King of the House Elves, page 11
Aira had spent a busy day helping Gretchen set up home in a cavity under the thatch in the quietest part of the crog loft. Even if Isla investigated the crevice it would be difficult to distinguish the nest from that of a bird. Aira wove the warm nest pocket with moss and wool, binding it tightly with cobwebs.
The more that Aira came to know the family, the more she realised that Isla was a strange child. Whilst her sister was boisterous and popular, Isla preferred her own company and often pottered about patches of wild ground with her basket collecting flowers and leaves for making concoctions as her grandmother, the village wise woman, taught her. It did not help that Isla was lanky with a squint. Some of the village children called her a witch.
‘I wish I did have second sight,’ Isla said to her mother who comforted her after the taunts of the other children. ‘Then I’d see the kind little folk that help us. I’m sure they would be friendly - far nicer than the village children.’
‘Talking of the Little Folk, we’d best get some rest so the brownies can come out tonight to do their work.’
Gretchen winked at Aira. ‘Quite right. These good humans know how to treat faerie folk. We’d best have breakfast before heading out. Where did I put the last of that bannock, lass?’
Aira fetched it and shared a hearty breakfast with Gretchen. When all fell quiet, she led her downstairs. Her first chore was dusting the shelves of the dresser, which mostly contained pots of Isla’s herbs. A creak of floorboards in the crog loft made her drop the duster with a start. Quicker than blinking, Aira and Gretchen shrank and ran into a corner, leaving their chores half done.
Isla’s pale face appeared, lit with excitement. She gave a cry of delight upon beholding the abandoned goosewing duster and freshly collected eggs. Mrs McCrone woke and warned Isla that she must not offend the brownies by spying on them.
Aira felt sorry for Isla, touched by how much the thought of seeing them meant to this human child. Yet Aira was bound by rules set to keep the worlds of humans and faeries apart. These included not revealing themselves to humans or letting them know their true names, as this enabled evil humans to put brownies in their power.
The steward of the laird who owned the cottage called. ‘You got that rent money together? Wouldn’t surprise me if you’re empty handed, like most widows and their families I’ve evicted. Lord Grant only wants profitable tenants in his cottages.’
His jaw gaped open, wrinkling his double chins, as Mrs McCrone handed him the rent money.
‘I’ve done well with the sale of my spun wool this month,’ she said.
‘So I see,’ the steward said, gazing wide-eyed at her spotless cottage and thriving farm animals. ‘Now I know why you’ve earned renown in the village for your industrious nature.’
‘He has no idea that we have little helpers,’ Mrs McCrone said to Isla after the man left.
The next day would be washing day. When the brownies emerged to do their chores, Aira offered to carry in extra water. She enjoyed fetching water from the spring at the foot of the crag behind the cottage. Lingering in the moonlight, she gazed across the glen to where distant peaks reared their loaf-shaped heads to the clouds, which looked like tufts of unspun wool pulled apart. Far off twinkled the lights of solitary crofts and, further still, the next village. Aira felt small and isolated in the vastness of the world. She and Gretchen had explored the village and found no trace of other brownies. Aira wondered if any lived in the next village and if that was where the company of brownies they found the tracks of had gone.
She knew better than to feel sorry for herself, or to let her loneliness get to her. She reminded herself how she loved Gretchen and that it was better to live as a recluse and be content than to have all the society in the world and be despised or saddened.
Often, she thought of her father. When her grief burdened her, she would go to the nest and take out her bag. Tucked within was a book made of birch bark and bound with donkey hair. In this book, Aira wrote the stories her father told her using shaggy inkcap fungus ink.
Aira’s desire for friendship made her susceptible to Isla’s continued attempts to catch a glimpse of the brownies. Isla always spoke wonderingly and respectfully of them, leaving generous gifts of their favourite foods each night. Aira was touched by the way this lonely girl, though sickly, would make herself wake in the night to look for them.
One night Isla asked her mother if she might sleep near the fire as the heat eased her breathing, though Aira guessed that it was truly so she might have a chance of seeing the brownies.
Gretchen wrung her hands. ‘What shall we do?’
‘Would it be so bad if she saw for sure that it was us doing the chores?’ Aira asked.
‘I don’t mind myself, but it’s not the done thing.’
‘But we could drink some glamour and work in the shadows until she’s asleep.’
‘All right. Let’s set to work.’
Aira accidentally scraped the basket of logs that she and Gretchen carried against the flagstones. At the sound, Aira looked to where Isla lay curled in her blankets. The human girl tensed. Isla must have awakened.
Gretchen had not noticed Isla’s watchfulness. Before Aira could warn her, she headed towards the crog loft. ‘I need to sort out that untidy pile of clothes the eldest girl tossed on the floor. Such laziness puts me out of sorts with the lass, but I’d never dream of the pranks played by some brownies, like knotting her hair into elflocks whilst she sleeps.’
Whilst Gretchen busied herself, Aira moved stealthily into the light. She scrubbed the muddy footprints from the flagstones by the fire, enjoying the amazement on Isla’s face as she watched the bristle brush apparently move by itself as glamour made Aira invisible to the girl.
Isla had no second sight to allow her to see through the glamour, but Aira remembered too late that humans might see faeries between two blinks. Her eyes watering from the disturbed dust, Isla gasped in delight. ‘I can see you! I can really see you! Oh, what a pretty thing you are. Ma always said brownies are ugly. What’s your name?’
The child was so frank and enraptured that Aira felt guilty as she gave the conventional reply of brownies, concealing her true name. ‘I’m me myself.’
‘Memyself? That’s a strange name. Where do you come from?’
‘From a great castle far away. We’ve tried living in lots of places, but this is the best.’
‘We?’
‘Aye. I have my stepmother with me,’ Aira said, introducing her not a moment too soon. Gretchen scampered down the ladder at the sound of voices, her fists clenched.
It took some time before Aira convinced Gretchen of Isla’s harmlessness, despite the girl telling them how pleased she was that they had come and promising not to breathe a word of the fact she had seen them to anyone else. From then on before they descended to their chores they stopped to talk to Isla. Aira enjoyed chattering to the curious human girl.
Life in the cottage remained hard for the family, but every day they blessed the brownies who kept them from sinking to the poverty of many of the other cottagers.
Mrs McCrone’s eldest daughter had always been more interested in her human friends than in the brownies. However, Isla’s fascination with the little people strengthened over time. Aira and Gretchen met Isla more freely once her sister married and left some years later.
Whilst Isla sat by the fire, weary from nursing her sick mother, Aira stirred the embers into life and told her stories of the heroic deeds of brownies long ago when King Peladach won Velmoran.
When Mrs McCrone died, Isla remained alone in the cottage. She scraped a living from her garden produce and few animals, supplemented by her earnings as the village wise woman. Aira enjoyed helping Isla make herbal preparations. Isla always asked her opinion of a diagnosis with a faith that made Aira blush, for she did not feel worthy of it. A human life might rest in her hands and she feared making a mistake. Perhaps her caution made her choose rightly. With her help, Isla built a reputation as a skilled healer, though many visited the cottage warily for she appeared diffident and strange tales spread about her.
Realising there was nothing to hinder her, Aira encouraged Gretchen to join her in doing tasks in the cottage by day. Aira was glad to do so, for the light and colour of day delighted her.
She was lulled into supposing that things would always be thus. However, one day she looked at Isla as with newly opened eyes as Isla dozed to the rhythm of her purring cat. She saw that her friend had grown old and haggard. Aira mourned this, unable to comprehend that human lives should waste away so quickly. It seemed so short a time ago that they had come to the cottage and the intervening years had changed Aira little. Yet Isla had grown and faded like a morning glory bloom that lasts only a few hours.
Aira resolved to make the most of her time with Isla. She worked harder than ever and continued to tell Isla all that she knew about the faerie folk.
One hard winter, Isla fell ill. She spent much time indoors unable to do many tasks and was more grateful than ever for the brownies.
Towards the approach of spring, the hay began to run out. Aira spied a forest of long, yellowed grass upon the slope behind the cottage and made it her mission to gather some rather than risk losing one of their animals. Working by the light of the full moon, by dawn she collected enough to fill the donkey cart thrice over. Flicking strands of grass from her clothes, she imagined she resembled a scarecrow with threads of grass covering her cap and apron. Some even worked their way into her clogs, prickling her feet. With numb fingers, she dragged herself onto a boulder and began to suck foyson from a crust of bread and a wrinkled apple from the dregs of their store. Having finished, she gave the apple to Isla’s donkey.
Lilac clouds lay fleecy in the sky and mist rose from the forest across the valley. It looked so peaceful. The news from one of Isla’s patients that ogres had attacked the villages at the far edge of the forest seemed hard to believe. It was one of many tales of ogre attacks Aira heard that winter. Uneasily, she recalled that ogres rarely travelled into the human world unless they had to, especially in the depths of winter when scrawny humans and beasts made poor meals. Perhaps the ogres’ homes had been disturbed by something yet more fearful?
Gretchen looked relieved to see Aira return safely. ‘Once you’ve finished stabling the donkey, I’ve made you a bowl of hot broth to sup.’
Isla found it hard to grip her spoon with her arthritic fingers. ‘It won’t be long before you have to move on. Try one of the villages down river from here, for none of those around the forest seem safe.’
‘Now Isla, don’t get gloomy. I’m sure we’ll stay with you for a good while yet,’ Aira said.
Isla smiled at her. ‘You’re growing quite a dainty young lady. It seems cruel for you to live a solitary life. No doubt you’ll be wanting a husband soon. I hope you find a young man of your kind when you move on.’
Warmth flooded Aira’s cheeks as her daydreams about Boroden rose to mind. ‘You mistake me. I can get by well on my own.’
Chapter 13
Hëkitarka woke from a delicious dream in which he dashed through a forest hunting squirrels. Grey light penetrated his eyes and he groaned. Blinking, he sat up and flexed his muscles, which felt wooden after his long sleep.
Harfan still slumbered. Brushing the hair from his brother’s face, Hëkitarka was surprised to find not the lad he had last seen but a handsome, fully grown young brownie with the beginnings of stubble. Optimistically, Hëkitarka put his hand to his own chin. It still felt smooth.
Peering at himself in the long mirror stood by the nest, Hëkitarka saw a willowy lad staring back at him. He had long brooms of whiskers and his hair had dapples of silver like storm clouds, rich brown and black with blond about his ears.
‘Hmm, not bad.’ Noticing that he had grown during hibernation, he frowned. By the looks of things, he promised to be taller than Harfan. Used to being the little brother, he nibbled his lip in apprehension.
Hëkitarka’s joy at surviving the winter was matched by the entire court. Now Harfan had come of age, he would be crowned ruler of Lutraudros. Against the odds, that winter Isadora had beaten back the ice giants. Now even their leader, Merdigar, agreed to abide by the truce that Boroden struck.
Though Hëkitarka was proud and eager in his preparations for the coronation, he felt a tinge of sadness. Harfan had been his best friend, his brother, the father that was taken from him, his world. The first word he had spoken was his brother’s name. The fifty-two years difference between them had been nothing before.
Now a wedge, which Hëkitarka resented as completely arbitrary, pushed them apart. Often, Harfan got called from his side to greet traders, investigate suspected sightings of yetis and cave bears and to attend counsels to which Hëkitarka was not admitted. It pleased Hëkitarka that the chieftains of Lutraudros admired Harfan’s eloquence and wisdom for one so young. He quickly developed a reputation as a great prince of their people.
Hëkitarka watched the Hallahaft Championships eagerly that year. His elder brother excelled at this test of the strength and resilience of the warriors of Lutraudros in which the chief weapon was the war hammer. Harfan had shown great promise as a child and many times came close to winning. Surely this year he would earn a crowning victory?
Harfan’s prowess as a warrior pleased Hëkitarka yet more because it reminded him of their father. Harfan took after Leon in his steadiness, nobleness, kind heart and flowing golden hair. Hëkitarka loved combing and braiding Harfan’s hair before the contest and thought he looked every inch the winning warrior in his war paint, his father’s war hammer hung from his belt.
‘It still beats me how you can wield that cumbersome war hammer so well. I prefer archery, though that has no place in the championships.’
Harfan squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s a shame - you can shoot with your bow better than anyone in the kingdom.’
Hëkitarka pulled himself up straight as a horn sounded to announce the beginning of the contest. ‘Good luck. I’ll be watching every step from the royal dais. Remember to wave to me.’
Harfan won the first round by demolishing a snow cave bear figure with a single swipe of his war hammer. Hëkitarka’s heart swelled in admiration as Harfan proceeded to make his way with modest efficiency through round after round of the games.
Harfan closed in on Galman, the only remaining contestant and champion of the brownies, in a race to finish a snowy uphill course fraught with obstacles. Suddenly the stocky brownie tumbled into a snowdrift as a chunk of ice span mysteriously across the track. Hëkitarka failed to suppress his chuckle.
His smile faded as he recalled that in the final round Harfan would face the leader of the ice giants. Boroden’s truce had been struck with the ice giants on the condition that they might enact this symbolic battle with the brownies. Their appetite for the contest was all the stronger as Merdigar had been the reining champion for two decades.
Hëkitarka went to Harfan to help him with his armour. ‘Congratulations on making it to the final round.’
‘I’m not sure congratulations are in order. You know the concluding fight is against last year’s winner.’ Harfan exchanged a solemn look with his brother. Both knew Merdigar’s ruthlessness. ‘We’re to fight until one of us can stand it no more.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re the best war hammer wielder I know,’ Hëkitarka said, applying fresh warpaint to Harfan’s forehead.
‘You’re the only one who thinks so, I fear,’ Harfan smiled.
Hëkitarka joined Isadora to watch the fight. Harfan strode into the arena.
‘Is this boy all you could find?’ Merdigar guffawed. Before Harfan had time to ready himself, Merdigar swung his war hammer made from a massive chunk of polished granite.
Harfan staggered backwards to avoid it. Righting himself, he made a return blow. Merdigar dodged, playing with Harfan. The giant weakened Harfan, watching for his moment.
Isadora gripped the arms of her throne with white knuckles. ‘If Harfan dies then our folk will lose morale and Merdigar will easily incite them to war to avenge their prince.’
Hëkitarka scowled. ‘It’s not fair Merdigar having that sturdy helmet. Harfan’s helmet is more for show than use, though he’s better looking. Merdigar has a face like a month dead cave bear.’
From behind Hëkitarka’s throne Quentillian coughed, indicating Merdigar’s wife, a giantess wearing a collar of icicles. She glowered at Hëkitarka, having overhead him. He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the game.
Hëkitarka cheered as Merdigar lost his footing as he dealt Harfan a wheeling punch. The giant’s helmet landed on Harfan’s head. ‘That’s better.’
The crowd murmured as Harfan twisted the oversized helmet so that he could see.
Merdigar struggled up, snarling. ‘Thief! I’ll teach you.’
‘Wait,’ Harfan protested, reaching up to remove the helmet.
Merdigar lunged and Harfan swung out to defend himself. Merdigar flew into the air and crashed onto a jagged boulder. The crowd parted around the groaning ice giant.
Harfan coughed and held out the helmet. ‘I believe this is yours.’
Merdigar snatched it, furious but feeble. He held out his war hammer to Harfan. ‘Take it.’
Harfan hesitated, clearly dumbfounded that Merdigar admitted defeat.
‘Take it. It’s not often I meet someone who’s a match for me,’ Merdigar said.
Harfan nodded, summoning his strongest lifting spell to brandish the war hammer above his head.
The ice giants retreated to their encampment, casting the brownies dark looks.
The cheering crowd lifted Harfan up onto a boulder. ‘Speech, speech,’ the brownies chanted, thrusting the trophy, an emerald goblet, into his hands.
‘Are you sure? It’s time for the feasting to begin,’ Harfan said.
‘Course. Your speeches are legendary,’ Hëkitarka said, adding as his stomach rumbled, ‘I’m not sure my belly agrees about postponing the feast, though.’
