Chapter 11
Pazeta
~
I ran late and hurried across the rough gravel of the shoreline. I found myself concentratin’ on the crunch of my boots upon the polished pebbles, and the gentle rhythmic lappin’ of waves against the thin ice linin’ the Lake. The two sounded beautifully harmonic, one dramatic, the other impatient. I chided myself for my lack of focus. Needed to decide which story I was gonna recite.
There are so many to choose from. Thankfully all the orclings are near the same age, young enough that many of my own favorite stories, the short, quaint ones, are still appreciated. My mind wandered. Couldn’t help but consider how odd it was the human woman allowed her precious little toddler to associate with all the orcs Kincere cared for durin’ the day. Well, there weren’t that many. Her two, and the four new ones that somehow survived to make it to the Hamlet at the beginnin’ of last winter. Oh, it was a harsh one.
The human woman, Miss Lydia, is a strange one. Did her husband and brother-in-law insist little Gladys socialize with the neighbor orclings? Lydia certainly doesn’t act like she personally has an incredible tolerance for other races. She doesn’t even talk around the elf. She reserved her conversation for Gladys and Sylvia, her own kind, but they’re constantly surrounded by at least one troll, or an ogre or two. The Valley must be a lonely place for the woman. Remember how that felt. Took me a year to find my own place.
Lydia is starting her fifth year in the Valley. Poor woman. That’s a long time to be isolated.
No racket drifted from the edge of the woods where Kincere gave the little ones their lunch and set them down for their nap when the weather accommodated. I’m not that late, am I? The gang of younglings certainly didn’t stop their din simply because they munched on sandwiches.
I found them farther afield from where they normally rested. Prolly to get away from the breeze comin’ off the Lake.
“I was afraid ya got busy at the Inn.” Kincere, the sweetest daughter in the world, rose from her blanket set out on the grass and gave me a kiss, as the little ones lined up for their own.
“Finally made it. Hello, ya darlings.”
A high pitched chorus of, “Hello, Miss Pazeta,” sang back.
I whispered to my daughter, “An elderly guest pulled his back traipsin’ in the mountains. I have no clue what provokes these folks to ride in a wagon for a day, to kill themselves hikin’ these hills.”
Kincere gave me a wink.
One by one the younglings made their way past me. The tiny human child wrapped her arms around my neck after her peck on the cheek. No. She didn’t get that behavior from her mama Lydia. The tots quickly made their way back to their own blankets and settled down for the day’s story. My chest welled a moment, thankful I’m still appreciated for this last orcin skill.
I sat next to Kincere and the excited blue eyes of the human child caught my attention. She’s the youngest, but still listened with an eagerness and fascination to the age-old orcin fables and tales.
Only that moment did I decide which I was going to tell. I described the nasty chicanery of young Lukim, and his fondness for the village’s sweetest hen. The elder told Lukim he had to overcome five challenges before the council would allow him to woo the pretty princess of his desires. But the elder wouldn’t give a hint what the challenges were.
I think I told the story with more energy than I ever had. Though the six older orclings yawned and struggled to focus to even stay awake, little Gladys leaned forward, eyes open wide, enraptured. How much of the fanciful story could the toddler even appreciate?
The story completed, the orclings fell back ready for their naps. Little Gladys jumped up and gave me another hug, another kiss on the cheek. She returned to her blanket and curled up with her little stuffed doll. She calls it Dody, a little thing my son Janding made her for her birthday. There’s nothing special about the toy. It has a wooden-carved head connected to a rod that fit through the body’s stuffin’. Through a little pouch in the back, the head could be manipulated a bit, makin’ it appear it could look left and right. It’s simply dressed in a white smock and a gingham skirt. Humble maybe, but it’s never out of the child’s reach.
~
Havin’ no clients this afternoon, I helped Eina and the others prepare for the dinner service. Though still hours away, the chatter and clankin’ of cookware echoed loudly in the kitchen. But nothin’ covered up the call from the dragons. A series of trumpets across the Lake from Iza began it all. The nearby Tir and Syl joined in an instant later.
“My, Lord. What is that?” Gladys asked, dread already streakin’ her face, as it was Sylvia, Ren, and Eina’s.
Braes walked in through the door to the dinin’ hall holdin' his hands over his ears. The trumpetin’ turned into high-pitched keens. Poor elf and his heightened hearin’.
“What is it?” Eina asked the elf.
He shook his head. “Perhaps the old queen?”
We all made our way out the side door. Syl stood outside his barn. We all covered our ears as Tir flew over, landin’ near his brother. The two dragons extended their heads into the air, screamin’ in a deafenin’ pitch. Their heads twisted as though they were possessed.
I sobbed, though I didn’t know what for yet, but the sound wrenched at my heart. I struggled to breathe. Turned to look at the others. Tears flooded down all of their cheeks. Janding staggered around the front of the Inn as though he was drunk. He bent over and grabbed his knees.
Janding and Syl feel each other’s most casual emotion via their close dragon bond. Through my own sobs, I realized I must get to my son, but found it hard to make my feet move. I ploughed forward and reached Janding’s side.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“Iza. Iza. Iza,” was all he could say.
I helped Janding toward the two keenin’ dragons, but Janding and I had to stop. The intensity of the dragons’ trumpets was too painful. We stood next to the Inn’s garden, holdin’ our hands over our ears. The din softened a moment later. Syl fluttered toward the others who still stood outside the kitchen. Janding and I rushed to join them. Gnomes flitted in and out all around them.
“Gladys,” Janding shouted. “Iza wants us to bring ya to Kincere’s right now.”
We all jerked as though struck. The meanin’ of the message brought the pain closer to home. One of the younglings? Considerin’ who started the impassioned chaos, it must be the child closest to Iza and Lucas—little Gladys.
The woman the child was named for pulled herself together to collect her basket of herbs. Minutes later, Gladys rushed back out the door with her thin’s and scrambled up Syl’s shoulder, behind Janding. I climbed up behind the two. The dragon leapt into the air before I was confidently snug. Startled, I clutched at the human in front of me. The issue at hand helped me manage to push aside the horror of the short flight over the black waters.
~
“I can’t wake her up,” Kincere kept screamin’.
Gladys already knelt next to the child and Kincere ran into my open arms.
“Everyone else woke and began playin’. I thought she was just tired, so I let her sleep a little longer. Oh Mama! Mama! She won’t wake up!”
Kincere flung her face into my shoulder. Her head collided against my bones. The pain felt strangely refreshin’, as though it was right to have some kind of physical pain to go with the emotional agony my daughter must be experiencin’.
A story of an orcin hero slipped across my mind. He had battled for hours even after sustainin’ wounds that should have killed him. The pain I sensed comin’ from those around me washed more overwhelmin’ than what the hero perhaps noticed from his wounds.
“What could it be, Mama? What should I have done?” Kincere’s voice fell to a whisper. “Could I have done somethin’? Is there somethin’ I don’t know about humans?”
I didn’t know what to tell her. I pulled her tightly against me and thrummed her back. Was there indeed somethin’ we should have known about human children?
I peered over at the sobbin’ Lydia. Hours ago I thought unflatterin’ thin’s about the woman. Now the human’s experiencin’ a horror no parent should ever feel. Could my own thoughts have invited a bad spirit to the Hamlet?
I looked around for the orclings. Saw two of the newcomer-hens had them all huddled on Kincere’s porch. They wore the same pain on their faces as the long-time residents.
The keenin’ of Iza fifty feet away covered the sound of the others’ cries. A doctor. Someone should be goin’ for a doctor.
“Lucas. Lucas,” I called.
The young man turned to face me, but his glassy, red eyes looked past, unfocused.
“Lucas.”
He staggered forward.
“Lucas. You must go north for a doctor,” I told him.
He stood, noticeably wobblin’. I took his hand as Kincere pulled away and grasped the tall human’s other forearm.
“Kyn—and Tae—are on their way north already,” Lucas finally mumbled. He shook his head as though tryin’ to wake up. “I’m—sorry. Feelin’ both my fear and Iza’s anxiety is very—” He looked forward, not focusin’ again. “It’s very troublin’. The emotions—compound—each other.”
“I understand, Lucas. Will Iza’s brothers know where to find the doctor?”
“Iza has shown them.”
I struggled for a moment to catch his meanin’, until I remembered Janding’s explanation of the mental bond he held with Syl, which all the dragons also shared. I looked at Iza. Her brothers, Tir and Syl, were now by her side, consolin’ her, their necks wound together like a braid. The trumpetin’ had thankfully stopped, but the three emitted a shrill bay.
“Do you think a human should go with them?” I asked Lucas.
He didn’t answer for a moment. “Tae—is bondin'—with an ogreling-hen from the north plains. Aedwin’s her name. She’s gone with Tae.”
The young human seemed to be recoverin’ with the forced conversation, so I continued to ask him questions. As Lucas calmed, so did the three dragons. But Lucas doubled over with sobs as his brother picked little Gladys up and carried her toward their cabin. Kincere and I walked with Lucas, each graspin’ an arm. A procession formed behind us.
The daemon, Kelza, carried the cryin’ mama, Lydia. I thought back to my thoughts of the woman’s prejudices earlier in the day. My face burned.
~
I looked out the eight panes of glass that made up the arch of the window facin’ the Lake. It had been fourteen days since little Gladys—since she became ill. Rarely had the sky over the Valley been empty. There was always one dragon present, soarin’ in a long loop. The others, I understood, circled above the hospital hundreds of miles to the north.
I always knew the tiny human girl was one of my favorite, even over my own great-orclings, but never imagined the child gripped the whole Hamlet like she does. Only part of the fondness tied to the fact she’s the first human born to the Hamlet. Represents a promise for a grand future. Even, a bit of cohesion between the races.
For fourteen days, Braes had been allowin’ guests to remain in the Inn without charge. He told them, “No one should pay to vacation in a place where there is no joy.”
The guests turned around and offered their silver toward little Gladys’ doctor fees. The Hamlet’s already takin’ care of those things. The guests insisted, so a fund for the child grew.
I stared across the Lake, where the cabin peered between the trees, where the tiny little girl should be playin’ with six orcin playmates. Instead, she’s miles away, frozen, showin’ no motion other than an occasional flutter of an eyelid. Tears welled again. I didn’t even try to blink them away. I studied my schedule through the blur. Don’t have another client for two hours. I had time to—just—
I remained unmovin’, starin’ out the window.
~
Little Gladys was scheduled to return home, day twenty-seven, and everyone at the Inn wore horribly insincere smiles, the best face they could put on. The sky had been a gloomy-slate for a week. True winter would fall on us soon and the Inn is mostly empty of guests. The streams leadin' to the Lake remain frozen through the day. Eyes watched the sky for the inevitable snow which could come any hour it seemed, considerin’ the solemn gray out the window.
I, like all the females of the Hamlet, spent many hours with the spinster who moved to the Hamlet to help with little Gladys. Hortense is her name. She’s a kind, wrinkled thin’ with sloped shoulders, pepper-colored hair, a beak of a nose. She always wears a thin, knowin’ smile on her face. The family will need her.
Lucas reported little Gladys was skin and bone, but regained some tiny movement of her limbs. Her fingers were clenched together in grotesque fists. Her speech, this is when Lucas’ voice broke, was little more than ahhs and grunts.
Dragon trumpetin’ filled the sky. I whirled around and ran to the window. Could only mean one thin’. Syl was the only one visible over the Lake. He fell crazily for several moments before throwin’ out his wings and glidin’ north, out of my view. I turned for the stairs and ran down them with less care than I know I should in the gloom.
The gallery below was empty. Janding and Kelhin already stood outside on the deck. I rushed out and joined them at the banister and waved at the seven trumpetin’ dragons. Iza left the sedge’s formation and circled slowly toward the family’s cabin across the Lake. I turned to the two orc bulls next to me. Tears ran down both of their faces. Janding’s knees visibly shook. His friend held him, arm around his back. My son has always been emotional, even before bondin’ with Syl. Since, he could burst out in laughter or tears in most any casual conversation.
Kelhin, I thought, is the surprise. But I reconsidered. I know his mate, my daughter, felt responsible for little Gladys’ illness. That’s nonsense of course, but natural enough. The girl was in her care the day she was stricken. Kelhin and Kincere no doubt shared many troublin’ words about it at night, in the privacy of their bedroom.
I looked to my left. The rest of the Hamlet’s North Shore residents stood on the Inn’s veranda, watchin’ Iza land a mile away. Did the desire to run over to see little Gladys swirl as strongly in their chests as it did mine? It must. They had all agreed to give the girl and her family time to adjust without visitors, and to rest from the trip home.
~
“They should move over here for the winter,” the troll, Yoso, grumbled through a mouthful of biscuit. “Not fair only the orcs and daemons will get a chance to be around her once the snow comes.”
“Yar leg ain’t broke,” Eina teased her mate. “Ya can go a visitin’ anytime ya choose. Ya can do what the ogres do and wear some furs on yar feet. I’ll bet Janding would even be willin’ to help ya craft some boots for those ugly feet of yars.”
The troll hen looked over at the orc-bull and he nodded his head earnestly.
Yoso said, “Ya’re bein’ downright disrespectful now, hen. I may need to replace ya. Never soddin’ my troll feet.”
I watched the beamin’ smiles around the long table. I’ll never get used to the constant sarcasm the trolls, ogres, and humans toss about so lightly. As the thought crossed my mind, I watched Gladys reach over and wipe a smudge of gravy off Bick’s chin. Yet like that, they all could be as lovin’ as puppies. Not that I like puppies. Why they were brought to the Hamlet, I can’t imagine. Nasty little creatures. But now there’s at least one litterin’ every kitchen on both the North and South Shore. It isn’t clean, havin’ the scraggly, flea bitten beasts indoors or out.
“Little Gladys needs the surroundin’s of her own home more than she needs bawdy neighbors disruptin’ her peace,” Sylvia said. She pointed her fork, which held a chunk of ham danglin’ off it, at Yoso.
The troll growled, deep in his chest. Eina clubbed him hard in the arm. The elf walked in from the kitchen and held out his little fist full of straw at me. “What?” I asked.
“We’ll draw straws to see who gets to go see the child first. We agreed only two of us at a time, one pair in the morning, one in the afternoon.” He continued, no doubt prompted by my confused glare. “Straws are all a different length, longest goes first.”
Elves are strange creatures. But then, there is no formal social hierarchy in the Hamlet like there was in an orcin clan, which would have determined the order. I pulled out a length of straw about two inches long.
“Congratulations,” Braes said, with a wink.
The stub didn’t seem that long, but they couldn’t be too long and be hidden in the elf’s tiny hand.
~
The wind blew off the Lake and whipped my cape about, snuck under my hood tinglin’ my ears. This is the nasty part about livin’ here. Almost enough to make me miss the eastern desert. Maybe not. Come to appreciate regular meals, not worryin’ about the clan well dryin’ up.
“Colder than a witch’s wing tip,” Sylvia groaned.
“Witches have wings?” I asked. I didn’t really care if the spell-weavers did, but anythin’ to take my mind off the thoughts that cluttered it was welcome.
The woman laughed. “Sorry. An expression.”
Humans have too many expressions. “What race are witches?” I asked.
“Never thought about it,” Sylvia answered, speakin’ up to be heard over a gust. “Suppose it could be any. Never heard it has to do with the blood in your veins, but more to do with the sentiments of yar soul, the connection with the ethereal.” I find that the human woman from the North never knows whether she’s gonna use a southern or northern accent. Odd.
I grunted. Could witches cast away whatever it is that curses the poor little girl? Probably not, or the dragons would have been out scourin’ the world to find one.
“That Coedwig is a scallywag,” Sylvia blurted, interruptin’ my thoughts. “Look at him. He found an excuse to come a visitin’ out of turn.”
The dwarf was usin’ a plane on the banister of the newly built veranda and its wheelchair ramps. As I watched, he took a rag and rubbed at the spot he’d been smoothin’. As Sylvia and I strode up the long, east-facin’ ramp, the dwarf turned toward us.
“Feel this and tell me if ya think it’s good enough for a human’s soft hand.”
“Don’t fool with me, ya old codger.” Sylvia waved a finger at him, before pushin’ it back into her coat pocket. “You aren’t here to work in this cold. I know why you’re here.” She sounded awfully irritated with the bull dwarf. And I thought she was kinda sweet on him.
“Ya be a suspicious race,” the dwarf growled.
“And you dwarves are full of guile,” she said.
“I was here on business. Didn’t hurt to pop in for a hello. It would have been rude not to.” He smudged his face together makin’ his button of a red nose seem to disappear.
Sylvia laughed. As she passed by her friend she mashed his hat down on his head. The dwarf grumbled somethin’ under his breath and swatted at the woman’s hand. Humans don’t treat their elders with appropriate respect.
Sylvia reached to knock on the door but it quickly swung inward. I followed the woman in a rush to save the warmth in the cabin.
Lucas and Roger stood before us and grabbed both of us hens in hugs. My skin squirmed a little. Not used to that particular human habit yet, despite livin’ among them for years now. A strange squeak came from behind us. At first I thought it came from the contraption the others call a wheelchair, which Lydia pushed toward us, but it was the inhabitant sittin’ in the thin’.
“Oh, my. She’s excited.” Lydia laughed. “Coedwig told us we could expect visitors shortly. Little Gladys has been vibratin’ with excitement since. Welcome.”
“Ah—mmm. Ah—mmm. Ah—mmm,” the child purred, holdin’ out her crimped fists.
“She wants you to hold her, Pazeta,” Hortense, the nurse, somehow interpreted.
I knelt in front of the tyke’s chair and she propelled herself forward, into my arms. I stood, heftin’ the girl. She weighed nothin’, looked more like a gangly elfling than a human child. Tears flooded my eyes. I pulled little Gladys against my shoulder so she wouldn’t see the tears. Lydia stepped forward, facin’ her husband, no doubt hidin’ her face for the same reason.
“I’m so glad ya’ve come back to us,” I whispered. “Are ya cold? Ya’re shakin’ somethin’ awful.”
Hortense stepped near and felt the girl’s face with the back of her hand, and laughed. “You’re cold enough, Pazeta, to chill a summer glass of tea, but she’s fine. Just excited.”
“S—re. S—re. S—re,” little Gladys screeched, throwin’ her head back.
Moisture edged the girl’s chin. Hortense reached out and wiped it with a hanky before I could.
“You want Miss Pazeta to tell you a story, sweetie?” Lydia asked her.
Little Gladys shook shoulders to toes, and a crooked smile stretched across her face. Lydia waved us toward seats near the hearth. We all settled in. The others studied me as though they were as excited to hear an orcin tale as little Gladys was. I shuddered. It wrenched odd bein’ surrounded by humans—still. What story should I tell? Needed a good one today, not to disappoint the five humans—a special one for the special little human girl.
Princess of the Crystal Palace, I decided.
~
No comments:
Post a Comment