I sighed silently. Evidently she preferred to play her game with me, in the fashion of maidens everywhere, and I felt every bit as ignorant as I was supposed to be. “Well, I’m an adventurer, but I don’t quite know where I’m going. That is, I’m headed for Castle Roogna, the Man capital, but there are a lot of barriers along the way, like the goblin mountain, that I would have avoided if I’d known. If I had a good map—”
“A map!” she exclaimed. “Of course! You shall have it!” She bounced off my knee and ran to the tree, her hair flinging out behind her. Doll she might be, but she was a woman-doll!
Soon she was back, hauling a scroll about as big as herself. Breathlessly she unrolled it for me on the greensward, pertly sitting on the top end while I spread my fingers to hold down the bottom end. “This is Xanth,” she panted prettily. “Here we are, in the center, with the goblins, griffins, and birds to the north and the dragons to the south. To the east, beyond the river, is the big ocean, and to the west are the five terrible Elements—Air, Earth, Fire, Water, and the Void. They aren’t nice places; you don’t want to go there. In fact, nowhere is as nice as right here.”
I perused the map with interest. “I came from up here, in the fen. I ran into the—”
“Oh, no, don’t tell your story yet,” she protested. “Save it for the whole tribe. Where are you going from here, specifically?”
“Well, I thought south. I don’t want to pass through the Elements I see here, and I doubt I’d care for the Region of the Flies below it, so if I go south and then loop around to the west below—um, I don’t see Castle Roogna on this map.”
She cocked her head and wiggled her toes, considering. “I have heard the name, faintly. We elves don’t concern ourselves overmuch with human business. But all the other details should be right. I think your castle is south of the—the—I don’t quite remember what, but south of it. Maybe here.” She pointed to the bottom section of the map, marked HERE THERE BE OGRES, and shuddered.
Ogres! Naturally I knew of those huge, awful creatures, but never had I seen one. “That’s the sort of adventure I’m looking for!” I exclaimed. “When I recover my strength.”
She glanced at me with feminine concern. “You are ill?”
“No, not exactly. I was severely wounded by—” I broke off as she began to protest. “I know—save it for the tribe! Anyway, I’ll recover fully in a few days, so that’s all right. It’s mainly a matter of regrowing my lost muscle tissue. I’ll be in fit condition by the time I encounter the ogres. Then I’ll go to Castle Roogna and see what adventure awaits me there. This map will help me get there faster. Thank you, Bluebell.”
“So you accept my favor,” she said, pleased.
“Certainly I do,” I agreed. “Now what do you want from me?”
She gazed at me with eerie intensity. “I think you wouldn’t understand yet,” she said. “But when you are ready, I’ll tell you.”
I shrugged. “Just so it’s before I depart your charming elf elm realm.”
“It will be, Jordan-Man,” she assured me.
Then the elves cleared away the remnants of the meal and faced the tree in a great circle. The King elf stood beside the trunk, clapping his hands for silence. “That’s Crown-of-Thorns,” Bluebell whispered to me. She was now perched on my shoulder, dangling her legs down into my right shirt pocket. She was so light I hardly felt her, and her grasp on my right ear, to steady herself, was like a caress.
King Crown-of-Thorns spoke, and a well-spoken King was he. “I welcome the traveling Barbarian Man who visits us this day,” he said formally. “I invite him to exchange entertainments with us. First we shall show him ours.”
And from the towering foliage of the elf elm descended ten elven damsels, suspended by threads, pirouetting in the air. They came to rest just above the ground, then began to swing like pendulum bobs, their motions slow because of the length of their threads. They bounced in unison, spreading arms and legs as they swung around the tree. Then they swung in differing directions, forming patterns that changed before my eyes could quite grasp them, generating fleeting impressions of stunning beauty. In and out they wove, now together, now apart, now linking hands, now spinning separately. It was a unified dance, lovely in its parts and in its whole, and I was duly enchanted.
Then the damsels dropped to the ground, and a dozen male elves approached the tree. These were young, healthy specimens, muscular and coordinated—the equivalent of barbarians. Their dance was on the ground, and it incorporated feats of strength. They spread out in a wide circle about the elm. Each lifted a sizable stone, held it a moment, then dropped it.
Then they moved into a tighter circle, where larger stones had been set. Each lifted one of these with no more apparent difficulty than he had lifted the smaller one, to my surprise. Once again they contracted the circle, where lay yet larger stones, and each picked up one of these. I wondered whether the larger stones were of lighter substance, to make this possible. Pumice, for example—magic stone spewn up from the depths, some of it so light it would float on water. That would explain what I observed here.
King Crown-of-Thorns spied my perplexity. “You doubt, honored Man?” he declaimed. “We will show you the magic of our tree! Fetch us the largest log you can carry!”
“Go ahead,” Bluebell urged in my ear, her breath tickling it. “Your present strength is enough for that, isn’t it?”
“For a small log,” I agreed. I got up and searched nearby, and there, conveniently laid out, were several logs of assorted sizes. I hefted one and found it too light; my strength had already recovered somewhat. I tried another, and it sufficed; it was all I could handle in my present condition. I got it up on my shoulder, displacing Bluebell, who scampered nimbly onto my head and clung to my hair, and I staggered toward the elm. Despite my effort, I was aware of Bluebell clinging to my head, her feet now on my left shoulder, her torso plastered across my left ear, and her maidenly bosom squeezed against my hair.
“This will do,” the King said, indicating a spot on the ground some distance from the tree. With relief I set down the log, letting one end thunk solidly to the ground, then easing the rest of it down. No elf would move that!
But the elves intended to try! As I backed off, the twelve approached the log. They set themselves about it and got their little hands under it and heaved together. It wobbled but didn’t lift. I was not surprised; since each elf was a quarter of my height, depth, and breadth, that meant each was about one-sixty-fourth my mass; that was why Bluebell was so slight on my shoulder. I could have supported her whole weight readily with my littlest finger. So each elf might be able to heft one-sixty-fourth what I could, and all twelve together—well, I’m not that apt at math in my head, but it seemed reasonable that all twelve elves acting in concert could lift only a fifth as much as I could, maybe less. Of course, I did not have my full strength back, and they had many little hands and had to lift the log only marginally off the ground. Still, chances were it was three times as heavy as they could manage.
The elves gathered at one end and lifted and shoved. The ground was uneven, and this end was slightly raised, so they were able to pivot the log about its center support without lifting it. They got it parallel to the elm. Then they all pushed, and slowly it rolled toward the tree. Well, they were using their minds now, and leverage helped. That was the way to do it. The velocity of the roll increased as it went.
Then they stopped. They ranged themselves on either side of the log and heaved—and this time they actually got it up! Amazed, I watched as they carried it to the region where the first small rocks had been dropped. There they set it down, and six elves walked away. The remaining six tackled the log—and lifted it.
“There’s something funny here!” I exclaimed. “Twelve couldn’t lift it before, and now—”
“There’s more, Jordan-Man” Bluebell murmured ticklishly into my ear.
I watched. The elves carried the log to the second ring of stones. There they set
it down, and three of them departed. The remaining three got at each end and the middle of the log.
“Now I’m sure they can’t—” I began.
The log came up. I gaped. They were doing it!
Bluebell tweaked my ear. “We Elves have magic you Men wot not,” she whispered. Then, I swear, she kissed the rim of my ear. I’m not sure which startled me more—the log-lifting or the miniature kiss. What was going on here?
The three carried the log to the third ring of stones and paused. Then the two at the ends let go and walked away—and the lone elf in the center carried the log the rest of the way to the trunk of the elm.
I couldn’t let this impossibility pass. I got up and strode to the tree. “I want to check that log!” I said. It was in my mind that they had found a way to make things lighter near the tree.
The elf set it down. I reached down and picked it up—barely. The thing was every bit as heavy as it had been. How had he—?
Then I felt something odd. I was rising!
I looked down—and discovered that the elf was picking me up by my shoes. His tiny hands gripped each of my heels, and I was in the air, still holding the log.
I began to wobble, as much from surprise as from unbalance, and he set me down. Then I put down the log and stood dazed. I had succeeded only in further confusing myself. The elves around the tree were smiling merrily.
“It is the tree, Jordan,” Bluebell told me. “We elves grow stronger as we approach it. That’s why we always camp near an elf elm.”
“You mean—?” But already I saw that it was true. The stones—as the elves’ strength increased, they had lifted larger stones. It had been no trick, just a demonstration. At the base of the tree, the strength of an elf became practically infinite. “Females too?”
“Want me to pick you up?” she asked. “I can do it—here beside the elm.”
“You—do elves keep getting weaker, away from the tree?”
“Yes, but it’s on a declining curve. We change rapidly near the tree, slowly away from it. As long as we don’t range out too far, we’re all right.”
“And if a monster attacks you—”
“We retreat as far as we need, toward the elm,” she agreed. “We protect the elms, and they protect us. The magic doesn’t affect anyone who isn’t of elven stock. So our retreats are almost impregnable; an elven child could heave a monster away. But we don’t go out of our way to bother other folk.”
That explained why elves weren’t seen much around the fen where I had been reared. There were no elf elms in that vicinity.
“Now it is your turn,” she said. “You must tell your story, for we elves are very curious about the other species and regions of Xanth. I hope it is a good tale.”
I shrugged. “I can embellish it if you wish.”
“No, we prefer the truth.”
So I settled down by the tree and narrated my story, much as I have been doing here, and they listened attentively and asked intelligent questions. They really were interested, and I saw a scribe-elf making notes. It seemed to me that what I had to tell was actually—if you’ll excuse the expression—pretty mundane stuff, since I had slain no dragons and encountered no phenomenal sorceries, but they really were interested and, at the end, satisfied. The odd thing was that they seemed most taken with the portions they knew most about, rather than those that were beyond their experience.
Bluebell had said they wanted to hear the truth, so that was what I gave them, unexciting as it might be, and they liked that. Later I realized that this was only in part entertainment for them; they were also judging me, and on the basis of my story they judged me to be an honest man, though they asked some very penetrating questions about my talent for healing.
Finally, perceiving that they doubted, I suggested that they cut off my fingers and watch them regrow. They recoiled, I think, not so much from horror at the notion of deliberate injury as from not wishing to seem to cast aspersion on my integrity. So I simply rubbed my forearm along the blade of my sword, cutting the skin so that blood flowed, then held up my arm so that they could see how rapidly it healed. They protested strenuously that such a demonstration was not necessary, but in their very protestation I concluded that it was. As I said, I am not expert in the judging of other cultures, so maybe I have misinterpreted whatever significance existed.
Now it was growing late in the day. The elves served some sort of fragrant grog in leaf mugs; mine was tiny, of course, but I drank it—and the stuff burned down my throat and filled my belly with fire and sent my head floating somewhere above my body. Potent stuff!
“It is time for the favor,” Bluebell informed me.
“Favor?” I asked, confused. “Oh. Yes. Tell me.”
“This way,” she said, leading me back to the tree. I walked somewhat unsteadily, feeling the grog. That is to say, groggy.
I stopped at the base of the trunk, but she proceeded to climb the elm. “I can’t go up there!” I protested, eying the virtually vertical ascent. The tree was large, having had time to grow during the centuries the elves had protected it; two human men would barely be able to reach around it. There were no low branches; it was a great column rising to the mass of foliage far above.
“Yes, you can, Jordan,” she told me. “The grog gives you the power.”
Dubiously, I tried it. I put my hands to the bark—and they clung as if cemented. I brought up a foot, and it adhered similarly. When I lifted one hand, it came free, so I could take hold higher. Like a fly, I could walk the wall! This, of course explained how flies did it; they sneaked sips of elven grog.
So I followed her up, though the height was dizzying. If the magic failed, I knew I would fall and be killed but I wasn’t worried for three reasons. First, I did not believe the elves meant me any harm, so the grog-spell should hold. Second, if I did fall, my body would heal the breaks within a day, so death would be only temporary. Third, the pleasant stupor the grog has put me in made all this a matter of indifference; I simply didn’t care. It seemed almost natural to be following a doll-sized elf lass up a huge tree.
At last we reached the first bifurcation of branches and entered the foliage. Bluebell led me up through it until we came to a great tangle of mistletoe in the highest reach. The points of the missiles and toes scratched me, but I healed in seconds. Bluebell entered this mass, and I followed, discovering a way through; and lo! inside it was a great globed nest, with pillows and a comfortable floor. The fading light of day filtered in through the levels in diffused fashion, pleasantly illuminating leaves and vines of many colors.
I lay against the resilient and fragrant leaf wall. “This is lovely,” I said. “Now what is the favor I owe you? Do you need some heavy object carried down to the ground, or lifted up from the ground?” Though, with their super-strength, it hardly seemed the elves would need my help there.
She smiled as if finding something funny. Girls of any species can be like that. “You need lift no object too heavy to manage, Jordan,” she said.
“Well, I’m ready to serve. Name it.”
“It is the service that only you can give,” she said. “Your most precious possession.”
Dismay sliced through my daze, abolishing it. “You want my sword?”
She looked at me, astonished, then tumbled over in laughter. I had to laugh too, for it seemed it was not my weapon she was after; and indeed, I realized that a creature her size and sex would have no way to handle it.
I pondered, and sobered again, realizing what an elf would want of a man like me. “My horse!”
Bluebell managed not to laugh this time, but obviously she was feeling merry. She came to sit on my knee, as she had done below. “Now how could I get a ghost horse up here?” she asked, and then the laughter bubbled up and overflowed again. Elves certainly are merry folk!
“Well, I know elves need transportation and hauling, away from the tree,” I said. “A creature like Pook doesn’t lose strength—” But I saw she was just about to fall o
ff my knee with mirth, and of course I was relieved to know that this had not been a ploy to demand Pook. He really would have felt I had betrayed him, and certainly I had not intended to do that. “But—what do you want, elven maid? I’m out of precious possessions.”
I don’t know why she was so overbubbling with laughter. “You can not guess, Jordan-Man?”
“I’m only a barbarian warrior, not too smart,” I reminded her somewhat tersely.
“But honest and strong and nice,” she said.
“And not good at riddles,” I added, annoyed.
She unbuttoned her green tunic, slipped out of it, and sat again on my elevated knee. She was a lovely miniature woman in every respect. “Now can you guess, Jordan-Man?”
“You want me to fetch new clothing for you?”
This time she doubled up and rolled about with the force of her laughter, in the process showing a good deal more than she ought and landing in a pretty heap in my lap. “Oh, barbarian, you still have something to learn about elves—or about women,” she said when she had recovered some of her breath.
“I know about women,” I replied somewhat stiffly, remembering Elsie. “I never claimed to be expert on elves. I knew of you Little Folk mainly by hearsay, until I met you today. You seem very like human beings, except for your size and your magic.”
“There you utter truth indeed!” But still she seemed to be bursting with some horrendously humorous secret. “You don’t know the nature of an Accommodation-Spell?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Oh, this is fun!” she exclaimed, peering up at me and kicking her legs about. “I knew barbarians only by hearsay, too. You’re much more fun than I expected.”
“Thank you,” I said awkwardly.
“For your information, Man, the Accommodation-Spell was fashioned by one of the Magicians of your kind. I think his name is Yin-Yang. He packages spells of all types and peddles them to anyone who is interested.”
“I never heard of him.”
“I think he lives down near Castle Roogna.”
Crewel Lye Page 7
