Dream Magic

by B. V. Larson

  No. They were dead. Scores of them. Their fine white hands curled as they reached from under crushed mushrooms. They lay in the final repose of all living things. So many! Even though these elves were enemies of his, he could not help but be shocked by the loss.

  He crept from body to body, crushed hut to crushed hut, ever coming closer to the source of the cloying, thick smoke.

  Suddenly, before he could bound away, a figure appeared atop a mushroom fresh-grown.

  Tomkin froze. He knew the figure, and by the nature of the mushroom cap he stood upon he knew that the elves had regrown their village at least in part.

  The elf that stood on a high perch was Oberon, and he was gazing down into the fiery mess that was the producing the thick smoke.

  Tomkin glanced around himself, understanding now that the elves who lay dead in profusion were not killed today. They’d been left to lie there for weeks—maybe even months. This was not the way of any civilized people much less elves. He was at a loss to explain why they would simply rebuild next to their own dead, leaving the bodies of loved one stacked like cordwood. Had they all gone mad at once?

  “Today, we shall feast,” Oberon was saying, addressing people Tomkin could not see for the smoke. “We shall take thick boar meat into our bodies and toughen ourselves. We are few, but we must each gather an army to our banner. We shall march at the head of a horde before we’re done!”

  Tomkin cocked his head, no less surprised to hear Oberon’s words than he had been at finding their discarded dead. Whatever was going on, the elves seemed to have lost some of their sanity. It was a chilling thought, as they were a powerful people. Normally, their actions were predictable as long as one understood their ways.

  “The Great Tree slew many of us, but not all. Each day, more elves arrive from distant clans to join us seeking revenge. Our loved ones will not be forgotten. When we have a thousand bows in our collective hands, we will hunt down the Tree and kill the rotten spider that sits in its heart.”

  Tomkin wanted to laugh at this. Myrrdin was an old, rotten spider if ever there was one. But he was given pause again, because he realized now that Myrrdin must have caused all this damage to the village. He’d killed his own kin here. It was a shocking thing, something that Myrrdin had left out of his tale.

  “And now,” Oberon said, “douse the flames and make ready for the feast. I would call upon our guest of honor to join us in the festivities!”

  A cheer went up from the white throats of a hundred elves. The smoke had begun to clear, and Tomkin could see them now. They were dressed as elves often did when seeking war: each wore a tunic of finely sewn leather, studded with bits of metal and stone. Bows were slung over their backs and short, curving blades rode at their hips.

  Tomkin rose up from his hiding place, standing on his tiptoes to see who the guest of honor was.

  The elves rushed forward then, casting pails of water on the great fire. After a gout of choking steam dissipated, he could see what the elves had been roasting. It was a gigantic boar the size of a tavern. It was huge! The hair had burnt away and the meat had been seared, but was obviously raw in places.

  The elves did not seem to care. They drew their curved blades and hacked at the monster, removing glistening hunks of hot meat. They filled their hands and plates then returned to their seats and began to loudly consume the boar meat.

  Tomkin wasn’t disgusted as he’d eaten worse in his life—far worse. But he was baffled by this newfound behavior in the elves. They were more like barbaric humans than highborn creatures of the trees.

  He dared to creep farther forward until he stood behind a shield carved in the shape of a leaf. He suspected that the honored guest Oberon had spoken of would be the sorceress. He wanted to see this witch and take her measure for himself. But she was not in view.

  Oberon lowered his arms to his hips and gazed around the crowd expectantly.

  “Not eating with us, my guest? How rude!”

  Then, with fantastic speed, he leapt down and rushed to the leaf-shaped shield Tomkin sheltered behind and snatched it away.

  “Here he is!” he roared.

  An answering chorus of laughter rose from the rest.

  “Tomkin, my honored guest, where are you going?”

  Tomkin was three hops toward the village walls by the time he heard those words. He dared to halt. Slowly, he turned around. He drew himself up to his full height and cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry, I thought perhaps you were speaking to another. You do have another guest here, don’t you, Lord Oberon?”

  “I have many honored guests. But tonight, none so fine as you! None who can cause the rainbow to march at their whim as once did I! Will you not stay for a time?”

  Tomkin licked his thin lips and his eyes darted around the scene. He knew Oberon may still be angry about Lavatis, the Blue Jewel. Long years ago, Oberon had wielded the Blue Jewel and considered it his possession. But, as is ever the case with Wee Folk and possessions, one of Tomkin’s kind relieved the elf lord of the burden. Now Tomkin wielded the Blue while Oberon wielded the Red. That seemed to Tomkin to be a fair exchange, but some folk might still harbor sore feelings concerning the matter.

  Tomkin eyed the fire and the foul animal they roasted over it. The elves were feasting on the meat they’d taken. They were barely looking at him. Instead, they chewed and ripped at their chunks of pig meat like hungry dogs attacking a fallen calf.

  “I thank you, Lord Oberon,” Tomkin said formally, “but I just came by to—”

  “Nonsense!” said Oberon, cutting him off. “I’ll not hear of it. Don’t be rude…join us!”

  At the mention of the word rude, Tomkin froze. It was a dangerous word when spoke by the Faerie. They might use rudeness as an excuse for any kind of horrible act, maintaining afterward their cruelty was necessary to right a perceived wrong.

  On the other hand, accepting the hospitality of an elf, while not a guarantee there would be no mischief, went a long way toward establishing rules of honor during the meeting. There were things they would not do—lest they be perceived as rude themselves.

  “Of course I accept your offer,” Tomkin said quickly.

  Deciding to get it over with and not knowing exactly what Oberon’s game was, he said formally: “I will share your hearth and fire. I will sup with you, in peace, as is our shared tradition.”

  The group fell silent at this announcement All eyes traveled to Oberon, who stood stalk-still for a moment. Tomkin had raised the stakes by suggesting the offer of shared food at this fire established a relationship of host and guest between them. This mattered greatly, as to harm one’s guest created a great loss of honor for the host.

  Oberon inclined his head forward after pausing, giving the tiniest of nods. Instantly, Tomkin scuttled forward and hacked free a choice bit of meat, a triangular section of the beast’s massive, flapping ear. He opened his alarmingly large mouth and bit off a big chunk, chewing contentedly.

  “We should do this sort of thing more often!” he said after his first half-dozen bites.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Oberon watched Tomkin closely as the other ate, but Tomkin calculated he was safe from unpleasantness for now. He stood upon a fallen log lined with elves in battle armor who chewed as if they were wild Wee Folk themselves—or many even rhinogs.

  “Why are you geared for war, Oberon?” Tomkin asked, “if I may be so bold as to ask, that is.”

  “Because war has been brought to us!” Oberon shouted back. His company of elves cheered his words, pumping their fists high. Tomkin frowned at the uncharacteristic display of bravado.

  “And who do you war upon?”

  Oberon swaggered close. He had a rib the size of a sword in his hand, and he waved it at Tomkin after sucking meat from it.

  “We war upon the Great Tree.”

  “You mean Myrrdin?”

  The elves fell quiet. Oberon looked at him.

  “What do you know of the wizard
?”

  “I know he’s your son, and you kept him locked in an underground prison until he went mad.”

  The elves stared. Their eyes slid as one from Tomkin to Oberon, who in turn stood gazing down at Tomkin.

  “What would you know of that matter?” Oberon asked. “Are you in league with the Great Tree?”

  Tomkin shrugged. “You should know better than that. He has certain interesting ideas, but he’s clearly a mad-thing.”

  The tension seemed to drain from the elves. Then, as Tomkin looked over his shoulder at the fallen elves nearby, he thought he understood now.

  “Myrrdin rampaged and killed your people, didn’t he, Oberon? That’s why there is a mass of unburied, fallen elves in your village.”

  “Yes,” the old elf said softly. “And we plan to hunt the Great Tree down for its sins. The foulness in the heart of that tree is like sap gone bad. We will burn out the trunk until nothing but a cinder of the old goat remains.”

  “Sound policy, that,” Tomkin said conversationally around a second helping. The mass of pig’s ear was chewy and he worked his jaws methodically. “But I’m not sure how you will go about bringing down the tree... I mean, all you have are knives and bows. He’s not going to be knocked flat with such tiny weapons. And as to burning—where is your source of flame?”

  “We have flame aplenty,” said a new voice. This voice was querulous and ancient, but feminine all the same.

  Tomkin stood, letting his pig’s ear drop into the dirt and lie there to fester. He could not believe his eyes.

  A figure had walked onto the scene. She was not the sorceress that Tomkin had been expecting. Instead of white satin, she wore a rough tunic of thick leather, shot through with rivets. Instead of a comely face, she had the leering look of a wizened crone.

  What was even more surprising was her point of entry onto the scene. She did not come from a fungi hut, nor from the edge of the village. Instead, she walked out of the massive fire over which the great pig was roasted.

  “Gudrin? Queen of the Kindred?” Tomkin asked aloud, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

  “The same,” Gudrin said. “Who else did you expect? I’m here to burn out the Great Tree. As Oberon has explained, it is the only way.

  Tomkin was stunned. The Queen of the Kindred should be in her halls beneath Snowdon, not feasting with elves in the Twilight Lands.

  “Where is your retinue, Lady?” he asked. “It is not seemly for a Queen to walk the wilds alone.”

  “Where is your retinue, impertinent manling?” she retorted. “You’re the leader of your people, the same as I am of mine. I walk where I will and do as I please—when something needs doing.”

  Oberon clapped slowly, making each popping sound of his hands ring loud in the forest.

  “Well said, milady!” he shouted. “And as you say, we have great need of your flame.”

  Tomkin looked from one of them to the other, and a chill ran through him. They were not acting like themselves. Each had a feral light burning in their eyes—a look of secret pleasure.

  Tomkin was not a creature of slow wit and thoughtfulness. His kind had not survived the ages as the smallest of intelligent folk without having developed instincts that would make any housecat proud.

  “I have the perfect thing to aid this mission!” he cried, and he drew Lavatis from his tunic.

  The rest of those present were startled by this development. None of the others who possessed Jewels of their own had yet to reveal theirs. To do so was bad form—rather like drawing a sword at a dinner table and driving the point through the host’s plate.

  As he spoke rapidly, Tomkin did what he could with the time his surprise had provided him. He called upon the Rainbow with as much urgency as he’d ever done in his life.

  “You can burn the tree, but I can put out the flame so the forest itself shall not be set alight! What will be your role, Oberon? Will you track down the monster, should it decide to run?”

  Oberon frowned at Tomkin and kept glancing at Lavatis. Was there a certain twinge of greed there in his eyes? Once a mind has been touched by one of the Jewels, it was never again fully free of the longing for it. Like a lover past who ever returned in heated dreams, the Jewel forever stole part of every heart it touched.

  “Put away your stone, manling,” Gudrin scolded him. “Don’t you know you’re torturing this poor old elf?”

  “Nonsense,” said Oberon, putting on a brave front. “At least we know he’s not bluffing, and that he can play his part when the time comes.”

  Then there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. The elves looked around them in surprise. Storms were rare here in the Great Erm. A stroke of lighting flickered overhead a moment later and a branch was struck from a massive pine. The branch fell in the forest nearby with a deafening crash. A peal of thunder rang over the village. It was so loud it seemed that perhaps giants beat upon stone drums in fury.

  All eyes were aloft at the heavens save for two sets: those belonging to Gudrin and Oberon. They were looking for Tomkin, rather than gaping at the brewing storm.

  “He’s gone!” roared Gudrin. Her finger was out, and flame rippled up and down her arm, coming to a blue tongue as hot as dragon’s breath at the tip. Her eyes blazed with fury that matched the fire that welled up to envelop her body.

  “He’s called the Rainbow,” Oberon said, and he turned to rouse his confused company. “To arms!” he cried. “Take not sword or bow—grab up nets. We must take him alive!”

  Tomkin, who heard these words not far behind him, put on an extra burst of speed. All the while he’d been chatting and supping with these folk, he’d been calculating his exit route, should he get the chance. Now he ran as only his kind could.

  No hare, nor fox, nor soaring bird could match a Wee One in full flight. He scrambled over the spongy roofs of huts and bounced from the curtain of woven logs that served the village as a wall. He saw the exit was guarded already, with alert sentries lifting nets to capture him.

  How could they have nets at hand so soon? He could only think they’d been prepared for his arrival—well prepared.

  “There he is! At the gates!”

  “He’s gone now, have a care!”

  Skittering away from the easy exit and following the walls, he now knew what he must do. He must not panic, and he must find another way out. Either that—or he could wait until the Rainbow came to distract them. But it seemed there was nowhere to hide, nowhere he could hunker down safely for a minute or two.

  “He’s among the Dead!” roared another elf, making a cast for him.

  Tomkin’s foot was caught by a whirling net. It was weighted with hooks and sharp stones. He struggled free, squeaking like a rabbit in a snare, then bounded away before the elf could land upon him.

  The chase went on. Tomkin’s heart beat impossibly fast in his chest. His leaps, which had before been small and precise to keep him low to the ground and thus hidden from view by the huts, now became desperate high-jumps. Each stride took him so high into the air he cleared piles of rubble before his feet struck down again in a new place, whereupon he launched himself up again.

  Each time he came down, an elf or two made desperate attempts to capture him. They threw nets and dashed themselves to the ground, fingers outstretched. When they leapt to their feet again, their faces and hands bled, but they paid no heed. Each and every one of them had a strange, yellow glint in their eyes. Tomkin was certain that their minds were not entirely their own.

  Finally, at long last, the Rainbow arrived on the scene. A giant it was, shimmering and translucent. Like a massive pile of jelly that was more air than liquid, the creature’s great foot slammed into the two elves that had stopped Tomkin from leaving the village gates. They were bowled over, one of them struck dead.

  The second foot came down on the fire in the middle of the village, smashing aside the beast they roasted there on a spit and sinking into the bonfire below.

  A mass of hissing fumes rose up
, taking on a half-dozen shades. What had been smoke of the traditional gray-white now turned to a bubbling froth of magenta, bright green, azure and blood red. The flesh of the Rainbow was like the meat of a cloud.

  The pain of the fire caused the Rainbow to cry out for the first time. It howled, a sound at once both terrifying and beautiful in its alien tone.

  Tomkin smiled as he made good his escape. The elves were now well and truly distracted. He ran and ran until he heard no more sounds of pursuit. Behind him, the Rainbow flailed at the elves, who were now unwisely attacking it with bow and blade. Arrows shot into its body so hard they burst from the far side, and blades cut colored wads of gauzy flesh from its stomping feet and ankles.

  Tomkin suspected it would go mad soon, and destroy the village before it was done.

  “Serves them right,” he said, watching from the lowest branch of the smallest tree he had found. It provided him the perfect vantage point.

  “Does it now?” asked a soft voice.

  Tomkin whirled, but he was too late.

  A net did not descend. A blade did not thrust. Instead, the fine-boned white hand of a fair lady reached out and caressed his cheek lightly. The touch was odd, and he slapped his hand to the spot. It tingled still, and it seemed to him that his hand was now tingling as well.

  He looked down at his hand, but saw nothing amiss. His yearn to flee, however, had left him.

  “Let’s talk for a while,” said the woman.

  “You’re the Witch of the Wood.”

  “Yes, I am. And do you know what else I am?”

  “No, lovely Lady.”

  “I’m now your mistress, you troublesome little monster.”

  Tomkin chuckled at that. He willed himself to bound away, but found his feet were stuck fast to the spot on the branch he’d perched upon.

  “What deviltry is this?”

  Morgana showed him the White that gleamed upon her breast. He knew the truth then, and his will to flee ebbed away.

  “How did you catch me? How did you come to be here?”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Before I answer that you must send away the Rainbow. It’s making a mess of my elf village. Fools they may be, but I have need of them.”