- Chapter Four -
A Tardy Bond
They decided to remain stationary for a while, until they’d gotten their wits about them, following that bloodcurdling exploit. Wren was tending to Jimzin’s wounds, using some root bark from the staghorn shrub. The rest were searching around for something to eat, but there was nothing. Well, nothing but snake or Caiman, and William could have done without either. Not that it mattered that much to him anyhow, for he would easily have welcomed a decent night’s rest over his grumbling stomach by that stage anyway. But to seek slumber in such a despondent place would’ve been most unsettling for him, with all that had happened of late.
Ifcus, on the other hand, didn’t fair out too badly at all in that marsh. He had lots of lichens and mosses to chew on, while the others were almost considering doing the very same. How famished they were. Excluding whatever fruit Stell had procured from that yew tree of his—that of which had mostly been consumed—it had been many hours since they’d truly feasted; a countless time since Icrick’s superb picnic that morn. If only they’d made the most of it while they had the chance, rather than discarding that mound of scrumptious leftovers. But there wasn’t much they could do about it now, and after their short break, they lumbered on with dreams of rich fires, crispy meat, and a good night’s sleep. William moved alongside them with no plain grievances, just thankful that the swamp wasn’t too far south, and not long thereafter…rest.
Once they’d entered that labyrinth of swampland, known as Eelsgloon, they were thrilled to find that it wasn’t actually all that treacherous. That’s not to say that it wasn’t extremely foul smelling, eerily hazy, with icy-cold water whose friendless ripples swelled by the humming of sand flies that kept trying to nip at their necks, ears, and any portion of otherwise exposed flesh.
“Flies! More blasted flies!” The Head complained. “And I thought the leprechaun was irritating.”
“Ha-ha! You’re no barrel o’ laughs either, ya foul-mouthed, lantern-faced fool!” Khrum teased from the Grogoch’s shoulder. “Ya’ll jusht have ta suck it up ‘n’ deal with them! As for me, ya have no choice in the matter. Ya either handle my nature, or ya can fu—”
“—uss not, dear friends. Please!” Stell intruded, and dealing out some wild mint, he added, “Here. I collected this near the foothills of the mountain. Wild mint flourishes there around this time. Just rub some of it onto your skin, and that should solve your fly problem well enough. I only wish you’d said something sooner, and we could have avoided this backache of a quarrel.”
“If it wasn’t that, Stell, it would have been something else,” Wren put in, strolling alongside her dragon. “But, deep down, they’re really quite fond of each other.”
“He has his moments, I suppose.” Crosco admitted, remarkably enough.
“Ara, ‘n’ I suppose you’re not a fool, either…not all the time.” Khrum joked, only to have Crosco recant with a grumble.
Each taking a wad of mint, Khrum and Crosco, as well as the others, began massaging it onto their skin. Lo and behold, not a single sand fly dared approach them after that. Knowledgeable was that Elf of the wilderness, and its natural gifts of wonder. ‘Twas yet another of his attributes they were enormously grateful for.
Onwards they roamed, and apart from those pesky insects, William also glimpsed a variety of tiny lizards scuttling in and out of the brushwood, then into the hollow trees. Fortunately they were of the kindly sort, and not at all of the man-eating fraternity like those terrible Caiman.
Another thing he noticed was the stillness of that darkly bayou. Only the voices of the tree frogs could be heard throughout, as the remainder of the reptiles merely scampered about with scarcely any talk; flicking their tongues and considering the group as they waded, knee-deep, through the slough, whose water was much too glutinous and revolting to see through, thereby concealing the mesh of knotted roots which had matured from the extremely big and bizarre trees about them. Swamp trees they were. Melancholic; with tone of surrealism and demise about them. Like ashen velvet, their smooth branches twisted into curls near the tips, while the limbs of closer trees ravelled themselves ‘round the trunks of others nearby. It was dreadfully grim, truth be told. But the Elf was telling them stories of his father and great wars which took their minds of everything for a bit. He was good at spinning a yarn, was Stell.
However, not all of them were so enthralled.
William, which I am sure you have just guessed, was at the rear again. He kept on slipping and losing his footing. He was exhausted, he was annoyed, and he was sore, and all the jungle training in the world wouldn’t have seen him through those days any safer than one proper night’s sleep. But Icrick stayed by his side, and even though he himself was struggling with the Symphogram during the course of that rickety swampland trail, he still helped William any way that he could.
To tell you the truth, the boy didn’t really complain much about that swamp, which is more than I can say for the others, particularly those whom I probably don’t need to mention (The Head). It was as if his thoughts had carried him to another place. A place of ecstasy and of luxury; all the while his body was forced to remain in the present, forever enduring the callousness of that appalling swamp. And this drew his face to a peculiar expression of both forbearance and application.
It turns out he was busy in that mind of his, absorbed in a distant idea of his own manifestation. A simple dream. One that involved a serene rustic common on a summer’s morn, with daisies bobbing their crowns beneath an early breeze. In the centre of these gardens lay a nice, soft bed, with brass knobs, a heavy quilt, and a lovely, soft pillow. William imagined himself crawling into that very bed and sleeping for an entire fortnight without waking. Welcoming was that quilt as he wrapped it snugly around his shoulders, and nestled his head into the lasting coolness of that fluffy pillow. Fresh were those sheets, over which he stretched himself as far as he so desired, and peaceful was the slumber in which he so delightedly indulged. It was precisely this dream that kept him going through the toil of that miserable swamp. And it worked rather well, keeping his nerves at bay and his weariness under reasonable control. But he still promised himself a proper rest the next time they stopped.
With hours pressing on to the gradual escalation of firmer ground beneath his steps, William was overjoyed to find himself trudging through soft, boggy grass instead of muddy, stagnant water. It remained vastly unpleasant, but it was a far sight better than struggling through a rancid swamp. Also, the trees were becoming a lot more familiar to him, and less ugly.
They advanced onto a charming woodland trail of copper-brown colours, with a path of fallen leaves and, the best part was, it was the end of that wretched bog country.
Only for Stell kept saying, “Not too long now. Just beyond this trail here,” William would’ve dropped onto his back right then and there and nodded off. But he didn’t. He decided to sweat-out the remainder of the hike. Yet the more Stell said, “Not too long now. Just beyond this trail,” the more he was beginning to wonder if they were going to get there at all.
Minutes later, he stumbled into a glade and onto a patch of friendly, green grass. William had scarcely noticed the trail ending, the way he was staggering so wearily. But there it was; a glorious scene of country meadows, with trees of poplar, evergreen, and chestnut, all deeply concealed by the encompassing crags which were yet small enough to accommodate the closing hours of afternoon sunshine through the peaks of The Serpent’s Neck beyond.
His ears tingled to the songs of high mountain streams and a falcon’s cry. Through the trunks of a horseshoe wood, salmon were seen springing from the tide of a sparkling mere. Fruit bushes of all varieties were thronged throughout, and in every corner. Black currants, strawberries, gooseberries, red currants, pineberries, raspberries, pears and blackberries. Bull thistle, white clover, flax, wolf’s bane, daises, milkweed, cow vetch, wild lupine and knotweed all swayed near the forest borders. Then, wild deer and bison were cante
ring about in the middle of it all, sometimes grazing upon the rich grass, and that’s what tickled their taste buds no end. Oh, it was a sight for sore eyes.
Thunderstruck—like he’d strolled through the gates of heaven itself—with his knuckles practically dragging along behind him, Icrick said, “Food! Real food! I feel like crying I’m so happy. Food at long, long last!”
Crouching low and requesting a huddle, Stell instructed, “Okay now, William. You and Wren come with me.” (Mid-yawn, William agreed.) “Icrick, Khrum, Crosco, see what fruit you can forage. You’re going to need a healthy supply to last you some days, so don’t be shy. We shall meet up by the lakeside where we will set up camp.”
“Agreed!” grinned the leprechaun, who was relishing in the notion of some fresh fish.
Just as they were about to move out, Crosco ordered The Body to a halt, saying, “Where do you think you’re going?” and turning to Stell, he added, “And who made you the boss around here? Just because you knew where this place was, doesn’t give you the right to bark orders. And nobody tells me what to do!”
Objecting, with a mutual snort from Ifcus, Wren opposed, “Oh, don’t be so bloody rude! Stell didn’t bark anything. And he was kind enough to go out of his way for us in the first place, wasn’t he? Mind your manners.”
“No, no, it is perfectly fine, dear Wren,” Stell kindly insisted.
Flipping his bow up onto his shoulder, he strolled over to the Dullahan and uttered, while pinching Crosco’s cheek, “You really should cheer up, horsemaster. Maybe if you smiled a little more, and stopped being such a grouch, you may yet get some colour back in those cheeks of yours, eh?”
“Leave my cheek alone!” snapped Crosco, and I literally mean snapped; but Stell whipped his fingers back just in time with a wary smirk.
“I only forage for myself…nobody else!” The Head persisted.
“Suit yourself,” Stell sniffed, untroubled. “But don’t come crying to us when we’re feasting on a nice hot meal later and you, my friend, are not.”
“And what, pray tell, do you expect me to eat for dinner? Gooseberries?” gasped The Head, as though, by some irrational means, both meat and labour were owed to him. “I cannot live on fruit alone!”
“Pfff?” Stell shrugged, wandering off with his companions. “Forage for yourself…or whatever it is you do. I care not.”
Springing out into the open meadow toward the fruity bushes, Khrum sniggered, “Ya really nailed that one, Crosco lad! Buried yourself in good ‘n’ deep. Besht o’ luck ta ya there, chiefy.”
Scuttling out behind the leprechaun, Icrick had his cloak out like a basket, and they both started munching and gathering at the same time.
“Oh, I was only saying, is all! Agh, wait for me then!” cried Crosco, and bitterly he joined them.
Being the civilized sort—who was nice to those who were nice to him—Stell asked politely if William and Wren wouldn’t mind keeping their steps quiet during their hunt, so they kept the noise down and off they went.
Stell communicated via hand signals, lest they frightened any game into hiding. Just straightforward pointing and slowing gestures, nothing complicated.
Eventually, they stole into a denser and darker portion of the meadow, where they were shielded by the maples, pines, and towering grasses. Guised beneath that very undergrowth were a good many rabbit lanes, which was precisely what the Elf was looking for.
“Perfect!” he said. “I shall set up some snares here. Then, come morning, you should have some nice, succulent rabbit to add to your provisions.”
At the mere portrayal of such a banquet, Wren licked her lips with anticipation. William, though, was so bushed that he kept on slouching his head wearily and waking up unexpectedly, looking about.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked, watching him shake it off with a stifled, nostril-flaring, yawn.
“After I prepare these traps we shall go and hunt some deer,” said Stell, as he gathered some sticks from the ground around him.
“Well, why don’t we just catch a load of bunnies and make do with that? Those deer look so peaceful out there, grazing away,” Wren whispered with pity, considering the animals of the meadow.
“You can eat, and eat, and eat rabbit all day long, yet you cannot survive on it alone. There are certain minerals and vitamins which the body requires that neither rabbit nor fruit can provide. Whereas venison can, my dear Rose.”
(He called her that sometimes, on account of the rose she had on her lapel.)
As the Elf was explaining all of this, he was skewering two small sticks into the mud on either side of the rabbit lane. After which, he planted a heavier stake just off of it, behind some thistle. Searching through his supplies, he displayed a small wrapping of fine-looking twine. An Elfish twine, no question. As thin as thread, and yet, as resilient as good rope. With this, he fabricated a noose, before securing the other end to the larger stake. Using a steady arm, he rested the open noose in between the two smaller sticks, and went about positioning the surrounding grass for better camouflage.
As Stell was doing all this, William was looking over his shoulder, taking it all in. He’d even forgotten about his fatigue for a bit.
“Where did you learn to do all this?” he asked quietly.
Smiling, Stell replied, “From watching my brothers.”
“You have brothers? Where are they?” Wren asked.
“Indeed I do,” the Elf whispered. “I have three brothers and…um…well. Yes. Three brothers.”
“You don’t sound too sure there, Stell,” Wren teased.
Smiling fondly, the Elf replied, “Yes. Sorry. My head is a little hazy from all that walking. But yes. Three brothers—Kèrnin, Pilner, and Bò. They reside up north, where I’m from. Holing up in the abandoned lava tubes below Gretisbay’s Peak by the Midalps. We settled there when we arrived in Lythiann to search for our father. Three of the mightiest warriors I’ve ever known, they are. I could only hope to be half as courageous as them someday.”
“Well, should they not be with you? Or you with them?” Wren whispered. “In fact, why aren’t they helping you to guard the wall too?”
“Oh, they think my cause hogwash. But I know they don’t mean it,” Stell answered.
“Family duties should be shared, I think,” said William, with a nod from Wren.
“Not in this case, young William. I took it upon myself, you see…to guard the Bastion. You must understand that, at six hundred and seven years old, I am the youngest of our family. So it was a self-styled duty of mine to prove my worth to my brothers, and I shall not be satisfied until I do so. I chose a task. A noble task. That being, protection of the Bastion. Then, should anyone attempt to launch an attack on it, I shall prove myself to my kin by fending it. Only, I haven’t been challenged yet, so I am not quite sure how proficient I will be…if at all. For as honourable a deed though it may seem, it does not mean I’m not afraid. I have other reasons, too, for guarding it. However, they’re reasons which I would rather not burden you with.”
“I don’t understand. They are your brothers…your family. Why should you have to prove anything to them?” Wren asked him, as he shuffled to a neighbouring lane to assemble another snare.
Pondering momentarily, like he was reassuring himself of something, he replied, “Well, they…um…teased me, if you must know. Never took me seriously, with me being their younger brother and such - what would I know. However, there is no cause for concern here, my sweet Rose. For they must care for me as one of their own, even if they do not show it in a traditional sense. They have to. They’re family, like you said. Still, I believe that if I protect the Bastion until the coming of evil’s end, then I shall truly avail of their trust and companionship. I know it!”
“Trust? Companionship?” Wren repeated, when William gestured at her to ease off a touch, though Stell didn’t appear so troubled. “And while they take sanctum, they are allowing you to go ahead with this? Their youngest brother? E
ven with Drevol at large?”
Smiling with a sense of unadorned innocence, Stell simply answered, “Yes…”
At the sheer, heart-rendering purity of that candid response, William and Wren glanced at each other with a sustaining sense of pity for this overly trusting Elf.
It was plain to see that these so-called brothers of his cared not for Stell or his cause. No true kin or kith would ever abide by their loved ones risking their own hides so very likely, regardless of honour, race, devotion or even courage. It was like they didn’t care. But being completely unmindful of it himself, Stell continued to hum and smile away as he began casually constructing a fresh snare. Who knows? Maybe he was better off believing what he believed, so long as those horrible people remained disconnected from his otherwise blissful life.
“Still, I pity them in a way,” said he, just then. “Ever since our father departed, they have taken to the bottle more than usual. Lazing around and talking amongst themselves, with nobody else for companionship. Clearly it is sorrow which is upon them, even though they don’t exactly show it. Then again, they are far too dignified to let such vulnerable emotions flow freely. I understand that well enough. As for me, it took me a good long while before I overcame our father’s passing. The burden of compassion, I fear. It makes men weak. But now I have overcome my grief, whereas they drink their sorrows still. I do pity them, I really do.”
“Oh, that does it!” Wren said heatedly, understanding that his brothers were more of lazy drunkards than mourners. “Compassion isn’t a burden! Who filled your head with this nonsense? Compassion shows integrity, if anything! Stop being so hard on yourself.”
The Other of One: Book Two Page 12