The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Nuramon.”

  “Nuramon.” The word chimed from the branches overhead. The other trees, too, began murmuring his name. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “About me?”

  “You live in a house in a tree, an oak named Alaen Aikhwitan. Your house is made of the wood that once contained the soul of the mighty Ceren. Do you know Alaen Aikhwitan? And have you heard of Ceren?”

  “Ceren is not familiar to me, but I know Alaen Aikhwitan,” said Nuramon. “I feel his presence when I am home. His magic keeps the house cool in summer and warm in winter. My mother learned the art of healing from him, and I learned how to heal from her. But the tree has never opened himself to me.”

  “He has to become accustomed to you first. You’re still young. His messengers have told me about you . . . about your loneliness.” A hundred questions came to Nuramon’s mind, but now the pine asked, “Who is your beloved?”

  “Her name is Noroelle.”

  A cheerful whisper rustled in the treetops all around, and Noroelle’s name was spoken several times. The voices of the trees mixed with the rustling of their leaves in such a fashion that Nuramon could not make out what they were saying about her.

  The faery pine could understand it, though. “She is not here. She has not been here tonight.”

  “But the queen said she was here in this garden.”

  “The queen says what needs to be said. Noroelle is not here, but she is not far away. Go to the terrace, where the linden and olive stand side by side.”

  Nuramon would have gladly stayed and found out about Ceren, but just then, it was more important to find Noroelle. He thanked the tree and wended his way toward the terrace.

  He saw the linden tree and the olive tree soon enough. They stood before the stone wall that rose to the terrace above. As he drew closer, he spied a narrow stairway.

  Noroelle stood at the stone parapet that edged the terrace. She was wearing a white robe and looked like a ghost descended from the moonlight.

  She had not seen him yet. He stopped beneath the linden tree. The faery pine was right; the queen had said what had to be said. She had arranged this encounter carefully. Noroelle up there. He below. The circumstances cried out for a poem, spoken from the shadow of the linden tree, up into the moonlight.

  Noroelle was saying something. Was she speaking with the moon? Was she simply talking into the night? Nuramon suddenly felt out of place. He was eavesdropping, and Noroelle had no idea he was there. She turned to one side. She was not speaking to the moon, nor to the night. She was speaking to an elf. A blink of an eye later, Nuramon saw to whom she had turned. It was Farodin.

  Nuramon wanted nothing more than to leave, and he staggered from the shadow of the linden tree into the shadow of the olive. Leaning against the trunk, he listened halfheartedly to the words spoken overhead. Farodin had found a new voice, and it seemed to please Noroelle. For the first time, Farodin was speaking of his love for her, speaking from the depths of his heart.

  Then it was over.

  Up through the branches, Nuramon saw how Noroelle yielded to Farodin’s charm in the moonlight. He had never seen her so happy. Farodin sealed his farewell with a kiss and left. Noroelle remained behind and looked out into the night, a smile on her lips. And because Nuramon loved her, he, too, had to smile. It was not important that Farodin had evidently won her for himself. His beloved was smiling, and her smile moved him.

  Nuramon observed Noroelle for some time, and he saw the way her smile faded and faded until, eventually, it was replaced by a face of sadness. With the disappearance of her smile, his own vanished, too, and when she softly spoke his name into the night, he held his breath. Farodin made her smile, but the thought of Nuramon brought only concern. When he saw a tear run down her cheek, he could not contain himself any longer. He drew a quiet breath and whispered, “O hear me, fairest Albenchild.”

  Noroelle started in surprise.

  “Heed this voice inside the tree.”

  She looked down, and their eyes met. And she began to smile again.

  “Like a faery from my dream, come on the evening wind to me.”

  Noroelle wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and said quietly, “But how can an elf be like a faery?”

  “Well,” he began, then went on quickly. “Your dress like silver birch bark glows. And I am blinded and beguiled.” He moved from the shadow of the olive tree back to the linden. “With love! The linden surely knows. O hear me, fairest Albenchild.”

  “I hear you, tree spirit, but I must admit I have never heard a tree speak in rhymes.”

  Nuramon answered in a whisper. “It was no less difficult for me to speak in the voice of an elf to please my faery.”

  “It seems to me I just heard an olive tree speaking.”

  “Our roots are linked. We are one spirit clad in two kinds of bark. Love and life unite in us,” he replied.

  “Aren’t there enough birch trees down there? Why is it that you yearn for me?”

  “As you see, I stand here at the edge of the garden, my gaze turned up to you. The queen of this place told me that I should be of service to lovers when they come to speak to their loved one up above.”

  “I know this garden, and I know that you and all the trees are only supposed to listen and not to speak. Could it be that you have broken your silence for my sake?”

  “Everyone must break their silence sometime. Eternity is deep and wide.”

  “Do you love me, then?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He saw her touch a branch. “You are a wonderful tree. And your leaves are so fine.” She pulled the branch toward her and kissed a leaf. “Is that good, my tree?”

  “It is like magic. And for that, I would like to give you something.”

  “Perhaps an olive?”

  “No, no. Everyone who stands up there helps themselves to an olive, and I have nothing against that. I do not want to give you what anyone can have from me. For my beloved, it must be something special. No effort is too much. You know how jealously the mulberry trees yonder hoard their fruit?”

  “Yes. Which is why it’s smarter to look for trees without a soul. Trees with souls have to be cajoled to give up even a single one of their fruit.”

  “That is just what I have done. I . . . I felt a breeze go by, and it blew all the way to the mulberry trees at the other end of the garden. On the breeze, I asked each one to let me have a piece of their fruit. At first, they refused. What was I supposed to do with their berries? But when they discovered that their berries were destined for you, suddenly they grew generous.”

  “But how did you manage to get the mulberries here to you? You stand here, but as you point out, the others are quite some distance away.”

  “Ah, well, the berries were passed from tree to tree, and finally laid upon the grass. All day long, I stretched my roots to reach this gift for my beloved.”

  “So do you have the berries now?”

  “Oh, yes. And I would like to give them to you.”

  “But how? Should I come down to you? Or will you lay them on a leaf and hand them up to me with a branch?”

  “We trees have great magical powers. Look.” Nuramon threw the red berry so that it landed on the parapet right in front of Noroelle. Then he threw the white berry, and Noroelle deftly caught it. “Did they both arrive?” he asked.

  “One lies in my hand, the other in front of me,” she said. “They are so lovely and fresh.”

  Nuramon looked on as she ate the berries, watching her lips, mesmerized.

  After she had eaten the fruit, she said, “Those were the sweetest berries I have ever tasted. But what should become of us now, my tree spirit?”

  “Do you not want to come down here to me and put down roots in the earth?”

  “You could as easily uproot yourself and come up the s
teps to me,” she replied.

  “Hear me, beloved. Hear what I propose. A young man sleeps and dreams here in my shade. Would he, perhaps, be acceptable to you instead?”

  “I would say . . . yes. Bind yourself to him and come to me. The spirit behind your voice, in this body, that is what I wish for this night. Come to me, Nuramon.”

  He hesitated. But was today not a day of marvels? He had been named to the elfhunt. The queen had revealed her own prophecy to him. The trees had spoken with him.

  Nuramon summoned up his courage, stepped out of the shadows of the linden, and climbed the steps to the terrace, where Noroelle was waiting. At first, he wanted to keep his distance, as he always had, and not even try to touch her, but standing there, she was more alluring than she had ever been before, the night wind sweeping at her dress and her long hair. A soft smile rested on her lips.

  “I heard what the queen did. You can’t imagine how happy it makes me,” she said gently, her head tilted to one side.

  “And you cannot hide your happiness from me,” responded Nuramon.

  “I always told you that someone would recognize you for who you truly are, one day. I knew it. Oh, Nuramon,” she said and opened her hands to him, wanting to reach out, but hesitating.

  Nuramon overcame his reticence and finally took her hands in his.

  Noroelle looked down, as if to reassure herself that his hands were actually touching hers. She held her breath.

  He kissed her tenderly on the cheek, and she sighed. When his lips gradually moved closer to her mouth, she began to tremble. Their lips touched, and Nuramon felt her return his kiss and all the tension flow from her body.

  She clasped him in her arms and whispered in his ear, “That was just the right moment, Nuramon. But still so surprising.”

  They looked at each other for a long time, and Nuramon had the feeling that what was between them had never been any different than it was at that moment.

  After some time, Noroelle asked, “Tell me what happened this evening.”

  Nuramon told her everything, not forgetting the queen’s veiled compliment to her. Noroelle seemed particularly moved when he spoke about the connection to Gaomee and the oracle’s prophecy. Nuramon finished by saying, “I feel the change in me. The queen has kindled a fire that now has to burn. I’m the same as I was before, but I can finally act.”

  “Is that why you can touch me only now?”

  “I was scared before. And when I’m scared, I do foolish things. I was scared you might turn your back on me. I was scared you might choose me. I was torn.”

  “You and Farodin, you’re both very odd. Today, at the lake, it looked like you would never try to get closer to me and as if Farodin would never vouchsafe me even a hint of what is deep inside him. Tonight, though, you have both been transformed.”

  “Except that Farodin was faster than me.”

  “That isn’t fair, Nuramon . . . only because he found the way to me first? Should I chastise you because the queen was alone with you in your chamber? No. A night for me is just one moment, and because you both came to me tonight, you came in the same moment. You see time as scarce merchandise, Nuramon.”

  “Is that so surprising? If my fate is to go the way of my predecessors, then every moment left to me is precious.”

  “You will not go down that path. You will live a long life and go into the moonlight.”

  Nuramon looked up to the moon above. “It is so mystifying that something I love as much as the moon has not taken my soul into it in all this time.” He fell silent and thought of all the stories he had heard about the moon. His grandmother had told him about how things looked in the human realm.

  “Did you know that in Mandred’s world, the moon changes its shape?” Nuramon asked.

  “No, I have never heard that.”

  “It’s true,” he said. “And it is much smaller than our moon. As the days pass, it loses part of itself. It transforms night by night into a sickle, until it disappears completely. Then it gradually grows to its full size again.”

  “That sounds like magic. I don’t know very much about the Other World. I learned some of their languages from my parents, but really, I know nothing about the world of humans. Which magic might work there? Can elves go into the moonlight in the human world? What happens if they die there?”

  “Those are questions that only the wise can answer.”

  “But what do you think, Nuramon?”

  “I think the magic that works there must be related to our own, and that an elf can go into the moonlight of the humans. It’s just that the moon is farther away, so it is a much longer journey. And if an elf dies in the human world, then it is no different than if an elf dies here. Death does not separate the realms.” He looked at her and saw a shadow of concern in her expression. “You are afraid for us, for our lives.”

  “The elfhunt almost never ventures into the human world. Can you remember if an elf has ever died there and been reborn here?”

  “It is said that one of my incarnations perished outside our world, yet here I am.”

  Noroelle laughed, stroked his cheek, and then looked at him as if spellbound. “Your face is unique.”

  “And yours is—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “No, you have spoken such words to me for years. Now these words are for you. Be silent, fairest Albenchild.” She took her finger from his lips, and he was silent.

  Gently, she stroked his hair. “You always thought the women here would only ever make fun of you. And they do. It’s true. They taunt you for your name, for your fate . . . they do it because you have always been taunted. But your looks have not been lost on them. You would not believe the things they say in low voices behind their hands, the whispers I’ve heard.”

  Nuramon went to say something, but Noroelle again laid her finger to his lips. “No. You have to hold your tongue now, like the two trees down there.” She took her hand away. “You are far more than what these women secretly see in you. The oracle was right. ‘Everything you are is within you.’ And everything that is within you . . . is what I love, Nuramon,” she said, and kissed him.

  When she moved her lips away from his again and looked at him, he cautiously began to speak. “Everything has changed. I can barely believe that I’m here with you. What’s happened?” He looked around, as if he might find the answer there on the terrace or in the depths of the night.

  “Nothing that you or I or Farodin could have contrived. This was something only the queen could make possible. The world is at your feet now.”

  “It’s not the world I want.”

  She nodded. “When you both return, I will decide. You have done everything you could. Now it’s up to me . . . I must admit, I’d hoped you both could spend many more years courting me, but that was probably a dream. I have to choose one or the other. What a loss, whichever of you I have to turn away. But what good fortune for another woman.”

  They looked at each other, not saying a word. Nuramon knew how much her rejection would hurt him. For him, there was no other, not one for whom he could feel such love. He kissed her hands once again, stroked her cheek, and said, “Let’s try, for now, not to think about it. It is something to face when Farodin and I return.”

  She nodded.

  “Will you be there tomorrow, or do we say good-bye now?”

  “I will be there,” she said quietly.

  “Then I look forward to tomorrow. What color dress will you wear?”

  “Green. Obilee made it,” Noroelle said and absently swept a strand of hair from her face. Nuramon liked the unconscious gesture. She grasped the strand between her ring finger and little finger when she swept it back.

  “Then it has to be beautiful,” he said.

  “I’m very curious about what the queen is having brought to you. Whatever it is, it will be more precious tha
n anything that anyone else could have given you.”

  “Given? I will accept it for the elfhunt, but when we come back, I will return it.”

  Noroelle laughed. “No, Nuramon. The queen is generous. She won’t take it back.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “I have to go now, Noroelle.”

  “Maybe one of your relatives will still find it in their heart to visit you in your chamber.”

  “I will believe it if it happens.” He took her hands in his and said, “But who knows?” He looked up at the stars. “Everything seems possible tonight.” Then he let go her hands. “Good night, Noroelle.”

  She kissed him farewell.

  When Nuramon was at the door to the banquet hall, he looked back at her one more time. She was simply perfect, her flawlessness clearer to him now more than ever before.

  When he reached the corridor where those named to the elfhunt had their chambers, he realized that all of the doors were now closed. All the expected visitors were already there. No one seemed to be waiting for new arrivals. From the confusion of voices, it was clear that many had come.

  In front of his own door, Nuramon stopped and listened. There was no sound from inside. He hoped so dearly that one of his own relatives had found the courage to visit him and was inside the room, waiting.

  Nuramon opened the door and looked in. A figure stood inside, motionless, beside his bed, his back to Nuramon. Nuramon’s joy lasted no more than a heartbeat, though. In his absence, someone had brought in an armor stand, and in the dim light cast by the barinstones, Nuramon—hoping beyond hope—had mistaken it for an elf.

  Crestfallen and again alone, he closed the door behind him. He crossed to the armor stand and looked at the queen’s gifts: a cloak, a suit of armor, and a short sword.

  Nuramon lifted the wine-red cloak from the stand and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, made of wool and linen, a work of superb craftsmanship and woven with magical threads that would keep any gust of wind or drop of water at bay. It would protect him from both heat and cold.

  Noroelle also possessed such a cloak. She had brought it with her from Alvemer. The queen, no doubt, had not given him this one thoughtlessly. A gift from Alvemer was a piece of Noroelle’s hometown. If he had to ride through winter in the human world, then he would ride warm.