by Daniel Kirk
“I think Mary’s our spirit guide,” Tuava-Li said. “We were meant to find her, and she was meant to help us on our way. The tattoo is proof, that’s all. The Goddess always provides!”
“I wonder if we pass anybody, if they’ll see the two of you,” Matt mused.
“They’ll see our clothes and assume we’re nothing but Human children,” Tuava-Li said. “’Tis such a small village, compared to Argant, that we’ll draw attention no matter what we do.”
“Then when we get to the co-op,” Matt said, “you just stay outside until I get the room settled. I’ll come back and get you when I’m sure nobody’s looking.”
Tomtar pointed. “There’s the place she told us about!”
The building was low and flat, with a steel roof and a few windows peeking out on each side. There was a wooden sign hung above the door. “Garden spot of the Arctic,” Matt read aloud.
“A real garden?” Tomtar asked.
Matt laughed. “Dream on!”
The co-op was a general store, motel, and Laundromat all rolled into one. Mary’s daughter gave Matt his room key. He carefully led Tomtar and Tuava-Li inside, and left them on the bed while he went to look and see what kind of coat they might have in his size. He brought back a big plastic sack filled with gear, and some food for himself and his friends. They ate it on the edge of the bed while they watched TV and listened for news about Brahja-Chi’s Acquisition. Sadly, there was nothing more specific than what Mary had told them already. There were no new revelations to report, and the coverage was reduced to aimless and hysterical speculation about terrorists and child predators. Experts were marched in front of the cameras to talk about post-traumatic stress and why authorities considered eyewitness accounts from children to be less than reliable.
Matt felt strange watching the programs. Something very important had happened, maybe the most important thing that had ever happened to Humankind, and yet it seemed like the Acquisition was quickly becoming yesterday’s news. The worldview shared by most Humans did not allow for the possibility of Faerie abductions. People wanted to forget what they did not understand, and return as quickly as possible to whatever made them comfortable. For another half hour they watched reports from a TV station in Ottawa—traffic, weather, a burglary, an apartment fire, and a heartwarming story about a woman who had rescued some kittens from an abandoned building. Most likely the FBI, the army, or the police were doing something to find out about what had happened, but they were keeping it to themselves. No matter how much TV Matt watched, he realized he would learn nothing new.
The three of them were exhausted. Matt switched off the television and suggested that they go to sleep. Tomtar begged him to leave the window open, just a crack. Then he curled up on a blanket on the floor and pulled his knit cap over his eyes. Tuava-Li knelt to say some prayers, then lay sideways at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed over her chest. Matt pulled the blankets up under his chin. He was freezing. The temperature outside had slipped below zero, and with the window open, he felt like he might as well be sleeping outdoors. As he fell asleep he thought of his tattoos and wondered if they would change again during the night. Images of Green Men and great figures made of gleaming jewels marched through his dark and troubled dreams.
the Techmagicians attached the mechanical arm to his shoulder. There were straps and bands to hold it firmly in place, but the fabric covering the wound was rough, and the new skin growing there was tender. “Be careful, fools,” he cried. “You’re hurting me, and I’m not in the mood for any more pain. Just picture your heads on the end of spikes, rotting in the sun, with crows pecking out your eyes.” He smiled, soothed somehow by the image his words conjured up. He gazed into the corner where his new Goblin pup was busily gnawing a bone.
“Tell me, Prashta,” Macta asked as the technicians worked diligently on his arm, “what have you arranged for my Princess to do, today? A little sightseeing, perhaps?”
“Asra is under house arrest, as she was yesterday and the day before that,” Prashta said matter-of-factly. “I’ve explained all this to you before. If she were to get out among the people, it would only raise unpleasant reminders of your failed wedding and the death of your father in the Arvada.”
“Simple and stable are our code words, Macta,” said Lehtinen. “Order must be maintained. Luckily the rabble is easily distracted. We’ve been handing out food and cold-weather clothing to the poor all week. We’ve got to keep their minds off Brahja-Chi’s failed Acquisition. ’Twill be best if Asra entertains herself, until the time’s come for your departure.”
“Don’t talk to me of failure,” Macta said. “You fail me if you ignore my wishes. You could devise some amusements for the Princess, certainly. Bring in some troubadours, a theater troupe, a circus! Give her a tour of the palace. Show her the Crown Jewels, let her try something on. Remind her that someday all these things will be hers. Give me more time to go and visit her! You monopolize my every moment with your nonsense.”
“Your Highness,” said one of the Techmagicians, “you must pay attention. There are muscle groups in your shoulder that you must exercise if the new arm is to work properly. I’ve prepared a chart for you so that you may practice. There’s not much time before your speech to the people, and you will want to appear as hale and hearty as possible.”
Macta squirmed on his stool. “I’m heartier than I’ve ever been. My heart is full of hate, and my soul is crying out for revenge. Once my dagger pierces Jardaine’s black heart, I will once again breathe the air of freedom and peace. Do you understand?”
“You’re not going to get revenge, Macta,” Prashta said. “Remember, the official story is that you’re going to plant the Seed of the Adri and save Elf Realm from disaster.”
Macta sighed deeply. “The citizens of Helfratheim aren’t the kind to fall for silly stories. And yet you want me to tell the people that Jardaine and I are going to the North Pole to relive the adventure of Fada and save the world. Right?”
“Correct,” Prashta said. “No one knows that Jardaine has already gone, so the story will not be doubted. You’ll kill Jardaine when you find her, and plant the Seed yourself. The glory will be yours and no one else’s. We’ll spread the account throughout the realms that Jardaine gave her life in the service of her King, and all will remember her with fondness and gratitude.”
“What if I come back from the North Pole and the Cord continues to deteriorate? What then? My tenure as hero will be short-lived, indeed. Everyone will know that we lied or simply failed!”
Prashta and Lehtinen looked at each other. “We’ve concluded,” Prashta said, “that Jardaine would not have undertaken such a mission, risked so much by attempting to assassinate me and stealing our Arvada, without a very good reason. We believe that she’s correct, and that the fulfillment of this quest will indeed save our world.”
“Do you care to place any bets on that?” Macta said incredulously. “You’ve never struck me as the religious type, you two. There are no Gods, and there’s no way to save the Cord. ’Tis that simple. We stand to win everything by coming to terms with the fact that things in this world are going to change, no matter how much everyone else is in denial. We must take advantage of the trends, while others wander around, helpless and full of silly stories.”
One of the Techmagicians slipped a needle into Macta’s left arm, just above the elbow. “Oooow!” he cried.
From the exposed end of the needle a thin tube coiled. A flaccid sack full of green liquid hung from a stand at Macta’s side, and the fluid slowly drained through the tube into his arm. “I don’t know why I can’t just eat, like any normal Elf,” Macta said. “I don’t trust needles and potions, any more than I trust magickal spells or the pair of you.”
“Sir, if you wish to regain the weight you lost during your ordeal,” said the Techmagician, “we must supplement your diet with intravenous fluids. The magick infused in the potion, on the other hand, is purely precautionary. We don’t want yo
u to get any infections.”
“Don’t talk to me of other hands,” Macta said, trying to make the stiff mechanical fingers do his bidding. “This is impossible. Besides, Powcca will be terrified of me when I wear this wretched thing … won’t you, Powcca?”
The Goblin looked up from his bone, growling as a group of black-hooded monks arrived in the chamber. They knelt at Macta’s feet, and their lips began to move in a silent chant. Prashta had brought them from a neighboring village to assist in Macta’s healing. Though he and the other Council members had never before put their faith in the Gods and Goddesses of the old religion, they saw no point in taking chances. “Now what are they doing?” Macta said condescendingly.
Powcca got up and limped over to the monks, sniffing their robes and grunting. “Try to be open-minded, if you can,” Prashta said. “Mages and monks can effect very powerful magick when called upon to assist in matters like these. Jardaine and Brahja-Chi had capabilities the rest of us could only dream of. Magick plays an important part in most of our laboratory’s best inventions, as you well know. The melding of science and spirit, body and mind—”
“The real and the pretend,” Macta said, “and what do you get? This nonsense is overrated. My father never placed any stock in monks and Mages, and neither should you, Prashta. You’re aware that Helfratheim didn’t even have a Mage until that traitor Jardaine showed up with her shape-shifter. Now he was a source of power, Prashta, and he didn’t have to cast any spells or burn any herbs to get what he wanted. He just reached out and took it.”
Macta was exasperated. His shoulders flinched, and the mechanical hand sprang from his lap, striking him hard in the jaw. “Awwww!” he cried and rubbed his chin with his good hand. “Listen, you two, this is what I’m talking about. You act like you’re in charge here, but you’re not. I am. My father didn’t find it necessary to stand before his people every time somebody fell down and got a scratch. He came and went whenever he pleased, and it didn’t seem to put the kingdom in jeopardy. Now you tell me I have to go out there on the ledge where Jal-Maktar impersonated me, and let everyone know that the kingdom is in good hands. I was wounded in battle. I gave my arm to help my people; they should be proud and moved to hear of my sacrifice. ’Tis all about sacrifice, you know. It’s what you plan for Jardaine, isn’t it? That Human boy Tuava-Li’s taking to the Pole is going to be sacrificed, too, for the good of all. The legend says that’s what must happen! The boy will be a hero. His name will live throughout time in all the Faerie realms. Art will be made to commemorate his sacrifice, sculptures showing his wounded body, with the heart removed and the red Blood spilled like wine. People will speak of Jardaine’s great heroism and sacrifice, too. The thought of it makes me want to vomit.”
“No, Your Highness,” cried the Techmagician. “You mustn’t do that; ’twill interfere with your nourishment!”
“I didn’t mean it literally, you fool,” Macta growled. He seethed at the monk’s relentless chanting and the abuse he was forced to take from the Council leaders. He tensed his shoulder again, intent on making the arm move as it had before. He turned his body toward Prashta and when the wooden fist on its framework of rods, trusses, and vines flew forward, it struck Prashta in his flabby belly. “Aha!” Macta chortled as the old Elf doubled over in pain. Powcca pranced and barked at the sight. “Perhaps the arm is good for something after all,” Macta said. “Come, Prashta, stand a little closer and let me do that again.”
Lehtinen said, “We’re not amused by your juvenile antics! A kingdom is an effective machine only if its parts operate in harmony.”
“’Tis much like your artificial arm, sire,” said one of the Techmagicians. “The oily nectar conducting the signals from your shoulder run through the machine parts like Blood through veins, insuring fluid movement of all the components, building upon bioelectric signals transmitted from your brain.”
“Right,” Prashta said. “One part means nothing without the others. A kingdom is nothing but a well-greased machine, and you are just another cog in that machine, Macta. Your father knew how it works. You must learn to control your ego and lust for power.”
“Until I strike Jardaine down and get my sweet revenge, every waking moment will be nothing but misery for me, Prashta. Ego and power lust have nothing to do with this. I only attempt to honor the memory of my father, and seek justice for my people and my kingdom.”
“Not bad,” Prashta said. “Honor and justice … We’ll make sure that goes in your speech!”
There was a frantic knock at the door. Powcca leapt up, snarling and scraping. “See who’s there!” Lehtinen said.
One of the guards scurried to peer through the peephole in the ornately carved door. “’Tis only one of the household servants, sir,” the guard said. “From the wing where Princess Asra’s being held.”
“Let him in,” Macta commanded, getting up from his seat.
The stand attached to his arm rattled, and instinctively he reached out with his mechanical hand and grabbed it so that it wouldn’t topple over. In delight he gazed at the hand as the servant bumbled into the chamber and cried, “Princess Asra has escaped, my lords. She’s gone!”
Asra’s exit from the palace hadn’t been particularly difficult. Her eager young handmaid, always busy flirting with the guards, had unwittingly provided enough of a distraction for Asra to slip away unnoticed. Another gang of guards had been huddled by the side doors, engrossed in a game of knucklebones. The Princess sauntered into the brisk morning air, and no one challenged her freedom. She didn’t stop to consider that those whose carelessness had allowed her to escape would probably be hanging from the gallows by the end of the day. With her plain dress and her hair in a simple braid, Asra disappeared into the crowd. She looked hardly worthy of a second glance, and that was just the way she liked it.
The square was abuzz with the usual midmorning clamor, jostling crowds, vendors hawking their wares, all the hustle and bustle, the sights and smells of market day. Fruits and vegetables, herbs and spices, candles, knitwear, books, charms, rugs, pottery, and a thousand other commodities were displayed in booths throughout the square. Asra thought that Helfratheim might not be without its charms. Here, at least, the fear and trepidation that filled the palace seemed absent. Faerie Folk went about their business, buying, trading, and selling what they could, for that was what they did to survive and, with any luck, to prosper.
Asra was dressed in another of the plain garments that had belonged to one of Macta’s servants. Though the dress had been laundered and pressed, there was still something disturbing about wearing another’s clothing, especially since the original owner was dead. All Elves were inclined to believe in the principles of contagious magick, wherein any two things, once in contact, remain in contact forever. Therefore, Asra felt a peculiar sense of urgency about finding something new to wear. She had a few coins in her pocket, secreted from the handmaid’s bag. If she could, she would buy another dress—something a little more cheerful, something with a little more personality than what she had on … something that did not have the faintest whiff of mortality about it. She could see shops along the edge of the market square, and there must be more of them along the narrow streets that ran down the hill. The rows of buildings looked charming and full of promise. With their steep tiled roofs, high chimneys, gleaming crystal windows, and cheery displays, the shops seemed to call out to Asra and draw her closer. The boutiques seemed virtually guaranteed to have something that would suit her sense of style, as well as her meager budget.
The ceramic bell over the circular entryway tinkled invitingly when Asra opened the door of a shop and stepped inside. The proprietor was a trim Elf in a snug green suit, standing behind a glass-topped counter. His eyebrows rose languidly at the sight of the Elfmaid in her plain frock. “Aye?” he said. One glance told him that a sale would not likely be forthcoming.
“Good morning,” Asra said, gazing around at the elegant dresses on display. She walked casually amon
g the racks of garments woven from linen and silk, and saw one with a fitted bodice and sleeves. Richly colored threads were sewn through the dress, making a pattern of dragons in flight. She was curious about the cut of the garment. She was also curious as to what the cost of the dress might be, but she was uncertain of how to ask the proper questions without appearing rude or common. As a Princess, Asra was accustomed to having her clothes custom-made and fitted. As an Elf, she was loath to try on an item of clothing that someone else had tried on before her. Garments in a shop like this were meant for the daughters and wives of the merchant class. They were mostly loose in style, and meant to be belted to fit. The dress Asra held in her hands, however, was another matter.
“That’s not for you,” the proprietor said. He eyed Asra coldly, judging her not only by the quality but the style of her hand-me-down dress. He was annoyed that she had somehow found her way into his store.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Have you tried the stalls in the market, ma’am? Artisans there do wonders with felt and nettle fabric. I have no doubt you’d find it more … affordable.”
“But I’m interested in this dress,” Asra said, stroking the edge of the fine and expensive fabric. “I’m wondering about the fit.”
“That’s not really the question!” The Elf took the dress from Asra and hung it back on the rack. “The clothing in this establishment is meant for the affluent and well-heeled. One does not simply come in here and take things from the rack.”
“I see,” Asra said, bristling. “’Tis plain you don’t know who you’re talking—”