by Terry Brooks
Shea listened in silence to Flick’s muddled rationalization of the possibilities, offering only an occasional nod of acquiescence, his own thoughts concentrated on deciding what he should do next. He had serious doubts about the credibility of Allanon’s tale. After all, what purpose did the historian have in coming to him in the first place? He had appeared conveniently, it seemed, to tell Shea about his strange background, and to warn him that he was in danger, then had disappeared without a word about his own interest in this business. How could Shea be sure that Allanon had not come on some hidden purpose of his own, hoping to use the Valeman as his cat’s-paw? There were too many questions that he didn’t have the answers to.
Eventually, Flick grew tired of offering advice to the silent Shea and finally ceased to speak of the matter, slumping down in his chair and gazing resignedly into the crackling fire. Shea continued to ponder the details of Allanon’s story, trying to decide what he should do now. But after an hour of quiet deliberation, he threw up his hands in disgust, feeling as confused as before. Stalking out of the lounge, he headed for his own room, the faithful Flick close behind. Neither felt inclined to discuss it further. Upon reaching their small bedroom in the east wing, Shea dropped into a chair in moody silence. Flick collapsed heavily on the bed and stared disinterestedly at the ceiling.
The twin candles on the small bedside table cast a dim glow over the large room, and Flick soon found himself on the verge of drifting off to sleep. He hastily jerked awake and, stretching his hands above his head, encountered a long piece of folded paper which had partially slipped down between the mattress and headboard. Curiously, he brought it around in front of his eyes and saw that it was addressed to Shea.
“What’s this?” he muttered and tossed it across to his prostrate brother.
Shea ripped open the sealed paper and hurriedly scanned it. He had scarcely begun before he let out a low whistle and leaped to his feet. Flick sat up quickly, realizing who must have left the note.
“It’s from Allanon,” Shea confirmed his brother’s suspicion. “Listen to this, Flick:
I have no time to find you and explain matters further. Something of the greatest importance has occurred, and I must leave immediately—perhaps even now I am too late. You must trust me and believe what I told you, even though I will not be able to return to the valley.
You will not long be safe in Shady Vale, and you must be prepared to flee quickly. Should your safety be threatened, you will find shelter at Culhaven in the forests of the Anar. I will send a friend to guide you. Place your trust in Balinor.
Speak with no one of our meeting. The danger to you is extreme. In the pocket of your maroon travel cloak, I have placed a small pouch which contains three Elfstones. They will provide you with guidance and protection when nothing else can. Be cautioned—they are for Shea alone and to be used only when all else fails.
The sign of the Skull will be your warning to flee. May luck be with you, my young friend, until we meet again.
Shea looked excitedly at his brother, but the suspicious Flick shook his head in disbelief and frowned deeply.
“I don’t trust him. Whatever is he talking about anyway—Skulls and Elfstones? I never even heard of a place called Culhaven, and the Anar forests are miles from here—days and days. I don’t like it.”
“The stones!” Shea exclaimed, and leaped for the traveling cloak which hung in the long corner closet. He rummaged through his clothes for several minutes while Flick watched anxiously, then carefully stepped back with a small leather pouch balanced gently in his right hand. He held it up and tested its weight, displaying it to his brother, and then hurried back to the bed and sat down. A moment later he had the drawstrings open and was emptying the contents of the pouch into his open palm. Three dark blue stones tumbled out, each the size of an average pebble, finely cut and glowing brightly in the faint candlelight. The brothers peered curiously at the stones, half expecting that they would immediately do something wondrous. But nothing happened. They lay motionless in Shea’s palm, shimmering like small blue stars snatched from the night, so clear that it was almost possible to see through them, as if they were merely tinted glass. Finally, after Flick had summoned enough courage to touch one, Shea dropped them back into the pouch and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.
“Well, he was right about the stones,” ventured Shea a moment later.
“Maybe yes, maybe no—maybe they’re not Elfstones,” suggested Flick suspiciously. “How do you know—ever see one? What about the rest of the letter? I never heard of anyone named Balinor and I never heard of Culhaven. We ought to forget the whole business—especially that we ever saw Allanon.”
Shea nodded doubtfully, unable to answer his brother’s questions.
“Why should we worry now? All we have to do is to keep our eyes open for the sign of the Skull, whatever that may be, or for Allanon’s friend to appear. Maybe nothing will happen after all.”
Flick continued to voice his distrust of the letter and its author for several minutes more before losing interest. Both brothers were weary and decided to call it a night. As the candies were extinguished, Shea’s last act was to place the pouch carefully beneath his pillow where he could feel its small bulk pressing against the side of his face. No matter what Flick might think, he had resolved to keep the stones close at hand in the days ahead.
The next day, it began to rain. Huge, towering black clouds rolled in from the north quite suddenly and settled over the entire valley, blotting out all traces of sun and sky as they released torrents of shattering rain which swept through the tiny hamlet with unbelievable ferocity. All work in the fields came to an abrupt halt and travel to and from the valley ceased entirely—first for one, then two, and finally three complete days. The downpour was a tremendous spectacle of blinding streaks of lightning lacing the darkly clouded sky and deeply rolling thunder breaking over the valley with earthshaking blasts that followed one after the other and died into slower, more ominous distant rumblings from somewhere beyond the blackness to the north. For the entire three days it rained, and the Vale people began to grow fearful that flash floods from the hills all about them would wash down with devastating effect on their small homes and unprotected fields. The men gathered daily in the Ohmsford inn and chatted worriedly over their mugs of beer, casting apprehensive glances at the sheets of rain falling steadily beyond the dripping windows. The Ohmsford brothers watched in silence, listening to the conversation and scanning the worried faces of the anxious Valemen huddled together in small groups about the crowded lounge. At first they held out hope that the storm would pass over, but after three days there was still little sign of clearing in the weather.
Near midday on the fourth day, the rain lessened from a steady downpour to a muggy drizzle mixed with heavy fog and a sticky, humid heat that left everyone thoroughly disgruntled and uncomfortable. The crowd at the inn began to thin out as the men left to return to their jobs, and soon Shea and Flick were occupied with repairs and general cleaning chores. The storm had smashed shutters and torn the wooden shingles from the roof, scattering them all about the surrounding premises. Large leaks had developed in the roof and walls of the inn wings, and the small tool shed in the rear of the Ohmsford property had been all but flattened by a falling elm, uprooted by the force of the storm. The young men spent several days patching up leaks, repairing the roof, and replacing lost or broken shingles and shutters. It was tedious work, and time dragged by slowly.
After ten days, the rains ceased altogether, the huge clouds rolled on, and the dark sky cleared and brightened into a friendly light blue streaked with trailing white clouds. The expected floods did not come, and as the Valemen returned to their fields, the warm sun reappeared and the land of the valley began to dry from soggy mud to solid earth, spattered here and there by small puddles of murky water that sat defiantly upon an always thirsty land. Eventually even the puddles disappeared and the valley was as it had been—the fury of the passing stor
m only a dim memory.
Shea and Flick, in the process of rebuilding the smashed tool shed, their other repair work on the inn complete, heard snatches of conversation from Valemen and inn guests about the heavy rain. No one could ever remember a storm of such ferocity at that particular time of the year in the Vale. It was equivalent to a winter windstorm, the kind that caught unsuspecting travelers in the great mountains to the north and swept them from the passes and the cliff trails, never to be seen again. Its sudden appearance caused everyone in the hamlet to pause and reflect once again on the continuing rumors of strange happenings far to the North.
The brothers paid close attention to such talks, but they learned nothing of interest. Often they spoke quietly together about Allanon and the strange tale he had told them of Shea’s heritage. A pragmatic Flick had long since dismissed the whole business as either foolishness or a bad joke. Shea listened tolerantly, though he was less willing than his brother to shrug the matter off. Yet while he was unwilling to dismiss the tale, he was at the same time unable to accept it. He felt there was too much still hidden from him, too much about Allanon that neither Flick nor he knew. Until he had all the facts, he was content to let the matter lie. He kept the pouch containing the Elfstones close to him at all times. While Flick mumbled on, usually several times a day, about his foolishness in carrying the stones and believing that anything Allanon had told them was true, Shea carefully watched all strangers passing through the Vale, eagerly perusing their belongings for any sign of a Skull marking. But as time passed, he observed nothing and eventually felt obliged to scratch the whole matter off as an experience in the fine art of gullibility.
Nothing occurred to change Shea’s mind on the matter until one afternoon more than three weeks after Allanon’s abrupt departure. The brothers had been out all day cutting shingles for the inn roof, and it was almost evening by the time they returned. Their father was sitting in his favorite seat at the long kitchen counter when they entered, his broad face bent over a steaming plate of food. He greeted his sons with a wave of his hand.
“A letter came for you while you were gone, Shea,” he informed them, holding out a long, white folded sheet of paper. “It’s marked Leah.”
Shea let out an exclamation of surprise and reached eagerly for the letter. Flick groaned audibly.
“I knew it, I knew it; it was too good to be true,” he muttered. “The biggest wastrel in the entire Southland has decided it’s time we suffered some more. Tear up the letter, Shea.”
But Shea had already opened the sealed sheet of paper and was scanning its contents, totally disregarding Flick’s comments. The latter shrugged in disgust and collapsed on a stool next to his father, who had returned to his evening meal.
“He wants to know where we’ve been hiding,” laughed Shea. “He wants us to come see him as soon as we can.”
“Oh, sure,” muttered Flick. “He’s probably in trouble and needs someone to blame it on. Why don’t we just jump off the nearest cliff? You remember what happened the last time Menion Leah invited us to visit? We were lost in the Black Oaks for days and nearly devoured by wolves! I’ll never forget that little adventure. The Shades will get me before I accept another invitation from him!”
His brother laughed and clapped an arm around Flick’s broad shoulders.
“You are envious because Menion is the son of kings and able to live any way he chooses.”
“A kingdom the size of a puddle,” was the quick retort. “And royal blood is cheap stuff these days. Look at your own …”
He caught himself and damped his mouth shut quickly. Both shot hurried glances at their father, but he apparently hadn’t heard and was still absorbed in eating. Flick shrugged apologetically, and Shea smiled at his brother encouragingly.
“There’s a man in the inn looking for you, Shea,” Curzad Ohmsford announced suddenly, looking up at him. “He mentioned that tall stranger that was here several weeks back when he asked for you. Never seen him before in the Vale. He’s out in the main lounge now.”
Flick stood up slowly, fear gripping at him. Shea was momentarily caught off balance by the message, but motioned hurriedly to his brother, who was about to speak. If this new stranger were an enemy, he had to find out quickly. He clutched at his shirt pocket, reassuring himself that the Elfstones were still there.
“What does the man look like?” he asked quickly, unable to think of any other way of finding out about the Skull mark.
“Can’t really say, son,” was the muffled reply as his father continued to chew on his dinner, face bent to the plate. “He’s wrapped in a long green forest cloak. Just rode in this afternoon—beautiful horse. He was very anxious to find you. Better go see what he wants right away.”
“Did you see any markings?” asked the exasperated Flick.
His father stopped chewing and looked up with a puzzled frown.
“What are you talking about? Would you be satisfied if I presented you with a chalk drawing? What’s wrong with you anyway?”
“It’s nothing, really,” interjected Shea quickly. “Flick was just wondering if … If the man looked anything like Allanon … You remember?”
“Oh, yes,” his father smiled knowingly, as Flick suppressed a swallow of relief. “No, I didn’t notice any real similarity, though this man is big, too. I did see a long scar running down the right cheek—probably from a knife cut.”
Shea nodded his thanks and quickly pulled Flick after him as he moved out to the hallway and started for the main lounge. They hurried to the wide double doors and halted breathlessly. Cautiously, Shea pushed one door open a crack and peered into the crowded lounge area. For a moment he saw nothing but the ordinary faces of the usual customers and average Vale travelers, but a moment later he started back, and let the door swing shut as he faced the anxious Flick.
“He’s out there, near the front corner by the fireplace. I can’t tell who he is or what he looks like from here; he’s wrapped in the green cloak, just as Father said. We’ve got to get closer.”
“Out there?” gasped Flick. “Have you lost your mind? He would spot you in a second if he knows who he’s looking for.”
“Then you go,” Shea ordered firmly. “Make some pretense of putting logs on the fire and get a quick look at him. See if he bears the markings of a Skull.”
Flick’s eyes went wide, and he turned to escape, but Shea caught his arm and pulled him back, forcibly shoving him through the doors into the lounge and quickly ducking back out of sight. A moment later he opened one door a crack and peeped out to see what was happening. He saw Flick move uncertainly across the room to the fireplace and begin to poke the glowing embers idly, finally adding another log from the woodbox. The Valeman was taking his time, apparently trying to get in a position where he could catch a glimpse of the man wrapped in the green cloak. The stranger was seated at a table several feet away from the fireplace, his back to Flick but turned slightly toward the door behind which Shea had concealed himself.
Suddenly, just as it appeared that Flick was ready to return, the stranger moved slightly in his seat and made a quick comment and Flick went stiff. Shea saw his brother turn toward the stranger and reply, glancing hurriedly toward Shea’s place of concealment. Shea slipped back further into the shadows of the hall and let the door swing shut. Somehow, they had given themselves away. As he pondered whether to flee, Flick abruptly pushed through the double doors, his face white with fear.
“He saw you at the door. The man has the eyes of a hawk! He told me to bring you out.”
Shea thought a moment and finally nodded hopelessly. After all, where could they run to that they wouldn’t be found in a matter of minutes?
“Maybe he doesn’t know everything,” he suggested hopefully. “Maybe he thinks we know where Allanon has gone. Be careful what you tell him, Flick.”
He led the way through the wide, swinging doors and across the lounge to the table where the stranger sat. They stopped just behind him and waited
, but without turning, he beckoned them to seats around the table with a sweep of his hand. They reluctantly obeyed the unspoken command and the three sat in silence for a few moments looking at one another. The stranger was a big man with a broad frame, though he did not have Allanon’s height. The cloak covered all of his body, and only his head was visible to them. His features were rugged and strong, pleasant to the eye except for the dark scar that ran from the outside tip of the right eyebrow down across the cheek just above the mouth. The eyes seemed curiously mild to Shea as they studied the young Valemen, a hazel color that hinted at a gentleness beneath the hard exterior. The blond hair was cut short and lay scattered loosely about the broad forehead and around the small ears. As Shea viewed the stranger, he found it hard to believe that this man could be the enemy Allanon had warned might come to the valley. Even Flick seemed relaxed in his presence.
“There is no time for games, Shea,” the newcomer spoke suddenly in a mild, but weary voice. “Your caution is well advised, but I am not a bearer of the Skull mark. I am a friend of Allanon. My name is Balinor. My father is Ruhl Buckhannah, the King of Callahorn.”
The brothers recognized his name instantly, but Shea was not taking any chances.
“How do I know that you are who you say you are?” he demanded quickly.
The stranger smiled.
“The same way I know you, Shea. By the three Elfstones you carry in your shirt pocket—the Elfstones given you by Allanon.”
