The Healing Spring tisk-1

by Jeffrey Quyle

  Kestrel carefully waded through the spring pool to the bank on the far side, where their clothes lay in heaps, and he carefully replaced the underclothes and dress on the sprite, hoping that he was doing it right. He then dressed himself, watching the sprite as he did so, then, when she remained soundly asleep, he picked her up and held her in his arms as he started to walk back towards the village.

  She felt heavier than he expected; he was used to lifting the light bodies of elves, who had bones and flesh that were so light they seemed prepared to float away, while his partially-human arms were comparatively brawny in contrast. But despite her race’s legendary ability to fly, the sprite had more substance than the elves did, and his arms, one still supported partially in a sling, began to grow tired, so that he shifted his bundle and carried the small body as though it were a child, her head resting on his shoulder.

  As he drew near the village, and the sprite remained asleep, he began to consider what to do with his ward. He pondered trying to smuggle her up to his room in the inn, where he could watch over her until she awoke and could return to safety.

  But smuggling an entire person, even a small one, through an inn, was a daunting challenge, one that would require some type of distraction or prop. He considered his sling; it wasn’t contributing any useful support to his largely-healed arm any longer, and it was a fairly large piece of cloth. He put the sprite down, removed his sling, then unfolded the fabric, before he picked the sprite back up and draped the former sling over her.

  The cover was sufficient. It was obvious he was carrying something the size of an apparent child, but no one could tell he had a mythical, blue-skinned being in his arms. He could simply walk straight into the inn and up the stairs to his room, stopping for no one, and quickly deposit the sprite there, he decided. It was straightforward, and he could think of no better solution as he reached the step at the entrance to the building.

  With a deep breath Kestrel barged into the entry hall, keeping his head low and avoiding eye contact with any other person as he plowed forward and up the stairs. He heard an inquiring shout behind him, which he ignored as took the steps two at a time in his anxiety, no longer aware of the tiredness in his arms from carrying the sprite. He saw the door to his room, pressed his key into the lock, gave a turn as he heard footsteps behind him, then shoved the door open with his shoulder and entered his room, slamming the door shut behind him just seconds before there was a pounding knock.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my inn?” a man’s voice called loudly from outside the door.

  Kestrel was on the edge of panic, driven by the fear and excitement that roiled within him. His forehead was beading up with dripping sweat, and he knew without looking that the shirt beneath his armpits was dark with perspiration caused by the situation. Both the excitement and fear of holding a sprite, as well as the concern over the angry innkeeper outside his room combined to make him question how he could have possibly gotten into such a situation.

  He hastily placed the sprite on the narrow bed in the dingy, narrow room, then pulled the blanket up over her. With a deep breath, he turned back to the door, where the innkeeper was pounding once again. He wielded the message tube with its now slightly-dingy blue ribbon in front of him as he opened the door. “I’m delivering this message,” he blurted out immediately. “I’m on my way to Center Trunk.”

  The innkeeper paused, a beefy man with a florid face. His mouth hung open, then abruptly snapped shut, as he swallowed the coarse comment he had been about to utter, and considered the authority the blue-ribboned tube gave Kestrel. “How’d you get the key to the room?” he asked after re-thinking his approach.

  “A woman at the desk gave it to me,” Kestrel asked.

  “What woman?” the innkeeper asked. “My daughter says she didn’t give out any keys.”

  “An older lady — she gave me the key when I stopped by this afternoon, and she sent me down to the hot springs to heal in the waters,” Kestrel replied.

  “What old lady? And those myths about the spring water healing are just hot air — there’s no truth to them,” the innkeeper said dismissively.

  “Anything else, or can I rest now?” Kestrel asked. The innkeeper seemed calmer, and Kestrel was anxious to close the door so he could examine his sleeping sprite.

  “What were you carrying?” the innkeeper asked.

  “What a messenger does is no concern to you. Good night,” Kestrel abruptly answered, shook his messenger tube in the man’s face, then pushed the door shut, and let out a sigh of relief several seconds later when he heard the man’s footsteps fade down the hall.

  He felt himself shivering with excitement, his nerves stretched to their limit by all that was taking place, and he sat down carefully on the bed, next to the small form beneath the cover. He reached cautiously for the edge of the thin blanket and pulled it down, peeling it away and exposing the unconscious sprite to his curious gaze.

  Even away from the magical spring, her beauty appeared just as unimpeachable as it had before. Her skin was so smoothly unblemished in its appearance that he felt compelled to touch it, to confirm that the porcelain perfection held the softness of flesh beneath it.

  He gently placed his fingertip against her cheek, marveling at how soft the flesh felt beneath his outsized finger, and then suddenly he gasped and pulled his finger back, as if it had been burnt. The sprite’s eyes had opened.

  Chapter 9 — Dewberry

  The sprite sat up, a wild look in her eyes, starring at Kestrel, then around the room, then back at Kestrel. She gave a shriek, a loud, shrill scream that belied her tiny size, then disappeared from the room, the mattress rebounding ever so slightly as her small form evaporated.

  Kestrel sat still in amazement, then let his hand gently trace over the shadow of an impression of the spot where she had laid on the mattress only moments ago.

  There were hurried steps thundering out in the hallway, just before more blows hammered on the door. “What in blazes is going on in there? Open the door immediately!” the innkeeper’s voice demanded.

  Kestrel no longer worried about the man seeing his captive mystical creature, and opened the door wide with relief, then stepped aside to allow the suspicious hotel operator to step into the tiny room. From his spot by the doorway the man could see all aspects of the room in intimate detail; the narrow bed and the single chair were the only items of furniture, and Kestrel’s small pile of belongings sat in one corner.

  The innkeeper expected to find a damsel in distress. He wanted to find such a girl. He needed to find her, so that he could explode in rage and vent his frustrations by thrashing Kestrel soundly. Unfortunately, there was no girl in the room, and no evidence that one had ever been there with Kestrel.

  “What was that scream? Was it you?” the man asked Kestrel, wheeling on his heels to face the innocent messenger.

  “What scream?” Kestrel asked with a blank face.

  “That scream; the scream: we heard it all the way downstairs!” the innkeeper replied in exasperation.

  “I wonder if it came from outside, maybe?” Kestrel asked.

  “No! It was inside; it was up here,” the man insisted.

  “You better go check the other rooms. Do you want me to help you with your search?” Kestrel felt an impulsive need to bait the man.

  “I know how to check my own rooms, thank you!” the innkeeper spoke indignantly, knowing that he had lost his expected battle before it had even begun. Seeing no way to gracefully declare victory or even acknowledge defeat, he stepped backwards into the hallway and pulled the door abruptly closed behind him, nearly hitting Kestrel as he slammed in into its frame in the wall.

  Kestrel leaned back against the door and smiled a quiet smile of satisfaction, so pleased with the innkeeper’s discomfort that he almost forgot momentarily about the sprite he had lost.

  As he stood there, his mind wandering back to amazement at the thought that he had encountered and saved the life of a spr
ite, he was startled by the sudden return of the sprite, standing on top of his mattress, her eyes blazing and a small, needle-sharp knife in one hand.

  She jabbed fiercely at him, making him twist out of the way of her ill-intent.

  “What are you doing?” Kestrel cried.

  “I’m getting revenge!” the sprite answered savagely, slashing with her knife as Kestrel grabbed the thin pillow off the bed to protect himself from her attack. The knife looked too small to inflict fatal damage unless it struck him just right, but there was clearly much opportunity for painful injury to result from the sprite’s determined efforts.

  “You’ve got no reason to seek revenge against me!” the elf protested.

  “No reason?!” the sprite’s eyes were practically burning with emotion as she echoed him.

  “You raped me!” she spit the words at him.

  “What?” Kestrel’s voice rose an octave in shock at the accusation.

  The sprite stabbed at him again, her blade penetrating the pillow and cutting into his shirt.

  “You heard me! You know what you did! Now I’m going to have an ugly baby, as ugly as you, and it will forever be an outcast for looking so ugly!” she emphasized her last sentence by leaping off the bed, jumping high and coming down at him knife first, so that he dropped his ineffective pillow shield, now shredded, and grabbed her with both hands, holding her at arm’s length as she swung wildly.

  “I did not rape you!” he protested in shock as they slid to the floor. He rolled over and above her, holding her down against the floor.

  “You did! I know you did. I woke up on your bed with you right over me like you are now, leering at me, and I found my dress was on backwards. You undressed me, used me, then tried to cover it up by putting the dress back on me, but you couldn’t even do that right,” she continued to try to slice him, and he changed his tactic, releasing one hand’s grip on the sprite’s body to grab her knife-wielding hand. He seized the knife and took it from her.

  “I undressed you to put you in the healing spring waters after I rescued you from the wolf that was going to feed you to her cubs for dinner!” Kestrel said heatedly. “I undressed you, carried you into the spring water so that you could heal from the wounds the wolf gave you. Then I dressed you and carried you back here because I didn’t want to leave you alone unconscious where the wolf might get you again.”

  Kestrel saw confusion on the sprite’s face, and then the fire went out from her eyes. “That’s really what happened?” she asked.

  He nodded. “You can release me. I won’t try to harm you,” the small blue being said with a sudden sincerity that Kestrel believed.

  Cautiously, Kestrel released the girl and stood up. She lay on the floor looking up at him, propped up on her elbows, then abruptly disappeared again.

  Kestrel looked at the empty space beneath him, then looked at the tiny knife in his hand. She was gone again, but he had proof — in a sense — that he had encountered a sprite. He looked down at the cut in his shirt, and looked at the knife in his hand; they were proof to him that he wasn’t just dreaming.

  There was another knock on the door. “Is there a woman in there with you?” the innkeeper was upon Kestrel’s threshold once again, though his voice seemed less confrontational than before.

  Kestrel opened the door wide once again, giving the innkeeper another look at the room where he stood alone. “Shall I report this harassment to the army officials?” Kestrel asked.

  “My daughter swore she heard a woman’s voice arguing,” the despondent innkeeper explained. “But I see there’s no one here but you, obviously. I apologize. Please come down to the dining room and have a meal on the house.” The man was defeated and throwing in the towel on his efforts to catch some improper behavior by Kestrel.

  “Thank you; I’ll be down to eat shortly,” Kestrel said as he shut the door, then sat down on his bedding, still trying to comprehend all that had happened.

  The sprite returned, once again popping into the room in a previously empty space in front of Kestrel.

  “I’m sorry I almost killed you,” she said, standing warily just outside Kestrel’s reach.

  “You didn’t almost kill me, but you tried,” Kestrel replied.

  The blue figure squinted at Kestrel for a moment as though she were about to argue, then seemed to remind herself of some other priority she had to attend to. “My father says that I have to apologize, and I owe you a great favor for having saved my life at the spring with the wolf.

  “You don’t owe me a favor,” Kestrel replied. “You would have helped me if you had seen the wolf attack me.”

  “No I wouldn’t,” the sprite answered hastily. “I never help your race unless I have to, and now I have to.”

  “I don’t need any help,” Kestrel told her, not pleased with the sprite’s attitude. “You can go your way and we’ll say everything is even.”

  “No, we won’t. My father is the king of the sprites, and he said I have an obligation I must fulfill. I am obliged to help you. So I am going to tell you a secret word you can use to call me when you need help, and I will come to your aid.”

  “What’s the point? You’re only doing this because you’re told to; it’s not coming from your heart because you feel gratitude for my help,” Kestrel answered.

  “My name is Dewberry. When you need me, call me with your voice and your heart and mind all together,” the sprite instructed in a no-nonsense manner. “You can do this three times, and I will come to your aid three times. After that I am free; my duty to you is met, and I’ll not respond to your requests any longer.”

  “It’s a pretty name. My name is Kestrel,” the elf told the sprite.

  “That doesn’t matter to me. Just remember to use your heart, your mind and your voice all together to call me when you need me. Now I’m done here,” she answered.

  “Wait!” Kestrel called hurriedly. “Before you go, tell me why you were standing at the spring when the wolf caught you.”

  “I had a rash on my arm,” the sprite hesitated. “And I thought the water would cure it. But I knew the water at that spring makes members of my race fall asleep, and I didn’t know what to do. We all know about that spring; it not only heals, but it gives us wonderful dreams, an exhilarating sensation, one of the best things a sprite can feel.

  “Not that it’s really any of your business,” she added, then disappeared from the room.

  Kestrel sat down on his bed, and felt his head spinning as he tried to reconcile Dewberry’s outward beauty with the very ungracious personality she had displayed. It seemed a contradiction to Kestrel, and a sad one at that. Cheryl was not as pretty as Dewberry, but was so much nicer that she was far preferable, he concluded as his mind wandered until he decided he was hungry enough to go to the public room and take advantage of the innkeeper’s offer.

  His meal that night was quiet, as he sat alone at one end of a table in the half-empty public room and ate the unmemorable food. He spent a quiet night in his small inn room, and left early in the morning, determined to travel as far and as fast as possible on the third day of his messenger duty.

  That day was uneventful. Only a brief rain shower in the late afternoon broke the monotony of the long trail Kestrel ran through the forest. After the rain, the trail grew wider, and traffic grew heavier, indications that Kestrel was approaching his goal, confirmation of which came two hours before sunset when he entered the teeming metropolis of Center Trunk, the largest city of the elves of the Eastern Forest, thought to be the largest elven city of all.

  The blue ribbon on his message tube provided the means for Kestrel to learn where he needed to end his journey. A policeman on patrol responded to Kestrel’s request for directions; one look at the blue ribbon and he described the landmarks Kestrel should look for on his way to the headquarters building of the guard services.

  Lamps and candles were being lit when Kestrel passed through the guarded gate and asked for directions to see Colonel Silvan. He f
ound his way inside the gated military enclave inside the city, and along a short route of internal roads and passages to a narrow, tall building, where he entered and walked past a woman on the first floor to find and climb the stairs that led to a third floor office with a guard posted at the door.

  “I’m here to see Colonel Silvan,” Kestrel reported to the guard, an elf who appeared to be a spit-and-polish model of what every soldier should be; he felt suddenly nervous about his role as a messenger for the first time.

  “Where from?” the guard asked, nodding towards the ribbon-sealed tube.

  “Elmberg,” Kestrel answered promptly. “Commander Mastrin sent me.”

  The guard held his hand out for the tube. “I was told to deliver this directly to Colonel Silvan myself,” Kestrel protested.

  “I understand,” the guard spoke, for the first time giving a hint of some personality, as he acknowledged his recognition that he was putting Kestrel in a quandary. “Handing the message to me is as good as giving it to Silvan. I won’t open it personally, but the Colonel will want to read it before he interviews you.”

  Kestrel weighed the aspects of the situation, and concluded that he had no choice but to turn his small piece of cargo over to the doorkeeper.

  “Remain here,” the guard spoke as soon as he held the tube, in a careless tone that nonetheless indicated that he would tolerate no disobedience from Kestrel. He opened the door behind him and slipped into the room, so that Kestrel stood alone in the short hallway on the third floor.

  He felt as though he waited an interminable time. He passed through nervousness, restlessness, then boredom, before he was startled by the sudden opening of the door and the return of the guard. Kestrel watched expectantly as the guard pulled the door closed behind him, then resumed standing at attention once again, without any acknowledgement of Kestrel’s presence.

  After a moment of expectancy, and then confusion, Kestrel decided to ask what to do.

  “You remain here and wait,” the guard answered without deigning to direct his eyes toward Kestrel. A servant came along the hall silently lighting candles mounted in scones on the wall, then passed from view when his duty was complete.