by J Battle
He was the Son of his Father, and becoming more so every day. But what was driving this change in him? The answer was obvious, even to his confused mind.
It was the Stone.
It could be nothing else. The Stone was encouraging his body to become what, perhaps, it was always going to be, one day, but so fast.
Would he retain any last vestige of humanity when he finally stood before his father? Would an onlooker glance from one to the other, and see no difference between them? How long did he have before he could no longer call himself a man? Or was it already too late?
With the road clear again, he stepped out of the bush on to its hard, grainy surface. He had to make haste; he couldn't afford to waste time struggling through the undergrowth. He had to take the road and let whatever might happen come about, and pack the consequences of his actions away in his bag, to be dealt with later.
How she got so close to him without him even being aware of her was a mystery and a shock to him, but there she was, standing beside him, a gentle smile lighting her face.
‘What…!’
‘Shush, my dearie; shush. No need to be agitated at the sight of an old fool like me.’ Her voice was soft and sweet; strange from someone who carried so many years.
‘You gave me a shock; that’s all, old lady. It is rare indeed that someone gets as close as you without me knowing.’
She chuckled and the whole of her thin, frail body shook.
‘Ay, you’re not the first, and you’ll not be the last, my dearie, to be surprised by me. Now, young lad, you look tired to me, if it doesn’t cause offense for me to remark on it.’
‘Tired? Me? No, not me.’ And yet, it had been a grueling few weeks. The following of Cavour; their journey together; fighting and getting captured; escaping and killing, and now, back on the road again. It was hardly a surprise if even his youthful exuberance should begin to wane.
‘You should take a day to rest, my dearie. My home is nearby; just over yonder hill, if you care to follow me.’ She smiled and took his elbow in one veined hand.
‘Ye be a little old for me, you know, old woman, but as long as ye keep your bony hands to yourself, I could use a rest and maybe some food, and if you had a tankard of ale, that would be a blessing.’
‘Well, dearie, they say that a home without ale is just a box, and who’d wish to live in a box?’
He watched her as she walked beside him. Small and dressed all in black, except for the white scarf that was wrapped around her grey hair, bringing it to a point at the top of her head.
‘Are you a widow-woman old lady?’
‘Ay and nay, my dearie. I don’t mourn the loss of any man, but I wear widow’s weeds for the loss of everyman, and that’s the hurtful truth.’
‘Everyman? Is that some religion, or something?’ BobbyJ didn’t know why he was at all interested.
‘Religion? No, my dearie. Religion’s just fool talk for those who can’t see the world as it is, and I’ll have nothing of it. You can take your God and whatever else you might think up, and shove them where they can’t be found, ‘less they are there already, ‘cause no-one that I’ve seen has ever been able to lay a hand on them.’
‘So, this mourning for everyman; what is that then?’
‘It’s a task that needs to be done, and no-one else is doing it as far as I can see, so I donned the black and put away foolish pleasures, and I honour the dead, and there’s too many of them, boy; too many by far.’
‘What good does it do; all this mourning?’
‘Good, my dearie? It’s not meant to do any good; that’s your foolish religious talk again. What I do in my head don’t do nothing in the outside world; how could it? But that don’t mean that it shouldn’t be done; not at all.’
‘You have me all confused, old woman. I hardly understand a word you say.’
‘Hah, now, and that’s no surprise. You’re a young’un, and you know next to nothing, and that’s the truth.’
‘You’d be surprised enough for a dark night, I’ll tell you that and not take your money.’
‘Come, lad. We’re here now.’
It’s hardly a box at all, he thought, with only three sides, and half the roof exposing the sky.
‘It’ll be warm enough out of the wind, my dearie. And, if you can’t get yourself warm, I have a drop of Rumm that will more than do the trick.’
‘Rumm? Is that some new-fangled ale?’
‘No, it be something stronger than that, from Fairisle, the place of my birth, these many years past.’
They were sitting side by side on the old lady’s bed, with a couple of drams of Rumm inside, and more than a couple of tankards of cool ale from the barrel she kept half in the stream that ran behind her humble dwelling.
‘That bag looks heavy, to me,’ she said, giving him a sly glance.
‘Ay, you’re right; it’s heavy enough.’
‘Are you going to show it to me?’
He sat upright and placed his tankard on the floor beside his clawed foot.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, my dearie; don’t be all shy. Show an old dear what you have in that there bag, and that’d be right enough.’
‘There’s nothing in my bag for your eyes, old woman, so turn away, before things get unpleasant.’
‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about me, my dearie, I’m too frail and weak to get in your way. But you could just give me a half-glimpse of it; quick like, so’s I’d hardly see it. Where’s the harm? I’ve never laid my eyes on a Wellstone; not in all my life.’
BobbyJ jerked to his feet. ’How did you know what I have in my bag?’ he snapped.
‘Oh, you know? I sense things; always have, and it calls to me. It don’t like to sit there in a dark old bag; it wants to be used, and it wants to feed.’
‘What are you? Who are you?’
‘Me, my dearie? Who am I? Well, I’m just Ellaine the Woewearer, and I mourn for the lost. Are you lost, BobbyJ?’
He glared into her soft, narrow, lined face for what could have been an eon. Was he lost? Was he lost already?
Somehow his vision blurred and he reached for her.
For the longest time, she held him, his head cupped in one hand.
‘There, there, my dearie,’ she whispered; her eyes never leaving the old cloth bag in the corner.
Chapter 49 Harld & Orther
'How we going to do this, then?' asked Harld, as they stood before the first houses of the town.
'What do you mean?'
'Are we just going to knock on their doors and say 'how's your first-born, then?' and see what they say?'
'Don't reckon that'd get us anywhere,' replied Orther, as his eyes scanned the near end of Bacon Street. 'I see six houses with grief-reefs on their doors.'
'Ay, you're right. So, we knock on them doors?'
'Ye can knock, if you want, but I won't. Listen, Harld, we have to reckon what we’re doing here, before we start. We can't go back to the Trytor and say we seen the grief-reefs and that’s the proof he needs, can we?'
'No, because, the Trytor, he don't want to hear that, do he? He wants us to say he was right, and Dryan was wrong, and then he'll be right pleased with us.'
'Ay, Harld, I think you're as right as sunshine on a spring morn. So, that's what we're going to do. Now, as I say, you can knock on those doors if you wish, and be lied to for your trouble, I reckon. Now, I'm going to leave you to it, and take myself over to that tavern I spy and have myself a little drink.'
'A drink! Ye can't do that when we're about the Trytor's business.'
Orther laughed. 'Now, don’t you go worrying yourself about that, 'cause, you see number three over there, with the grief-reef? Well, old Mik, he lives there, mostly, and this time of the day, he likes a good drink, and I can't see him passing that tavern without paying a visit.'
'So, you're going to ask him where his first-born is?'
'I reckon I'll be a little more sly than that.'
'I'll come with you, then. I could use a drink.'
Together they walked over to the small, shabby-looking tavern. The board hanging by one nail above the door suggested that it was named Lord's Laughter.
Harld paused when he had taken two steps into the bar area. Although the place looked uncared for, it sported a remarkably wide and clear window.
‘Well now,‘ he said, ‘I ain’t never seen such a thing.’
'I'll have two tankards, please, when you've the time,' said Orther, ignoring his suddenly transfixed friend.
'I'll be no more than a minute, if you please,' replied the tall man behind the bar, as he placed half a dozen pies on a tray on the bar.
Orther studied him for a moment. There was something about him that caught his attention. He nudged Harld and nodded in the barman’s direction.
Harld looked puzzled for a moment as he also cast his eyes towards the barman.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, whispering loudly. ’He’s clean. His face and hair, they’re not dirty.’
‘Bit early in the year for a bath, I reckon. I usually wait until it’s proper summer, I do.’
‘Oh,‘ replied Harld, ’I can’t be doing with all that stuff. It ain’t good for a body, it ain’t. I might have one next year, if I need one, I might.’
‘One more minute, sirs, and then I’ll be with you.’
‘He talks like someone who washes,’ said Harld, with a dismissive wave of one decidedly grubby hand. ‘All hointy-pointy.’
Richard smiled as he listened to them talk.
Orther took a look around the room as he waited, nodding at one or two familiar faces.
'Right, gentlemen, what will you have? And take no offence if I ask for payment first, as I don't know your faces.' Richard smiled broadly to take away any sting from his words.
'Don't worry about that none. You'll only offend us if ye don't give us ale,' said Orther, as he pulled his purse from his belt.
With their drinks safely secured, they walked across the room and found themselves at a small table before a bent and twisted creature, drooling into his ale.
'Hi there, Mik. Can we join you? I could use a seat, I could.'
Mik raised his head slowly and blinked his eyes. 'Ye- what?' he grunted; his voice all croaky and unused.
'You know me, Mik; Orther, and this is my friend, Harld.'
Mik looked from one to the other, and back again, and it was a mystery to them all as to what he actually saw.
Orther took his lack of a refusal as agreement and pulled out a chair.
'It's a fine day for a drink,' he said, as he bent to slurp his ale.
Mik chuckled to himself, and raised his own tankard. 'Any day the Sun troubles to get itself out of bed is a fine day for a drink.'
'You're right enough, there Mik, and that's the honest truth.'
The witty repartee slackened off for a while as they paid lip-service to their drinks.
'Well, Mik, how's it going, with you and your family?' asked Orther, when Harld had provided them all with fresh drinks.
'Oh, ye know; fine enough for the time of year.'
'And your girls, they must be growing up now.'
'Ay, you're right enough. Eight and nine Falls of Leaves for them now. They'll soon be women, and then I'll have the worry, sure enough.'
Orther glanced at Harld, who nodded back in agreement.
'So, which one's nine then, old friend?'
'Maggy, and she's the apple of my heart, she is.'
Orther knocked his drink back in one go.
'Alright then, Mik. I wants you to come with us, and no trouble to be had.' He stood up to give more authority to his words.
'What you mean there, Orther?' Mik's confused face glanced from one to the other.
'The Trytor wants to speak to you,' said Harld, in loud voice that caused silence to fall all around them.
At the name of the dreaded creature, Richard stepped out from behind the bar.
‘What? Why me? What ‘ave I done?’ said Mik.
‘You’ll find that out soon enough, if you ask me; don’t you worry.’
‘But, I ain’t finished my drink yet. You can’t expect a man to leave his drink; not one he’s worked hard to earn the money for.’
‘Work, Mik? You can still remember working? You’ve a fine memory then, and that’s for sure. So, don’t you go telling the Master that you can’t remember where Maggy is, ‘cause he’ll know, won’t he Harld?’
‘Ay, you’re right enough. Not much gets past him. Even Dryan, clever as he is, he’s going to get himself caught out. And you don’t want to be beside him when the Trytor gets all angry; for sure you don’t.’
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, for butting in, but did you say that you worked for the Trytor?’ said Richard.
Harld looked up at him. ‘Yes, we do. Why?’
Richard looked from one to the other, and then he moved his eyes up to take in the view from the window.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering if he was due to come outside anytime soon. That’s all.’
‘Why do you care about that?’ said Orther, all suspicious.
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just, well, I’ve never seen a Trytor. That’s all.’
‘Well, you’ll be awaiting a long time to meet this one, won’t he, Harld?’
‘Ay, you’re right enough, Orther. The Trytor, you see, he don’t like to leave his caves, he don’t. Not at all.’
‘Now Mik, it’s time to be going, or he might come and fetch you himself,’ said Orther.
Mik held onto his tankard with both hands. ‘I’ll finish my drink first, I will.’
‘Ay, that’s alright with me, old friend. I only hope it’s not your last.’
Orther turned away then and missed the venomous glare from Mik.
Richard watched them go.
How much longer would he have to wait?
Chapter 50 Elvenfolk
‘I’ll take the she, and you can have the he.’
‘No, Tellion. I’ll have the she, and you can take the he; he looks a little bony for my tastes. You know I like them soft. All my humans are soft.’
‘I’ll start off with the she, and then we can change around half-way through, for variety if you like. How does that sound, Weoren, to you?’
‘No, Tellion, that won’t do at all. You’re too rough altogether, and you start off rough. I start off gentle like, and then I get rough, near the end. You’ll ruin her before I lay a finger on her.’
The Elvenfolk were standing in the shadow of a small bunch of trees, watching a family of humans going about their business in front of their small home.
The man was digging in the garden, and the woman was doing something to a rose bush that neither of the watchers understood.
‘What about the little ones? The children; I don’t have a taste for them,’ said Weoren, pulling his cloak about his shoulders.
‘No; they break too easily. I’ll just say boo! to them and they’ll scurry off, I should think.’
‘So, are we agreed, then? I’ll take the she, and I’ll get her warmed up for you, if you like. And then I’ll have the he, when you’ve soften him up a bit for me; how does that sound?’
‘Like a lot of fun to me,’ Terrion laughed.
The human male lifted his head.
‘Shush, you old fool. You’ll make him run off with your noise.’
‘You’ll catch him soon enough. They don’t run very fast.’
With a final nod, Terrion left the trees and began to stride down the hill; his long legs devouring the distance.
He stopped after a few steps, puzzled that he was alone.
‘What…?’ he said, as he began to turn around.
The sight he witnessed made his wizened old jaws drop open.
His friend was dangling with his toes a foot from the ground; held up with one hand by a creature from legend.
‘A Giant,’ whispered Terrion.
‘Run, Terrion. Run for yo
ur life!’ gasped Weoren, struggling to breathe as the rock-hard fingers gripped his throat.
Terrion shook his head as if to clear his brains, and then he started back up the hill.
‘Well, I never thought to see the like,’ he said as he drew close. ’A Giant in these lands, and at this time. Can I shake your hand there, legendary creature?’
He stretched out one long, gaunt hand.
Aarvarn looked at the hand closely, then back at his burden.
‘What do ye want me to do with that?’ he asked, giving Weoron a bit of a shake, just because he could.
‘We have no argument with you, Giant. We are here for sport with lesser creatures. And there’ll be plenty to go around if humans suit your taste.’
‘I don’t eat humans; don’t reckon they don’t taste at all nice.’
‘You don’t have to eat them to enjoy them; if you know what I mean.’
Aarvarn pondered his words for a moment, and then he gave Weoren another little shake.
‘No; I don’t reckon I know what you mean. But…wait a minute there; I reckon I do know what you mean, and it’s dirty business you’re after, ain’t it? I’m having none of it.’
‘Oh, come on now; it may be dirty, but it is nice. They can be wonderfully soft, you know.’
‘Hit him, Raarvan, will you, he’s making me feel sick.’
The blow that caught Terrion on the left-hand side broke his arm, his shoulder, and six ribs, and sent him flying across the ground until he ended up in a pile at the base of a silver tree.
‘That’s how you do it, my old friend. Just hit them and move on.’
‘Shall I hit this one, then?’
‘No! No! Don’t hit me!’ whined Weoren, wriggling in Aarvarn’s grasp.
‘He moans a lot, this one. He’s fair getting on my nerves.’
‘Just hit him then, and we’ll be off after the rest. I don’t reckon two counts as an infestation, do you?’