Would he stop liking me now that I was no longer clumsy? I had never enjoyed being a small elephant and hadn’t mourned the loss till now.
Would he even be alive to stop liking me, or would he be an ogre’s lunch?
The next page was a letter from Father to his bailiff.
Dear James,
The post coach comes rarely to the elves’ Forest, but it came today. I am still with the greenies. The trading has been disappointing. They have not so much as showed me an Agulen no matter what I bring out to tempt them. Their chief trader, Slannen, knows little about bargaining. He gave me three vases in exchange for a gnomish copper stewpot, and the same for a simple wooden flute.
Below were three pages of trades and sales. He closed with his intentions.
I am making for Uaaxee’s farm. You may remember Uaaxee, the giantess who entrusted her turnip harvest to me last year. On October 15, she will marry off her daughter and I shall be there. I should like to see a giant’s wedding. The ritual is said to be peculiar. Moreover, several fairies are likely to be present. They say hardly a wedding or birth takes place without at least one in attendance. If I can persuade a few to reveal themselves, I may be able to pick up some fairy-made trifles.
I swallowed. My mouth had gone dry. Mandy had never told me that fairies liked to go to weddings and births. But she and Lucinda had both been present when I was born.
Perhaps Lucinda would go to the giants. It was the first time I’d ever known a definite place where she might be—where I might be too, if I could get there. She might even be in a generous frame of mind, especially if she had just cast a well-meant, horrible spell. Perhaps she’d be so pleased that she’d release me from mine if I begged her to.
I hadn’t promised Father I would stay at finishing school, only that I would go. I could leave whenever I wanted. And by leaving, I’d never have to take another order from Hattie. Areida would still think I was her friend. And if I succeeded with Lucinda, I still could be.
How late was it? How much of the night was left for travel? I stood up, then sat down again. How far was Uaaxee’s farm? The wedding was less than two weeks off. Could I get there in time?
Frantically, I riffled the pages of my book, hoping to be vouchsafed a map. There. But it was the same one I’d looked at in the carriage on the way to finishing school—of Frell, and no use to me now.
No matter. I’d get directions somehow.
In five minutes, my carpetbag was packed with a few essentials: Tonic, my magic book, my dictionary, a shawl, and little else. After a long look at Areida’s sleeping form, I left.
I paused before the door to the Daisy Room, then went in. With quiet steps, I approached Hattie’s bed. She frowned in her sleep and mumbled. I understood only one word: “royal.”
Her wig was askew. Neat-fingered as I had become, I was able to lift it off without waking her. Now, what to do with it? If I threw it into the dying fire, the smell might wake someone. I could drape it over the head of the china cat that adorned the mantelpiece, but if Hattie woke early, she could rescue it before anyone saw.
So I took it with me, a trophy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I slipped through the sleeping house as silently as a needle through lace. Outside, I waved farewell to the sleeping topiary.
As I walked, the sky lightened. On the edge of Jenn, I gave a baker the first sale of the day, two currant muffins and two loaves of traveler’s bread in exchange for Hattie’s wig, which he declared the finest he’d ever seen.
He’d never heard of Uaaxee but said there were several giant farms “up north.”
“I hear they bake cookies as wide as my waist,” he said.
He drew a map for me in flour on his pastry board. The road would fork after I left Jenn. The right-hand fork led back to Frell. The left fork was the one I wanted. My first landmark would be the elves’ Forest. After the Forest I would come to another fork. The road to the left, which I was not to take, led to the Fens, where the ogres lived. The road on the right would take me to the giants. When the cows became as big as barns, I would be there.
It didn’t seem far on the pastry board. My fingers could travel the distance in a trice. The baker thought the trip would take five or six days by coach.
“How long do you think it would take to walk?”
“Walking?” He started to laugh. “On foot? Alone? With ogres and bandits roaming the road?”
Beyond Jenn, I left the road, following it, but too far away to be seen from it. I didn’t fear pursuit by Madame Edith, who would probably conceal my disappearance for as long as possible in hopes I might return. The baker’s worries about ogres and bandits I thought exaggerated, since a solitary traveler would hardly be worthwhile prey. However, I was wary of strangers. With my curse, I had to be.
I wondered if I would meet Char on his way to the Fens. I liked thinking he might be near, but whether he was ahead of me or behind, or whether he had taken this route at all, I had no idea, and I wished my magic book had told me more.
The road was little trafficked, and I was too happy about my escape to feel much fear. I was free of orders. If I wanted to eat my breakfast under a maple tree and watch the day grow between its leaves, I could—and did. If I wanted to skip or hop or run and slide on dew-wet leaves, I could—and did. And when the mood took me, I whistled or recited poems that I made up on the spot.
I spent two glorious days this way, the best since before Mother had died. I saw deer and hares, and once, at twilight, I swear I saw a phoenix rise, trailing smoke.
On the third day, I began to despair about reaching the giants in time. I hadn’t even come to the elves’ Forest. If I had any chance of getting to the wedding, I should have passed the Forest on the second day, unless the baker had been mistaken about the distance from the Forest to the giants. Perhaps they were much closer to each other than he thought.
On the fourth day, I finished my last bit of traveler’s bread. The land changed to sandy fields and low scrub, and I began to despair about reaching the giants before the newlyweds celebrated their first anniversary.
On the fifth day, I knew I was doomed to wander in endless barrens till I died.
On the sixth day, there were more trees, but I was too dazed by hunger to realize their significance. I was searching the ground for the lacy flowers of the wild carrot when I caught a shift in the shadows ahead of me, a flash of motion among the tree trunks. A deer? A walking bush? There. I saw it again. An elf!
“Kummeck ims powd,” I called. It meant “sun and rain,” or “hello” in Elfian.
“Kummeck ims powd.” An elf woman approached me hesitantly. Her robe was woven in a dappled pattern, the shadow of leaves on the forest floor. “Speak Elfian?”
“Yun gar.” (“A little.”) I tried to smile at her, but her expression was so solemn I couldn’t.
“Aff ench poel?” she asked.
“Dok ench Ella, jort hux Sir Peter hux Frell.” I wondered if she knew Father.
“Sir Peter. Wattill len.” Her tone was dismissive. She stepped closer and stared at me.
I met her gaze and hoped I didn’t seem “wattill” (“sly”) too.
Her eyes poured into me. I was sure she knew every one of my unkind thoughts, knew about the theft of Hattie’s wig, knew each time I’d made my finishing school mistresses uncomfortable, and knew I hadn’t had a bath since I’d left Jenn.
“Mund len.” She smiled and took my hand. Her fingers felt waxy, like a leaf. “Not like father.”
She led me to Slannen, the elves’ chief trader, who spoke Kyrrian fluently. He was the one Father had mentioned in his letter.
He confirmed that the baker’s map was accurate. I didn’t say anything, but my face must have shown how bitter my disappointment was.
“You will join your father at the giant’s farm?” he asked.
I nodded. “But I’m not hurrying to him,” I blurted, then stopped.
“You seek something else from the giants?” His amber eyes
searched my face.
“Someone I must find. I must find her.”
Slannen patted my arm. “Elves will help. In the morning you will see. But you must spend the night as our guest.” He smiled, showing pale-green teeth.
I smiled back, reassured—although one wouldn’t expect green teeth to be reassuring.
The elves were the same height as humans. With their mossy hair and green skin tinged with orange for the coming autumn, they were no more frightening than a pumpkin vine.
“And now, please join us for our evening meal.”
We sat at a table with twelve elves, who knew only a little Kyrrian. But with my bit of Elfian and gestures and laughter, we cobbled together a language understood by all.
Their supper was more drink than meal. The appetizer was lemon parsnip soup, followed by turtle barley soup (the main course), succeeded by a soup of chopped raw green vegetables (the salad course). Dessert was a fruit soup.
It was all delicious, even though my jaw wished for something to chew on. When we finished eating, Slannen said that elves liked to sleep soon after nightfall. He led me to my sleeping place.
We passed the elves’ nursery, where clusters of small hammocks hung from trees like bunches of grapes. Two adult elves, one with a flute and one singing, threaded their way through, the singer occasionally rocking a group of hammocks gently.
When we reached the oak from which my hammock hung, I asked for a lantern to read by.
“What book is better than sleep when the sun goes down?” Slannen asked, calling for a light.
I had been afraid to show Mandy’s present to anyone since Hattie had taken Mother’s necklace. But now I produced it from my carpetbag.
Slannen opened it. “The Shoemaker and the Elves” returned as the first story. He roared with laughter. “We’re so tiny in here! The elves can fit inside a shoe!”
He looked through the rest of the book, admiring the illustrations and reading parts of different stories. Then he turned back to “The Shoemaker and the Elves,” but it was gone. In its place was a story about a walrus and a camel.
“Fairy made!” he cried. “This is precious. It must give you much comfort.” He returned it to me. “Do not read too late. You have a long journey tomorrow.”
After two stories, I blew out my light. The night was clear. My ceiling was sky and an eyelash of a moon. By shifting from side to side, I made my hammock swing me into sleep.
In the morning, Slannen asked me to show my book to the other elves. To them, it was written in Elfian. They were enchanted and might have read all day, except that Slannen stopped them.
“You have given us much pleasure,” he said. “And now we’d like to show you something wonderful too.”
He lifted several packages onto the table he used to display goods for trading. Then he began to remove their oak leaf wrappings.
“Are these by Agulen?” I asked when a bit of pottery emerged.
“You’ve heard of him,” Slannen said, sounding pleased. “Yes, he made them.”
A nut dish was unwrapped first. Modeled in the shape of a centaur, it rested on the table, but was in motion nonetheless. More than in motion—the centaur was motion. His head thrust into the wind; his arms hugged his form; his mane and tail streamed back; and, without moving—such was Agulen’s skill—his legs beat the ground.
Next came a dragon-shaped coal scuttle that glowed gold and orange. Somehow, the air shimmered around its foot-long flame. Its ruby eyes were windows to an interior furnace. I was afraid to touch the beast for fear of being scorched.
But my favorite was a stirrup cup molded in the shape of a wolf’s head and shoulders, with the head lifted and the mouth pulled into an O for a long howl. The ridges in the pottery for his fur were so fine that each hair was defined. I felt the tension in his shoulders where the cup ended, and I imagined the rest of him, sitting, but erect, with excitement running through him from his big paws to the end of his plumy tail.
I loved his howl, which I could both hear and feel: long and plaintive, woebegone and heartsore, filled with yearning for what used to be and for what would never come again.
“He’s beautiful. They’re all beautiful. They don’t look as though someone made them. They look born.”
Slannen began to wrap the pieces up again. I hated to let them go.
“Wrap this one last, please.” I touched the wolf’s nose.
When he finished, Slannen handed the package with the wolf to me. “It’s for you.”
Father had made clear that an Agulen was worth a great deal. “I can’t accept such a valuable gift,” I said in my best Manners Mistress manner. But my hands closed around it.
“You have,” Slannen said, smiling. “We like to give our best pieces away sometimes, when we find people who love them.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t cry.” Slannen gave me a green handkerchief. He looked at me consideringly. “Sir Peter is a witty man and a shrewd trader, but if he had admired our things as you do, we would have been gladder to let him have them.”
“But he told me that you are the best potters.”
“He should have told us. ‘How can I exchange this gnomish copper stewpot for two such paltry vases?’ he’d say. ‘The workmanship doesn’t compare,’ he’d say.”
And Father had thought Slannen a poor trader!
My gift was packed on a fat pony along with enough food to last until I reached my destination—more elvish generosity (although the pony was a loan).
“Vib ol pess waddo,” Slannen said in parting. (“Stay in the shade.”) “With any luck you will reach the giants in three or four days.”
But I had no luck.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The morning after I left the elves, an ogre woke me by poking me with a stick. “Wake up, Breakfast. How do you like to be cooked? Bloody? Medium? Or done to a crisp?”
Eight ogres surrounded me.
“It will only hurt for a minute.” My ogre (the one who woke me) stroked my cheek. “I’m a fast eater.”
I looked at the others, searching vainly for a sympathetic face. Not far off, I saw my saddlebags, next to a pile of bones. Whose bones? I hated to think. Then I realized. The elves’ pony. I swallowed convulsively. My stomach heaved and I threw up.
When I was done, my ogre spat at me. His spittle burned my cheek. I wiped it off with my hand, and my hand burned too.
“forns uiv eMMong FFnOO ehf nushOOn,” he growled. (“It will taste sour for hours.”) I was an it—I had studied sufficient Ogrese to understand almost everything.
One of the women spoke. I think she was a woman because there was less hair on her face and she was shorter than my ogre, and I think he was a man. She called my ogre SEEf and asked him if he thought he was going to eat it all by himself. He answered that he’d found it and caught it, so it belonged to him. Anyway, he added, if he shared, there wouldn’t be enough to go around. And besides, he’d allowed everyone to eat the pony.
Her answer was that the pony had been last night, that they were hungry again, that he always had a hundred reasons not to share, and that he didn’t care if the whole tribe starved so long as he got his special treat.
He lunged at her and she lunged at him. In a moment, they were rolling on the ground, with everyone watching.
Except me. I looked for a place to hide. Not far from where I stood was a low tree still covered with leaves. If I could get there and climb it, maybe they wouldn’t think to look up when they searched for me.
I edged sideways. The combatants were pulling each other’s hair and biting and yelling. I was halfway to the tree.
“It’s escaping, SEEf!” one of the ogres yelled.
The brawl ended immediately.
“Stop!” SEEf commanded in Kyrrian.
I took a few more steps and almost reached the tree, but the curse wouldn’t let me go farther.
SEEf dusted himself off, although there was no visible difference between dusty and dusted.
“I told you how obedient it is,” he said in Ogrese. “No need to be persuasive with this one. It’d cook itself if we told it to.”
He was right. If they wanted to fry me, I’d step right into the pan. I stood where I was and pretended I had no idea what they were saying.
After further bickering, they decided to take me with them, hoping to capture additional people or animals on the road to eat along with me. Side dishes, I supposed.
I was allowed to take my saddlebags and my carpetbag. SEEf wanted to know if there was food in them, and there was great excitement when I said yes. But when they opened the elves’ flasks, they spat in disgust.
“lahlFFOOn! ruJJ!” (“Vegetables! Fish!”) The ogres pronounced the words as though they were poisonous.
SEEf scratched his head. “I wonder how it can eat those things and still taste good,” he said.
“Maybe it doesn’t taste good. We haven’t eaten it yet.” The speaker was the ogre who had warned of my escape. He was younger than the others, approximately my own age.
We set out on the road, moving almost as quickly as my pony had. I had to ride on their shoulders, holding their oily hair. We were traveling away from Uaaxee’s farm, back the way I’d come. I assumed the ogres meant to go to the fork in the road and proceed to their Fens. It made no difference. What did it matter if I were devoured ten miles from my destination or forty?
No one was on the road, and the hills through which we marched were empty of habitation. The ogres began to grumble.
“It gets heavier every mile.”
“Perhaps it brings bad luck.”
“We should eat it tonight and find more tomorrow.”
They watched me enviously while I drank the elves’ supper. I was surprised I could eat, but I was ravenous. I offered to share with them, but my only answer was a collective shudder.
“You might enjoy it,” I said. “Perhaps you’d find that you prefer broccoli to flesh and legumes to legs.”
The last suggestion made them laugh.
The youngest ogre told SEEf in Ogrese, “Maybe we should get to know our meals better. This one makes jokes.”
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