The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  The morning dew was just starting to burn off the grass and its silver shine was still present. They removed their shoes in preparation for the rites. The cool surface numbed his over-sensitive feet, causing him to shuffle from foot to foot. It was just past dawn, the sun had started to rise in the southeast, and it cast enough light to barely illuminate the surrounding area. Its first rays filtered through the towering crags in the east, casting shadows that danced across the red and purple rock face as the sun slowly climbed, bringing the warmth of the day to the valley.

  Grit stared up from the glade of grass encircled by tall trees, their branches gracefully arching high over the village completely sheltering and hiding it from view. They towered majestically hundreds of feet above; some were as big in girth as small houses, their bark deep and weathered. Their roots, reaching in all directions, were the object of great joy amongst the children who darted around, over and under the gnarled masses using them as forts and make-believe dragons. A short lad stood like a king at the top of the largest and was shouting something in elvish, waving a crooked stick triumphantly.

  Grit looked up higher as a calling bird caught his attention, its melodic warbling echoing beneath the behemoths. He could just barely see through the smoky haze that there were rope and wood catwalks high above and that there were platforms and doors in the trees. He had not known that the elves lived in trees; nothing he had ever witnessed or read had prepared him for how beautiful the elven village was. It was a complete harmonic symphony of nature sprinkled with the elven made stone buildings. Everywhere flowers bloomed, fruit grew and gardens were filled with leaf. Mushrooms the size of multicolored sun-hats sprouted out of the ground and were being attended by maidens who were singing lovingly to them as they swayed in the breeze.

  The maidens spotted Shar’ran off in the distance, stopped their tending of the garden and rushed to get in place, not wanting to disappoint the great king.

  The elves stood in the glade waiting for Shar’ran to arrive, since by tradition he led the morning rituals. They all faced down the path toward his home, nestled in and around the largest of the trees. They waited patiently.

  When he walked into the clearing, pushing back branches of lush vegetation, they systematically nodded, saluted and bowed out of respect, before turning to face the clearing. After he passed, they began disrobing in unison, placing their clothes neatly into folded piles behind where they stood. Finished, they stood straight, legs slightly spread, some wearing the bakree and some completely nude. Grit watched, sighed and untied his robe, following their lead.

  Grit had never seen such a display of well-formed, muscular bodies. None of the elves had tops on, even the women, and the sight of so many near perfect bare-chested bodies was making it hard for Grit to focus and control himself. He watched their thighs rippled, their buttocks flex and their stomachs undulate. He humbly grumbled to himself, removing his robe, too proud to ask for a bakree.

  He stood as proud as he could, feeling like a green pea in a bowl of yellow corn. He looked down at his slightly sunken chest, thin un-toned legs and the little pot belly that greeted him every morning. As far as he could tell, he only had one attribute that would be coveted by the elves, and that, made him smile.

  Kyra eyed him from head to toe, then stared into his eyes and grinned her approval. For Grit, that didn’t make it any easier, he was having enough trouble with his ... um, composure as it was.

  Shar’ran walked to the center, raised his arms and in a clear melodic voice chanted an elvish prayer that seemed to ring out. After he finished all the elves repeated his prayer in harmony, and Grit swore that the trees swayed and whispered back. The goose flesh on the back of his neck was raised and a shiver went down his spine.

  Shar’ran pressed his hands together, holding a few seconds before closing his eyes and exploding into a warrior’s pose. The entire valley seemed to shift in unison as all of the elves echoed his movement moving so silently, that it gave Grit the impression that no sound was being made by their hands or feet. The only sound he heard was of the air traveling over their bodies as they snapped from form to form.

  Shar’ran led the group through a series of fluid movements. He moved like a cat quickly from pose to pose, never off balance, full of energy and purpose. He shouted out their names, “Low Bridge, Snake is Coiled, Crane is Ready.” The poses started slow, but as time ran on, they came more quickly.

  “Eagles Grip into Stag Rears,” he shouted, as the movements became linked.

  Grit stumbled and wobbled, but tried his best to keep up. More than a few giggles were heard as the smallest children watched in amusement, but quickly silenced when Grit turned to stare them down.

  At first, Grit found the movements easy to imitate, but as time progressed, his legs burned and his limbs ached from the strain. Kyra caught his attention and showed him how to hold his hands correctly and sporadically explained in a low whisper that the motions have a rhythm, slow to fast, fast to slow, explosive.

  After an hour, he was bathed in sweat and panting like a bear. He looked around and no one else was even breathing hard. In fact, they all seemed to be in this tranquil place. He felt anything but tranquil. He had to stop to catch his breath. As he leaned over with his hands on his knees wheezing, he heard a young teenaged male elf snicker to his left. Grit looked over at him while gasping for air. Although he didn’t understand the elvish language, he knew from the condescending tone that he was being ridiculed. It sounded like he said Two Dogs Dying, when they were doing the Lions Fighting form. He decided to ignore the lad as best he could and continue to try to keep up.

  When the morning ritual finally came to a close, the sun had fully risen, and the warmth of the day began to show itself as the walls of the valley reflected the heat. Grit looked around as the group dressed and dispersed.

  Kyra looked at him with pity. He accepted that. He was a poor example of health. His body wasn’t muscular, nor was it firm, and his skin was pale from lack of sun. His knees shook and his back ached. He tried not to show it, but he was sure that everyone around him knew that he was not an exemplary physical specimen. He drank heavily from the gourd that Shar’ran had given him after he donned his robe. The cool water quenched his burning thirst and eased his raspy throat.

  “Ahh,” he moaned, taking another big swallow and allowing some of the water to slide down his chin. “That’s so good.”

  “Not so fast,” Kyra said, frowning. She pushed the gourd from his lips. “You’ll get cramps if you drink cold water too fast.”

  Shar’ran had finished greeting people and finally made his way to their side.

  “Time to bathe before we eat, later we will begin training,” he said, clapping Grit on the back with a big grin. “You did well.”

  Grit looked at him as if he were crazy and answered back with mock reverence, “I did! ... did you say begin? I thought ...”

  Shar’ran chuckled. “Much better than I expected. Did you think this was training? Ah, I suppose I can understand the confusion.”

  Grit wasn’t exactly certain of what that meant, but decided to accept it as a complement, although he was sure that it really wasn’t.

  “I think you’ll enjoy the next training,” Shar’ran said, with a grin. “It is tharseo; best faced with courage.”

  Grit grinned back, although he thought Shar’ran’s grin was one of anticipation for wiping the floor with him, and not because he was looking forward to training him, or because he was doing well. Grit knew what doing well looked like. The young ravishing blond girl gyrating in front of him with perfect form had been doing well. Compared to her, he was an ox. To be sure, a pregnant ox with an injured leg.

  They walked down a short path that wandered past several huts and homes, some built into the trees and some from stone, to a long narrow pool that was nestled in the rocks. The air above the pool was thick with fog from the heated water and a babbling waterfall that seemed to sing was at one end.

  There
were already several elves standing under the water, as it tumbled over the jagged rocky edge. The place where they entered had several house-sized rock slabs slanting into the pool, and along one side of the smooth terraced rocks were piles of clean linen robes all neatly arranged. Grit could hear the chirping of birds, jumping branch to branch, and hiding in the trees that were covered in an emerald green tangled moss. Large sunflower-yellow fruit hung low, growing from vines that wound their way along the low hanging branches. The moss was the most brilliant green he had ever seen and it floated and swayed in the breezes that occasionally caught its tails and made it dance.

  Another brook entered about midway in the pool and the young children laughed and slid over the smooth mossy rock surface, using the rushing stream as a sled of sorts. They giggled and squealed in delight, twisting and turning their way down the slope, eventually shooting out into the shallow end of the largest pool. They shrieked in delight as they raced splashing and wading to the shore, then just as quickly, scampered out and rushed uphill to ride the moss-covered rocks again.

  “We bathe here!” Kyra said, stripping off her clothes. Grit stood staring as she turned her back revealing a beautiful sweeping tattoo at the base of her spine as she waded into the pool. Her tattoo reminded Grit of crossing sword and butterflies, but the image was far more intricate than that and Grit knew that some of it was in elven. She dunked under and then stood in the pool as she squeezed the water out of her long black hair, which reached to the middle of her back. She turned to face Grit, her breasts just above the water line. She watched smugly as Grit stared, jaw agape.

  “Nice aren’t they!” She teased, running her hands over her shapely curves hesitating over her nipples.

  “What? Oh, ... I’m sorry ... uh, yes! They are.” he finally managed to say, before turning beet red and gazing away embarrassed.

  “You magi are so funny,” she quipped.

  Kyra roared to her own amusement at Grit’s embarrassment and splashed water on him with her hands. She had heard that humans were funny with that kind of thing, that’s why they covered up with all the clothes they always wore, even on the hottest day ... or so she heard.

  He awkwardly removed his own robe and jumped in. He was shocked at how hot the water was, it almost burned his skin. It was much warmer than the baths back at the Keep in the caves. He hadn’t considered that Shar’ran really meant a hot bath. His body eventually became used to the heat as he sat chest deep and sweated out the last residual poisons of the previous night’s abandonment. His muscles relaxed and the stress of the morning washed away.

  Grit lazily swam over to the opposite end of the pool and let the waterfall pound his sore muscles. The water coming into the pool over the fall was a lot warmer than the rest of the pool and after a short period of time, he dove back in to join the others.

  Shar’ran saw how red Grit’s skin was and pointed to the waterfall, “The hot spring is over the top of that rock. The water there is far too warm for us to use for anything other than cooking. We balance the pool with cool water from the stream.”

  Grit’s eyes were a little unfocused and he wore an uneven smile.

  Kyra poked him in the stomach with her elbow. “You can’t stay in the water any longer, or you’ll get sick. The heat will make you light-headed.”

  Grit shook his head in agreement and wandered back to the shore where he grabbed a towel. He stepped up onto the gray slab of rock and was surprised to find that Kyra was right. His head was spinning and he felt dizzy. He quickly sat down to steady himself after staggering a couple steps to the right.

  He sat there for a while, letting his body cool. He could feel the heat radiating off of it, although the breeze felt warm, not cool like it had before the bath. Grit saw a stack of bakree next to the towels and grabbed one when he got dressed.

  Having finished their bath, the three returned to the village and ate a quick breakfast of bread, cheese and fruit. Grit passed on the wine that everyone was drinking and opted for some clean cool water instead, although he did give the serving maiden a big grin and a wink.

  “You are now in the capable hands of my daughter,” Shar’ran said, as he stood. “I need to leave and take care of some business. I will catch up with you around mid meal.”

  Grit looked up into Shar’ran’s face blankly. He hardly heard the second part; he was still reeling over the fact that Kyra was Shar’ran’s daughter, especially after some of the comments made the previous night. He turned a pale white color and swallowed hard. He turned to face Kyra and she could see the uneasy look in his eye, but she had no idea why he was so upset.

  “Come.” she demanded, taking him by the hand. “It’s time for you to unlearn everything you think you know ... about walking.”

  “Walking?” Grit questioned, staring numbly. He followed her out of the room.

  Kyra led him to an open space at the edge of town where he saw several impossibly young children walking across a paper covered tile floor under the tutelage of an elder elf that was pointing with her stick and yelling sternly at them. They hung their heads in shame when she spoke and whimpered as she scolded. He watched as they stepped and danced across the floor, then carefully examined the floor where she was pointing, searching for something.

  “What are they looking for?” Grit asked Kyra.

  “Footprints!” She said, with a mischievous grin.

  Kyra took Grit’s hand and led him to the tiled floor. She knelt down and gently lifted the nearly transparent paper up by one edge.

  “This paper is made of rice and it is very thin and fragile. Its purpose is to teach you to walk.”

  “Walk?”

  “If you are balanced and light on your feet, you will leave no mark. It is part of The Way that we teach. This will allow you to move quickly and more important, quietly in the hunt. Your balance will be centered and you will remain sure footed in a fight.”

  Grit knelt down beside her and gently lifted the edge. The paper tore under his clumsy fingers. He looked up into Kyra’s eyes and she saw the fear he held inside. Fear of failure.

  She set her hand on his, “Do not worry. We do not expect you to master this. It can take years. Its purpose is to teach you to be aware of your feet and your body.”

  Grit tried to feign a smile.

  “Watch!” Kyra said. “First we will walk. Try to stay balanced with your weight evenly across your foot. Do not shuffle your feet. Do not twist or roll them either. Later we will work on walking on the balls of your feet.”

  Kyra walked out onto the paper and stopped. To Grit it seemed as if she were floating. She effortlessly continued on after looking back over her shoulder. When she reached the other side, she stepped off the tile, bent down and examined the paper. There were no marks. The old woman dipped her chin with a big grin and she smiled approvingly.

  “Now it is your turn,” Kyra said cheerfully.

  Grit took a deep breath and then stepped out onto the paper. His feet shook as he nervously walked as carefully as he could straight to the other side. He heard giggles and snickers coming from the younger children. When he reached the opposite side, he stepped off the tile and turned around.

  His eyes trembled in disbelief. The paper was in shreds, ripped, stretched and damaged. He thought he had been very careful and was coming to realize just how much he had to learn.

  The old woman was standing there, her jaw agape frowning and shaking her head. She took her stick, shook it at Grit, and spewed a whole rattle of elvish at him, of which he didn’t understand a word, but he, sure as the Ten, understood her tone!

  “I didn’t do very well,” he mumbled, staring at the destroyed surface, his head hung low.

  “No, you didn’t. But let’s not worry about that and see what we can learn from the paper,” Kyra said, bending down and sitting on her knees as she examined his trail.

  Grit bent down with her, but wasn’t sure what she could possibly tell him from the mess he had made.

  “S
ee here,” she said, pointing with a crooked stick. “You lean heavily on the outsides of your feet, and here, you curl your toes with each step. And this big tear is caused by you landing and sliding on your heel and not carefully placing your weight across your entire foot.”

  Grit wasn’t sure how she could read all of that from the rips and shreds of paper, but he was willing to take her word for it.

  “So, what do I do to improve?” he asked, desperately. “I’d like to not get the old woman angry ...”

  Kyra stood up, placed her hands on her hips, and stared seriously at the paper, “First we take off your robe, so you can see your feet. Then we will work on standing.”

  “Robe? But I’m nearly nake ...” he stopped mid sentence, closed his eyes, and pulled the robe open displaying his pathetic excuse of a physique.

  “You were saying?” Kyra asked, with a wicked grin on her face.

  The bakree was elf sized, and he was mage size. He fumbled, trying to keep all of himself in the small cloth diaper and was failing miserably. He signed and gave up, swallowing his pride.

  “Standing?” Grit said, humbled pulling his robe from his shoulders. He rolled his eyes in disgust. He must be pitiful if they needed to work on that!

  “Bah!” The old woman said, waving him off as a lost cause.

  Grit looked after her and felt shame, after all, the two and three year old children were walking all over the paper and he could barely see what she was yapping about.

  “Standing, Grit. You need to learn to stand and feel your center of balance before we walk,” Kyra said confidently. “Do not worry. I will break you of all of your bad habits before too long.”

  Grit wished he were half as confident as she was in his ability to conquer this. He looked loathingly at the thin white paper.

  “Now, let’s try again,” she bade him.

  Grit removed his robe and stood there in all his glory. The old woman walked to where he stood and threw a larger bakree in his direction. Grit forced a smile, slid his legs into the bakree, and adjusted it best he could.