan asked. “That ranks with kidnapping and rape?”
“No, of course not. But oh gods, the singing!” Cass said grimacing. “You’ve never heard a sound so awful in your life. Have you ever stepped on a cat’s tail on accident? Well that is a more pleasant sound than an elf singing. The only thing worse than an elf singing…”
“Is a bunch of elves singing,” Gunnarr finished with her.
“But the songs they write,” Cass said once they stopped chuckling, “the lyrics are even worse than their voices.”
“I’d like to live the life of a flower,” Gunnarr sung in a high pitched voice, “so’s that I could shower by the hour. If I could live the life of a fish, I’d like to end up on a nice dish. But more than anything I’d like to live like a bird, because laying eggs sounds nice.”
Cass couldn’t stop laughing through his entire recital.
“Oh I’d forgotten that one!” she said holding her sides, “far, far less funny when hearing a cavern full of elves holler it at the top of their little lungs. Which, by the way, is considerably louder than such a tiny little body should be allowed to make.”
“That’s… an elf song?” Viola asked.
“A completely traditional elf folk song. It’s actually a classic,” Cass said wiping away tears from the corners of her eyes, “with something like a hundred verses. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I thought about that song. It gets played at least once a night in their pubs and it can go on for over an hour!”
“Elves have pubs?” Callan asked, clearly engrossed in the story.
“Oh yes. But keep in mind how small they are,” Cass said, holding her hand just a few feet off the ground,” so everything is very short. Short stools, short tables, short bar. It’s very uncomfortable for anyone but an elf. And their ale, gods it’s the worst swill you’ll ever taste. They’re convinced that the most divine beverage you can make is from fermented bird shit. Everything has to have a dollop of that in it. Every dish, a splash of bird mead goes in when preparing it. Every meal gets a flagon or two of the stuff served with it. I swear, I don’t understand how these fairy tales about elves got started. It’s miserable being around actual elves,” Cass said. “I can hardly imagine any woman in her right mind ever pining after one, wanting to run away with them.”
“Isn’t there anything good about the elves?” Viola asked hopefully.
“They only live on one continent,” Gunnarr said.
Callan barked out a laugh, but bit it short when he realized the warrior was being serious.
“Did you have to deal with them very often?” Nat asked, “I mean when you were over in Ledina.”
“Oh yes,” Cass said settling in, “They’re like a plague over there. They breed like mad, and when they can’t rut with each other the males will take human women. Bewitch them into a stupor, and deposit their offspring like the parasites they are. If you’ve met three women from Ledina, chances are one of them has given birth to an elf.”
“That sounds dreadful,” Viola said.
“It is. Obviously there is a great deal of trauma that the women suffer. A terrible thing. Women from Ledina are a rightfully depressed and wary lot. There is a whole branch of warriors who have pledged to aid the women of Ledina, which mostly involves getting them to another continent. It’s why not so many humans live there. Cartan aren’t affected by elf magic, so they don’t need to worry about elves impregnating them unawares.
“The elf infestation is so bad that they have to do ship checks on every vessel leaving Ledina, and most ports require strict off shore searches of all vessels coming to them from Ledina. To make sure they have none of the vermin on them. Haven’t you ever heard about the hundred-year war?” Cass asked.
“Isn’t that the war between the Mummers and the Cartan?” Nat asked.
“Yes,” Cass said nodding. “But did you know that what started it all were elves? A Ledinian ship captain wanted to beat a particularly nasty storm that was inbound, so he skipped his final outbound check on leaving Ledina. Unfortunately, it turned out some elves had made it past the inspection he’d had his crew undertake in lieu of the official inspectors by hiding inside the walls of the ship. No one realized the elves were onboard until they were well out to sea, when they began singing. And they sang uninterrupted the entire trip. The captain tore that ship apart trying to get to them, but they always managed to get away. It drove all the men aboard to abandon ship. Eventually only the captain was left on his boat, but it became too much for him, and he bailed as well. But he made it close enough to land that the ship drifted and eventually beached itself on Arless, at which point the elves got out. The people of Arless mistakenly took it for an attack.
“Arless thought that Ledina had launched an empty ship filled with the blighters and steered it toward Arless. Weaponized elves if
you will. As soon as Arless realized what had happened, they launched a counter attack, sending boats out toward Ledina, while also trying to hunt down and exterminate all the elves back home.”
“The two continents actually only waged war for about a year before they realized that they were fighting over an accident. The other ninety-nine years of the war was spent with both of them working together to eradicate the growing population of elves on Arless,” Cass said, “Which was quickly considerable. One pregnant female elf can spawn a thousand offspring in three to four generations. Which takes about a year.”
“Why would the Cartan choose to help the Mummer get rid of the elves? I mean, why would they bother?” Callan asked. “I’ve met Cartan, they’re all silent and stubborn. They don’t seem like the helping type. And they clearly can’t stand being around anyone who isn’t Cartan. Getting them to concede anything during our trade negotiations was a nightmare,” Callan said.
“You’d have to know the Cartan really well to understand it,” Cass explained. “Cartan only explore the world for one reason—to get away from the elves from time to time. The idea that there might not be a place to go to get away from them, a world filled with elves… The Cartan people would find that an unbearable place to live in. So they looked past their distaste for anyone not Cartan and helped the Mummers,” Cass said.
The aborigine chuckled at this and said something to Cass. Cass and Gunnarr laughed and nodded.
“Indeed,” Cass said. “Of course, you’d have to find a way to get them over there, and then warn the Cartan about it. But you know, if they thought they could be rid of the little blighters once and for all, they might take you up on that offer.”
“What did he say?” Callan asked curiously.