Chasing those wood Elves was irritating business, and the fact that they were just plain thick annoyed them even more.
Even Icrick was starting to feel bold about the whole ordeal as he watched from beneath his blanket. Eventually, he dragged himself out of hiding and joined in on the pursuit. Lo and behold, as soon as he stepped up, he obstructed the bag-snatching Brownie and he slipped right into Icrick’s arms. Just the Grogoch’s luck, and for a second, he even felt brave about it.
“Aha! I have you now!” he growled courageously, only then realising what had just happened. “Ugh! Get it off!” he howled.
His beckoning was useless, for the others also had their hands full as the remaining Brownies suddenly decided to retaliate. Make no mistake, Brownies work as a team, and if one gets snagged, the entire group charges in, hell-for-leather. Their assaults are about as detrimental as a pillow fight. But still, it’s a courageous enough virtue for an otherwise weakling of an Elf.
It was utter pandemonium upon that hill. William was chasing three Brownies ‘round and ‘round one of the liths, whereas Stell had his spear drawn and was demanding that they surrender their plunder. Wren was skulking behind the stones in an attempt to cut them off as they dashed past, only to let them slip through her fingers every time. Crosco continued to swing and slash with little success, and Ifcus was limping away from five of them while Khrum was left-hooking and right-crossing nothing but raindrops. Clueless of the Grogoch’s captive, none of them could find the wood Elf with the bag. By that point, some of the Brownies were even crawling along the liths like lizards, bounding from one to the next with disturbing dexterity. Fruitless and infuriating, that plight felt. But then there was Icrick…
He was rolling back and forth through the sodden grass, wrestling the Brownie thief, when, sure enough, he actually got the better of the nasty little stinker. He had him pinned to the ground—an action so well recalled from those days of sparring in the jungle—and was practically chuckling with triumph. But his bubble of elation would soon pop to a frightful reprisal. For it was at that crucial moment that the prying skills of the Brownie came into play.
What you don’t know is that he’d heard what Stell was saying to Icrick earlier that night. They were there the entire time, eavesdropping from the dark. And so, struggling to put his great, unsightly nose close up to Icrick’s face, the Brownie then lapped the Grogoch’s cheek just once. Well! Icrick screeched like a tot being cradled by a corpse just then.
“UGH! STELL!” he shrieked, trying frantically to hold the Brownie at arm’s length. “THE LICK O’ THE BROWNIES!”
Standing on the opposite side of the hill, Stell had one Brownie in a headlock, and another two were scrabbling on his back. And yet he couldn’t help bursting into laughter. This, in turn, set the others off as well, believe it or not. It just could not be helped. It was one of those moments where they got downright nailed by something so whimsical that they all fell head-over-heels with hysterics. Except, of course, for Icrick, who was virtually vomiting with tears.
Making good use of this, all of the Brownies, including the bag-snatcher, sprung off into the shadows, and were never to be seen again. By sheer luck, William’s truffles fell out just as they disappeared, along with one or two other little bits and pieces.
Picking up the box, the lad pointed out, “Hang on, what are we all laughing about? Our food’s gone! What are we supposed to do, eat wild mushrooms? Because all we have left are these truffles, and we need to spare them.”
He then stuffed them into his backpack for safekeeping.
“Never mind that,” whimpered Icrick, scrubbing his cheek “What about my face? What if I wake up tomorrow with no head left? What then?!”
“Oh, that was just a tall tale, Icrick ol’ chap,” Stell said, swabbing a tear from his eye. “I really did not wish to frighten you so. It was not my intention. I hope you can forgive me?”
“Y-Y-You mean…when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll still have a face?” Icrick asked innocently.
“Still there, and as good-natured as ever,” Stell replied.
“Well, in that case, all is forgiven, my good Elf!” the Grogoch smiled.
“Many thanks, my friend. Many thanks!” the Elf replied. “And do not fear for your provisions, either. I know of a fine meadow south of your path. We shall get some more rest while we can and, tomorrow, I will take you there.”
Peering off into the darkness, he then muttered in reference to the Brownies, “And to think I am related to those creatures. Vulgar!”
“You said you had to go back though,” Wren reminded him, while also being very grateful for Stell’s desire to help out.
Just as the Elf was about to answer, Jimzin came soaring in from his earlier escapade and, dangling from his mouth, was half a buck, which he then swallowed whole upon landing.
“Jimzin!” Wren smiled. “Don’t you ever get full?”
“My! W-What a magnificent beast,” Stell gulped, anxiously retreating a step. “He is with you, I take it?”
“Oh, this is Jimzin of house Greale…my dragon,” said she, stroking Jimzin’s neck.
Relieved to hear that he was actually a part of their group, and not about to wolf them down, Stell said, “Well, it looks like our dragon friend here has already discovered my meadow. There is not a buck outside of its borders for a hundred miles; north, south, east or west. As I said, in the morrow I shall show you there. And when we arrive, I will help you to forage. When I am done, I shall return to my own duties. Does that sound fair?”
“That’d be great, Stell. Thanks very much,” said William gratefully.
“Not a problem, William. Glad to help.”
Stell then returned to his blanket, knotted his hands behind his head and said, as if recalling a divine dream, “Wait until you set your eyes on this place…this wondrous meadow. Animals flourish in it and it is teeming with uncountable amounts of fruits and berries. You should have little problems foraging there. However, I implore you, when we arrive, allow me to hunt the game. For there are right ways and wrong ways of going about such business, and I know the ways of these counties well. So leave it to me.”
That arrangement sounded quite reasonable to all of them. Besides, I don’t think that it was to anybody’s favour to actually go out hunting animals, as none of them really knew how. Well, I suppose Jimzin knew very well how to hunt. But asking him to go and find them food would be like politely asking Drevol Briggun to quietly surrender Lythiann without a fuss. It simply wouldn’t happen.
William was very much looking forward to seeing this meadow. It also seemed like a much more natural way of obtaining food, and not to be procuring it from some grubby old bag. Perhaps it might even be fun? Nevertheless, there was a gang of grimy little Brownies out there somewhere sniffing through his satchel, having the feasts of their lives. Either that, or they didn’t have a clue how to work it and it was probably already lying in a gully somewhere, thanks to their outright stupidity.
They crawled back under their blankets and aspired to squeeze in as much sleep as possible before the coming of dawn. Not William, though. He remained awake all night long until the rain had ceased and the first traces of lilac came creeping through the stars. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he arose to watch the daybreak. Upon a toadstool he sat when the scent of fresh heather, once again, wafted by his face, just like at home. Then sunrise came. How captivating it was, with its fiery rays bronzing the dewy slopes.
It was little moments like this which gave William the drive to carry on. The small reminders of home. Reminding him of his mother or, perhaps, the late afternoons he spent at Mr. O’Connell’s. Or even those hours which he so cherished being alone with his thoughts. Alone with his dreams. Alone?
- Chapter Three -
Beneath the Silt
It was much brighter than they’d expected it to be that morning. Calmer, too. They had already departed for Stell’s meadow, and he was telling them all about its wonderful bounties
along the way.
Now, I say ‘Stell’s meadow,’ but it didn’t belong to Stell by any means. He was just one of the few who knew about it because there was a secret route in which would prove exceedingly challenging to find had you not taken it before, and even then it took practice.
They negotiated the rock of the lower mountainside, which was still very high from the sorrel grassland of below. Areas of it were covered in terribly rough, bare, split rock, which forced them to hop rather than walk, and that entire time they kept to the strict course which Stell had provided them with. Wren wanted to say, “To hell with this,” and climb down the face. She thought it might be easier, as well as faster. But there were blind steps on that rock face, making it just as easy to get rim-rocked and stuck in the position where they could go neither up nor down, so they maintained Stell’s direction.
The portion of the shoulder under which they ambled was shaped to a giant, arched concave. They had taken Rook’s Pass which ran tightly against the walls, thereby accommodating their spirits with hardly any light. Bleaker still, they ended up halting there for a spell, on account of Wren’s concern over Jimzin.
It turns out he didn’t fly at all in those recent hours; he walked. This was not at all like him, nor any other breed of dragon, really. He was also rather pale, for what his garnet-tinted scales would allow. He kept on coughing, too, making awfully obscure gargling noises which resonated disturbingly amongst the mountainside. His eyes had sagged so painfully, as if itchy and irritated. With loving care, Wren was serving him water from her own supply at first, until they happened upon a small cataract where Jimzin then gulped down as much water as he so pleased without exhausting their entire supply.
Poor Wren, she was very worried for him, and she didn’t leave his side for one second; all the time checking his temperature and caressing his forehead whenever he put his head down to rest.
“Oh, what’s the matter, Jimzin?” she implored, kneeling beside him, stroking his snout. “Did you eat something funny? How about that buck? Did that taste, in any way, off? Or perhaps you drank some dirty water? Please, can’t you give me some idea?”
Best the dragon could do was shake his thorny head left to right, with a sickly, sooty vapour wavering from the corners of his mouth. How poorly he seemed, in contrast to the days when he appeared so very mighty and proud.
William gave them their privacy and took it upon himself to study the Symphogram, now that they were taking a break and all. He was determined to uncover something, anything, about its illustrious secret. In an effort to do just that, he turned the contraption ‘round and ‘round, upside down, downside up. He even took to rattling it. Perhaps even a mild panicking had a role to play in his frustration then, for he knew painfully well that, without the Banádh, he would remain powerless against the dark tyrant. Such a thought was not altogether pleasing, now that they virtually through the midlands and drawing ever nearer to the east.
“Ara, give it here!” Khrum insisted, like he knew what William was doing wrong. “It’s not a Christmas present, ya know. Look at ya, pawin’ at it! Can’t ya see it’s locked? C’mon, pass it over.”
And yet, the instant Khrum went for the padlock, as if by the forbiddance of those who were unintended to be tinkering with this enigmatic implement, there flared a momentary hail of crimson, crackling sparks, which nearly sent the leprechaun out of his shoes like a firework.
“WATCH OUT!” William exclaimed, whisking the Symphogram off him.
But Khrum was already dangling from a branch on the precipice above, with a face on him like he’d not only seen a ghost, but had also been kicked up the backside by one, too.
“Keep that bloody yoke well away from me!” he yelled down, with his cheeks as red as ripe peppers and a thread of vermillion smoke wavering from his cap.
Assessing the Symphogram from a slightly more optimistic standpoint, William said to himself, “Humph! At least now we know it’s not completely lifeless. Better than nothing, I suppose.”
Stell found that incident to be oh so hilarious. Jimzin, too, much to Wren’s glee.
With a chuckle, she said dotingly to her dragon, “Aw, did you enjoy that, Jimzin? Watching Khrum getting blown sky-high by the Symphogram?”
In response, though still with a jaded eye, the dragon nodded wearily, and had another little sip of water for himself. It may not have been much, but at least he hadn’t lost his sense of humour.
Soon, he felt well enough to move again. His movements remained sluggish and rickety, yet he was steadily improving. This was good enough for them, so they upped and left that place.
Later that day, when the mountain pass was left as but a shadow in the clouded north, they were left traipsing across the bleakness of those grimly downs of Haís, and Stell was explaining to them how they were nearing the swamp country, and just before it was the actual pass into the marshland.
“On our way into the marshland now, Shadow’s east,” he went. “So try not to expect any picturesque scenery, because you certainly will not find it here. Not a fear of it. Unless wart-toad is your thing.”
It was also the last they’d seen of Ewval’s Bastion for a time, with it ever dwindling north of their direction ever since the megaliths. I cannot say that this did not burden Stell a touch. He rarely abandoned its course. And whenever he did, it was only to go to the meadow in search of food, but only in dire emergencies. He also knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be back at the Bastion again. All he had to do was lead them in and out of the meadow before placing them upon a safer track into the east, nothing more.
When they found the edge of that reed-ridden marshland, it was approaching mid-afternoon. Jimzin was feeling a little better by then, which the others were quite glad of.
Beyond the marshland the horizon was flush, with scarcely any sign of precipitous terrain thereafter. The only land they could see was crammed with twisted tupelo, bog oak, and bald cypress trees, all set upon the eastern and western banks. Some were sprouting up from the water, rather hauntingly, in places. Small, dishevelled humps of earth also poked from the foggy shallows here and there, accommodating that same dismal vegetation. Not far from these hills, some old, bannered pikes prodded up from the low mist, as if abandoned from a forgotten skirmish long since ended. Apart from that, it was little other than a bitterly dark marsh.
“Oh, how I loathe this part of the journey,” Stell sighed, as he plodded through the water. “Put you in a right awful mood, it would.”
Also disgusted at having to wander through such a dank place, The Head replied, “Well, why must we come this way so? This filthy water is going to ruin my fine armour. Rust it all to scrap, it shall.”
“Sorry, my dear friend, but this pass is part of the meadow secret,” the Elf answered. “Folk would sooner turn around than travel through here, you see. In which case those travellers would never get to the later swamps, on account of the sheer density of the encompassing Root of the Mire…ultimately meaning they would never set eyes on the meadow trail, either. This is the only way through, I’m afraid. Apologies on my part. Once we get a fire going, we’ll just heat some flax oil and you can rub it on your joints. That may loosen you up a bit.”
As they carried on in conversation, William was absolutely exhausted from his lack of sleep the night before. He ambled on heedlessly, ignoring the grogginess as best as ever he could. There was also quite a bit of wildlife around, which he found himself drawn to by means of distracting himself from his fatigue.
Some creatures were a little more welcoming than others, he found. First off, he spied the birds high up in the trees, most of which were swamp sparrow, heron, and gnatcatcher—not that he knew any of that. Quite delightful, in contrast to the gloominess of their location. More dragonflies and marsh flies, and quite a few lightning skippers were fluttering about as well. These were all innocuous enough, too, unlike some of the snakes he saw coiled about the branches overhead. Stell had also warned them of the few bog-rattler
s that may be slithering about in the water. But he wasn’t warning them of the snakes being dangerous; they were fairly benign. He was merely advising them not to get startled, thus attracting the more sinister marshland beasts. The Caiman, for example, who were surveying from their shaded nests upon the banks. It might not have been so bad, had they not seen clusters of bones scattered outside their nests. For the most part, those deadly looking reptiles remained on the banks, wedged into nooks which seemed too slight to cover their leathery hides.
At one point, however, William glimpsed one of their tails swishing into the water, which sprang him out of his weary mood quite suddenly. Fortunately, Stell had spotted it, too. He then unsheathed his spear, whose blade edge he skimmed, ever so gingerly, across the water’s surface. His exquisite steel emitted a sort of whistling sound, soft and pleasant. Hearing it, the Caiman cowered back to the bank, and the Elf sheathed his spear again. William couldn’t say if it was the noise itself, or the threat that did it. Either way, it worked. Handy enough little trick, that, he thought. Need I say, the flatulent Grogoch couldn’t have agreed more, having almost brought the waist-deep waters to a simmer when he saw the beast approaching in the first place.
Other winged critters were travelling just shy of the water’s surface, yet only in pairs did they fly. Roughly the size of swans, these creatures were otherwise bled of whatever elegance a swan may ever retain, by looking more like hideous vultures than anything. With wiry reptilian tails, leathery wings, and stumpy heads, they made a painful gnashing sound as of bare gums smacking together. Strange and fiendishly ugly things, really. Surprisingly, they ended up being rather shy.
The Other of One: Book Two Page 10