The Healing Spring tisk-1

by Jeffrey Quyle

  “Be nice,” Cheryl chided him, but the sparkle in her eyes was one of laughter, and Kestrel remembered her smile as he turned and walked down the steps to return to the street.

  Chapter 6 — Confirmation

  Kestrel did go to try to help a family that had been flooded out by his rainstorms, but everyone soon agreed that his one-armed status limited his utility. After a couple of hours carrying small items around as needed, Kestrel left the flood victims, and went back into town to the military base, where he waited for the return of the patrol from the red stag woods sector.

  During the mid-afternoon the two elf patrol entered the gates of the base, and Kestrel followed them into the commander’s building and office without interference.

  Mastrin had a different aide accompanying him, Kestrel noticed as he entered a small conference room, one that was adjacent to the office he had spoken in earlier in the day. “Welcome back, guardsman,” Mastrin acknowledged him, then turned to the patrol members, two senior and reliable members of the guard based in Elmheng. “Tell us what you found, if anything,” the commander ordered.

  “Well, we found quite a mess,” one of the two elves offered. “The rain up there must have been extraordinary, as if we didn’t know that from the way the streams ran. The mud was something to trek through. There was a fire, and it burnt a good size opening in the forest. It must have been pretty hot; even the biggest trees don’t have any standing trunks left except around the edges of the fire. Things must have been burning along pretty dangerously until those rains put the fire out, thanks be to the spirits.”

  Mastrin looked at Kestrel, but said nothing.

  “Was there any clue as to how it started?” he asked.

  The second guard spoke up. “Not direct evidence, maybe, but we found three metal rods, and a large metal kettle, all made from the blood metal, iron. They’d gotten so hot in the fire they were all deformed — bent and curled. That had to be man work,” he asserted.

  Mastrin nodded his head. “That seems right.”

  “And we saw some movements in the fringe of the woods on the far side when we first stepped into the opening,” the guard added. “It may have been men. We shouldn’t have shown ourselves so openly, I realize, but we just weren’t expecting men to be inside the forest that far.”

  Mastrin nodded again, thoughtfully.

  Kestrel,” he looked at the young guard, “I’d say your suspicion was right. The battle down south was just a diversion, designed to empty all of our forces out of the northern border so that the humans could sneak in and start the fire. If it hadn’t been for those rains, we might have lost a fairly big chunk of woodlands.

  “Alright men, thank you for the report. You’re dismissed. Kestrel, stay for a moment,” the commander set folks in motion, and waited until the door was closed before he spoke again.

  “So you called the human goddess to help you foil a plan of the humans; is that how it seems to you?” he asked quizzically, studying Kestrel closely.

  The young elf sat silently for several seconds, trying to find some alternative, some explanation that didn’t sound so preposterous. Nothing came to mind.

  “Yes sir,” he said reluctantly.

  “Whatever that goddess intends to get from you is going to be a memorable repayment for a favor like that. I hope you’re ready when the bill comes,” the commander said softly. “You’re dismissed. Come back and report to me tomorrow after lunch.” He set Kestrel free, and left the room himself, his aide trailing behind him, leaving the small conference room empty in the afternoon sunlight that filtered into the room through the tree leaves outside the window.

  Chapter 7 — Ferris’s Report

  Ferris was rehearsing the report he was going to deliver to his commander, and focused on steeling himself for the abusive response he was sure to suffer. His squad had done everything perfectly to set fire in the forest; they’d known their assignments, and had carried them out flawlessly, without the loss of or injury to a single man — something he was especially proud of.

  They’d exited the forest safely, and marched rapidly away from the woodlands for over an hour; Ferris didn’t feel easy being near the forest, and the presence of the fire only heightened his nagging sense of discomfort. Then they had stopped and turned to watch the results of their handiwork.

  And they’d seen a deluge materialize from an empty sky shortly after they’d begun to celebrate the ominous pillar of smoke that began to rise from forest. The rainstorm had been unnatural. It had been very specific in its location — as close as they were, Ferris and his men had only felt a few stray drops of the rain. The storm had been uncanny in its character — the water that had fallen had been so dense and heavy in the air that from a distance, the area beneath the clouds had appeared to be a solid column. Steam had risen in copious amounts as the waters had struck the flames and the embers beneath.

  The squad stood and watched the half hour of furious down-pouring, and then the abrupt dissipation of the storm; in a matter of moments the rains ceased and the clouds dissipated. “Who made the goddess so mad?” someone in the squad has asked of no one, using a stage whisper that rattled everyone as they all acknowledged the obvious supernatural origin of the phenomena they had witnessed.

  Ferris had debated what to do, and decided to stay the night as he pondered his course of action — a return to the forest, a return to the capital, or a return to the Forest Wardens. The next morning he detailed two men to go back into the forest, to follow the tree blazes back to the site of the fire, and to bring back a report on what they found.

  The men were gone less than three hours, and came running out of the woods like a yeti was in pursuit. Their report was deflating; the fire was out, extinguished thoroughly by the deluge from the sky before it did more than burn a small hole in the forest, and the elves were already at the site as well. It was the sight of the elves exploring the charred ruins of the trees that had sent the two scouts fleeing in panic, running at full throttle the entire distance back to the squad.

  Ferris had idly entertained the thought of trying to restart the fire, if the iron bars and kettle could be found among the ashes, hopeful that perhaps some success could have been attained, but the presence of elves dashed those hopes thoroughly. The elves would be more than angry at the attempt to burn their forest; Ferris was thankful that his two scouts had returned alive and uninjured. He made his decision — to take his squad back to the capital city and report to his commanders there, as a way to avoid letting the Forest Wardens potentially order him to immediately return and commit suicide by attempting to start another fire.

  So his men ambled south along dusty country lanes, and Ferris fretted over the consequences of the failed assignment when they reached the gates of Hydrotaz, the capital city, early two evenings later. “You’re dismissed to quarters. Report to the practice yard at third bugle call tomorrow morning, and don’t get thrown in jail,” he had released his men from their labors, then gone on to the office tower where he wrote out his report carefully, and submitted it to the evening watchman, with a pledge to return first thing the following morning for a report in person.

  Chapter 8 — Messenger Duty

  Kestrel reported to his commander early the next afternoon.

  “Here is a report,” Mastrin told him, handing him a sealed wooden tube that presumably held papers. “You are going to be the courier for this; I’d like you to take it to Center Trunk,” he told Kestrel, referring to the far-off capital of the eastern elves. Kestrel had never ventured more than a few miles from Elmheng in his life, making the prospect of such a journey seem filled with potential excitement.

  “It’s a report on your fire and your rain,” Mastrin explained, dimming some of the adventure Kestrel had imagined. “I haven’t put anything in writing about your brush with the deities, but I want to make sure you speak about that with Colonel Silvan. It doesn’t need to be in writing at this point, but the colonel will be interested in your story
. When you reach the receipts desk at the Center Trunk department of the headquarters building, make sure you tell them you are to hand it over directly to Silvan yourself. Wait as long as it takes,” Mastrin emphasized. “This blue ribbon on the end of the tube shows that it’s meant for direct delivery, so they can’t argue with you.”

  He felt guilty for sending the boy on this mission. His conscious weighed heavy, but he had concluded that Kestrel’s uniqueness — unique in multiple ways — had to be shared with someone in command of the elf defenses against humanity. He trusted Silvan to have the judgment and scruples to use the knowledge and the boy fairly. Kestrel’s story had set Mastrin’s mind adrift in speculation about all the implications of what the boy might face in the future.

  “How long will the journey be?” Kestrel asked cautiously. “I’ve never been there before.”

  “Never been to the big city before?” Mastrin asked with forced jocularity. Now that he had handed the report to Kestrel to take to Center Trunk, he had a foreboding sense that he had sealed the boy’s fate. “You’ll think it’s a wonderful place. It’s big — the trees are big, and it’s spread out from morning to night. There’re more elves than you thought lived in all the land, all gathered in one place.

  “It’s about a two day trip, maybe three, if that arm slows you down. You don’t have to hurry,” Mastrin said reassuringly.

  “It’s okay if I stop to say goodbye to Cheryl?” Kestrel asked.

  “Certainly, certainly,” Mastrin affirmed.

  “On your way, you can stay in any inn you want to. Just show them the ribbon on the tube; it entitles you to shelter. The innkeepers know they have to give you a spot — it’s the law, so don’t let them give you some sad story about how full they already are.

  “Take care, Kestrel,” Mastrin stood and walked around the desk to shake the boy’s hand firmly. “Safe travels in your journey. May all the gods, ours and theirs, look upon you kindly.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kestrel replied, uncertain about his commander’s surprisingly friendly expressions, out of character from his usual military mien. He left the office and walked over to see Cheryl, carrying the message tube carefully in his unencumbered hand.

  She greeted him at the door. “Kestrel? Again in the middle of the day? Please come in,” she ushered him into the parlor. I’m sorry that Malsten isn’t here to enjoy your company,” she laughed as they were seated. She sat on the divan with him, he noted exuberantly, though she kept an appropriate distance by sitting at the far end of the piece of furniture.

  “Your father has sent me to Center Trunk,” Kestrel blurted out. “I wanted to see you before I go.”

  “That’s such a long way!” Cheryl exclaimed. “Have you ever gone there before?”

  “No, never. I’ve never gone nearly so far away,” Kestrel admitted.

  “How long will it take?” she asked.

  “Your dad said to take two or three days to get there, so I’ll need a couple of days to get back too, plus whatever time I spend there,” Kestrel estimated. “About a week all told.”

  “It will be such an adventure!” Cheryl told him, her eyes shining.

  “Have you ever gone there?” Kestrel asked.

  “No. We were up in Firheng when I was a baby, but I don’t remember. Elmheng is the only town I’ve known,” she replied. “They say the trees are so large in Center Trunk.”

  There was a silent pause, as Kestrel desperately tried to think of some topic to discuss.

  “I better go. I don’t want your father to think I’ve been dawdling,” he at last said awkwardly. “I’ll miss you,” he told her as he stood. He hesitated just a moment more, then leaned towards her to kiss her, only to find that she was rising from her seat as he was lowering his head, and their foreheads knocked sharply.

  “Ouch!” each exclaimed as they stood rubbing their foreheads, Kestrel blushing with embarrassment, until Cheryl removed her hands from her forehead and placed them on his cheeks. They looked into one another’s eyes, then Cheryl stood up on her toes, and their lips touched each other’s firmly, in a warm kiss.

  “There, that was better,” Cheryl spoke first.

  “I’ll miss you,” Kestrel answered breathlessly.

  “You better! Don’t you get distracted by all the girls in Center Trunk!” Cheryl scolded him.

  “They have girls in Center Trunk?” Kestrel asked, his eyes growing wide in mock surprise.

  “Bad, bad boy!” Cheryl shrieked with a grin as she pushed him.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Kestrel said at last, after a long hug, and then he was out the door.

  “What do you have for a traveler?” he asked the cooks in the commissary ten minutes later, and five minutes after that he had a sack of supplies and was on his way on the eastern road towards the capital city. He only had to trot along the lightly traveled road for three hours to be beyond the farthest distance he had ever traveled towards the east. Three hours more beyond that the sky was nearly dark, and Kestrel roused himself from his speculation about the meaning of his kiss with Cheryl as he was passing through a small village, one that he concluded was the logical choice for spending the night.

  “I’d like a room for the night,” Kestrel told the innkeeper after he entered a dinghy clapboard building with a green shingle hung outside, displaying a crude painting of an oak tree, the universal sign of hospitality. Inside, the atmosphere seemed less than hospitable, as a local militia group occupied the tavern room, asserting its dominance in a drunken and noisy manner. Alec watched a serving girl hesitate and take a deep breath as she stood in the kitchen doorway with a wooden pitcher of ale. She plunged into the public room with a determined look on her face, shifting her hips to avoid groping hands from certain tables as she poured more drink for the customers and collected their coins.

  “I’ve got no rooms left,” the man at the counter said gruffly. Kestrel thought his tone sounded peremptory, as if the man thought he was the final word on the matter, and it rubbed Kestrel the wrong way after traveling so far that day. He had looked forward to the opportunity to rest, especially to taking the sling off his healing arm.

  Consequently, Kestrel took his tube and placed it firmly on the countertop, displaying the ribbon prominently. “You can find a room for me, can’t you?” he asked bluntly.

  The expression on the proprietor’s face was momentarily inscrutable, then showed a craftiness that made Kestrel uneasy. “You’ll have your room, just like the regulations say,” the man told Kestrel.

  “Orris, Captain Orris, come here,” the innkeeper barked loudly into the tavern, causing heads to turn.

  A beefy man among the militia group rose and came sauntering over to the counter; he wore a deep red robe over his shoulders. “What is so important that you’d call me away from my ale and men?” he asked with an easy smile.

  “The courier here wants to have your room. You’ll need to move your things out so that he can have it,” the innkeeper explained.

  “I’m not asking for his room in particular!” Kestrel protested. “I just know the regulations say you have to give me a room.”

  Captain Orris was studying Kestrel closely. “What happened to your arm? Did you get hurt in the battle?”

  Kestrel blushed, feeling defensive. “No,” he mumbled, “I fell and hurt it.”

  “Come on in here and have a drink with my boys before you go up to your room,” Orris wrapped his arm around Alec’s shoulder and directed him into the tavern room. Kestrel wanted to resist, but was at a loss for a polite way to refuse the seemingly friendly overture.

  “Boys,” Orris greeted one of the tables as he planted Kestrel among the men, “this important messenger needs to kick me out of my room here at the inn, so he can rest that injured arm he got when he fell down.”

  “He’s got awfully rounded ears; is he even an elf?” a militia member across the table asked.

  “Why didn’t you fight in the battle, straight eyes?” another memb
er asked.

  Kestrel felt a sharp elbow jab his injured arm, causing him to flinch in pain. He stood up abruptly, but Orris placed a ham hand on his shoulder and forced him back down.

  “You need to stay and have a drink with us, to show there’s no hard feelings,” the captain said.

  Why are your eyebrows so straight?” Orris asked. “Are you mixed blood?”

  Here it comes, Kestrel thought to himself, despairing over the manner in which his heritage had arisen to haunt him once again.

  “Look at the size of those ears!” an unidentified voice called.

  Sensing that he was about to be assaulted while injured and outnumbered, Kestrel felt a sudden sense of outrage at the injustice of the situation, and rashly decided he would manage to inflict some pain on his assailants before they completely overwhelmed him.

  The desperate elfling rose with an explosive thrust of his body off the bench, and aimed his head at Orris’s unprepared chin, jarring the commander with a vicious thrust that cracked his jaws together, and tumbled him backwards, unconscious. Kestrel pulled his injured arm in close to his chest, then threw his heavier part-human weight at the guard who sat next to him, the one who had elbowed him seconds before, and knocked the man to the floor, both of them falling. Kestrel landed on top, driving the air from his opponent’s lungs, then rolled quickly to the floor.

  In his roll he jarred his arm; he winced in pain as he started to rise to his knees, then saw a booted foot approaching, and turned his head just in time to avoid receiving the kick squarely in his face. After that the only thing he could do was curl up tightly in a defensive ball as kicks and punches rained upon him, drawing blood and leaving bruises until someone took mercy on him and put an end to the lopsided beating.

  Several minutes later, Kestrel was unconscious, lying on the floor, and the innkeeper at last had a twinge of concern that he might be guilty of failing to honor his obligation to assist the messenger who carried the tube with the blue ribbon. He ordered two of his stable hands to carry Kestrel upstairs to the room that was rightfully his, where they carelessly threw him on the floor, obeying their instructions to not get blood on the bed, then carried out the belongings of the still unconscious militia captain.