Elders of Eventyr

by Ellias Quinn

  Slowly, silently, about a dozen alva advanced out of the grass and tangle from all directions. They were Eletsol painted with green and black patterns, half-crouching and holding their curved blades before themselves. At a certain distance, they came no closer.

  “Hm, well,” Dask said out of the side of his mouth, “it only now occurred to me that what we’re doing is very dangerous.”

  “Sun preserve us,” Simmad whispered. He cleared his throat and spoke up weakly. “Elamys…”

  One of the Eletsol lowered his sword and pointed at the pendant. He was a man wearing a colorful beaded headdress.

  “Dyndal,” he said.

  Matil looked around at her friends and then said, “Kal.”

  Eletsol jumped into the air, hollering like madmen. They clanged their swords together and one by one flew down to get a better look at the pendant, only to whiz back up in new heights of exultation. After the warriors had calmed down somewhat, the man in the headdress positioned them around the four outsiders and the beetles. He ordered everyone away from the bushy ferns. Matil looked around at the warriors as they marched, her heart pounding.

  The commander brought the formation into a clearing overshadowed by a large, craggy ridge of rock and soil. Roots curled in and out of the ridge face, belonging to two trees at the top. Brown huts built from tree bark strips covered the ridge, from the ground at its foot to the stony crevices all along and up to the knotholes and branches of the trees above. The commander gave another order to his warriors, and half of them swarmed the ridge, joyfully shouting to those within the huts. Alva peeked curiously out of the huts. Matil and her friends were soon surrounded by Eletsol men, women, and children – the whole village.

  Before the babbling crowd could get too close to the outsiders, the villagers parted respectfully for a little old man to approach. His bald head rested snugly among the cloths and furs that draped from his shoulders to the ground, and his eyes were concealed by eyebrows like huge cotton puffs. The wings on his back were red petals and a bit shriveled.

  When he reached the outsiders, he said slowly, “I am Uro, tain-man of this clan. Is it true you have Dyndal’s sign?”

  Matil lifted her hand, which was sweaty from clutching the toad.

  Uro’s furry eyebrows lifted until his eyes could be seen. “We must leave at once,” he said, eyebrows falling. He faced the villagers and spoke Eleti. A murmur spread through the crowd, and they squinted at the toad. A few of them beamed. When the meaning of Uro’s announcement sank in, the villagers became as ecstatic as the warriors had been, whooping and shouting to the sky.

  “Wow,” Dask said over their noise. “Great plan. Let’s leave.”

  Simmad looked at him. “But where are we going?”

  “That’s what I wanna know,” Dask said.

  “Remember when Ansi told us about Dyndal’s tomb?” Khelya said, reaching up to tighten her headband.

  Simmad’s mouth formed an ‘o’ in surprise. “Tomb?” he said.

  With a glance at Khelya, Dask said, “The Eletsol are pretty sure the Elders died off.”

  “Mm, yes,” he said, “I’ve heard a little about the Eletsol’s folklore, their idea of the Elders’ fates. I wonder why they believe that when all of the stories—”

  “Anyway,” said Khelya, “I’d guess we’re goin’ there. To the tomb.”

  Uro turned to her and nodded. She didn’t look happy to be correct.

  * * *

  The villagers buzzed to and fro with piles of goods in their arms, while some on the ground hoisted bundles and blanket rolls onto Dewdrop, Olnar, and their own pack-mice. Uro had ordered a few of them to take care of the outsiders. They bowed and adorned the outsiders with beaded necklaces before leading the group to sit down in the shade. They returned a little later to serve the outsiders cool blueberry juice in bowls fashioned from acorn caps.

  Matil sipped the tangy liquid, pausing to grin at her friends and the activity around them. Dask seemed disgruntled when he saw that the only others not working were young children drinking from their own bowls. He got up to help the adults, but they sent him back where he dourly gulped down his drink instead. Khelya drank the blueberry juice slowly, one of her eyes squinting as if she didn’t know what to think of its strong flavor. Simmad left his juice untouched for a long time while he observed the industry of the villagers, but after taking a swig, his back straightened up.

  “I believe I taste hints of rose and pine,” he said, delighted.

  Some of the Eletsol, like Uro, wore long layers of cloth, leaves, and grass. Matil wondered why, because the weather was too warm for so many clothes, but when these alva rested, they caused nearby foliage to grow over and shade them. They were magicians, as was Uro. A villager helped the old tain-man onto one of the mice, where he perched with ease. The party – making up maybe half the village – was finally ready to leave.

  “Noosh-noosh,” said a mouse-driver to get his mice moving.

  “Noosh,” said another.

  A straggling magician flew out of the village after the departing group, flittering haphazardly in a tangle of his wings and flapping garments.

  Daytime faded into evening. The party traveled well into the night and then Uro directed them to make camp. Matil fell asleep in no time, and it seemed like she was woken in no time. She kept the last watch, looking out for her friends while one of the Eletsol watched over Uro’s alva. The morning was still dark when the Eletsol began to stir. Light crept in through the undergrowth while the party ate a quick breakfast. The Eletsol became jubilant after Uro urged Matil to hold up the pendant again, and once done eating, they moved with eager swiftness.

  As Matil walked behind her friends in the early light, she rubbed the back of her right arm and then stopped, her hand touching above her elbow. She felt a patch of rough skin. Straining her neck and shoulder, she tried to see the back of her arm. There it was, a long blotch just darker than the warm brown of her skin. It began near the elbow and extended upward almost a hand’s length. Could it be a birthmark? She looked at it, wondering why she hadn’t noticed it before. A point in the back of her head itched feebly. No, it…tugged at her. Pulled her in another direction.

  Her ears lowered in alarm and she stumbled. The thick, sunny forest seemed like a terrifying blaze of colors pressing in. It took a moment for her to calm down enough that she again heard the birdsong and beast chatter tucked away in the leaves and branches. A regal red butterfly flimmered across the journeyers’ path.

  It was the pull to Nychta that Matil felt scratching at her mind.

  Nychta had tried to take away part of herself in a powerful ritual she couldn’t complete, causing Matil to appear; Matil, the part of Nychta she didn’t want. Through the ritual, the two of them were still connected, still drawn together.

  Seeing signs of animal life and feeling how weak the pull was, Matil was certain that Nychta and the Book of Myrkhar weren’t nearby. But they were near enough. She took a last puzzled glance at the mottled skin on her arm and sped up to walk between Dask and Khelya.

  Dask looked over at Matil and, upon seeing her expression, his own ears went back. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “I- I feel Nychta’s presence,” Matil said.

  Shock crossed his face.

  “Thiffen,” Khelya said.

  “What is it?” Simmad said from Khelya’s other side. Khelya turned to explain it to him.

  “Can you tell which direction she’s in?” Dask said.

  Matil had been rubbing at the back of her head as though she were brushing off a clinging gnat, but now she gave up trying to get rid of the pull. She focused on it with a cringe and then pointed to their right.

  He squinted toward the sun and then where she was pointing. “Southish, southwest. And we’ve been heading northeast for the most part.”

  “That’s incredible!
” Simmad said. He leaned around Khelya to gawk at Matil.

  “I don’t think she’s close,” Matil said. “I don’t think she’s been looking for us. She has the hermit.” She hung her head. “Nychta’s probably already killed him, though.”

  “Hold on.” Dask put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I doubt he’s gone yet. If the journal is right, that hermit’s old enough to know loads of information that Nychta wants. Anyway,” he gestured at Khelya, who carried the journal in a bag on her back, “we haven’t…you know, we haven’t gotten to thank him yet.”

  Khelya put her hand on Matil’s other shoulder. “We’ll keep you safe,” she said.

  Matil began to feel reassured, but it curdled into guilt. She didn’t want them to worry so much about her.

  Even as the Eletsol marched and flew and sang around them, the four outsiders took on an anxious silence. After midday, the pull disappeared.

  Chapter 21

  Bridging Gaps

  Even before Matil and her friends first entered Fainfal, she had stopped counting the length of their journey. The changing weather, slowly heating up day by day, kept track of the time well enough.

  Since leaving Uro’s village a few days ago, every time they happened upon Eletsol who wore paint in different colors and patterns, Uro would call out in a strong voice. Whether friendly, hostile, or only curious, the Eletsol heeded his words and let them pass. They would examine the four outsiders intently, and many joined their train with bells, horns, drums, and pipes. Simmad facilitated the barest of conversations between the two tongues, but it was enough for the outsiders to join the festive mood. No longer a mere outsider in Fainfal – more like an honored guest – Matil took the time to admire the Eletsol, especially their flower-like wings and curved ears.

  The women congregated around Matil and Khelya, getting used to the ghostly Obrigi. They invited the pair to sit in their crowded, two-wheeled wagons and made noises of awe over them. Three of the women could speak Alvishu, one of them very well, and they talked about life in the various clans. Despite Matil wearing Dyndal’s sign, they seemed shy to speak on the topic of Dyndal with alva who were not Eletsol. Two women gave Khelya and Matil Elestol-style braids that went up the back of the head, while Matil braided a little girl’s glossy, crow-black locks. The woman braiding Khelya’s hair threw away her old cloth headband, sending the Obrigi scrambling out of the wagon to pick it back up.

  During those few days, Dask raced many other alva and lost only to the fastest flyers. He attributed the successes to his ritual of shaking hands with Matil, Khelya, and even Simmad, and then as many Eletsol as he could. Simmad sought out Uro and other Eletsol who could speak Alvishu, and learned words in Eleti from the young ones who were mesmerized by his wings.

  Matil asked Uro if there were any Vima or Taina with them; she hadn’t seen the telltale orange or white body paint. He called to another Eletsol, who went to find someone else before returning with the news.

  “Those clans are still in war,” Uro translated. “Even for the sign of Dyndal, they cannot come.”

  Matil nodded, her ears drooping.

  He watched her from underneath his eyebrows. “How do you know of them?”

  “We have friends in the Vima,” she said. “And we were there when they, uh, overthrew their chief.”

  At night the party, lit by torches and buzzing nets of fireflies, came to a wide, deep brook running northwest across their path. While everyone waited, the magicians split into two groups, one of which flew to the other side of the brook. They took positions near the water and extended their arms toward the underbrush. With the magicians’ sinuous movements, plants and reeds leaned and wound their ways across the brook. Each magician – their number had multiplied since leaving three days before – wore a hard look of concentration. Everyone else watched the formation of a bridge in quiet excitement, and Matil’s eyes shone with how beautifully the plants laced together.

  There was a sudden splash as one magician pushed another from a different clan into the river. Construction of the bridge halted while many other magicians swarmed into a brawl. A few more Eletsol were knocked into the river and burst out, faces red, but harsh rebukes from their leaders got their attention. They gave up the fight as abruptly as it started and soon the bridge was complete. The magicians stayed in their places, slowly waving their arms to hold the plants steady. The pack bugs and animals crossed with a little prodding, and small groups of Eletsol had already flown over to set up camp.

  Matil and Khelya passed over the bridge beside a rat whose harness Khelya clutched in one hand while stiffly walking along with her eyes shut and face turned to the sky. Her other hand was locked on Matil’s shoulder, and Matil patted Khelya’s clammy fingers while eyeing the quivery plants that served as a railing for the bridge. It was nerve-wracking to traverse a bridge that hadn’t existed until moments ago but Matil tried to enjoy the experience. Moonlight fell through clouds and trees to hit the black water like shards of white pottery. The Eletsol urged their beasts forward with gentle “nooshes” and “ep-ep-eps”. Sweet herbal scents drifted on the warm wind.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Matil said.

  “H-h-how is it nice?” Khelya tripped slightly, causing her hand to yank out of Matil’s. “Ah!” She pulled herself closer to the rat, who squeaked and quickened its pace until a girl flew in to stroke its twitchy muzzle.

  Matil hurried to catch up. She looked over Khelya to make sure the Obrigi was fine. “Sorry, I meant that…it’s nice to have a friend who’s not afraid of the same things I am. That way we can look out for each other.”

  Khelya pursed her mouth in thought. “Yeah,” she said shakily. “I guess it is nice.” Eyes still closed, she smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” Matil said.

  “See?” said Dask, landing behind them and folding his wings. “I leave you alone and all I hear are pleases and thank yous. If I weren’t around, you’d die of boredom.”

  Khelya laughed. She opened her eyes and shook a fist over her shoulder at Dask. “I’ll show you bor—” She suddenly realized what she was doing and her arms flew out to grab at Matil and the rat.

  Matil ducked instinctively. The rat gave a panicked skreak and scampered ahead. Khelya missed them, freezing in place with both arms out. She shut her eyes again.

  “Are you all right?” Matil said.

  Khelya’s eyes scrunched tighter. “I give up.”

  “And not a moment too soon,” Dask said. “Welcome to the other side, my lady. Hope you enjoyed your crossing.”

  Slowly, she looked down at her feet. She stood at the end of the bridge. Nearby, a magician was so focused on holding the bridge that he didn’t even wipe the sweat rolling down his face.

  Khelya stumbled, jelly-legged, onto solid ground and sank to her knees. “I don’t ever wanna get on another bridge unless I made it myself.”

  Simmad met the three of them when they entered the ramshackle camp-in-progress. His knee pants were splotchy with dirt, grass, and juice stains. He still wore his blue tunic, but he’d tied the undershirt around his waist. His thin, pale arms were covered in symbols of different colors, sizes, and designs.

  “Look!” he said, waving his arms about like an Eletsol magician. “The tain-men taught me about heraldic devices of the clans and even drew them for me!”

  “Drew them on you,” Dask corrected. “Huh. They even put ‘em all over your back.”

  “I know!” Simmad turned, showing off the symbols across the back of his tunic. His wings beamed as much as his grin and, when he noticed their brightness, he concentrated to make them disappear.

  Matil went up to look at his arms. Each symbol was like a flower blooming on him. “They’re very pretty.”

  Khelya leaned down toward Simmad so she could peer closely at the symbols in the torchlight. Dask followed the others and glanced at the symb
ols with at least a little interest.

  Simmad smiled timidly at the three crowding him. “Yes, they’re…they’re aesthetically pleasing and quite meaningful.” He pointed at a red, seven-pointed star. “This clan’s name is Taivalaan. Its literal meaning is ‘by the sky lights’. The whole clan lives in one of the tallest trees in Fainfal and their wise men chart the stars throughout the year. The seven rays represent the chief and the six patriarchs that rule them. Not a large clan, but they’re highly influential.”

  He continued to explain symbols while they walked toward the Eletsol unpacking food and twisting plants into bowers and tents. Men unhitched animals, leaning their two-wheeled wagons on the ground. Others in the campground pulled out pipes, drums, and stringed instruments to play spirited accompaniment for voices already lifted in song. The singers strung hammocks through the trees. Some Eletsol formed instruments on the spot, magically twining together grass and twigs.

  New sounds floated from the brook, chimeful and jangling music in a timing and key that clashed with the Eletsol melody. Both songs ceased as the musicians became aware of each other. Matil looked and saw a flat-bottomed barge floating down the current, long poles sticking up and paper lanterns strung from corner to corner. Lounging on the deck and surrounded by crates were a few dusky Ranycht and several dark-haired Nervoda, their pallid faces standing out like bones in the night. Harps, tambourines, and other delicate instruments sat in their laps.

  “A-hey-o!” a Ranycht with a black head kerchief shouted. “We goin’ by safe and peaceable, awright? We don’t mean no harm!”

  “Aw-haw, aw-haw,” said a few of the other barge-alva. A Nervoda poked his head out of the cabin.

  One of the tain-men flew to the edge of the brook and bowed. “Outsiders may pass!”

  Matil watched with great interest. “Who are they?” she said.

  “Traders from Vangara.” Dask gave the barge a side-eye. “Those boxes are full of ‘luxury products’ like eel and jewelry that go for almost nothing around the lake. Nobles in Tyrlis buy it up like they buy favors from the sun Elder. The traders usually cut through Nychtfal, though. I wonder what they’re…oh yeah, remember the wall we set up with the Obrigi? Going around it is probably faster than trying to go through.”