by K. A. Lentz
Regardless of the breath-taking scenery along the way, neither newcomer was prepared for the splendor waiting at the end of their journey. A bustling patio of grey and cream colored stone was neatly tucked into the largest and most magnificent weeping-willow grove either had ever seen. Barely visible through a dense canopy of lazy tendrils, trimmed short to allow movement below, Thistle and Miach caught patchy glimpses of each tree’s truly gigantic height as they made their way down the stairway. Framing one side of the stone floor, an aqua blue river eddied like an overfed snake into a kidney shaped pool at the back of the square, lazily flowing through fertile banks lined with grass and purple clover. Three long, glass tables trimmed the edges of the festival square, leaving a large dancing space in the middle. Dressing up the already breath-taking scene were exquisite flower garlands lazily draped along the front of every table and down each woody limb stretching over the festive square. Magically attracted to the festoons’ vibrant string of flowers, brightly illuminated bumble-bees buzzed around the blossoms, their multicolored glow punctuated by patterns of black stripes dominating each abdomen.
As the small crowd stepped down onto the patio, Thistle got a closer look at the mouth watering foods of which Syheran spoke. Steaming dishes sat like centerpieces in clusters down the length of each table. The combined aromas of mounds of rice, piles of sautéed meats, and heaps of cooked vegetables tickled her nose before speeding downward to alert her empty stomach. Stricken by magnificent sights and smells, the anticipation was too much for her waiting belly to take and so it began growling aloud. The elves around her seemed to take this as somewhat of an affront and hurried her along to a waiting chair.
Walking by crowds of elves taking their seats, Thistle was led past an available chair next to Miach in favor of an open one on the other side of Syheran. Tucked into their seats, neither newcomer was prepared for what happened next. Looking over at the knot of food laden dishes resting in front of Syheran, Thistle jumped as a stack of empty plates beside the steaming mountain sprang to life. One, single set of ghostly legs propelled each terra-cotta plate to its intended guest. Expressions of horror and wonder sped like motorboats across Thistle’s face as she sat transfixed by the actions of an inanimate object. Next the cutlery joined the fray by chasing after the flatware; each piece of ambulating silverware resembling little attendants racing to catch up to their oversized monarch tottering down the table.
Peeking around a thoroughly amused Syheran, Thistle was pleased to see an equally shocked expression stamped across Miach’s face. Suddenly taking center stage with an ungainly load, an over-burdened tankard began clumsily teetering its way from the end of the table toward the wary storm-slave. Waves of beer sloshing over every side as it walked, the mug came to a messy halt in front of Miach. Syheran looked down at the tankard and said in a slightly amused, yet apologetic tone, “I do beg your pardon Miach; they’re not use to moving such large amounts of drink. I think you shall find its contents to your liking. The dwarves prize this drink as their mightiest of brews and they are exceeding adamant regarding portion size.”
Miach eyed the alcohol with mild suspicion. The mug sensed his hesitation and decided an extra step forward would encourage its drinker. Before the eager tankard could make more of a mess, Syheran hastened to add, “You are indeed safe here. Imbibe if you wish… I guarantee you will enjoy it.”
Years of isolation rushed down upon Miach and mingled with a flood of fond memories celebrating yearly festivals as a boy. Without warning he grabbed the tankard and downed its contents in surprisingly few gulps. Syheran laughed and slapped the table saying, “Ha-ha, brother, the dwarves would be proud!”
Contrary to Miach’s tankard, Thistle’s drink had a somewhat haughty air about it. Despite the fact that she had missed its arrival to her setting, the elegant flute sat prim and proper with the rest of the arrangement. Examining her drink from odd angles, the glass’s shimmering purple contents appeared to be hovering in the shape of a tulip. Another young elf-maid sitting beside her leaned close and stated with a shy smile, “It’s dragonberry spirits, aged a hundred years and kept in vats made from snowfall trees… like these. It adds the snow-like sparkle to the swirl.”
Thistle looked impassively from the girl to the beverage, yet inwardly the elf’s production notes had done little to bolster her courage. Intent on being polite she reached out to take hold of the seemingly delicate glass. Worry dictated her every move as she gently cupped the fragile goblet and gave it another once over. Satisfied with her inspection, Thistle lifted the flute to her nose, inhaled a tentative sniff, and then braved a cautious sip. The liquid went down sweet and sugary with a sharp bite at the end, filling her nose with the smell of perfectly ripe cherries. Sporting a sparkly tongue of which she was unaware, Thistle beamed her delight, “That’s indescribably good! Umm… how drunk can you get from this stuff? I should know now, so as to pace myself.”
Quick to answer, Syheran replied, “No need to fear. That is a beverage normally imbibed by the eldest of our children; its effects are gentle enough that you may freely drink.”
Her only response was to mouth a perfect O of indignation while marrying it to the furrowed brow of logic and understanding; she probably couldn’t handle anything stronger anyway. Giving her a quick wink, Syheran stood to a wave of silence flooding the square. Taking a breath the hale-elf paused a moment before he spoke, “Thank you all for the efforts that allowed us to be here and enjoy this great feast together. May you find sated happiness and lasting health from this bountiful meal! Blessings to all!”
A short chorus of cheers and light applause rose from every table at the close of Syheran’s toast. As he returned to his seat, each food-laden dish around the square sprang to life just as the plates had done. A train of marching dishware paraded down every table serving their delicious contents, each propelled by four sets of ghostly legs working together to maneuver their weighty contents. As the first few dishes made their way to Thistle, Syheran turned to her and cautioned with a smile, “Now, these mayhap will be different in flavor from the ones prepared in your home realm. Though all are human recipes… they were made with elvish resources and so will unlikely be an exact match. I hope, despite this fact, you find them pleasing.”
It was at this moment the first entrée doled itself onto her plate by a serving spoon bent to resemble a metallic, long-billed crane. Digging into a hillock of saucy meat with its spoon bill, the gleaming silver server produced a lovely scoop of what looked to be sweet and sour pork. Just as Syheran had warned, the mixture in front of her didn’t smell like the meal it appeared to be. The next bowl in line trotted up, a medley of steamed vegetables, and then another with wild-rice stuffing. Several minutes later, the procession of food stopped to the tune of seven different mouthwatering dishes oozing into one another on her plate. Despite lifelong food allergies, Thistle started eating without worry or concern over what ingredients were creating the wonderful feast. Not a one of the dishes harbored the flavors promised, but each bite drove her taste-buds into a frenzy of pleasure.
Miach was also enjoying the variety of fare streaming his way. Having eaten several plates to Thistle’s one, Miach appeared to be slowing by restraint rather than the burden of an overly full stomach. Contrary to their guests behavior the elves savored every small bite with grace. Thistle felt a tad rude over the speed with which she had eaten their delicious efforts and made a mental note to be more conscientious next time. Miach had no such reservations about speed, just how much he should eat. From time to time, Amy could be seen darting across the square to another intentionally dropped offering for her perpetually eager stomach. Feeling a bit betrayed by the social dog, Thistle could sit quiet no longer. Turning to Syheran she asked, “How is it that this plate and… well… everything else, moved to here on its own?”
Finishing his bite, Syheran paused before replying in a casual tone, “The elves walked here by their own two feet, as you did of course.” He finished his
little joke with a wink and then explained, “As for the dinnerware they are enchanted with flower and tree spirits, special for this occasion. They all wanted to welcome you—in their own way—to this realm and to Japake. When we informed the grove you would be visiting, many spirits volunteered to do the job our children normally perform. You see, they have no need for our food and much prefer inhabiting something to sitting in a chair at the table; besides they are rather small.”
Humbled by their gift, she looked around at the hustle and bustle along each table and saw a whole new picture unfolding before her eyes. Feeling encouraged by his ready answer, Thistle remembered her curiosity over the bugs and continued on, “Why do those bugs hover around and not leave?”
“I can see Pyhe was correct in his statement regarding your curiosity… how wonderful. You remind me of an elvish child with your wide-eyed wonder. They are attracted to the many flowers and will not leave until the flowers do; which were a gift from Old Grandma earlier this morning.”
Her compassionate nature shining through, Thistle asked, “Will they exhaust themselves buzzing around like that all night?”
An understanding smile spread across Syheran’s face before he answered, “No, they are safe from harm. I assure you, they will return to their normal lives healthier than when they joined the celebration.”
Thistle’s gaze dropped to her plate, overwhelmed by all the magic and kindness done in her honor, and gasped when the top edge opened a ghostly eye and impishly winked at her. Suddenly worrying she may have insulted her plate by eating so hastily, Thistle apologized to the seemingly lifeless object, “I’m so sorry if… in my hurried enjoyment of all this wonderful food… that I umm… might have offended or hurt you… that was entirely… my bad.”
Syheran sought to end the dear girl’s suffering as he explained, “No need kind Thistle. They are simply residing within the otherwise normal dinnerware; you cannot hurt the spirits any more than you can offend the plate.” Looking down at his half eaten supper the mirthful hale-elf asked with a smile, “Shall we show our esteemed guests your true forms my friends?”
All at once there appeared a hefty brigade of tiny, ethereal spirits rising from the many plates and bowls, serving dishes and goblets around the square. Less than a foot tall, they created a rainbow of color as they jumped in cascades from each table and gathered onto the patio’s center. It was easy to tell the tree-spirits from the flowers, not only by the color of their ghostly forms but their varied shapes as well. Each little flower-spirit resembled the bloom it fostered, while every little tree-spirit boasted branching limbs and crowns to match the canopy of their tree. Unable to stop herself, Thistle exclaimed, “Wow! That is truly magnificent! They’re all so beautiful!”
The crowd of forest spirits waved at the awestruck woman before trotting back to their posts with skips in their steps and smiles on their little humanoid faces. It was then she registered the returning party of four that had ambulated her dinner-set. Two little rambunctious morning-glories waved as they passed into her silverware followed by a jolly birch tree smiling as it disappeared into her plate. Last to arrive was a haughty tulip spirit sashaying its way into her goblet. Thistle sat utterly amazed as she watched each retreat back whence they had come. Looking over at Miach she was again pleased to see an equally stunned look slapped across his features as well.
Syheran wiped the corners of his mouth with a small cloth and cleared his throat as he stuffed the square of linen back up his sleeve. Leaning over to each neighboring guest he whispered, “Take up your drink friend and follow me across the river. There is much to talk about.”
Syheran lead the way once more as he held up an arm of welcome directing them to the path he wished to take. The stone walkway gently curved beside the stream and into the surrounding forest, connecting both sides of the river by means of a stunningly carved crystal bridge. Hidden from the setting sun by a mass of trees, the crystalline structure shimmered gently in the light playing along the surface of the water. Amazed she had missed such a marvel Thistle looked back to her seat, curious if the splendorous bridge had been visible from her dinning spot. Surprised at her lack of observation, she noted that the conspicuous monument could indeed be admired from where she had been sitting. Lingering at the top of the bridge’s arch, Thistle rubbed her hands along the liquid-like surface of its handrail, marveling at its beauty. Making note to admire it once more before they departed, she decided to leave the beautiful bridge behind and catch up to the two males already nearing their destination.
Two, creamy stone benches sat in a significantly smaller patio mirroring the larger square on the opposite side of the river. Syheran settled himself directly in the middle of one and motioned his guests to share the other. Taking a steadying breath, the hale-elf hastily started with a question, “Do you know anything about yourself; anything you would find different from your peers?”
Syheran had been looking at Thistle when he asked his bewildering question, but her unprepared brain had no ready answer. Cod-fishing a few times before hazarding a response, Thistle replied, “I seem to understand people easier than those around me.” She paused again unsure, and then added, “And I have dreams that come true… sometimes, but that stuff is all in my head, as others put it; imaginary.”
Miach recalled the events that took place in the bog, yet instead of speaking up he decided to remain silent and see what answers the hale-elf had for them. With a gentle smile Syheran bowed his head, and then looked up as he said, “You are many things and none of them are imaginary. Forgive me, I have begun in haste. I must return to a previous point. How much do you know of the realm around you?”
Sinking her hand into the traveling pack still hanging at her side, Thistle dug around for a couple moments—the tongue of concentration protruding from the corner of her mouth—before producing one of her much beloved journals customarily settled to the bottom. Standing, she took the few steps between benches and placed the little book into Syheran’s waiting hands. Returning to her seat beside a thoroughly uncomfortable Miach she offered, “Read it if you like, it is what I know of this realm so far. Miach has been answering the many questions I’ve put to him along the road and I wrote them all down in there.”
Less than ten minutes later Syheran had read through the half-full journal. Smiling, the intrigued hale-elf looked over a few entries once more, and then set the little book beside him on the bench. With a tone of clear respect and keen interest he asked, “These drawings are very fine; did you add them as well?”
“No,” said Thistle as her chest puffed with pride. “It was Miach who did them. Aren’t they wonderful?”
The shy storm-slave, bolstered by her confidence, piped up in an unreadable tone, “I created the drawings in the night after reading through her day’s entry.”
“Interesting, Brother, interesting! Indeed fine art. Miach, I’ll assume this journal is but a fraction of your knowledge regarding this realm, yet for Thistle’s sake, I would like to start at the beginning.” Syheran paused for Miach’s nod then continued, “Ones we call Gaia are what the Reapers once were long ago. They are the fabric of existence… for all of existence, and they reside within the high plane known as Lleyfce. The realm in which we all currently reside is the only realm to which the Gaia are not part… it is solely the work of their fallen brethren.”
“Long ago, another race called the Fey—beings of inspiration and creative spark—interfered with the seventh-realm in an attempt to balance it from the follies of foolish elvish curiosity. You see… the light-elves had found our realm gate and used it daily to travel into the lower planes. It wasn’t long before each of the elven races began journeying to the sixth-realm with hopes of learning all they could about the lesser magical layers of our planet.”
“Unfortunately, this is where another elvish race comes into the story. In the early days of understanding the vast complexities of realm gates, the light-elves, hale-elves, and wood-elves failed to guard the po
rtal against their more sinister cousins, the shadow-elves. Traversing down through the various layers, the shadow-elves were tragically unhindered in their quest to hunt lesser magical races below. Descending lower through the realms in hopes of easier prey, they fatefully came upon the fifth-realm and the budding human civilizations scattered therein. It was only a matter of weeks before the cunning shadow-elves learned every weakness the humans possessed. Mercilessly using this knowledge to their advantage, they begun hunting the unsuspecting race for food; their favorite delicacy… young children.”
Thistle shivered and cut in as Syheran paused, “Sounds like the bogeyman! He’s a folktale about a hideous looking individual that steals children in the dark of night.”
Miach equally shivered and added, “There was a similar story in my time as well, only it was a monster that ate wayward souls.”
Syheran couldn’t hide his own curiosity, “And this folktale, it survives to today?” Thistle simply nodded. Syheran’s eyes widened little as he stated with clear awe, “Fascinating! So, where was I? Oh yes, the gate. Seeking to visit the harpies of the sixth-realm, a fellowship of wood-elves learned of the shadow-elves’ evil and followed them through to their destination. From there they tracked the villains and vanquished the entire hunting party that was preparing to ruthlessly prey upon a small, helpless village.”
“It was this one act that changed everything. A young wood-elf hero found his mate in a human maid equally enamored with him. Unable to live within a magic-less world, he spirited her entire village back to his homeland in the seventh-realm. It wasn’t long before the stoic light-elves learned of this new race and went to see the humans now calling their lands home. Many in their party were fascinated by the depth of human curiosity and sought to foster their race into a higher state of magic. Some, however, saw the dangers of importing creatures from other planes and at once cautioned their brethren against it. Every light-elf within the party saw the wisdom of these warnings, yet still allowed the humans to stay. Adamant about their point, the few dissenters took their forewarnings home and demanded action to address their fears. A grand council was convened, boasting representatives from every race, to decide the gate’s fate and what precautions to take in the future. Two topics readily agreed upon by everyone—including the shadow-elf diplomat summoned for this unique occasion—was that shadow-elves should never be allow through the gate and henceforth the portal should be guarded day and night. Each of these races sent their finest crafters to build the strongest citadel ever constructed and vigilantly protected it against harm.”