Elfhome (Tinker)

by Wen Spencer

  Their looks told him everything. Their clan was their last anchor. They’d been utterly lost once—the idea of being adrift again terrified them.

  “I’m waiting to see how far my money will take us.” Oilcan tried to temporize.

  “If you’re domana,” Cattail Reeds said, “can’t you get funding from Stone Clan?”

  He laughed, shaking his head. There were so many things wrong with that question, starting with the idea that he was domana. What he was, though, wasn’t the heart of the issue. “Even if the Stone Clan offered me sponsorship, I probably wouldn’t accept.”

  “Why not?” Barley had given up everything for the dream of sponsorship. Obviously he couldn’t conceive of refusing. It felt so selfish to deny the kids. If there were only one or two of them, it would be a simple balancing act, but with five of them and Thorne to consider . . .

  He knew, though, he couldn’t sacrifice his heart and not become bitter at them. “I was raised in Pittsburgh, surrounded by Wind Clan,” he said gently as he could. “I saw myself as part of the Wind Clan before my cousin became Wolf Who Rules’ domi. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to change clans any more than you want to.”

  “But we’re still a household.” Merry reached out a hand to him, imploring him to say “yes” with her eyes.

  “Yes.” He gripped her hand tight. “We’re a household. We have money to make this place livable. And we will be able to scrape enough money together, eventually, to furnish it as an enclave. Let’s just focus on today.”

  * * *

  Merry had picked the bedroom beside his, so he decided that they would do hers next. They painted the walls the cheery yellow called Pure Joy, the ceiling a very pale yellow called Lemon Ice, and the trim a crisp white. Cattail insisted on painting Merry’s bed the crisp white and draped one of the fresh painter’s cloths above it. The voluminous canopy made the room seem a little less empty.

  “Window dresses. Paintings here.” Cattail Reeds motioned to the long blank wall opposite the windows, then pointed at the hardwood floors. “And put down some sort of rug, it will look even better.”

  Oilcan nodded, making note to add the items to his growing list of things they needed. The other kids only had mattresses donated by the hospice. None had lamps or bulbs for the overhead light fixtures and had been relying on elf shines. Still, the room was a hundred times better with its bright and cheery color than it had been with its pockmarked grimy white.

  * * *

  After their six bedrooms, they painted the four spare classrooms on the “family” level, the hallway, and the restrooms. It surprised him that Cattail Reeds and Barley settled on Merry’s color scheme for the “family” level. With the clean windows, it made the entire third floor a happy place.

  In just a day, the children had become seasoned painters. They set up the ladders, opened up buckets, stirred the paint, and laid out drop cloths without him having to give direction. Cattail taped, deciding what would be painted which color. Barley cut in high, carefully balancing on the ladders. Rustle cut in low, using his one good hand. He had only lost one paintbrush and his left shoe. Merry and Baby Duck rolled. And they talked and talked.

  Cattail Reeds’ household made clothes for all the domana that attended Winter Court. “Oh, the clothes are so beautiful that they bring tears to your eyes.” Cattail sighed as she ran blue painter’s tape along the wainscoting. “But the dresses are all basically the same. Show the charms.” She cupped her breasts. “Nip the waist. Train, train, train.” She motioned as if to an invisible train of fabric behind her. “But then the slickies started to come from Pittsburgh.” She used the English word for the high-end digital magazines. “Vogue. Elle. Such colors! Such beautiful fabric! So wearable!” With the magazines came rumors that the Wind Clan artists that had made their way to Pittsburgh were selling their crafts to humans. “Earth Son’s offer of sponsorship seemed like the perfect opportunity. I could open a boutique that caterered to humans that wanted a hybrid of fashion. Elf high couture meets human common sense.”

  “We can still do it,” Merry said.

  Cattail Reeds nodded. “I intend to once we’re settled and have more people.”

  Barley looked slightly worried until Oilcan said, “Most human enclaves—we call them hotels—have boutiques.”

  Barley talked about the remote enclave where he grew up. “It’s perched on this mountain alongside the silk road. We’re high up where no trees grow, so the land is all wind-swept bare. On clear days you can see far, far away far in the distance, to the next enclave. There’s a female there that is seven hundred and twelve years old; she’s the only person under a thousand years old for a hundred miles, and she’s already in love.”

  “There was no one our age in my village, either,” Rustle said. “It was nice going to Summer Court to study, and meeting Merry.”

  Merry blushed.

  Fields of Barley continued from his high perch. “I liked working at the enclave, but no one would ever listen to me. My mother was the youngest before I was born; my father was a weaver that passed through once a year until he’d been killed in a landslide. My household taught me how to cook, but I could never choose what we would make. We would order a new set of dishes every fifty years, retiring the old dishes which were now chipped and worn. It showed how well-to-do we were to our returning clients to have an obviously new pattern. The salesman would bring books with the china patterns and everyone would sit and marvel over them. There was this one pattern that I loved. It was elegant in its simplicity; nothing about the dish called attention away from the food being served. Our sama, though, believed that the dish itself should be stunning, so when it sat empty after the meal and the bill came, the customer felt that the tab was justified. I realized as I sat looking at the patterns that we would never, never pick one that I wanted, not that day or in all the years to come. I would never be able to decide what to cook or choose how we would serve it. The only way I’d have a say in anything would be if I started a new enclave.”

  After years of trying to find a means to follow his dream, Barley had heard of Earth Son’s offer and immediately set out for the coast. “And that went so well.”

  Baby Duck quacked nervously. She had little to offer as to why she’d traveled to Pittsburgh; her life prior to the whelping pen was still a complete mystery to her. “I remember we had big barns with kittens and chicks. I remember the smell of hay, like the barn was one big nest, and how safe it made me feel.”

  Oilcan mentally added hay to the list of things to track down. There were farms in the south hills, source of most of the locally grown produce. They were going to need a shelter for the indi and would have to find enough food to get the animals through the winter.

  * * *

  They were finishing the last classroom when Baby Duck suddenly pointed out the large window to the faire grounds and cried, “Gossamer!”

  They paused to watch the great living airship glide in from the east. The sunlight gleamed thru the massive translucent body, rendering it into a moving cloud of cut diamonds.

  “It’s one of the Stone Clan’s,” Thorne Scratch murmured as they watched ropes being thrown down to the ground crew to be tied off at the anchors.

  The gossamer itself looked no different than those that Windwolf owned, but the teak gondola slung under the creature was painted black with accents of gold.

  “You’ll need to go out and meet it,” Thorne said.

  “Me?”

  “You’re the senior Stone Clan domana in Westernlands.”

  “How do I outrank Forest Moss when I’m human?”

  “He does not have a household. Also, currently he’s not lucid.”

  “Fine.” He put down the paintbrush he’d been using and started out of the room.

  “Do you really want to meet them dressed that way?” Thorne asked.

  Oilcan glanced down at his painting clothes. His old blue jeans and black T-shirt were splattered with years of paint. “I look mor
e human this way.”

  Thorne made a little noise of agreement with that and followed him down the stairs.

  Who had the Stone Clan sent and how would they change things in Pittsburgh? They couldn’t take the children from him, but they certainly could offer them a more secure household. They couldn’t take Thorne Scratch from him, but they could offer her a true beholding.

  It hurt to think of losing them. He knew he could fall back to how his life had been before he met Merry, but that life seemed achingly empty. He had grown to love this new pattern of his life.

  He reached out and took Thorne’s left hand. She looked down in surprise at their fingers intertwined.

  “It’s something humans do,” he said.

  She smiled slightly and tightened her hold on his hand. Together they strolled across the wide meadows toward the incoming Stone Clan domana who could steal all his newfound happiness away.

  * * *

  The first of the newcomers was landing from the gondola via a steel-caged elevator as Oilcan and Thorne strolled up to the anchors. Laedin warriors in black were securing the area. They gave Oilcan and Thorne surprised looks but moved off to establish a perimeter.

  The elevator climbed back to the gondola and then glided downwards again, this time loaded with sekasha. Thorne slipped her hand free. Oilcan expected Thorne to start a conversation with the newly arrived sekasha, but apparently that wasn’t how it was handled. After one surprised glance to Oilcan, one of the males shifted forward and squared off against Thorne Scratch, locking into a silent stare-down. Thorne Scratch had her warrior’s mask on and looked wildly beautiful, stone cold and deadly.

  A minute later, the elevator returned again, this time bearing a male domana. For an elf, he was plainly dressed. He wore slouch boots, doeskin pants, and a white silk shirt that showed off the fact he was strongly built through the shoulders and chest. All the hair in his braid was dark brown, and the only lines on his face were laugh lines at the edges of his dark eyes, but there was something vaguely grandfatherly about him.

  Oilcan knew enough about elf customs that he should introduce himself first. “Welcome to Pittsburgh. I’m Oilcan Wright. Lacking any other candidates, Prince True Flame has deemed me head of the Stone Clan, because I’m a descendent of Unbounded Brilliance of Stone.”

  The male stared at him with hurt and dismay on his face. His gaze dropped, taking in Oilcan’s clothes and paint-speckled hands.

  “Forgiveness, I was painting.” Oilcan held out his hands as evidence.

  The male breathed out a laugh like it been kicked out of him. “You could always tell what room she was working in by what colors were on her hands.” He reached out and rubbed at Oilcan’s face, scrubbing at a splotch of paint. “You have her eyes and her smile.”

  “Forgiveness—I—I don’t understand.”

  “You have your grandmother’s eyes.” And the male wrapped him tight in a hug. “My child, I have prayed for this day.”

  And then the whole grandfatherly feel became clear. The male was a weirdly younger, elfin ghost of his grandfather, Tim Bell. “You’re Forge of Stone?”

  Forge smiled. “I’ve come to take you home.”

  35: FOREST MOSS

  Tinker had heard that Forest Moss was not lucid, so she expected finding him would be fairly simple. A quick check with the hospice—where she expected to find him drugged—and Ginger Wine’s—where she was hoping to find him locked up—both turned up empty.

  The elves were letting a mad howitzer roam Pittsburgh unchecked? A quick scry showed that Forest Moss wasn’t even in Oakland.

  In the end, she called Riki. “Do you have any idea where I can find Forest Moss?”

  “He’s at Kaufmann’s.”

  * * *

  Kaufmann’s been built in the heart of Pittsburgh back in the 1800s. Clad in limestone, decorated with carved stone arches, cherubs, and lion heads, it stood like a fortress, resisting time and space. The elevators boasted bronze doors with art deco designs. The ancient escalators on the upper floors were clad in wood. The only department store that survived relocation to Elfhome, it was normally overstocked with all that humans might want to stay well-heeled while isolated on another planet. Two months being stranded without restocking from Earth, and even Kaufmann’s was starting to look picked over.

  There was something slightly incongruent about riding up the wooden escalators with her Hand in armor and carrying swords and bows. . . .

  It all became very surreal when they found Forest Moss.

  The crazed elf was in the children’s department. There were no humans on the floor—both customers and salesclerks had abandoned it to the elf. The air was oddly hazed, as if a sudden dust storm had erupted in the department. Forest Moss sat in the back corner at a tiny tea table, not exactly alone. All of the pint-sized mannequins were gathered tightly around the table, clothed and naked, brightly smiling and headless, hands and amputated arms all outstretched to the elf in silent welcome. Someone had supplied Forest Moss with a china toy tea set, a plate of the bakery’s fancy cookies, and real tea for the teapot. He had shared out the cookies and tea and was now imploring the children to eat. All the while, a fine dust snowed down on the mannequins, the table, and the white-haired, one-eyed elf.

  “Try the yellow ones,” he murmured to the mannequin standing beside him. It was a little brunette eight-year-old-girl in a white tank top and blue flowered pants. He put his arm about it and pulled the doll close, rubbing his empty eye socket along the mannequin’s pale cheek. “They are sweet perfection like you.”

  Somehow, Tinker doubted that questioning the insane elf was going to useful, but she had to try. “Forest Moss?”

  The male’s good eye flicked to Tinker even as he continued rubbing his wound over the curves of the mannequin’s face. “Hmm, Wolf’s child bride, so young and waif-like. What could she want with one such as me?”

  “I want to talk to you about the children,” Tinker said.

  “My beautiful, lovely children are all so happy and carefree.” His hands slipped under the tank top to caress the flawless plastic skin underneath.

  Tinker controlled the urge to rip the mannequin out of the elf’s hold. He was better off playing with the dolls than pinning down real children. She tried to ignore the way that the fabric of the tank top stretched tight, molding to Forest Moss’ large hand as it traveled over the small, anatomically correct body.

  “Do you know that Earth Son told people that he would sponsor them if they came to Pittsburgh?”

  “Earth Son? Now, there was a disappointing child.” Forest Moss frowned and glanced at one of the boy mannequins standing to his right. “Whine. Whine. Whine. I told you to shut up, you spoiled little coward!”

  Forest Moss flicked his free hand up to his mouth, set up a resonance, and gave a quick closed-fist gesture. Pony snatched Tinker up and whirled her about, putting himself between her and Forest Moss. She didn’t see the boy mannequin explode, but fingers and toes and part of an ear tumbled by as white dust woofed out around Pony’s shields. Only then did she notice that the floor was already littered with plastic body parts and tattered clothes. The explanation for the haze became evident.

  If Forest Moss had been just pretending to be crazy before, he wasn’t acting any longer.

  Pony cautiously put Tinker down but stayed between her and Forest Moss.

  Forest Moss pulled the girl mannequin close and nuzzled into its neck, keening slightly. “All this is his fault.”

  “Earth Son’s?”

  Forest Moss keened more, his caressing hand making its way into the tight flowered pants. Judging by the gender ratio of his plastic audience, Forest Moss had a beef with little boys. “What a spoiled child he was! He could swallow the moon and still be hungry for the sun. He could not be happy with the prosperity of peace; he clung to the grudges of the past. It did not matter that his lovelies, the ones that loved to fight the best, begged him to give up such pettiness. Endless war would take u
s to extinction. It was time to put away old hates.”

  Tinker wasn’t sure if Forest Moss’ rant had anything to do with Earth Son and the children. She’d been under the impression that Earth Son wasn’t that much older than Windwolf.

  “Shut up!” Forest Moss suddenly bellowed at one of the few remaining boy mannequins. “Shut up! Yes, they chose the Fire Clan over us! Whining spoiled . . .”

  And he snapped out the closed-fist spell, reducing the silent mannequin to dust, and started to keen again. Tinker found herself teleported back a dozen feet more, both Stormsong and Pony between her and the crazed elf.

  Was Forest Moss destroying himself again and again, the one that made the mistake that led to the slaughter of his household?

  “Did you know—did he know that the pathway led to Onihida?”

  “He should have been more cautious!” Forest Moss howled. “They trusted him to be careful! Some near stranger comes to him and whispers of a chance to beat all the other clans to wealth, and he leaps at the chance without wondering why him.”

  “Someone else told you about the path to Onihida?”

  “Oh, how hard he searched for their deaths. In and out of caves, over mountains, round and round, searching for the way to oblivion.”

  “Who told him about the path?” Tinker pressed.

  “You cannot find what you cannot see,” Forest Moss whispered. “That’s all domana are good for on Earth—to see the way home.”

  Tinker nudged Stormsong aside and caught Forest Moss’ face between her hands and made him look at her with his one good eye. “Tell me who wanted the pathway found!”

  Forest Moss whimpered softly and let drop the mannequin. As it clattered on the ground, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her.

  “Wait,” Tinker growled as Pony and Stormsong grabbed hold of the male, trying to pry him away from her. “Let me deal with him.”

  While Pony watched with concern, Stormsong had murderous hate in her eyes.