In the past three weeks, Elena’s family had unexpectedly grown by four people. Family was important. You were part of it, no matter how much you wished it weren’t so. That simply was not your choice. A family is your blood, your inheritance, your roots, and as father would say: your well of knowledge. Why then, did her family have to be the cause of so much trouble? That’s what she would like to know.
Llillam watched Elena fiddle with the cutlery. Then she concentrated on the tablecloth pattern, even flipping the hem of the fabric, so she could see it from the seam side. Now Írimë was watching her also. Elena trailed the ornaments with her skinny finger. At first sight, the embroidery was plastic, changing color with different angles of the light, but was not plastic to the touch. Had someone asked Michael, he would have said that Elena was busying herself with the tablecloth to let her mind wander beyond this room. He did not like her expression, but nobody bothered to ask him. All he could do was to await what that red-haired head of hers would come up with. And to hope it wouldn’t be trouble.
“This is amazing! I wish I knew how this was made. The pattern seems plastic, but when I touch it, it isn’t,” Elena marveled aloud, because this thought was a lot easier to put into words, than … than the other one. Smiling slightly, Llillam glanced at his wife. Elena raised her head to meet a searching look of bright green eyes.
“How do you think it is done?” finally, Írimë asked very quietly. Once again, Elena ran her finger over the fabric, trying to distinguish its structure.
“It’s like … looks as if the design is part of the fabric, as if it had been woven into it. Could it be because of the colors? The weaving is unusual. I was told fabric is made of two interlocked layers of vertical fibers. This looks like there are lot more than two layers. But the fabric is very fine. You would have to have really fine fibers to manage that and it would be very complicated to do, I think.” Suddenly, encountering a bit of a puzzle, she went quiet.
Llillam watched his wife. The girl had definitely captured her attention.
“The pattern is imbedded into the basic double-layered warp. That done, other warps are added around the design,” Írimë explained somewhat hesitantly with very gentle voice.
Elena tried to imagine it. Her imagination kept tripping over the obvious need for the fibers to be very, very thin, which somehow contrasted with their manipulability. This said aloud, finally brought a light smile to Írimë’s face. She asked: “Is that the only thing that puzzles you?”
Elena shook her head.
“No, but the rest, I guess, is like magic that really is not magic, but rather a lot of skill. It’s like watching a potter work on the wheel. As the pot grows under his hands, it looks like magic, but it is not. Mother says that in their crafts, elves concentrate more on craft, skill and … tricks.”
“Tricks?” asked Írimë and Llillam simultaneously.
Elena tried to explain, but hit a wall of her still insufficient knowledge of the elvish tongue. Once again, Írimë smiled. And thus Elena found out her almost grandmother was a weaver, lace maker and a seamstress. Slightly, but truly very slightly, this thawed the land of ice between them.
◆◆◆
“Exactly how many more relatives do ya’ have here?” Michael finally popped a question, which Elena expected. She grimaced.
“How am I supposed to know? None, I hope, the ones we’ve already met are trouble enough as it is, don’t you think?”
He wanted to ask her how she felt, but did not. He did not have to. It was dark and raining and her cape cast an extra shadow over her face, but he could see her stooped shoulders. He took her round them, and together, they walked in silence. And she was grateful for that silence.
◆◆◆
Öron relished his triumph over them both. You could not say he was scolding them. He was simply very significantly quiet. From time to time, he passed a spiteful remark. They were learning to shoot the long, slender elven bow. The weapon was very different from what the children were used to. For Michael, it was too light. It was true the bow was well balanced, very well, in fact, but to Michael it felt like holding a toothpick. And the string was weird too, it seemed alive. He had a hard time getting that godsforsaken thing strung properly. It took far too much effort to do so. It was vexing. Even the shooting style was different from the Berber bow. Öron managed not to show them properly, and neglected to explain the important nuances of usage, which did not help matters much either. Elena did not say a word, letting out one arrow after another with an odd feeling she was missing something very important. After only a few arrows, her left forearm hurt like hell and her right arm muscles were giving up on her. It is true, there was a bit of improvement after the first shot, which failed to carry her arrow even half way to the target, but the improvement was unsatisfyingly slight. Had Öron yelled at her, she would have been a lot happier. His disparagement was unnerving.
Both were lucky to get their arrows at least into the vicinity of the target. Hitting it seemed out of the question. When Öron finally released them from their lesson, they left the training grounds looking like a pair of wet hens. Both massaged their painful forearms and both thought something very unflattering about their teacher.
“I’ll kick the piece of shit’s soft parts,” Michael let steam off the moment he was sure they were out of earshot.
“Want help?”
“Well, I might need it. Wait a sec, where ya’ going.”
“To see Failon.”
“What? Why?” Michael was confused.
“If he’s a teacher, let him teach. He’s likely to show us the stance and all that a lot better than that runt,” Elena replied.
“Didn’t Failon say ya’ should control ya' emotions?” asked Michael, who had a hard time keeping up.
“I’m controlling them,” she snapped.
“Aye, I can see that. Not that I don’t understand why you are so mad!” he added, when she stopped abruptly and turned an angry face towards him.
“I’m controlling them!” she barked in a tone that made his feet want to switch from a forward movement directly into reverse. His own momentum and gravity prevented them from doing so. His feet tangled. It was a miracle he managed not to kill himself.
“Like, I haven’t said a thing!” he yelped, looking in her eyes. Her pupils were trying to lengthen and shrink again. It was not a pretty sight. He looked at his feet to avoid those eyes. Elena turned on her heal and marched towards Failon’s shack.
Failon looked up from his herb garden. Elena towered over him, her muscles strung, eyes narrowed. She looked like a panther getting ready to leap.
“You have no control over your emotions. Come back when you have calmed down,” he rebuked her and busied himself with the herbs again. Michael took a step back.
Elena did not move. Had Failon been watching her eyes, he would have seen a greenish flash in them. Elena fought not to let the anger boiling inside her blood get the better of her. She stood there for donkey’s years, before Failon finally straightened his back.
“I said …” That was as far as he got. Slowly, Elena’s eyes, staring into his, changed color and shape. Elena lifted her right hand palm up. A small blue fireball appeared on that palm and grew quickly. When it grew to the size of an apple, Elena closed her fingers over it. The fire died, as if absorbed back into Elena’s hand. At the same time, the greenish light in her eyes faded, her pupils changed shape to human.
The forest around her breathed out with relief.
“I do have my emotions under control.” It was more of a quiet growl, than a whisper. “To keep it that way, I would appreciate your help.”
Failon stared at her in silence. She had definitely captured his attention. Her stance, the look of her green-blue eyes, the fire she extinguished with a single motion of a bare hand, all that gave emotion control a completely new meaning.
Michael had to admire how much control Failon had over not only his emotions, but his face also. Despite the fact
Elena was at that moment quite possibly deadly, the elf did not turn a hair, nor did he try to back away, most likely because doing so would mean trampling on his herbs. But it was impressive even so.
“All right, then. How can I help you?” Failon inquired.
“We both need you to show us how to use the elven bow correctly.” Elena’s answer was rather snappy.
“It is not my job to teach you fight, other teachers should be doing that,” he protested. Elena clenched her teeth. Failon could see her jaw-muscles tighten.
“You could say the other teachers think otherwise,” Elena hissed.
“We just need ya’ to explain and show us how to hold and use the bow properly. And the stance, of course,” Michael jumped into the conversation, eager to prevent Elena from exploding, which he sensed her to be close to. He was right and, luckily, Failon did not react with his usual answer by an unspoken question. For a moment, he disappeared into his cottage, and came back with a bow and arrows. Very patiently and in detail, the elf began to explain and show both children how to hold and string the bow, how to prevent the bowstring from slashing their forearms.
Slowly, Elena calmed down. Failon’s version of the procedure was beginning to shed a bit of light on the matter at hand. It was getting late and Failon invited both children into his shack. While he prepared dinner, Michael described Öron’s behavior. Failon offered no comment, but watched Elena out of the corner of his eye. The girl sat in a corner, leafing through one of Failon’s herbals, looking uncommitted. When she realized the two of them were looking at her, she shrugged her shoulders, but did not even look up.
“I will explain it to him. In due time,” she answered Failon’s once again unasked question.
“Due time will be when, exactly? May I ask?” Michael could not restrain himself.
“Ask, you may,” Elena said, and that was that.
◆◆◆
Michael took the bow in his hand. His forearm began to hurt just remembering the last lesson. It is true, Elena had healed his muscles, which she was becomingly proud of, but he was not looking forward to this practice session nevertheless. Quite determined, Elena grasped her bow, took the proper stance, and fired. To her great surprise, the arrow flew in the right direction and stabbed the ground only a few centimeters in front of the target. Michael smiled and followed her example. Öron was not happy.
Even though they survived their second lesson a lot less sore, and Elena a lot less angry, you could definitely not call their progress outstanding. The third and fourth lessons had exactly the same results. And then came the fifth. Elena walked into it with a tall case over her shoulder. Ignoring the long, light, elven bows, she pulled two Berber bows from the case and handed one to Michael. He grinned at her and strung the bowstring with sure, experienced fingers.
The Berber bows were shorter and noticeably heavier than those belonging to the elves. Though their effective range fell short, so to speak, their penetration was at least as good. The distance to the target was truly no match for the weapons. And they were handled in a different way.
Öron protested. To no effect. Elena ignored him and Michael winked at him happily. They both aimed and fired arrow after arrow. All of them bulls-eyed. When Elena had fired her last shot, she turned to her teacher.
“A Berber wise says that there is no such thing as an inept student, just a bad teacher. So how about you start teaching us and stop wasting our time?”
“How dare you!” he hissed at her and expected her to back away. On the contrary, she took a step towards him.
“We have quite an audience. After what we just did here today, are you sure you want to maintain that we are incapable students? Before you answer, Failon taught us far more than you did, even though he is considered an average archer.”
Öron stared at her hatefully. She was right their audience was quite large. Even blinded by his hatred and prejudice, he could still put two and two together.
“I’m not done with you!” he spat at her and turned to Michael, to explain the mistake he was making while drawing the string.
Most likely, it was not a very good idea to threaten Öron, but she had to do something. This town was not big enough for her and her unfriendly relatives. Öron was her teacher despite his young age. And Írimë? Elena encountered her every time she visited Llillam to spend time in his smithy. Father had always taught her that she should give in only should she gain political profit from it. Even so, you could not keep doing it forever. Besides, her permanent submission lost any kind of effect whatsoever and there seemed to be no more space to back away into, anyway. Elena remembered Dars, that she had been dodging him her whole life. To no effect. It was time to go by her father’s advice. Attack was the best way of defense. And today seemed like a good day to assert herself.
As usual, Öron went to visit his mother. Llillam was not home, Elena was sure, since she had seen him leave. She walked to the door, took a deep breath, and knocked. Luckily, Írimë was the one to open the door. She, at least, had the decency to keep to protocol. Icily, Elena was told Llillam was not home.
“I know, I came to see you and your son,” Elena answered and resolutely walked by the elf into her house, regardless of that being the last thing she wanted to do. Öron sitting behind the table was definitely not inclined to keep up appearances.
“Father is not here. You are not welcome. Leave!” he barked at Elena so sharply his mother felt the need to keep him in line. In her house, she was not going to tolerate any kind of disrespect to good manners and tradition. Elena was impressed. Írimë was, by all means, a lady! Which in Elena’s eyes was admirable.
Elena stood in the middle of the room. Even though she did not expect them to understand the gesture, she stood to attention, the Berber way. As a Berber, she thus expressed the highest possible respect.
“I know I am not welcome in this house when Llillam is not here. Moreover, I know why. In your eyes, I am but a reminder of what your people see as a sin. A sin of a man who became your husband, lady Írimë, and your father, master of the forest Öron.” She was glad neither of them tried to interrupt. Their hostility was almost palpable, but both were silent.
“It is true I am not a full blooded elf. But I am descendant to three great nations; the Berber, Adragon, and like it or not, the elves.”
Öron folded his arms over his chest, as if getting ready to attack.
“Where I come from, it is customary to honor your ancestors. I not only honor my ancestors, I am proud of my origin. I am proud of Llillam being my grandfather, of being his blood. Even if I were willing to admit falling in love with my grandmother was Llillam’s sin, it is a sin of the past. The sins of our fathers are of our fathers, not our own. Whatever has Llillam done, I was not there, and I was not the reason. I am just a result. I do not deserve your disdain nor your hatred, though love I do not expect. Most of all, I refuse to regard my grandparents’ love a sin. It would be disrespectful to both of them. Your actions do not show disrespect to me, but to Llillam, your husband and father. I am here to learn. It is not my intention to complicate your life.
“However, it is obvious I will be staying here for a while. I dare say it will be far more pleasant and considerably easier for us all, if we keep out of each other’s face.” Throughout her speech, Elena talked slowly and deliberately. It took quite an effort not to sound upset. She fought to calm her heartbeat. Her muscles were so tense her back was beginning to hurt. Once she began to fight, she was determined to say all.
“Like it or not, you are my family. With your permission, I would gladly get to know you better, I would be happy and honored to become a granddaughter and niece, even though not of your blood.” She bowed, slightly. And then her eyes glinted and her features hardened again.
“I may be a child, but if you make me, I will fight. I can be very determined, persistent and dangerous. It would probably do you no harm, but I am very good at causing trouble.” So, that was that. She’d probably stirred a ho
rnet’s nest, but in a way, it was a relief. All of a sudden, there was nothing to add. The two elves were silent and she had nothing else to say. Shrugging her shoulders, she mumbled: “I guess I’ll go, then,” and turned on her heal to leave.
Michael appeared from behind a tree and fell into step beside her. A shadow shot high above them. Elena noticed neither of them and headed away from the houses, away from people. Pardon me, away from elves.
“You did not say it,” Wilbur complained.
“What didn’t she say?” Michael questioned.
“I told her to threaten them with my support. She did not.”
“And what exactly was I supposed to say? I have a dragon, and am not afraid to use him?” Elena muttered in a low voice.
“Now see here, it talks!” Michael poked.
“I’m in no mood for codswallop,” Elena murmured.
“What is codswallop?” Wilbur wondered. This time, Michael couldn’t help it and smiled.
“That won’t work,” Elena reacted.
“What won’t work?”
“Codswallop.”
“What is codswallop?”
“I just made a fool of myself, I poked a hornet’s nest, I have a family that don’t want me, and you two are goofing around. That’s codswallop.” Elena blurted out. Wilbur was silent. He still did not understand, not having a clue what goofing around meant. However, what he did understand was the color of Elena’s mind. It was a mixture of sadness, anger, and something he has never seen in her before; frustration.
Michael did his best. And Elena let it slide. Usually all it took was just a little nudge and Elena had little flames in her eyes and a light smile on her lips. Or at least she was nippy, sarcastic or aggressive. This time she was simply downcast. Finally, they reached a spot with trees far enough away from each other so Wilbur could land comfortably. Michael could have sworn the dragon had grown since he had seen him last. Almost subconsciously, Elena caressed the Wilbur’s nose. Pulling her knees up under her chin, she sat down with her back leaning against his front paw. Michael sat facing her. Still, Wilbur was a dragon and Michael could not find it in himself to lean against his hide or paw. This was somehow only little Eli’s privilege.
The Witch (Dragon Eyes Book 1) Page 16