The Other of One: Book Two

by Brian G. Burke

  Too imprisoned by his memories to reply, Stell added, “You know, it’s been such a long time since I was last home. I wonder if they’ve taken the path which my father had intended for them, or do they remain slaves to their addictions?”

  For a further spell, his mind descended deeper into that void of question, only to emerge once more with a shaking head and a supportive smile.

  “No! Whether it is today or it is tomorrow, I know they’ll eventually uncover this path, and they will be on their way to seeing true the destiny of my father’s armour.”

  “His armour?” William asked. “What armour?”

  “Why, the armour of Balòn Muoì, of course,” Stell uttered, like he was expecting William to already know of it. “This armour he wore last in the great battle. Only he who is pure of cause can govern it, and my father governed it peerlessly. Other than the great Mysun Margyle himself, never a purer heart has there ever been.”

  “And what’s so special about this armour then?” Wren asked.

  “It’s a magical suit of armour that smites its foes by the very blows which they themselves deal out.” Stell said wondrously. “An attack to the armour means an attack on the very one who dares it! Akin to our friend Erfor back there. Someone goes to take an arm, then suddenly their own limb gets lopped off instead. It was crafted by those who lived outside of the Kraìmun fields of the Elderland; ancient relatives of mine. They fabricated it out of reverence for the Elfish Kingdom of Balòn Muoì, to which my age-old bloodline once held authority. Ever since its beginning, this armour has been passed down throughout the generations, from fathers to sons, from friends to friends, and sometimes even from race to race. But it always comes back to the Elves. And, someday, one of my brothers shall inherit this beloved gift. It was my father’s eldest belief that one of his kin would be the new master of the armour. And there I’ll be, following them proudly as they lead some splendid legion into some epic battle!”

  “And what about you, may I ask?” Wren challenged, glimpsing at William for support. “Do you not have the chance to inherit this armour, too?”

  Showing blind sincerity, Stell chuckled and said, “Me? Oh, Wren, I don’t even compare to their prominence! If you heard half the things about them, you’d understand. No, I am very well aware that I am not in the running for that great prize. Very well aware indeed. No, just to, perhaps, fight by their side is enough for me, and that is all I truly desire. Besides, I wouldn’t know which side of the armour was up, never mind how to actually wield it.”

  Before Wren could go off on another spiel about the Elf’s self-worth, William nudged her away and butted in so as to spare Stell his dignity, then said, “So, where’s this armour now, Stell? Probably hidden away in some dungeon, guarded by rabid wildebeest, knowing this place.”

  “Not at all, it’s at home…where it belongs!” the Elf smiled. “And there it shall remain until it chooses its new master. Either Kèrnin, Bò, or Pilner.”

  “Oh…” said William, feeling kind of silly.

  The Elf counted his snares, and said, “Now, that’s the last of it.”

  Seven lucky snares had been erected in all, each consistently spaced amongst those little rabbit passages.

  Keeping low, the Elf whispered, “Now, enough of the chat. To the east of the forest. Follow me!”

  They crept covertly to a new clearing just minutes from their last position. From there they peered through the rushes of a beck, and the boughs of two royal chestnuts were shading them from the outer world. This location was ideal. From there, they had a fair view of the deer and bison. Stell scanned the meadow in silence, when he noticed a doe grazing a bit away from the others, standing between the stream and the brink of the far wood. She was simply lapping from the water’s edge and, with utter placidity, her tiny ears flicked away the buzzing insects. Every so often she’d glance around with those adoringly russet eyes, to take in the tranquillity of her surroundings.

  Stell requested dead silence. He slid an arrow silently from his quiver. Resting its shaft gently upon the side of his bow finger, he set the bowstring on the nock and, with absolute gentleness, he drew back the creaking string while spying down the sight of this loaded weapon. Wren couldn’t watch, so she turned away. But, despite her morals, she knew very well that she could not go without proper food. It was usually Jimzin who handled the hunt; leaving a fair deal of scraps behind for her. But never once did she have to witness the kill for herself. Jimzin, however, was now unfit for such duties, and Wren didn’t know how long his fever was going to last. Alas, instead of witnessing this kill now, she kept her back to the whole procedure and whispered a prayer for that unfortunate beast.

  Holding his left eye shut with firm concentration, Stell muttered to himself as if he too was praying for the animal whose life he was about to take. Quietness was at hand. All breathing was stable. The doe was about to regroup with her kin. Then, a deadened twang. Wren clenched her eyes as the nesting pipits above scattered into the air and the remaining herds bolted to a distance. The doe staggered in circles, unsure of what was happening. Her hind legs weakened under her weight. Then, through the strain of Wren’s wincing, she heard the faint, hollow thump of a deer falling dead upon the meadow floor. A clean hit to the chest, so she didn’t suffer.

  Stell asked Wren if she wouldn’t mind helping the others forage while he and William cut the meat. He could tell that she was uncomfortable. And once she was out of sight, they made for the kill.

  “I think it bothered her a bit…to see you killing this deer,” said William, kneeling beside the doe.

  Stell replied, “I noticed. Rather compassionate herself, it seems. Though many tend to become distraught when they encounter such things first hand. Not to mention how difficult it can be for the one who draws the arrow. But it was a clean, quick death. A better passing than any predator could ever grant her, I can assure you of that.”

  At the mention of the word ‘predator’ there roused, within the dimness of the distant woods, a howling, faint and alone.

  “The scent of her blood is in the air now,” Stell said, listening to the borders. “So is the wolf’s cry. And it shan’t be long before it summons a union.”

  “Well, are they a threat?!” the boy asked, eyeing the trees.

  Removing a dagger from a pouch in his boot, Stell replied, “Red Wolves come here to hunt bison. But only after nightfall. Still, we must quickly conclude our business here and make for the camp. Then, after we get a fire going, I shall be able to deter them soundly enough.”

  “I’d hate to know what Icrick’s thinking right now,” William muttered, yet not without a sense of amusement.

  Stell shook his head with a grin and began carving the hind leg with extreme proficiency and haste.

  When ready, he said to the boy, “Please, William, I must ask you to remain silent for a moment. I’ll need complete quietude for what I’m about to do.”

  Overly curious as to what the Elf was up to, William vowed not to move a muscle.

  Resting his palm gently on the deer’s brow, Stell closed his eyes and mouthed further prayer. Suddenly, as by the uttering of that which the Elf was so soundlessly miming, the grass went into a serene dance as a strange, mystifying breeze skimmed across the entire meadow, like a new life of a spiritual disposition had awoken in the atmosphere, rising gently to the peak of that mild summer wind. Then, out of thin air, a snowy vapour ascended from the deer. It was miraculous, what the boy witnessed in those couple of seconds.

  He actually observed as the very spirit of the doe lifted from her body; white, clear, and peaceful. She then sprang off through the pasture where, upon its edge, she halted and glanced back, before quickly bounding up along the mountainside and vanished into a drift of cloud. The mysterious wind then calmed, and Stell let out a soft, prolonged breath.

  “Now, we must inter the body,” he said, in a saddened, tired way. “But before we do so, I will need you to fetch me some water, William. Either from th
e lake or from our supply, it matters not. And if you’d be so kind as to bring the leg with you, too.”

  How woefully he spoke. At the same time, it was as if he’d conducted that ethereal ceremony many times before. Nevertheless, Stell was truly sorry for the passing of that poor animal, whilst no such vulgar pride of ‘a good kill’ even entered his docile mind.

  Minutes later, William returned with a full bladder of water. Stell poured some into his hands and then rubbed it into the coat of the fallen.

  “What’s that you’re doing?” the lad asked.

  “We must cleanse the body before burial,” Stell explained. “It’s a ritual here on Lythiann. It differs through cultures, but it all stems from the same idea.”

  Once the cleansing was done, they carried the body to the nearby forest where they could, perhaps, find a soft patch of soil to settle the deer in. Locating an ideal site before the roots of three braided hemlocks, William and Stell got down on their knees and dug a grave by hand, and once it was deep enough, they slid the corpse inside before filling in the hole. Upon her finished grave, Stell placed three rocks, each representing those of whom were present at the time of her passing. This was a tradition amongst the Elfish hunters, whom were expected to uphold it out of a sign of respect. Kissing each stone, Stell uttered some final devotions. Then they packed up and returned to their camp beside the horseshoe wood.

  * * *

  With sunset oncoming, the others couldn’t hold out any longer, so they decided to prepare some dinner for themselves. Too exhausted to even turn an egg, William asked if he could excuse himself to rest his eyes, promising that he would make up for it next time. They had no complaints, so William wandered off and found a peaceful little spot over the hill by the lake, where he finally partook in a precious hour of cosy sleep. He would’ve slept much longer, had it not been for the ruckus of fizzles and sizzles and busy pots coming from the campsite. But that was to be expected, considering how long they’d been waiting for a decent meal. Thus, after scratching little more than an hour’s slumber, William just laid there, at the water’s edge, relaxing. For he was fairly famished too, and was quite looking forward to having something to eat.

  He pondered away to himself, idle thoughts, chewing upon a long stalk of grass. Then Wren came lumbering through the growth. She’d been making daisy chains. One was in her hands, unfinished, and she had five around her neck. Just typical, he thought. Just when he finally had a moment to himself. Then again, it could’ve been worse…and we all know why.

  It struck him as quite odd, at first, to see her actually making a daisy chain. He assumed it to be an earthly custom.

  She soon put that idea to rest though, when she said all defensively, “What? Never seen a daisy chain before? It might surprise you to learn, William, that we do many of the same things here on Lythiann as you do on your own land. I’ve heard what goes on up there. You may also be surprised to learn that half of your customs originated here, with us. Just as we’ve learnt them from other magical cultures. Daisy chains, games, rhymes. All sorts of things, which ye have since laid claim to. Bull-fluff! If I had to choose, I’d say the rhymes are my favourite.”

  William had already lost interest in what she had to say, as soon as ‘daisy’ was mentioned, and she noticed.

  So, plonking herself next to him, she said in a bouncy tone, “So…what ya doin’?”

  Blanking her, he proceeded to chew. A lot might have taken place since that stormy night on Percy’s veranda, but he was still rather sore about Wren’s humiliating refusal. Yet it was more a case, I presume, of him being embarrassed about behaving like such a twit, when he could’ve just been himself.

  Wren sighed, then shuffled her backside about to get more comfortable, but was virtually snuggling into his arm in the process. He had a hideous sulk on his face, as if to say, “What do you think you’re at?!”

  “Oh, stop making such a puss! It spoils your good looks,” she spouted, finally settling down.

  William nearly choked on his grass and shot up, spluttering.

  Patting him on the back, she said, “You’re not a cow, you know…you’re not fit to be chewing on grass. Breathe. Slowly. You all right?”

  “Fine!” William coughed, but touchy from embarrassment. “I’m fine! Just tickled the roof o’ my mouth is all!”

  Picking the bits of loose grass off his tongue, he caught Wren skitting to herself.

  “What’s so funny?” he griped, with a furrowed sulk.

  Palming her smile, she replied, “Oh, nothing! Calm yourself, will you? So grouchy! Anyway, I just thought you might like to know that Jimzin is on the mend. I’m just after leaving him not a moment ago, by the campfire.”

  Surprisingly relieved, William nodded. He never would’ve expected to be so concerned over one whom he never truly understood to begin with. But Jimzin, particularly after his brawl with Erfor, did not appear as pig-headed as one might expect a dragon to actually be.

  So, his tensions around the girl notwithstanding, he said, “That’s good news. Has he taken something for it…the dose, or whatever it was?”

  “Stell stewed him up some catnip, and it seems to be working quite well,” Wren said, with a nod. “Now he’s working on some elixir to keep the Red Wolves away. He really is very clever when it comes to herbs and such, ol’ Stell. If only I was a few hundred years older…”

  “What’s the supposed to mean?” the boy asked, bitterly.

  “Oh, nothing. Why, jealous?” she giggled.

  “No!” William answered gruffly. “Don’t be daft! Jealous of what!”

  Just then, a most peculiar thing happened.

  Changing the subject, Wren sat up and asked, “Can I tell you something, William?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Entranced by the snowy summits of the west, she uttered, “I never knew my parents. I think they passed around the same time I was born.”

  Unsure of how to approach her heartfelt statement, William simply imparted his sincerest condolences. It was, after all, the right thing to do. This, in turn, placed him into a more accommodating state. It can be difficult to hold someone in contempt when such grave news is, so freely, entrusted to your ears only.

  “Oh, not to worry.” She shrugged. “As I said…I never knew them, so there’s no one to really miss. But I loved my aunt Sléan a great deal. She raised me, you see. Actually, would you believe, I know not if she was even my real aunt or not. But she said that she was, so that was good enough for me. Don’t ask me why I question it. Too much time to ponder, I suppose. Oh, how lovely she was, and kind. The kindest woman you would ever know, had you been around Lythiann that time. But none of it could compare to her beauty. She was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen on these lands. Nor would she ever take guff from anyone! That’s where I get it from…they say.”

  With a slip of harmless sarcasm, William droned, “Is that a fact,” just then thinking it embarrassingly inappropriate, but his intentions were good.

  Lucky for him Wren took it for what it was and, nudging him with her shoulder, she smiled. “Yes, that’s a fact, smart-arse! Anyways, she told me that, one day, a lad would come along. Just the right lad for me.”

  Picking another daisy from the ground, she began plucking away the leaves, one by one, as her story played out.

  Exceedingly curious as to where this may be going, William’s façade of blitheness was ever so slightly diverting to a path of heart-walloping want. Had he been a dog, his ears would be flattened and his chest puffed out by now.

  “She told me that he’d just pop up one day…completely out of the blue,” said she, musing, as the petals fluttered from her fingertips.

  Desiring to know more, though without seeming too eager, William asked casually, “Some lad, yeah? So, what made her think all this then?”

  “She read the heart-stones,” Wren replied.

  “Heart-stones? What are they?”

  “Emblemized pebbles that supposedly tell the f
uture. Kind of like reading tea-leaves, only they predict more romanticy kind of stuff. But, anyway, she never told me when this boy would come along, or what he’d look like. But what she did tell me was that I could see him in my own way, anytime I felt like it…just by using the light. Bit of a childish trick, but it works. Would you like to see?”

  Brushing his palms of the grass, William sat up with an embellished sigh and, containing his zeal, he groaned, “Oh, go on so. If you have to!”

  “Okay, so what you have to do is put your palms in front of your face and spread your fingers a bit.”

  Kneeling in front of William, Wren took his palms delicately in her soft hands, then turned them fingertips to fingertips. Between the gaps, Wren’s eyes were placed on William’s, making him blink quite erratically. He was also pleading to some unearthly force that his palms weren’t beading with sweat when she was touching them, for fear of her being disgusted. But they weren’t, yet.

  “I’m so tempted to make you slap yourself right now,” chuckled the girl, holding his hands up in front of his face.

  This made him a little nervous. But a good nervous.

  Smiling, she continued, “Don’t worry. I’m not that mean. Now, what you have to do next is, lining them up to the sun, touch your fingertips on both hands together. And, ever so slightly, move the heels of your palms together until you see the shape forming in the gaps.”

  As she was showing him, she was so playfully innocent, but this was just Wren being herself. William’s brow straightened as he fought to restrain that grin of unmistakable adoration. A tingling sensation, more magical than all of his fondest memories combined, fluttered wildly through his belly like a bright cluster of fireflies. Had these beloved feelings all merged into one — those of summer days spent at the beach with his long lost father; of when he was stomping through the wet muck in autumn in search of wild blackberries; or of those white Christmas mornings spent by the firelight with his mother — it still would’ve been nowhere close to the vulnerability, or the need he felt, when staring into her perfect eyes that second. Lythiann had its magic. But she was truly enchanting.