Mamelon - Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

It seemed to Mick as if he had been running for hours since the krill attack.  The sounds of pursuit had long since died away and he was getting nowhere fast. He might have been going in circles for all he knew. As it was, he could barely see the nose in front of his face. Several of the huge birds that Ricci had called aryds passed over his head, shrieking.

      By now, Mick was too exhausted to care and did not cower as he had previously.  Thankfully, either the birds missed him or chose to ignore him. He suspected the latter, but was too weary even to wonder why.  Resting his aching back against a tree, it was a relief to slide down its smooth trunk. At least the damp ground had become perceptibly less boggy. I should be grateful for small mercies, he supposed grimly. His thoughts turned to Pete and Beth. Indeed, he had thought of little else, except when too tired to think of anything at all but the necessity to keep on running. His head throbbed madly like a persistent drumbeat; now fast, now slowing; now even faster, no slowing; never ceasing, until now. For the drummer in his head, too, was exhausted and could play no more.

      But what of Pete and Beth, and how were they coping in this awful place? They, too, must be feeling frightened and alone, especially if their pursuers had caught up with them. It did not bear thinking about. Hadn’t Ricci said that bog folk sometimes ate people? Mick endured a fit of shivering that only stopped once he succeeded in blocking out the very idea. Pete, especially, would be terrified. He’s just a kid, after all. Mick recalled the red hair and cheeky grin with a rush of guilt. His brother hated the dark. Mick blamed himself. I should have taken better care of them, Pete and Beth both.  They were his responsibility, after all. 

      A solitary aryd swooped low, its bulbous eyes like ghastly flares in the pitch dark. Neither moons nor stars were much visible through sprawling branches. It was as if the trees themselves conspired to heap misery upon misery.  The winged creature seemed impervious to the trees and dived directly at him. Mick cowered and flung up both arms protectively. The bird made a sweeping arc, and then vanished, its shrieks dying away like some malevolent echo in the humid air.

      Much later, heart pounding painfully against his chest, Mick tried to close his eyes but fear prised the heavy lids open again. In vain, he tried to sleep. On the edge of consciousness a familiar strain started up. Without even being aware of it, he began to hum the Okay Song. He was a child again, his mother singing the lullaby in a gentle, low soprano and drawing waves of drowsiness over him like the snuggest duvet.  Yet still his bleary eyes refused to stay shut.

      He neither saw nor heard the figure approach. It loomed upon him with a suddenness that was more awesome than scary, towered over him and spoke with a curious lilt in a language that, rather to Mick’s surprise, he understood perfectly.

      “Welcome, friend. But tell me this. Who comes unbidden to this last sanctuary of elves in such times as these?”

      “I’m Mick,” then drowsily but instinctively correcting himself, “Michal,” recalling Ricci’s preference for the name. Hadn’t there had been another Michal, long ago in some fanciful tale the magician had been telling them just before they were attacked?  But his tired brain refused to supply details.

      “Ah, Michal!” murmured his companion in a tinkling voice that reminded Mick of wind bells that hung over the front porch at home.

      Home... That word again. Mind and body ached for it. He’d have given anything just to be in his own bed, asleep and dreaming instead of…what? He wished he knew. The tall stranger said something Mick did not catch. He saw lips moving then the Okay Song took over and bade him close his eyes.

      When Mick awoke, daylight had come to the forest. Tired eyes and inattentive ears were greeted by a splash of colour and a cheerful clamour of birds whose brightly coloured feathers were everywhere.  At first he thought he was in Birches Wood. Then he remembered. But there was no sign of the stranger. Mick was still wondering whether he mightn’t have been some kind of dream figure when there he was, tall, thin-faced, and wearing an expression that was not unfriendly.

“Good, you’re awake. I’m Pers, by the way. Sorry, I should have introduced myself properly last night. But you took me by surprise, and that has never happened to me before. To stumble across a motherworlder here, of all places… Well, it’s a bit much I can tell you. But one of the bloodline, too… Well, that’s next to impossible.”  The stranger’s smile was amicable enough even if set amongst the oddest features.  Pers was tall, with pointed ears, unnaturally bright green eyes and a coif of reddish hair drooping over a high forehead from an otherwise bald and shiny pate.

Mick was struck by the fact that while the overall effect conveyed by the stranger;s appearance was odd, to say the least, it was, at the same time, peculiarly charming.

“Bloodline…?” Mick yawned, only half listening. A sixth sense urged him to stay alert. But it was hard. He had never felt so wonderfully relaxed.

“…as descended directly from Gar, the first elf king. We are all of the bloodline here in the forest,” explained Pers. Mick shook his blond head. Gar? The name had a familiar ring. Hadn’t Ricci mentioned a Forest of Gar? He started. Elves...

      “That’s right, elves,” the newcomer confirmed as if reading Mick’s thoughts.

      “You’re no elf,” retorted Mick accusingly, “For a atart, you’re too tall, not to mention practically bald.” Elves, indeed! They belonged to childhood and fairy tales. He was nearly eighteen, owned his own motorbike (paying it off, that is, same thing) and had a girlfriend, for heaven’s sake. Elves were simply not in his vocabulary.  He began to panic again as his thoughts turned to Beth and Pete, the horror of their flight from the bog folk and their subsequent separation.

      “You are confusing us with fairies,” said the elf without obvious rancour although Mick thought he detected a note of derision. “Besides, what matters big or small?” Pers enquired airily. Mick winced. Suddenly, the elf’s expression changed and he voiced genuine concern. Tell me what you know, and perhaps I can help.”

      The elf’s soothing tone had such an effect on Mick’s frayed nerves that he was able to relate the tale with almost as much detachedness as Ricci had adopted over supper in the huge marquee.  As he spoke, that other tale became curiously interwoven with his own, elements of each intrinsically linked in a way he could not have begun to justify or explain.  He was no natural storyteller, yet the words flowed easily. 

      Pers listened intently. The elf produced a delicious fruit that looked and tasted like pomegranate, also a canvas-like flask of vinre from a knapsack that had altogether escaped Mick’s notice.  The pair ate and drank companionably while Mick talked.

      “That Ricci!” exclaimed Pers during a pause while Mick took a bite from the fruit and a long swallow of refreshing vinre. “He means well, but…” The elf sighed, “…as if things weren’t bad enough without his interfering. Still, I suppose even he can’t do much harm given all that’s already been done.  He must think you’re…Oh, but less of that for now or things will seem even worse than they are.  You were attacked, you say?”

      Mick nodded, still munching on the fruit. “Bog folk,” he spluttered.

     “Really, are you sure?”  Pers blinked in astonishment. It was almost unheard of for bog folk to attack without provocation.

      “You bet!” Mick shivered at the memory. “I saw them from where I hid. They were disgusting, like corpses dripping with green slime bent on revenge for their own deaths.” At the same time, he couldn’t resist preening a little at a talent for simile that usually eluded him completely. His English teacher at school had berated him on more than one occasion for a limited vocabulary.

      School... Mick winced. He hated school. Even so, he’d have given a lot to be there right now. He took another swallow of vinre and was about to tale another but checked himself, suddenly remembering how, just prior to the attack, Ricci had been talking about his, Mick’s, mother. Why? What could his mother possibly have to do with this absurd half-reality pulling him in all directions at once? 

      Fragments of Ricci’s rambling tale jerked at Mick’s nerve endings like strings on a marionette.  Galia, Gail. Gail, Galia.  Wasn’t she the daughter of Astor who married his namesake, Michal?  Mage of Mages, Ricci had called him and thought to be descended from elves. Galia or Gail would have been part elf then.  Presumably, it followed that, if each was of the same bloodline, he, Mick, was…what, exactly? “Am I descended from elves?” he asked the question aloud and felt ridiculous for even thinking it.

      “It would appear so.” Pers nodded gravely.

      “Through my mother, Gail…err, I mean Galia?” It was all so confusing.

      “Certainly not through the likes of Michal!” retorted the elf.

      “But you weren’t to know that,” Mick pointed out.

     “True. But you were humming an elven song. Our songs are sacred and known only to elves. Besides, none but elves come to the forest.  We might permit the occasional traveller to pass through, but as for communicating one to one as you and I are now… never!  None but elves have The Sight. Gar is invisible to all but the gifted eye.”

      “But it was so dark I couldn’t see a bloody thing!” Mick grimaced.

      “You’re here, aren’t you?” Pers shrugged, unwilling to enter into any discussion on a matter that left him utterly perplexed. It had already occurred to him that any elven blood in this motherworlder’s veins must run so thin as to scarcely account for any degree of Sight. On the other hand, a son of Galia…it was all quite impossible. Well, isn’t it?  A knowing grin lit up the elf’s face. His father would explain.  Didn’t his father always have an explanation for everything? “Come, I’ll take you to my home. We can talk more on the journey.”

      The elf sprung nimbly to his feet and was already on his way by the time Mick had scrambled up, in a state of mild panic and started to chase after his odd friend. “Elves, for heaven’s sake!” he muttered and wondered what Pete would have made of  it all. His expression became grim again. How could he help but be worried sick about his brother and Beth?

     Although Mick’s anxieties continued to oppress him, they became less weighty as he found himself skipping across pockets of tawny grass among elegant trees whose silvery bark and shimmering leaves acted as a balm to his battered senses.  Birds and insects of all shapes and sizes flitted everywhere, a veritable kaleidoscope of ever-changing colours. Now and then, patches of marmalade sky dotted with fluffy clouds of assorted pinkie hues could be glimpsed through busy branches. He almost fancied that was taking part in a Walt Disney movie and half-expected cartoon characters to pop out at him from behind this weird looking plant or that even weirder looking bush. He thought he heard a distant barking and remembered the dog, Ace. Had it been with them as they made their escape from the bog folk?  He really had no idea. Nor did it matter much, he decided. Besides, the noise had already ceased, and he cheerfully put all thoughts of Pete’s adopted pet aside.

      They passed through a corridor of trees that suddenly opened up to reveal what Mick took to be a village. Ring upon ring of what looked like mud huts, with cone shaped roofs of a reddish thatch, converged to form an inner circle. In its centre, stood a giant tree whose bark, branches and leaves were a burnt-orange colour. It was as if a tongue of fire had leapt from the ground and was set to burn a hole in the sky. A glorious, awesome spectacle, the tree gave Mick no sensation of warmth. On the contrary, it filled him with a chilling sense of foreboding. Nor could he quite shrug off the feeling that his own destiny was linked, after a predetermined fashion, with its very existence.

      Pers flung out an arm with an air of grand showmanship as if introducing a star attraction.  His face glowed with pride and the beady eyes were moist with emotion. “Behold the Fire Tree!” he declared. His broad smile froze, however, when he saw his guest’s expression. Mick, though, quickly recovered his composure and was soon nodding and smiling appreciatively. But the elf remained uneasy. A fleeting glimpse of the other’s dark premonition had entered his heart like an arrow. So it would remain, hurting, until forces far stronger than elven would either remove it or twist it further until death relieved him of it once and for all. Pers acknowledged this with his usual passivity, but only to himself. It cut him to the quick, though, that every nuance of intuitive thought should warn him against speaking of it to anyone.

      Pers remained thoughtful. There were such ties here, binding him to this motherworlder; they would not be easily broken. The elf understood this, without quite knowing why. Yet, broken such ties will be. He was sure of that also. Not without a struggle, though, he vowed. Or sacrifice, his alter ego murmured in one ear. If this Michal called Mick is truly a son of Galia, it would explain a few things. But there has to be more, much more…He gazed into the swirling branches of the Fire Tree and took small comfort from the ages-old forces of Salvation and Rule they invoked for all they remained steadfast and true even if the tree itself bore marks of gradual decline. 

      The giant tree stood at the very heart of elfdom. Its roots were as an elf’s umbilical cord. Earth Mother and Godfather, it had always cared for them as they for it.  For the Fire Tree was elfdom.

     A leaf floated down and landed at his feet. Pers followed its passage with a keen eye. And not the slightest breeze to be felt.  It confirmed what he had known for some time. The tree was slowly, but surely dying.  How its roots had survived for so long without water was beynd even elven comprehension. He looked up again and the mighty flame appeared to flicker. How long? he wondered, “How long?” he murmured under his breath a second time and looked directly at the motherworlder as if half-expecting an answer.

      Mick met the elf’s steady gaze and matched the tight smile, muscle for muscle.  Each gave the other a barely perceptible nod. A mute exchange of tangible comfort passed between them like a current. A rapport was established, inarticulate and raw but of the stuff life friendships were made. Pers looked away, satisfied. Mick, in turn, felt hopeful for the first time since he had set foot in Mamelon. It was like a massive weight being lifted from his shoulders. He had made a friend, was not alone any more. Even so, although a sinking feeling dissipated as he turned to face the villagers swarming towards them, he couldn’t help wondering if he wasn’t clutching at straws.         

      Mick liked Pers’ parents. His mother, La, was petite, dainty and much as he expected an elf to be. The father. Ka, was much smaller than Pers and stocky with it. He also wore a beard. Indeed., Ka resembled all the pictures Mick had ever seen of how a dwarf should look although he suspected it might be tactless to say so.  He could almost feel his mother nudging him and fancied he could hear her say, ‘Don’t you dare show me up. Remember, Michael, you’re a guest. Be polite.’  He grinned. Once, his mother’s fussing would have irritated him no end. Now he could only wish it was for real.

      La intuitively understood their guest was unhappy and took him under her wing. Ka, too, went out of his way to entertain the visitor with lively anecdotes, chiefly at the expense of Pers and his younger sister, Irina. For his part, Mick sympathised with brother and sister as misdemeanours, no less common among elves than children the world over, were dwelt upon and embroidered for the sake of comic relief.

      They were sat on the straw floor of a large hut within the innermost compound and could see the Fire Tree from its flap windows. Everyone laughed in all the right places and looked forward to a celebration later in Mick’s honour. No one made any mention of a growing sense of unease. When Ka casually remarked that there would be a Council of Elders immediately after the festivities and that Mick was welcome to attend, even the latter chose to ignore that it was no invitation but a royal command.

“May I come too, father?” Pers put the question lightly enough but it was not only La who was dismayed by the tone of her husband’s response.

      “Why not...?” Ka shrugged and even gave his only son a paternal slap on the back, smiling broadly at Mick as he did so. It was sheer pantomime. Everyone knew it and Mick was no exception. “There is a time for the young and a time for the old,” murmured Ka.  A tremor in the old elf’s voice would have been barely perceptible even to the sharpest ear. La heard it, though, and frowned. For it spoke volumes for one who had always taken pride in never allowing his judgement to be clouded by emotion.

      Pers smelt danger and tasted it on his tongue. He licked his lips and discovered he had an appetite for it. It would be good to be doing something at last instead of engaging in a general wringing of hands at the passing of all Mamelon into such obscurity that would deny even elves a place in history.

     Mick, meanwhile, was enjoying himself. Now and then, nagging feelings of guilt would lap at his mind’s edge like waves on a shore, only to roll away again. The elves were a fun-loving bunch. Later, during the celebrations, there was much music and free flowing vinre. He even danced with Pers’ sister, Irina, and managed not to feel too bad about Beth. It took some time before he realized that all was not quite as it should be.  Suddenly, he put his finger on it. There are no children. Ricci’s tale came back to haunt him and he recalled something about a Spring of Life ceasing to flow. So the Forest of Gar is no exception, he brooded, with a growing sense of disappointment. He would have expected more of elves. Elves!  He pulled a face, and resolved to play this whole weird business by ear. Meanwhile, there was some fun to be had so why not make the most of it? While it lasts, his alter ego added ominously.

      Pers, Irina, and their friends constantly poked fun at Mick’s shambling efforts on the dance floor. Mick, though, was in high spirits, not least because he was drinking vinre like water. He took it all in good part and readily joined in the laughter. Not altogether oblivious to a sense that he was treading on thin ice, he let his hair down, shook his hips and had his audience convulsed. The elves had never seen anything like it.

     Ka slipped away for a pre-Council discussion with elders. La stayed on, but did not dance. Instead, she watched her son and daughter intently, as if determined to capture the scene forever in her mind’s eye.  He was not handsome, her son, but brave and true like his father. Pers would not shirk from whatever must be done. She observed, too, how Irina stole wistful glances at the motherworlder when she thought no one was looking.  

      La pursed her lips. Irina could be as wilful as she was beautiful. She let her gaze linger on Michal, called Mick. He cut a fine figure of young manhood, their guest, with his blond curls and grey eyes. How had she missed those all-consuming eyes?  Oh, he was a trifle clumsy perhaps, but that was only to be expected for a motherworlder.  Pers had found him a loose-fitting red blouson and a pair of green leggings that suited him well. Earlier, she had looked hard for signs of something elven in him and found none. Only when she stopped looking, had she seen the resemblance, although nothing that was elven. Indeed, far from it. Now she fretted for not spotting the resemblance at once, it was so striking. Every nuance of movement, a habit of running the fingers of both hands through his hair whenever he wanted to give an impression of being in control…she knew them so well. If the hair had been raven, he’d have been the spitting image of Astor, Mage of Mages, dear to all elves and to one in particular.

      Instinctively, she looked for Ka. He was nowhere to be seen. La relaxed and let her thoughts wander.  So long now, it was, since she had last seen Astor and so final their parting.  Yet he was never far from her mind’s eye. La wondered, as she often did, if Ka knew or guessed that she and Astor had been lovers.  She hoped not, for she loved her husband dearly.  It was not love with Astor, but something else entirely. She had never understood what or even questioned it at the time, any more than she had been able to resist a pull like that of the earth on a flower or tree.

      At the edge of the ring of dancers, La spotted Kirin, her son’s closest friend. His lips curved in a vivacious smile, he was waving to someone across the floor.  There was a glitter in the eyes, fierce and sad at the same time. She followed his gaze. It fell and lingered on a young couple for which the others had cleared a space, all the better to watch and applaud. Irina was good teacher and Michal wore the flushed look of a young man surprised to discover that he not only enjoyed dancing but, with encouragement, had a flair for it.

La’s eyes flew back to Kirin. She had to put a hand to her mouth the stifle the cry that sprung to her lips. The expression on the face of her daughter’s most persistent of admirers hardened even as she watched. If he had not been elven and as fine a youth as had ever graced her table, she might have felt inclined to describe the look that Kirin fixed upon their guest as one of pure hatred. But this was Gar and elves did not hate. It was but natural, she supposed, that Kirin should be jealous of all the attention Irina was paying Michal. Even so, she was uneasy and became slightly breathless as she rose to go in search of her husband.

      By the time the full Council of Elders had gathered, the twin moons were faintly visible above. It was held in the open. Mick was surprised. He had expected a closet affair. Some scatter cushions had been strategically positioned near the base of the Fire Tree. On these, various male and female villagers squatted whose ages at once seemed to vary greatly and be about the same. Mick shrugged. Early years crammed with bedtime stories had left him well prepared. There was simply no telling with elves.

      It was not a public affair. The open space that had not long since throbbed with music and thronged with swaying limbs had been abandoned by all but a select few. Nor did the proceedings take long. Indeed, Mick had the distinct impression that discussion has already been exchanged and decisions taken.

      Ka-ri, to give Pers’ father his full title, stood on a slightly raised platform and made a formal speech of welcome to Mick, Now and again, his speech fell into a soft brogue that was hard to understand and took all Mick’s concentration to follow. He went on to speak about a doom that had to do with the Spring of Life and the Purple Mountains. Again, Ricci’s tale came back to haunt him. 

      Mick found himself wondering what had happened to the cone headed figure dressed all in yellow. He wasn’t sure that he cared much. It was Ricci, after all, who had brought the whole sorry mess upon them and without so much offering them a choice. Apprentice magician or whatever, Ricci could and should have protected instead of abandoning them.  He’s been quick enough to use magic to save his own skin so why not ours too?  Mick snorted, clenched his fists and derived no small pleasure in imagining how he would deal with the queer fellow should their paths cross again.  Suddenly, he realised that everyone was looking at him with an air of quizzical expectancy. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn’t quite catch the question.” There were disapproving noises from some of those present. but Ka merely smiled and did not seem in the least put out by Mick’s inattentiveness.  

      “As I was saying,” Ka repeated, “you will want to reach the Purple Mountains without further delay. You did say that is where you and your friends were heading before you became…err, lost?” 

      “I suppose so,” agreed Mick sheepishly. He longed to shout,’ I haven’t a bloody clue so suppose you enlighten me, damn it!’ but managed to restrain himself. They made him feel inadequate, these elves. Moreover, he suspected they were holding out on him. He’d felt the same about Ricci only more so. A chuckle rose in Mick’s throat. Why should it surprise him? Wasn’t this whole business an exercise in manipulation? Does it really matter who pulls the strings? For the time being, at any rate, he had no choice but to play the game and hope for the best.

      “You will need a guide,” Ka was saying.

      “I’ll take him, father!” Pers jumped up and there was sporadic applause mingled with angry mutters.

   “Elves have not set foot outside Gar for Ri knows how many lifetimes!” someone said, “The motherworlder found his way here easily enough. Let him follow his own nose!”

    “Hear, hear!” There was much agreement although Mick sensed it was not unkindly meant. Nor was he entirely unaware of an underlying dread making such ripples of alarm across the hubbub that he could almost see them.

     “I can make my own way to the Purple Mountains,” he affirmed in a strong, resonant voice ringing in his ears like that of a complete stranger.

      An awkward silence ensued.

     “May I go, father?” Pers met his father’s steady gaze without flinching. None but he saw the mouth twitch or the eyes twinkle or the love that shone from the grave, parchment face like that on a full moon. They understood each other very well, his father and he.

      “I will go too!” Kirin leapt to his feet.  “The motherworlder has come to help us. The very least we can do is return the favour.”

      “The very least,” Pers agreed.

      Another, longer silence followed while everyone digested the validity of what had been said.  Murmurs of assent steadily grew to a chorus of approval. “Very well,” intoned Ka as if bestowing a blessing. “If any here object to my son and Kirin accompanying the motherworlder, Michal, to the Purple Mountains, let them speak now or forever keep their peace.” No one spoke. “Go then,” he addressed Mick directly. “You must leave soon. Pers and Kirin will take you there. May Ri, too, go with you all.” He descended from the makeshift dais and walked away. It was the signal for everyone else to do the same. Pers and Kirin converged on Mick wearing broad grins.

      “We’ll have such an adventure.” Pers winked.

     “We will, yes," Kirin agreed. Yet, fleetingly, his sunny face seemed to cloud over as if he were in pain. Pers was momentarily distracted by someone yelling their good wishes and did not appear to notice. Mick wondered whether his imagination mightn’t be up to new tricks, but could not resist glancing over his shoulder. Irina came running towards them, arms outstretched. Was it only wishful thinking, Mick wondered, or did she really have eyes only for himself?  Laughingly, he prepared to receive her. But Kirin stepped in front of him. So it was around the elf’s neck, not his, that Irina flung her arms. An unreasonable anger flared in Mick. but quickly died when Irina grabbed his hand. Seconds later, all three were skipping merrily across the grass.

      It wasn’t long before Pers broke away and hung back. He had seen the look on Irina’s face as she ran towards Michal. Nor had he missed Kirin’s dark expression before he intercepted her. Silently, he gave heartfelt thanks to Ri that his two friends would soon have put many a span between themselves and his incorrigible sister. He would miss her, of course he would. But he knew Irina too well. If she wanted the motherworlder, she would have him. He sighed. Kirin adored Irina although Pers had warned him often enough that he was wasting his time. He and Kirin were like brothers and that was how Irina saw his friend, as a second brother. “Nor will it ever be any different,” he murmured, “Believe me, old friend, you love in vain.”  Time and again he had tried to persuade Irina to tell Kirin so herself. The irony was that she adored him, too, but in her own way. Besides, she loved to play games, his beautiful sister. It suited her have Kirin mooning after her day and night.  ‘He’s so sweet,’ she would say, toss her red hair and go into a fit of girlish giggles. Try as he might, he could not make her see the harm in it.

      “Come on, snail!” Irina ran a hand through her shining hair and urged her brother to catch up with them. Pers, who loved his sister dearly, managed to put his constant irritation with her aside, as he always did, and promptly obliged.  Behind them, in the branches of the Fire Tree, another leaf broke away and floated to the ground…

     The time to leave came all too soon. A part of Mick wanted to stay. He liked these people. Besides, he felt safe here. At the same time, he felt his face burn with shame. He had to finds the others. As the eldest, he was responsible for them…well, wasn’t he? In my own world, yes, he told himself, but here, in this place, this Mamelon? He hadn’t a clue although his alter ego warned him to take nothing as read.

     Mick and the two elves bade a very public farewell. La and Ka gave each a hug. La slipped something into Mick’s hand but her eyes warned him to say nothing. He slipped a smooth, flat stone shaped like a triangle into his pocket and returned the hug. Ka did the same.  The elf king’s expression, likewise, gave out a clear signal. Mick pocketed what might have been a live thing; it was egg-shaped, gave out a faint heat and seemed to wriggle a moment before going quite still in what he still called jeans but the elves referred to as jami or leggings.

      “May Ri go with you all,” said La and Ka together and everyone watching took up the cry.

      “And me. I’m coming too!” announced Irina, emerging from her own quarters. She had shed her female attire and was dressed much like the others. On her back, she carried a knapsack similar to theirs. In her eyes, the light of battle flung an unspoken challenge.

     To Mick’s consternation, no one argued. Kirin was plainly tickled pink.  Ka’s pensive frown quickly lifted and he embraced his daughter. La sighed, saw that Irina’s mind was made up and caved in gracefully. There was nothing else for it. She and Ka must give her their blessing. It was unthinkable that their daughter should sneak off without it. Irina, as both parents knew only too well, was capable of doing just that. 

      La tried to catch her son’s eye. Instead, she saw Pers glance covertly at Kirin and did the same. Kirin’s face had been flushed with pleasure a moment ago. Now a shadow had fallen across it. Then she saw that Irinia was poking out her tongue at Michal in fun. Only, there was something more than faintly suggestive about the way it curled and stroked her upper lip. As she kissed her son and held him close for as long as she felt would not embarrass him, she could sense his own unease and was fearful for she trusted Pers’ instincts implicitly. But, “Take care, my son,” was all she said.

     “I will, mother.” He grinned. No one would have guessed that there had been any subversive interchange between the two. While father and son understood each other very well, rapport between Pers and his mother was tuned to near perfection.

      “Doesn’t the Council have a say in this?” Mick protested and was rewarded by hoots of laughter from the crowd.

      “The Council does not concern itself with female matters.” It was Irina herself who answered with an irony lost on none present, the majority of whom had long both lamented and admired her feisty temperament. “If I choose to go, I go…unless anyone objects?” She looked around, the beautiful eyes twinkling with mischief.

      No one said a word.

To be continued