His sister-in-law blew out a breath in exasperation.
“The human. Jane. Hugh wouldn’t tell me anything other than she has green eyes and shortish brown hair. You spent some time with her in the forest. What’s she like?”
To tell the truth, he didn’t want to think of Jane. Sure, after his nap, he’d tried unsuccessfully to hunt down Eagar to complain about her treatment. Past that, he didn’t want to dwell on her bellefern-green eyes or her talent for irritating him. No, it seemed safer to wonder why the expected shipment of Randolph’s wool hadn’t been received.
He looked across at Mara. From her expression, she had dug in and wasn’t about to be removed without hearing more.
“She talks a lot,” he said. “She’s very . . .” He searched for the right word. “Impulsive.”
“Impulsive? How?”
Charlie shrugged. He’d be damned if he’d confess his partial nudity and the subsequent conversations regarding it. He didn’t know what had possessed him to take off his shirt in the first place. Growing up in a family of elves—a whole town of them, in fact—made him self-conscious about his fairy wings. They, along with his light coloring, distinguished him from everyone he knew. He hated being different.
“She jumps to conclusions. She doesn’t listen to anything I say. Her predicament is a joke to her, and she doesn’t like Eagar.” He didn’t know why he’d added that last part.
Mara pursed her lips. “I can see where he might frighten someone who doesn’t know him. Do you think she killed Tivat?”
Charlie sighed. “Mara, you know I can’t talk about that.”
She poked him in the arm so hard it caused a red mark. “Charlie Whelphite, since when did that stop you?”
“Murder is a lot different from how many hides you can trade for an acre of wheat.” For some reason, he didn’t like people speculating on Jane’s guilt. Likely it was the main source of conversation in Malin Village and the castle tonight.
Mara nodded. “Yes, yes, it is. Poor thing, so far from home and accused of murder on top of it all.”
Charlie chastised himself. The least he could have done was visit Jane and reassure her. He knew where Eagar kept the key. He could have moved down his own cot and arranged for a meal. Instead, he’d left the responsibility to others.
“I’m going back,” he announced, surprising himself.
Mara looked shocked. “What? Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight.” Charlie rose and kissed her cheek. “I should check on her. Don’t wait up for me.”
She removed her apron. “I’m going with you.”
He loved his sister-in-law, but didn’t want her involved in the trial, in what might be an ugly situation. To deter her, he said, “It will be full dark soon.” Full dark to Mara meant goblins and sandobbles, two races not often seen in Malin, but a threat in her mind nonetheless.
She hesitated, then after a moment shook her head. “She’ll need a friend. Goodness, she’ll be tired of looking at your gloomy face all the time.” She bustled about the kitchen, putting food into a basket. “When’s the last time she ate? She must be starving. And what about clean clothes and a place to wash? Honestly, you men never think of these things. . . .”
Charlie, accepting his defeat, sighed and turned away. “I’ll get the pony and wagon. It will save time.”
Despite Jane’s wishes, the opening in the storeroom wall was not another portal. It closed behind them, leaving her and Muttle in a very narrow hallway. No doors opened from it; no adornments hung inside. The walls looked unfinished. Rough boards were nailed in at angles; dust, the accumulation of centuries, lay thick on the floor. Cobwebs hung in profusion. Afraid of their burning, Jane took the torch from her companion.
“Where are we?” she asked, pushing aside a particularly thick swath of webs. How many times had she seen this played out in horror movies? The innocent visitor lost in the catacombs of the sinister castle, led to the villain by an accomplice? And they never suspected a thing.
Beats the alternative of Eagar, she thought.
“In the walls, Jane of the dryads,” came the reply from her tattered little rescuer. “We be there soon.”
Soon? Such as the all-night “soon” through the forest? She hoped not. Whoever “him” was, he’d better be worth a dark and scary journey. She still ached from the last one.
The longer they walked and the more staircases they climbed, the more certain biological needs made themselves known. Her stomach empty and her bladder full, Jane decided one or the other had better be attended to before she met the esteemed “him” and made a fool of herself.
“Muttle.” She stopped on a landing, clutching her side where a stitch added to her miseries.
Whirling blue-green-yellow eyes regarded her with concern. “Jane of the dryads? Pain do ye have?”
For once she thanked his mind-reading abilities. As clearly as possible, she thought about her discomfort.
Muttle jumped back a step. “Why did ye not say?” he asked, irritation in his voice. “Daft mortal.” He looked around their route. The yellow in his eyes increased.
“Come,” he said after a moment. Taking her hand, he led her up another flight and halfway down the next corridor.
“Here.” He pointed to a spot on the wall, indistinguishable from any other. “Open here.”
Jane handed the torch to the creature and placed her fingers against the rough surface of the wall. “How?” she asked. “It’s not as if I do this every day.” The first time still overwhelmed her. She never expected to perform magic, let alone create openings through solid stone. Had she done it, or had the castle responded to her in some way?
“Put ye fingers in and pull,” Muttle said, impatient.
Feeling like a participant on Candid Camera, Jane curled her fingers and pushed against the wall.
Immediately, her hands sank into the stone.
She felt each individual granule, rough against her flesh, ensnaring it. She felt, also, the thoughts of the workman, long dead, who had set this exact piece in place centuries earlier. She smelled his sweat, tasted it against her lips. Nenius was his name, thirty-two and already dying of kidney failure. Panic gripped her. Trap! she thought. With a cry, she jerked back, freeing herself.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.” She shook her hands with fervor, trying to rid herself of all the emotions she’d experienced. Bile rose from her empty stomach. Her heart hammered into high gear. Sweat broke out on her brow.
“What kind of freaking world do you run here?” She spun around on the tiny landing, desperate to find a way out. No portals presented themselves. Nothing but cobwebs, dust, half-rotted timber and darkness surrounded her.
She wanted to scream. Who had signed her commitment papers to this Cracker Jack sanatorium? All she wanted to do was make a few extra dollars at a second job. Instead, she had to deal with elves that changed into woodland creatures, mind-reading creatures with rainbow-colored eyes, and now this: feelings reaching across millennia. It felt creepy, like being trapped in a pit full of beetles crawling on her flesh.
“Jane of the dryads?” Muttle asked, orange and red now twirling with the yellow in his eyes. The blue and green had disappeared.
Jane gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Why is this happening?” Why hadn’t she felt it the first time? “What are you people doing to me?” Clasping her hands tightly to her chest, she fought for control.
“Sit ye down,” Muttle said, pushing on her thigh.
She slid down the wall in an ungraceful heap. Fleetingly, she thought of the incongruity of taking orders from someone half her size.
“Look at I,” Muttle ordered. Without thought, she obeyed.
For the first time, she was at the same level as the Belwaith. Up close, he looked more fragile, his bones delicate and fine. Concern showed on his face.
“Think not of the others,” he counseled. “Ye must act quick to not feel. Power comes two-edged.”
With great power comes great r
esponsibility. Spider-Man? Why would she think of Spidey now?
“What do you mean, power?” she asked, wiping away tears.
“He explains.”
Ah, he. That helped. Must be related to “him.”
“Okaaay.” Jane took a shuddering breath. For several moments she sat still, calming herself. She thought of Charlie, wishing he was with her, knowing he wouldn’t panic. He’d find some placid, rational way to deal with the situation.
Taking comfort from the thought, she rose slowly, brushing the dust off her slacks. It was the same pair of slacks she’d worn for two days now, she reflected. A pair in serious danger of being wet if she didn’t get to a bathroom soon.
“Okaaay,” she said again, steeling herself for what she had to do. She gave Muttle the thumbs-up sign. With thoughts of Charlie to give her strength, she plunged her hands into the wall and ripped it apart.
They emerged into another corridor with banners, tapestries and sconces on the walls. Light filtered in from a window at one end. Evening, Jane observed. She’d lost all track of night and day in her imprisonment. She glanced at her watch. Seven-ten. Her stomach growled in response.
“Where to?” she asked, anxious to move again. The journey through the wall had been brief, the impressions of Nenius and his life fleeting. No doubt they’d revisit her dreams tonight.
“This way.” Muttle moved to the left. They walked to the end of the hallway. With a wave of a delicate, fourfingered hand he gestured to a small room on the outside wall.
Jane cocked an eyebrow and handed the Belwaith the unneeded torch. The door opened with a light touch.
It was a bathroom, of sorts. A stone bench lay across one end, its edges smoothed by countless human—elven—bottoms over the years. A hole carved in its middle all too clearly proclaimed its purpose. Jane took a step closer and noticed another hole the size of a half-dollar in the wall above it. A cork, attached to a chain, was jammed into it. Curious, Jane pulled on it. A stream of water gushed out and flowed down the larger hole, presumably to an elven septic tank far below.
“It flushes,” she exclaimed, delighted at the ingenuity of the device. She replaced the cork.
After taking advantage of the gadget, she washed her hands in a sink, similarly contrived, next to the elven toilet. A bar of sweet-smelling soap helped Jane feel better. She wished she could jump into a shower and wash away all the grime and the smell of smoke that permeated her clothes, skin and hair.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask for a magic mirror?” she wondered. She leaned against the basin and stared at the stones behind it where one would traditionally hang a mirror. “Ah, well, all in good time.”
She dried her hands on a convenient length of cotton and stepped out to greet Muttle.
“Humph,” he observed, his eyes back to their normal blue-green color. “Better, are ye?”
“Nothing tactful about you, is there?” She wanted to pick him up and hug him. Now, if she only had some food.
They set off down the corridor again.
“How do they get water up this high?” Jane asked, curious. “We must be near the top of the castle.”
Muttle raised two bony shoulders in a shrug.
“Wind.” He made a circular motion with one hand. “Raises water from river below.”
“A windmill?” Yes, that made sense. A pulley and ropes or chains, and buckets to lift the water into a reservoir. “There’s a river below the castle?”
Muttle punched the air. “Through.”
More ingenuity, to build a castle over a permanent water supply. She couldn’t wait until she could explore. She might not be able to return to Earth right away, but no one could imprison her until then. She hoped.
“Cool.” She looked around. They’d come to a more luxurious part of the castle, furnished in dark hardwoods. Intricate designs of colored stones patterned the floor.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, the question common since her arrival.
“We be here.” Muttle stopped in front of a massive door.
“What is it?” Jane knelt in front of the Belwaith. “Muttle?” His eyes spun yellow—a sign of agitation, she was beginning to recognize.
“Him.” He hesitated.
She waited patiently. “Yes?” She watched the struggle in the creature and realized that loyalty prevented him from voicing his usual direct opinion. “There’s something wrong with ‘him’?”
He looked at her with sad eyes.
Jane understood. Whoever “him” was, he needed to be treated with delicacy.
“Okay,” she reassured Muttle. “I won’t say anything or do anything to embarrass you. Pinky swear.” She linked her pinky with the Belwaith’s. At least she assumed it was his pinky. It was hard to tell when he had only four digits.
Muttle looked relieved. He swung away and rotated a small doorknob near the bottom of the door. It opened easily.
They entered a dark room. It took several moments for Jane’s eyes to adjust. Heavy brocade draperies covered windows large enough to drive a bus through. A huge bed stood against one wall, shrouded by a dark canopy. Books were piled on several tables, the floor and numerous chairs. A fire burned in the fireplace. Women’s dresses hung in the maw of an open wardrobe.
Wait. Back up. Women’s dresses? Muttle didn’t say anything about a “her.”
“Welcome, my dear.” The voice, very Vincent Price-ish, came from everywhere and nowhere.
Jane whirled, looking for its source.
“This way.”
“This way? Which way?” She turned again. From the corner of her eye she saw movement.
Someone slumped in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Jane drew closer and recognized the form of a man. Him. He was old, bordering on ancient, with pure white hair that was long, thin, and wispy. Skin like parchment covered bones as delicate as Muttle’s and folded onto itself in wrinkles, giving the old man the appearance of an albino shar-pei. Two onyx eyes gazed at her.
He was roly without being poly, a Weeble of a man she guessed to be taller than her own five-six. She counted six rings of various carats and gems on his fingers. His feet were encased in dark gray slippers, the kind old men wear. The rest of him was covered neck to ankle in a woman’s dress.
Holy transvestite, Batman! Jane blinked hard. He still appeared before her in a green velvet dress, long-sleeved and ankle-length, with white lace at the neck and cuffs.
“Hello. Sir.” She remembered her promise to Muttle and added the formality.
“Jane Drysdale.” His voice shook. He motioned in the direction of the Belwaith. “Muttle, bring our young friend something on which to sit.”
Envisioning the struggle the creature would have to move one of the big wing chairs, Jane grabbed the nearest one. She scooted it across from her host and sat down.
At eye level, she could see how much frailer he appeared than she’d first thought. A tremor continually shook his clasped hands as they rested on his little potbelly. His head tilted to one side, a look of permanence to the angle.
A trace of power clung to him. She could see it in the alertness of his dark eyes, the proud set of his mouth and the way he held himself, despite his attire and infirmities. Thirty or forty years earlier he must have been a man with whom to reckon. She wondered what would happen if she touched him. Would his memories flow to her the way Nenius’s had?
“So, my dear, how is your stay with us?” he asked.
Peachy keen. That Eagar, he’s quite the host. Jane erased the thought. “I haven’t seen much of the castle. It appears to be magnificent.” Once upon a time.
“Yes.” He sighed. “Poor Sylthia. She has suffered lately. In my youth, she shone. People came from all over to be within her walls. The fairs we had, the tournaments . . .”
He drifted off. Jane wondered if he’d abandoned her for some internal, more comfortable world.
After a few minutes, he shook himself and looked at her, alert again. “My grandmother’s name wa
s Jane,” he said.
“So was mine.” She’d always hated her name, so old-fashioned. “Plain Jane” Drysdale. Her three brothers and her sister, Sheila Perfect, had teased her without mercy. However, they’d been her staunchest supporters if anyone else plagued her. She wondered when she’d see them again.
“So long ago,” her host mused. “Would you like something to eat, my dear? Muttle tells me you’re hungry.”
“Yes, I—Muttle told you?” Possibilities whirled through her mind. How had they communicated? Could this man read minds as well? Had he heard every thought she’d had since entering?
“Sir? Do you and Muttle share thoughts?”
He chuckled, a dry sound, like leaves rustling in November. “Am I telepathic? I’m much better at receiving than transmitting. His thoughts are easy to read.”
Jane twisted to see the Belwaith. She almost fell from her chair when she saw two Belwaiths. Another—a female, by the red bow in her hair—sat next to Muttle on a miniature love seat. They chittered together in a foreign, vowel-filled language.
“You haven’t met Calme yet, have you? Let me introduce you.” He squeaked out a command in their language. The two Belwaiths slid to their feet in unison and presented themselves.
“Jane, this is Calme, lifemate of Muttle. She looks after me most efficiently. Calme, this is the Lady Jane. You are to give her everything she needs.”
Calme bowed her head. A duplicate of Muttle in appearance, dressed in the same brown tatters, only the red ribbon in her hair distinguished her from her mate.
Jane smiled. “I’m happy to meet you, Calme. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d love something to eat.”
“Fruit. Get her fruit,” her host suggested. “Harvalins and tiances. See if there are any more maneuse seeds.”
Calme scuttled off to fill the order, Muttle behind her.
“They’re inseparable when they’re together,” the old man observed. “I shudder to think what would happen if one—”
What Do You Say to a Naked Elf? Page 4
