| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
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| Written by Daniel D Jones/ Artwork by Jeff Foster |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| Speech |
Shantheya crept through the shadows towards the group of children seated around the fire. She found a
seat in the dimness beside a long, narrow hut, and leaned back against the mud plastered wall to wait. The
hut was used for, among other things, the storage of the great communal tanning frames and smelled faintly
of the noxious concoctions used in the preparation of the hides.
She didn’t think she would have long to wait; the Elder should be here soon. He would come and sit down
next to the fire and all the other children would gather around him like puppies snuggling up to the warmth of
their bitch. He would toss out a few trinkets: carved bits of wood or oddly shaped stones he had found along
the banks of the river. The other children would scramble delightedly for them. Everyone knew the Elder’s
charms brought luck. Then, when the prizes had been claimed and the others grew still once more, he would
speak.
His voice would be low and hoarse, so she would have to strain to hear from her spot at the fringes of the
crowd. Sometimes, he would use words she didn’t understand. She did understand most of his words, of
course. They were words everyone used, words she heard all the time. Yet when he used them, they came
alive. They danced and leapt like the flames lighting his face, telling wondrous tales of places and people who
were strange and different. But these people weren’t outcasts who could scarcely talk and were never asked
to play in the village games. No, these people were different because they were heroes. Their strangeness
made them special, not weak. It was a mark of strength and power. They did great deeds and saved people
from fierce monsters or evil wizards. And though they were sometimes laughed at, it was always by wicked
villains who laughed only to cover their fear.
Shantheya shifted restlessly, unable to find a comfortable position. Even here along the edges of the village
circle, the ground was hard packed by the tread of generations of villagers. As she waited, she scanned the
night sky. The brightest stars had been visible for several moments, and their fainter brethren were beginning
to appear. She was able to pick out several familiar constellations. Many of them were characters in the Elder’
s stories. She recognized the Axeman, and the Great Bear towering over him. The Axeman had slain the bear
and saved all of the children in his village, but had taken mortal wounds himself. The gods, in tribute to his
bravery, had placed him in the sky to live forever. Left of those two was the Serpent, who had been
outsmarted by the Cat. The Cat, composed of dimmer stars, wasn’t yet visible but she knew right where it
would appear: just above the great oak west of the village. Next to the Cat, of course, was the Swan.
A few of the fainter stars were not yet visible there either but she could trace its outline: the great,
outstretched wings, the gracefully curving neck, the eye that was the brightest star in the autumn sky. It was
her favorite constellation, just as its story was her favorite of the Elder’s tales.
She hoped he’d have a new tale tonight. He sometimes brought new tales when he returned from his longer
journeys, and he’d been gone nearly two moons this time. She hated it when he left the village. Not only did
she miss the tales on Restday, but also the village felt somehow naked or empty when he was gone. She
always knew when he left and when he returned by that feeling, even without being told.
This morning, as soon as she’d opened her eyes, she’d known he was back. She hadn’t said anything to
Linera because it made Linera nervous and irritable when Shantheya knew things. She thought Linera had
known, or at least suspected, anyway. Thoughts of the Elder’s return always put Shantheya in a good mood,
and she’d noticed Linera watching her closely several times during breakfast.
A stir amongst the other children brought her attention back to the present. A newcomer was forcing his way
through them to claim a choice seat near the fire. Shantheya scooted back a bit tighter against the wall, and
pulled her legs in close to her body. He was between her and the fire, so the flickering light concealed rather
than revealed his features, but she didn’t need to see clearly to recognize Cante. Although a year younger
than her twelve winters, he was easily the largest child in the group. A massive head set closely atop thick
shoulders made his silhouette unmistakable. There were a few muttered complaints from those he shoved
aside, but no one dared speak openly. They never did.
Cante settled himself and pulled a stick from the fire. For a moment, he was content poking the embers and
watching the sparks fly. He tired of that quickly, however, and began waving the brand about in the air,
creating bright swirls and patterns in the dimness. His circles grew larger and wilder, until one of the children
seated nearby threw himself backward to avoid being struck.
“Hey! Watch it!” the boy cried and Cante leapt to his feet.
“You watch it, you troll,” he barked, and stabbed at the other boy with the flaming stick. He stopped the
thrust short, and laughed at his victims cries.
“C’mon, Cante,” another voice said. Shantheya couldn’t see the speaker but she thought it was Rashelda.
Rashelda was cousin to Cante, and one of the few who dared offer him some resistance. “You know we aren’t
supposed to play with the fire. You’ll get the tale cancelled.”
“So what?” Cante blustered. “Who cares about the stinkin’ tale anyway?” He waited a moment, to show he
wasn’t acting on anyone’s orders but only his own desires, then sullenly thrust the stick back into the fire and
sat back down.
After a few moments brought no further action from Cante, Shantheya’s thoughts drifted back to the Elder. He
should be here soon. In fact, he was late. He always came just at dusk, and it was nearly full dark. Most of
the Cat and all of the stars in the Swan’s tail were now visible.
She wondered what tale he’d tell tonight. If he didn’t have a new one, she hoped it would be Ansella and the
Swan. After all, of the many heroes and champions in the Elder’s tales, only Ansella was an elf. Of course, she
was a full elf, not a half-breed no-account. Sometimes, when the Elder spoke, Shantheya would close her
eyes and picture the tales in her head. When she did so, she always pictured Ansella as looking a little like
herself. It was a secret she’d once shared with Linera, but Linera had only laughed and rubbed her head. For
the next several days, Linera had asked her every evening if any swans had tried to carry her off. Shantheya
had only smiled and shaken her head, but she’d never told Linera any more of her secrets.
She caught a hint of motion from the corner of her eye and turned expectantly but the figure approaching
through the gloom walked tall and erect, not hunched over a walking staff like the Elder. He moved into the
light of the fire and she recognized Dovin, the Elder’s son. She liked Dovin. He was calm and soft spoken, like
his father. He also never teased her, neither about her mother nor about her speech. She was sure he’d
never ask her if a swan had tried to carry her off. She wondered what he was doing here, though. He knew
only those with fourteen or fewer winters were allowed in the Village Circle on Restday eve.
Dovin stood for a moment at the edge of the fire, looking at the ring of young faces staring up at him. Then he
spoke. “I’m sorry, children but there will be no tale tonight. My father is ill.” He stood for a moment more,
looking as though he wanted to speak but was unsure of what to say. Then, without saying anything more,
he simply turned and walked away. Slowly, the other children rose and, grumbling amongst themselves,
moved off among the huts.
Shantheya remained in the shadows, staring into the fire. The lack of a tale was a harsh disappointment, but
paled in comparison to the news of the Elder’s illness. She had never known him to be the least bit unwell.
Not even four winters ago, when the Great Sickness came. The whole village had broken out with sores that
sapped the strength and caused burning fevers. Great warriors and old women alike lay weak and helpless.
The Elder had remained well and strong, going from hut to hut, bringing water and the herbs that dried the
sores and broke the fever. Linera said that without him the whole village might have died. It seemed as
impossible for him to be ill as for fire to be cold, or for stones to be soft and yielding.
She arose and walked into the night, her small mouth warped into a perplexed frown.
She paid no attention to where her feet were taking her until they stopped of their own accord. She was
standing in a small circle of cleared earth illuminated by half a dozen tall, oil-burning torches thrust into the
ground. They were lit each night at sunset and burned until dawn. The circle fronted a low, stone hut; the
only one in the entire village. A worn leather flap, painted with arcane symbols, covered the doorway. Nearby,
a beaten copper disk was suspended from a triangular wooden rack. The bone from the foreleg of a small
deer hung next to it.
She could smell the sharp odor of the fish oil in the torches and the musky aroma of a dung fire. Faintly, she
also caught the sweet smell of steeping herbs.
Impulsively, she grasped the bone and struck the copper disk. The resulting clang startled her into an
awareness of where she was. A sudden desire to flee writhed in her belly but her feet were stuck to the
ground. And so she stood trembling as Dovin thrust his head through a slit in the flap. Seeing her, he
squatted to bring his eyes on a level with her own.
“I’m sorry, Shantheya,” he said. “But he is very, very sick. Much too sick for a tale tonight.”
She stood there looking at him. She wanted to say she knew that; she hadn’t come because of the tale. But,
as always, the words stuck in her throat like prickly things and, in truth, she didn’t know why she had come.
Thoughts thrashed around in her head like a wounded deer in the brush. She struggled to say something,
anything, but her traitorous mouth and tongue refused to cooperate. All that emerged was a string of
stuttered syllables: “He-he-he-he...” A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.
Dovin gently wiped it from her cheek. “I know you like tales, child, but he is just too sick.”
She shook her head violently, her hair whipping around with such force it stung the cheek Dovin had just
caressed. ““N-n-no!” she spit out. “N-no tale. Wa-wa-wa...” She stopped and swallowed fiercely. “W-w-
wanna help!” The words were a blurred rush.
Dovin smiled gently, sadly. “I don’t think there’s anything...” he began, but was interrupted by a faint voice
from inside. His head disappeared for a moment, then reappeared.
“He says for you to come in.” That sad, gentle smile once again curved his lips. “I guess I don’t have to tell
you of all people to be quiet.” He held the flap aside for her.
Shantheya walked slowly inside. It was dim and, after the brighter torchlight outside, she could see nothing
of the interior for a moment. The combating odors of dung fire and herbs were much stronger inside. When
her eyesight adjusted, she saw the Elder lying on a pallet near one wall of the hut. She paused in shock.
Even in the poor light she could see the weakness in his face.
When he had left the village seven Restdays ago, he had worn his age proudly, with dignity, as a knight
might wear a battle-scarred suit of mail. Now, it lay heavily on him as though its weight was more than his
fragile bones could bear. There was matter in the corner of his eyes and a thin string of spittle hung from the
side of his mouth. She could hear his breathing like wind through the tops of the pines.
He reached out and weakly patted a spot near his pallet. She went and sat down cross-legged next to him.
There was a damp cloth lying beside a basin of water. She took it and gently wiped his mouth.
“Shantheya,” he said; his voice a pale whisper, “I was going to send Dovin for you.” He closed his eyes and
said nothing more for a long moment. She sat quietly, watching the labored rise and fall of his chest. Just as
she was sure he had gone to sleep, he spoke again. “Do you remember the story of Ansella?”
She nodded then realized his eyes were still closed. “Ye-ye-yes,” she managed.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. Slowly, his hands rose to his neck and grasped a leather thong tied
there. He struggled to pull it over his head and she reached out to gently help him. Her hands brushed his,
and his were cold and clammy.
She untied the simple knot and lifted the thong, pulling a primitive pendant from beneath the skin coverlets
wrapping him. She lifted it in the dim light, seeing a smooth crescent of dark brown stone flecked with a
lighter brown. A bold, branching line of deep blue shot through the surface, like a lightning bolt imprisoned
within the pebble.
“Put it on,” he whispered and she carefully tied the thong around her neck. The stone settled heavily on her
chest and, for a brief moment, she thought she felt a faint vibration. A tingle seemed to run along the surface
of her skin to her throat.
“Now,” he breathed. “Tell me the tale. Talk to me of Ansella.”
Shantheya shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t talk!” But the words flowed as easily and
natural as breath from her mouth. Shantheya stared at the Elder, her mouth agape. A roaring sound filled her
head and her face flushed. It was impossible. Words were no friends of hers. They turned on her, fighting her
every effort to master them. They sank claws into her throat and had to be thrust hissing and spitting from
her lips.
She trembled. “I can talk?” A faint whisper. Then, almost a scream: “I can talk!”
The Elder nodded. “Tell me the story.”
She paused. The miracle of her speech filled her head, pushing thoughts of evening tales off into the distance.
What was the story of Ansella compared to this? Was being rescued from a savage attack by a swan any
more miraculous than being rescued from a prison of silence by a bit of stone? She could speak!
The Elder weakly patted her hand. “It’s okay. Take a moment, then tell me the story.”
She took a deep breath. “Uh, I can’t remember,” she said. Again the words rolled from her mouth with an
ease that set her whole body to shaking. “Uh, Ansella was an elf. Like me. Bad men came. They hurt her.
Then Ansella called the swan. It came and drove off the bad men and took her away.”
The Elder nodded again. “You remember, child. You remember the important part. Bad men came and hurt
Ansella.
“Tell me. Do you know the word ‘rape’?”
Shantheya nodded. She had heard Linera and other village women talking. Sometimes it seemed as though
they forgot she was there. Linera said she was so quiet it was a wonder her shadow could keep track of
where she was to follow her around. When Linera caught her listening to the women talk about men and the
things they liked to do, she always sent Shantheya away or changed the subject. But she had heard enough
to know what that word meant.
“It means they force you to do the baby thing,” she told him. Her voice sounded funny to her, shaky and high
pitched.
“Exactly child. And that’s what those men did to Ansella.” He slowly reached out and took her hand. He
squeezed it feebly and looked her in the eye.
“Human men did that to your mother too, Shantheya. They caught an elven maiden alone in the woods and
they raped her.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide. For a moment, even the miracle of her voice was forgotten. It was the first
time anyone had ever told her anything about her mother. Linera answered all her questions by saying she,
Linera, was the only mother Shantheya would ever have and there was no use carrying on about what would
never be.
“Is that why she didn’t want me?” she asked the Elder.
“Oh, child, it wasn’t that she didn’t want you. She had no choice!” He spoke haltingly, with frequent pauses
for breath but the fierceness of his emotions still showed in the faint words. “She couldn’t go to her own
people. They would have called her unclean and banished her. She couldn’t stay here either. We aren’t bad
people but most would never have accepted an adult elf living here. I had a difficult enough time convincing
them to foster you.”
The old man seemed to have run out of breath and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Shantheya sat
without moving. His words had touched her intimately but there was too much there for her to grasp easily. It
overwhelmed her thoughts. She had a real mother who had once loved her, who might still love her.
Somewhere in the elven forests, her mother might be thinking of her at this very minute, wondering what had
happened to her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded of the Elder. “Why didn’t you tell me a long time ago?”
The old man looked at her and his mouth opened, but all that emerged was a whistle of escaping air. He
waved feebly and Dovin emerged from the shadows to kneel at Shantheya’s side. She had forgotten he was
near, had forgotten everything, even the wonder of her speech, in the whirl of her newly gained knowledge.
“Jelledim-root,” the Elder gasped and Dovin nodded. “I have some steeping,” he said. He rose and moved to
a low table nearby where a small cup sat covered with a bit of cloth. He took the cup, added a drop of honey
from a small jar, and knelt back by the pallet. Gently lifting his father’s head, he eased a sip of dark, oily-
looking liquid into the slack mouth. The old man shuddered but his breathing eased immediately. A moment
more, another two sips of the elixir and his eyes cleared somewhat as well. He nodded to Dovin, who kissed
his forehead gently and moved softly back behind Shantheya.
She watched this in a state of numbed shock. When the Elder spoke again, she had almost forgotten her
question.
“Perhaps I should have, child. Perhaps I should have told you long ago. In part, I feared your reaction. I didn’t
want you to hate the elves for denying your mother a choice, nor the humans for refusing her. I thought to
wait until you were older, until you could understand the forces that compel evil actions from those who are
not evil.”
His rheumy eyes open wider as he weakly grasped her hand and stared intently at her. “Please, Shantheya,
do not hate. Hate destroys. It corrupts and warps the soul.
“Neither humans or elves are hateful folk. They are ruled by pressures and forces that have evolved over
centuries. Try to understand them. Pity them, perhaps. But do not hate them.”
The Elder looked beyond Shantheya at Dovin and sighed. His eyes were troubled. “I pray she is not still too
young to understand. My time grows short; else I would have waited to speak.” He opened his mouth as
though he had more to say but nothing emerged. Instead, he closed his eyes.
Dovin stepped forward and brushed an iron gray strand of sweat soaked hair back from his father’s forehead.
A shudder shook his shoulders, but when he turned his eyes were dry. “He needs rest now, Shantheya,” he
said. “You may return tomorrow.”
She arose and nodded. Her hands rose to the pendent. The leather thong was long enough to slip easily over
her head without untying the knot. With trembling hands, she removed it and offered it to Dovin.
He shook his head. “It’s yours. A gift.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then at the shrunken, still figure of the Elder. Slowly, she looped the
thong back over her head and dropped the stone inside the front of her shift. “Thank you,” she said and
thrilled again at the even flow of her own voice despite the turmoil in her head. She wiped away a tear but
another slipped out to replace it. Her lower lip quivered and she spun and raced through the doorway of the
hut.
The torchlight was bright after the dim interior of the Elder’s hut, and she halted, looking wildly about in
confusion. From the joyful shouts and laughter off to her left, some of the children were still playing in the
village circle. She turned blindly in the opposite direction. A few half-running steps brought her out of the
firelight and into the dimness of the wooden huts. Safely hidden within the shadows, her steps slowed and
she walked with her head down, still wiping fiercely but futilely at the tears on her cheeks.
She hated to cry. Crying only showed your weakness; it let the others know how much their jibes had hurt
you. When you had no words of your own to respond to their taunts, your only option was to pretend no
response was needed, that their mockery had no effect on you. If her enforced silence deprived her of a
weapon, it also served as a shield, but only so long as she managed to hide the pain of their taunts. Those
who teased her, Cante chief among them, was quick to seize upon any display of weakness.
Almost as though her thoughts had summoned him, Cante’s voice leapt from the nearby shadows. “Hey, half-
breed! Since the Elder’s sick, why don’t you come tell us a story?”
Shantheya spun away from the voice and fled.
She never ran from Cante; like tears, fleeing only served to encourage him. If she simply stood and endured
his taunts for a few moments, he usually got bored and left her alone. But with tears already streaking down
her cheeks and a terrible knowledge pounding in her thoughts, she’d never be able to face him with her usual
stoic reserve. And so she ran.
There was a startled “Hey!” from behind her, then the pounding of footsteps as Cante took up the pursuit.
Though heavier, he was also larger and longer of limb than Shantheya and she knew she had no hope of
outrunning him in a race of pure speed. She darted into the break between two nearby huts, crossed a
narrow, alley-like separation and ran between yet another pair of huts. She dove under a set of drying racks
loaded with half-cured hides, rolling through the dust and bounding to her feet on the other side. There was
a crash and a yelp behind her as Cante crashed into one of the racks. Silently but fiercely wishing that he’d
truly harm himself, she didn’t even glance behind her to see how much the collision had slowed him. A breath
later, she heard him grunt as he dropped to the ground and drug himself under and past the drying racks.
“You’re dead, half-breed!” he yelled. “I’m gonna pound you good!”
Shantheya wasted neither words nor thoughts on a reply. Though he’d never seriously hurt her, he’d caused
her bumps and bruises enough that she had no wish to face him when he was angry. Her best and only
response lay in escaping him, at least for now.
She could run for home, of course, but the idea of escaping by seeking the protection of the woman who’d
hidden the secret of her birth for so long was repugnant to her. And Linera would no doubt question her
tearstained face. Shantheya wanted no questions right now. What she needed was a place to hide; where
she could sit alone and think, and perhaps cry. The shore seemed the perfect place. She could find shelter
amongst the reeds and thickets bordering the lake. But first, of course, she had to get there.
The village was laid out in a series of concentric rings surrounding the village circle. The elder’s hut sat several
rows back and opposite the water. In order to reach the lake, she had to either cross the village circle or
travel halfway around the village. Crossing the circle would be a long, straight dash that would play to Cante’
s speed and negate her small advantage in quickness and agility. She could also hear shouts of laughter from
that direction; some of the other children were still out and playing. Few of them were as mean as Cante. But
if they were unlikely to join him in her pursuit, there was no telling if someone might decide to curry favor by
sticking out a leg as she ran by.
With her path decided, she turned again into the narrow space between two huts, seeking a zigzag path that
took advantage of her agility and size but still led towards the west side of the village. She could no longer
hear Cante’s footsteps behind her, so she slowed a bit, sticking to deep shadow and listening intently for
sounds of pursuit. Reaching the smoke hut, she crouched in the shadows. She’d heard no sign of Cante’s
footsteps. With a clear view of the lake, she paused.
There was a broad path, a dozen steps wide, between the walls of the hut and the underbrush bordering the
shore. The path led to a cleared area to her right, where a series of racks held the villages fishing canoes.
Nets woven of vine bound with strips of sinew were piled nearby.
She waited for a moment, her heart beating fiercely in her chest and her breath ragged in her throat. Seeing
nothing and hearing only her own harsh breathing, she leapt to her feet and sprinted from the shadows of
the smoke hut towards the brush.
Halfway across the opening, she spotted a faint shadow against the hard packed earth. A smoke-hardened
branch, used to support the carcasses as they cured on the racks of the smoke hut, lay in front of her. Too
late, she tried to lengthen her stride to step over it but her foot landed on the stick, which rolled beneath her.
She took two stumbling steps and went down hard. The impact of hitting the ground forced a muffled cry from
her lips. As if in response, footsteps pounded nearby.
Frantically, ignoring the pain in her scuffed palms and bruised chest, she heaved herself half aright and half
crawled, half ran the last few steps into the brush. Dropping to her belly, she wriggled forward, clawing her
way into the narrow spaces between the gnarled trunks of the brush. She wormed about, looking back the
way she’d come as Cante stepped into view a dozen feet from where she lay.
“That you, half-breed?” he called. “I knew you’d come here. You can’t hide forever!”
Shantheya lay quiet, scarcely daring to breathe.
“Just go away!” she thought fiercely. “Just leave me alone!”
But of course her silent exhortations had no effect on Cante. He stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes
boring into the shadows, seeking some clue as to where she lay hidden. Slowly, he took a step forward, then
another, luck or some half-sensed perception guiding him almost directly towards her position.
“Half-breed! Where are you?”
Shantheya lay without moving, trying to sink into the loamy soil beneath her. A faint taste of bitter metal told
her she’d bit her lip hard enough to bring blood. Her belly was a tight knot and something tightened about
her chest, striving mightily to suffocate her. Her heart pounded in opposition to the pressure, as though it
wanted to free itself from the confines of her ribcage. She watched Cante’s slow approach. A chant took
shape in her mind, a half command, half plea timed to the pound of her pulse in her ears.
“Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!) Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!)”
Step. Cante moved closer, now but a half-dozen strides from her.
“Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!) Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!)”
Step.
“Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!) Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!)”
Step.
Shantheya’s stomach roiled and she clamped down on the bile in her throat. She could stand no more. She
prepared to leap to her feet and fling herself at him. Even in a state of near hysteria, she had no illusions
about what she could do to him. He was twice her weight and thrice or more times as strong. But anything
was preferable to this. Her hands clenched into fists and the muscles in her legs tightened.
Something moved among the canoe racks.
The faint but unmistakable noise froze her in place and spun Cante half about to face the direction of the
noise. The moonlight shone on his silhouetted features and she could see the grin that crept across his face.
“There you are!” He rubbed his hands together and strode towards the racks.
Shantheya inched her way forward, trying to see who might be among the canoes. If it was one of the other
children, Cante might have an ally to help him search for her. If it was an adult, it might be her chance to
escape.
Cante stopped a few strides from the mass of shadows that were the stacked canoes.
“Come on, half-breed,” he crowed. “Don’t make me come in there and drag you out.”
He was answered by a low, drawn-out hissing sound. Shantheya could no longer see his face but he took a
half step backwards and tilted his head to one side.
“Half breed?” he said, no longer seeming so sure of himself. Then he shook his head slightly, and called out in
a louder voice. “If you’re trying to scare me, it ain’t gonna work.”
The hissing which answered him was louder this time, more pronounced. There was a brief flash of white in
the moonlight as something moved within the shadows.
Cante took another step backwards. Again, something moved within the shadows, then stepped full into the
moonlight. It was large and white, luminescent in the silvery glow. The light almost blinded Shantheya, and,
combined with the incongruity of its size; it took her a moment to realize she was seeing a drake.
With a snap like that of an ice jam in the spring thaw, it spread its glossy wings. The long necked curved into
a graceful ‘S’ to bring its head down and thrust forward within inches of Cante’s face. It hissed again, a short,
loud burst of angry sibilance.
Cante screamed. It wasn’t a yell or a holler; it was a scream of pure terror. In the moonlight, the ground
beneath him abruptly darkened and something glistened on the inside of his legs beneath his short tunic.
Shantheya suddenly realized he had lost control of his bladder.
Time seemed to stand still; the tableau frozen in place. Shantheya lay in the shadows of the brush, mouth
agape, staring at the huge swan as Cante pissed himself. The stillness was broken when the drake drew its
head back and struck Cante in the middle of his forehead. To Shantheya, it didn’t seem a vicious blow but it
was sufficient to knock him back a stumbling step. He half turned and she could see his the terror on his face
as, arms flailing, he caught his balance. His mouth gaped open as though he would scream again but no
sound emerged. He spun about and fled into the huts.
The swan did not move for a long moment, it’s wings spread as though it would take flight, it’s head turned in
the direction of Cante’s escape, then it swung about to stare unerringly towards the spot where Shantheya
lay.
Slowly, Shantheya stood up and stepped out of the underbrush. She was bemused, her thoughts distant, as
though the happenings here had nothing to do with her. Some small, faint part of her mind whispered she
should be afraid, that the bird had just assaulted Cante and was likely to attack her as well but that thought
seemed as distant and irrelevant as the sighing of the wind through the trees and she ignored it. She stood
unmoving as the drake, huge and blindingly white and regal as any king in the Elder’s tales, folded its wings
and approached her. It doubled its long, graceful legs beneath it and settled to the ground before her. Its
head came forward and that fearsome bill, which only moment before had so sharply rapped Cante’s
forehead, gently stroked her cheek. It lay its head on her shoulder and she threw her arms about its long
elegant neck. The paralysis of her thoughts vanished and everything came crashing in at once: the Elder’s
illness, the details of her own history, the wonder of her speech, her fear of Cante. They struck her with the
force of a summer thunderstorm and the tears came again. The flood of sobs wracked her body and leached
the strength from her knees so that she half collapsed against the swan. It cooed softly in her ear until she
had wept herself out; until the knot of fear and anguish and incomprehension in the center of her chest had
dissolved and she was as empty and desolate as the shattered shells in a long abandoned nest.
When she had at last recovered herself, she stepped back, expecting the swan to leave. Instead, it extended
its head, wrapping its neck about her and forcing her closer. Unsure of its purpose, she yielded to the
pressure and allowed it to guide her until she stood at its side. Still, it did not relent but continued to exert
gentle pressure against her until she suddenly grasped its intent and wonderingly slid aboard its broad back.
As soon as she was securely seated, her hands clasped firmly in the feathers at the base of its neck, it stood.
It waited a moment, as though to be sure that her perch was secure. It took several long steps, gathering
speed, extended its wings, and launched itself into the air.
There was an explosion of wind and noise and feathers. The pit of her stomach abandoned her. Shantheya
wanted to scream but her lungs heaved in their efforts to draw in the swirling air and she had no breath for
anything other than a brief cry. The wind rushed past like a summer gale, whipping her hair so it stung her
cheeks, and so loud in her ears she half feared she would be deafened. Over one pristine shoulder, she could
see the village falling away below them, the ground spinning dizzily as the great bird spiraled upwards. She
squeezed her eyes tightly shut and buried her face in the down at the base of the swan’s neck.
She clung to the swan in an exhilarating mixture of terror and excitement. After a moment, their flight settled
down. The wing beats grew less frenzied and settled into a smooth, powerful rhythm. She could feel the
mighty muscles beneath her thighs and her hands as they bunched and released, bunched and released,
with each stroke of the great wings. Slowly, the death grip of her hands eased. The frantic pounding of her
heart slowed and her breath came easier. She became aware of the soft yet slightly scratchy feel of the
feathers beneath her, and the warm, musty odor of the down in her nostrils. The wind, while still loud in her
ears, no longer seemed likely to inflict permanent damage. She slowly lifted her head and opened her eyes.
She was incredibly high in the air; so far above the ground the very concept of height seemed to lose
meaning and she felt no fear of falling. The view was not like staring down from the limbs of a tall tree. When
she climbed trees, she knew she looked at a long fall and was deliciously afraid. Here, she felt as though she
looked at a world ensorcelled by a great wizard; one captured and shrunken and spread upon a table for her
review. Only the mountain called Storm Mother, standing tall in the northern distance, seemed unaffected by
her position. As usual, its peak was obscured in a wreath of dark clouds. A tiny thread of silver leaked from
one dark flank and wound its way across the foothills to feed the lake that arced below her. A lumpy quarter
moon, the lake was drained at the southern end by another narrow, tumultuous river. Although she’d never
seen either river before, she knew their names were Ice Bearer and Land Quencher. The moon, nearly full,
painted the waters a vivid argent, and was in turn reflected in their depths like a great eye. She half expected
it to wink at her but she was too ephemeral for its weighty gaze and it only stared back at its sibling in the
sky. Along the concave bank of the lake, the village nestled close to the water. From this perspective, the
shadowy collection of huts bore little resemblance to the place where she’d spent her entire life. A wide
expanse of low, scruffy hills rolled away to the western horizon. Something moved on those plains; a restless
mass that she took to be a herd of antelope. She had only a vague idea of the direction they traveled and no
experience with which to judge their distance from the village but guessed that there would be a hunting
party and a village feast on the morrow.
Across the water from the village, the eastern bank was heavily forested. The dark expanse of trees
shrugged off the moonlight, choosing only to reveal the coarsest features of its outline. An occasional lighter
spot showed through, clearings or thin spots among the trees. She wasn’t sure if they were naturally
occurring or had been cleared by some intelligent hand. Village tales said elves and wood wights inhabited
the forest, eager to snatch away an unwary child for diabolical purposes that were never quite explained in
detail. Shantheya did not know if there was any truth to the tales. However, she did know adults from the
village seldom ventured into the depths of the distant forest, although the women gathered nuts fallen from
the trees along the fringe. Only the Elder dared the depths, usually in search of herbs or strange fungi. And
so it was with a tug of apprehension she realized they were descending towards one of the clearings she’d
spotted moments before.
The swan banked, moving in a great, slow circle that kept its left wingtip pointed at the opening among the
trees. The circle grew tighter as they dropped until, with a fierce flapping of its wings that nearly deafened
her, they touched ground. A half dozen running steps brought them to a stop and the drake stood for a
second, wings extended, neck stretched to its full length. It gave a loud, honking call and settled to the
ground. Shantheya slid from the broad back and peered about her.
She stood in an oval clearing, oriented perfectly north to south and too regular to be natural, atop the crown
of a low hillock. The ground, covered with a thick, springy blanket of grass that felt wonderfully cool beneath
her bare feet, fell away to all sides. Tiny flowers grew among the blades. The moonlight leached away their
colors but had no effect on their sweet scent that perfumed the night air. The trees at the perimeter were
towering oaks, as evenly spaced as if planted by hand. It would have taken three or four children, all holding
hands, to ring the massive trunks. The leaves were wider than her two hands together and as long as her
forearm.
She turned slowly, looking about her, then gave a small scream as a shadow at the north end of the clearing
resolved itself from the backdrop of the trees. She could see only the outline but could tell that he wore armor
and held a spear in its right hand. She stood frozen, scarcely breathing, but he showed no reaction to her at
all. He only stood, stiffly erect, as though on guard. Beside her, the swan sat and serenely ignored the figure.
Staring in awe at the silhouette, it suddenly registered that the guard’s left arm ended abruptly just past the
elbow.
She waited a moment more, closely watching for any sigh of movement, before her curiosity grew sufficient to
outweigh her fear. Taking a deep breath and gathering her courage, she started across the hundred feet of
distance that separated her from the figure.
She was sure the guardian, as she’d begun to think of him, was carved of stone before she’d covered half the
distance. Details became apparent as she got closer.
The stone was dark, gray or brown perhaps, close grained and evenly colored. He wore a breastplate, and
greaves, with peculiar sandals that laced half way up his calves. A pleated skirt, possibly armored as well, fell
to just above his knees. An oblong shield, strapped to the missing piece of his broken left arm, lay in the
grass beside him. His helm was smooth and unadorned, with a nose piece and curving cheek protectors that
concealed most of his features. Something about his eyes and lips, however, along with the slenderness of
his frame beneath his armor, convinced Shantheya he was Elven rather than human.
As the details resolved themselves in the tricky moonlight, she realized the statue was old, ancient—weather
beaten and worn. The rain and snow, sun and wind, of perhaps centuries had done their damage. Edges,
particularly along the shoulders, arms and head, were rounded. Details, like the sigil carved into the
breastplate, were blurred. She reached up and ran her fingers along the faint lines of the symbol. She
thought it may have been a bird, with some sort of geometric design in the background, but the erosion was
too far advanced for her to be sure.
A faint noise behind her caused her to turn her head. The swan had followed her. It turned itself about a
couple of times then folded its legs beneath it. It tucked its head beneath its wing and was still. Shantheya
sat down in the thick grass next to it and leaned sideways against the great feathered body. It shifted its
weight slightly to accommodate her.
She reached into her tunic and pulled out the pendent, rubbing the smooth stone between her fingers.
Glancing down at it, she thought it and the statue may have been composed of the same stone but the
silvery light made it impossible to be sure. The pendent in her right hand, she slowly reached up with her left
and fingered the pointed tips of her ears. She wished the statue was bare headed, so she could see its ears
as well.
“My name is Shantheya,” she said aloud. “Like Ansella, and like my mother, I am an Elf.” The words slipped
smoothly and easily from her tongue, as though her vocal cords were as capable as those of the Elder
himself. “I am Elf,” she repeated, “and I can talk.” The words were simple but they echoed within her
thoughts, ringing of conviction and intent. They were an affirmation, a promise of fidelity to herself, arising
from the new core of knowledge she carried within her. Still clutching the pendant in her hand, she lay staring
at the statue until her eyelids closed and she drifted off to sleep.
#
The swan stirring beneath her awoke her. The moon had set and the stars were bright overhead. At the
swan’s urging, she once again climbed aboard its back. A few running steps, the snap of those great wings
and they were off. As they rose above the level of the trees, she could see a faint hint of dawn in the east.
By the time the swan deposited her near the canoe racks where it had picked her up the previous evening,
two fingers width of sun had crept above the horizon. The drake stroked her cheek once again, bowed jerkily
a couple of times before her, then turned and launched itself into the air. She stood watching in the dim light
until it disappeared in the haze of distance. Kneeling on the sandy shore, she quenched her thirst and
splashed her face with water. Then she started off through the village towards the hut she shared with
Linera.
Several people were moving about in the village circle as she approached it. She recognized Cante, with a
couple of the other young boys his age. She paused then started resolutely forward. He recognized her as
well and quickly stepped out to intercept her path.
Although he still towered over her, he no longer seemed as scary as he had the night before. Her mind was
filled with a picture of him standing before the swan, a look of terror on his face, his own urine flowing
unheeded down his legs. What would his companions think of that, she wondered? What would the village think
of him if they knew he’d been so badly frightened by a bird he pissed himself?
And, she realized, there was nothing preventing her from telling them the story. The pendent hung about her
neck; she was no longer bound by silence. She could speak up to defend herself. Her knowledge was a
weapon and her voice a hand with which to wield it. She could renounce Cante; expose his cowardice to the
entire village. She lowered her head so Cante could not see the small smile that played about her lips and
waited for him to speak. Let him think things were still as they were before, she thought. Let him begin his
taunting and teasing, thinking her a defenseless mute whom he could attack with impunity. It would make her
response that much more sweet.
Cante, his followers grouped behind him, wasted no time in obliging her. “Hey, half-breed, where ya been?
Linera’s been looking all over for you. You too stupid to find your way home? Or just too scared to walk
around by yourself in the dark?”
Shantheya whipped her head up, her eyes blazing, her mouth opening to renounce him, to spill his shame
before his friends. Cante stood before her, hands on his hips, a smirk on his lips. Up close, he seemed even
less like the person who had so terrified her scant hours before. He was somehow smaller, shrunken not
physically but in presence. His bravado hung about him like an ill fitting robe.
She could speak up, and perhaps shatter that thin veneer of power. But the prospect of doing so no longer
filled her with glee. Where would the glory in that victory be? It would be like pushing over the rotted stump
of a once might tree. Anyone could do it. There was no demonstration of might or valor in the action. It was
merely an act of wanton destruction. She thought of the warrior who had stood guard over her the night
before. Were he here to listen to her tale of vanquishing her enemy, would he congratulate her? What of the
Elder? Would he take pride in how she had used his gift?
She stared back at Cante, and spoke. “My name is Shantheya, not half-breed. Yes, I am Elf, like Ansella, and
like my mother who bore me. Do you think to shame me by pointing that out?”
Cante took a half step backwards, his mouth half open, his eyes clouding in puzzlement. She didn’t know if it
was her words or the act of her speaking them that startled him more. Nor, she realized, did she really care.
She brushed past him, suddenly anxious to see Linera. Her foster mother was perhaps angry but certainly
worried as well.
The morning stillness was suddenly broken by a high, undulating cry. Shantheya stopped dead in her tracks,
her head lifting, her mouth opened in a round ‘O’ of horror. Though there were still people moving about, the
village suddenly felt empty and desolate. A presence, the heart of the place, had departed. The cry came
again. She recognized the death wail, sounded to awaken the Keeper of the Final Gates when a new soul
was approaching. She also recognized Dovin’s voice.
Behind her, Cante spoke as the cry trailed away. “Gee,” he said curiously. “I wonder who died?”
seat in the dimness beside a long, narrow hut, and leaned back against the mud plastered wall to wait. The
hut was used for, among other things, the storage of the great communal tanning frames and smelled faintly
of the noxious concoctions used in the preparation of the hides.
She didn’t think she would have long to wait; the Elder should be here soon. He would come and sit down
next to the fire and all the other children would gather around him like puppies snuggling up to the warmth of
their bitch. He would toss out a few trinkets: carved bits of wood or oddly shaped stones he had found along
the banks of the river. The other children would scramble delightedly for them. Everyone knew the Elder’s
charms brought luck. Then, when the prizes had been claimed and the others grew still once more, he would
speak.
His voice would be low and hoarse, so she would have to strain to hear from her spot at the fringes of the
crowd. Sometimes, he would use words she didn’t understand. She did understand most of his words, of
course. They were words everyone used, words she heard all the time. Yet when he used them, they came
alive. They danced and leapt like the flames lighting his face, telling wondrous tales of places and people who
were strange and different. But these people weren’t outcasts who could scarcely talk and were never asked
to play in the village games. No, these people were different because they were heroes. Their strangeness
made them special, not weak. It was a mark of strength and power. They did great deeds and saved people
from fierce monsters or evil wizards. And though they were sometimes laughed at, it was always by wicked
villains who laughed only to cover their fear.
Shantheya shifted restlessly, unable to find a comfortable position. Even here along the edges of the village
circle, the ground was hard packed by the tread of generations of villagers. As she waited, she scanned the
night sky. The brightest stars had been visible for several moments, and their fainter brethren were beginning
to appear. She was able to pick out several familiar constellations. Many of them were characters in the Elder’
s stories. She recognized the Axeman, and the Great Bear towering over him. The Axeman had slain the bear
and saved all of the children in his village, but had taken mortal wounds himself. The gods, in tribute to his
bravery, had placed him in the sky to live forever. Left of those two was the Serpent, who had been
outsmarted by the Cat. The Cat, composed of dimmer stars, wasn’t yet visible but she knew right where it
would appear: just above the great oak west of the village. Next to the Cat, of course, was the Swan.
A few of the fainter stars were not yet visible there either but she could trace its outline: the great,
outstretched wings, the gracefully curving neck, the eye that was the brightest star in the autumn sky. It was
her favorite constellation, just as its story was her favorite of the Elder’s tales.
She hoped he’d have a new tale tonight. He sometimes brought new tales when he returned from his longer
journeys, and he’d been gone nearly two moons this time. She hated it when he left the village. Not only did
she miss the tales on Restday, but also the village felt somehow naked or empty when he was gone. She
always knew when he left and when he returned by that feeling, even without being told.
This morning, as soon as she’d opened her eyes, she’d known he was back. She hadn’t said anything to
Linera because it made Linera nervous and irritable when Shantheya knew things. She thought Linera had
known, or at least suspected, anyway. Thoughts of the Elder’s return always put Shantheya in a good mood,
and she’d noticed Linera watching her closely several times during breakfast.
A stir amongst the other children brought her attention back to the present. A newcomer was forcing his way
through them to claim a choice seat near the fire. Shantheya scooted back a bit tighter against the wall, and
pulled her legs in close to her body. He was between her and the fire, so the flickering light concealed rather
than revealed his features, but she didn’t need to see clearly to recognize Cante. Although a year younger
than her twelve winters, he was easily the largest child in the group. A massive head set closely atop thick
shoulders made his silhouette unmistakable. There were a few muttered complaints from those he shoved
aside, but no one dared speak openly. They never did.
Cante settled himself and pulled a stick from the fire. For a moment, he was content poking the embers and
watching the sparks fly. He tired of that quickly, however, and began waving the brand about in the air,
creating bright swirls and patterns in the dimness. His circles grew larger and wilder, until one of the children
seated nearby threw himself backward to avoid being struck.
“Hey! Watch it!” the boy cried and Cante leapt to his feet.
“You watch it, you troll,” he barked, and stabbed at the other boy with the flaming stick. He stopped the
thrust short, and laughed at his victims cries.
“C’mon, Cante,” another voice said. Shantheya couldn’t see the speaker but she thought it was Rashelda.
Rashelda was cousin to Cante, and one of the few who dared offer him some resistance. “You know we aren’t
supposed to play with the fire. You’ll get the tale cancelled.”
“So what?” Cante blustered. “Who cares about the stinkin’ tale anyway?” He waited a moment, to show he
wasn’t acting on anyone’s orders but only his own desires, then sullenly thrust the stick back into the fire and
sat back down.
After a few moments brought no further action from Cante, Shantheya’s thoughts drifted back to the Elder. He
should be here soon. In fact, he was late. He always came just at dusk, and it was nearly full dark. Most of
the Cat and all of the stars in the Swan’s tail were now visible.
She wondered what tale he’d tell tonight. If he didn’t have a new one, she hoped it would be Ansella and the
Swan. After all, of the many heroes and champions in the Elder’s tales, only Ansella was an elf. Of course, she
was a full elf, not a half-breed no-account. Sometimes, when the Elder spoke, Shantheya would close her
eyes and picture the tales in her head. When she did so, she always pictured Ansella as looking a little like
herself. It was a secret she’d once shared with Linera, but Linera had only laughed and rubbed her head. For
the next several days, Linera had asked her every evening if any swans had tried to carry her off. Shantheya
had only smiled and shaken her head, but she’d never told Linera any more of her secrets.
She caught a hint of motion from the corner of her eye and turned expectantly but the figure approaching
through the gloom walked tall and erect, not hunched over a walking staff like the Elder. He moved into the
light of the fire and she recognized Dovin, the Elder’s son. She liked Dovin. He was calm and soft spoken, like
his father. He also never teased her, neither about her mother nor about her speech. She was sure he’d
never ask her if a swan had tried to carry her off. She wondered what he was doing here, though. He knew
only those with fourteen or fewer winters were allowed in the Village Circle on Restday eve.
Dovin stood for a moment at the edge of the fire, looking at the ring of young faces staring up at him. Then he
spoke. “I’m sorry, children but there will be no tale tonight. My father is ill.” He stood for a moment more,
looking as though he wanted to speak but was unsure of what to say. Then, without saying anything more,
he simply turned and walked away. Slowly, the other children rose and, grumbling amongst themselves,
moved off among the huts.
Shantheya remained in the shadows, staring into the fire. The lack of a tale was a harsh disappointment, but
paled in comparison to the news of the Elder’s illness. She had never known him to be the least bit unwell.
Not even four winters ago, when the Great Sickness came. The whole village had broken out with sores that
sapped the strength and caused burning fevers. Great warriors and old women alike lay weak and helpless.
The Elder had remained well and strong, going from hut to hut, bringing water and the herbs that dried the
sores and broke the fever. Linera said that without him the whole village might have died. It seemed as
impossible for him to be ill as for fire to be cold, or for stones to be soft and yielding.
She arose and walked into the night, her small mouth warped into a perplexed frown.
She paid no attention to where her feet were taking her until they stopped of their own accord. She was
standing in a small circle of cleared earth illuminated by half a dozen tall, oil-burning torches thrust into the
ground. They were lit each night at sunset and burned until dawn. The circle fronted a low, stone hut; the
only one in the entire village. A worn leather flap, painted with arcane symbols, covered the doorway. Nearby,
a beaten copper disk was suspended from a triangular wooden rack. The bone from the foreleg of a small
deer hung next to it.
She could smell the sharp odor of the fish oil in the torches and the musky aroma of a dung fire. Faintly, she
also caught the sweet smell of steeping herbs.
Impulsively, she grasped the bone and struck the copper disk. The resulting clang startled her into an
awareness of where she was. A sudden desire to flee writhed in her belly but her feet were stuck to the
ground. And so she stood trembling as Dovin thrust his head through a slit in the flap. Seeing her, he
squatted to bring his eyes on a level with her own.
“I’m sorry, Shantheya,” he said. “But he is very, very sick. Much too sick for a tale tonight.”
She stood there looking at him. She wanted to say she knew that; she hadn’t come because of the tale. But,
as always, the words stuck in her throat like prickly things and, in truth, she didn’t know why she had come.
Thoughts thrashed around in her head like a wounded deer in the brush. She struggled to say something,
anything, but her traitorous mouth and tongue refused to cooperate. All that emerged was a string of
stuttered syllables: “He-he-he-he...” A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.
Dovin gently wiped it from her cheek. “I know you like tales, child, but he is just too sick.”
She shook her head violently, her hair whipping around with such force it stung the cheek Dovin had just
caressed. ““N-n-no!” she spit out. “N-no tale. Wa-wa-wa...” She stopped and swallowed fiercely. “W-w-
wanna help!” The words were a blurred rush.
Dovin smiled gently, sadly. “I don’t think there’s anything...” he began, but was interrupted by a faint voice
from inside. His head disappeared for a moment, then reappeared.
“He says for you to come in.” That sad, gentle smile once again curved his lips. “I guess I don’t have to tell
you of all people to be quiet.” He held the flap aside for her.
Shantheya walked slowly inside. It was dim and, after the brighter torchlight outside, she could see nothing
of the interior for a moment. The combating odors of dung fire and herbs were much stronger inside. When
her eyesight adjusted, she saw the Elder lying on a pallet near one wall of the hut. She paused in shock.
Even in the poor light she could see the weakness in his face.
When he had left the village seven Restdays ago, he had worn his age proudly, with dignity, as a knight
might wear a battle-scarred suit of mail. Now, it lay heavily on him as though its weight was more than his
fragile bones could bear. There was matter in the corner of his eyes and a thin string of spittle hung from the
side of his mouth. She could hear his breathing like wind through the tops of the pines.
He reached out and weakly patted a spot near his pallet. She went and sat down cross-legged next to him.
There was a damp cloth lying beside a basin of water. She took it and gently wiped his mouth.
“Shantheya,” he said; his voice a pale whisper, “I was going to send Dovin for you.” He closed his eyes and
said nothing more for a long moment. She sat quietly, watching the labored rise and fall of his chest. Just as
she was sure he had gone to sleep, he spoke again. “Do you remember the story of Ansella?”
She nodded then realized his eyes were still closed. “Ye-ye-yes,” she managed.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. Slowly, his hands rose to his neck and grasped a leather thong tied
there. He struggled to pull it over his head and she reached out to gently help him. Her hands brushed his,
and his were cold and clammy.
She untied the simple knot and lifted the thong, pulling a primitive pendant from beneath the skin coverlets
wrapping him. She lifted it in the dim light, seeing a smooth crescent of dark brown stone flecked with a
lighter brown. A bold, branching line of deep blue shot through the surface, like a lightning bolt imprisoned
within the pebble.
“Put it on,” he whispered and she carefully tied the thong around her neck. The stone settled heavily on her
chest and, for a brief moment, she thought she felt a faint vibration. A tingle seemed to run along the surface
of her skin to her throat.
“Now,” he breathed. “Tell me the tale. Talk to me of Ansella.”
Shantheya shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t talk!” But the words flowed as easily and
natural as breath from her mouth. Shantheya stared at the Elder, her mouth agape. A roaring sound filled her
head and her face flushed. It was impossible. Words were no friends of hers. They turned on her, fighting her
every effort to master them. They sank claws into her throat and had to be thrust hissing and spitting from
her lips.
She trembled. “I can talk?” A faint whisper. Then, almost a scream: “I can talk!”
The Elder nodded. “Tell me the story.”
She paused. The miracle of her speech filled her head, pushing thoughts of evening tales off into the distance.
What was the story of Ansella compared to this? Was being rescued from a savage attack by a swan any
more miraculous than being rescued from a prison of silence by a bit of stone? She could speak!
The Elder weakly patted her hand. “It’s okay. Take a moment, then tell me the story.”
She took a deep breath. “Uh, I can’t remember,” she said. Again the words rolled from her mouth with an
ease that set her whole body to shaking. “Uh, Ansella was an elf. Like me. Bad men came. They hurt her.
Then Ansella called the swan. It came and drove off the bad men and took her away.”
The Elder nodded again. “You remember, child. You remember the important part. Bad men came and hurt
Ansella.
“Tell me. Do you know the word ‘rape’?”
Shantheya nodded. She had heard Linera and other village women talking. Sometimes it seemed as though
they forgot she was there. Linera said she was so quiet it was a wonder her shadow could keep track of
where she was to follow her around. When Linera caught her listening to the women talk about men and the
things they liked to do, she always sent Shantheya away or changed the subject. But she had heard enough
to know what that word meant.
“It means they force you to do the baby thing,” she told him. Her voice sounded funny to her, shaky and high
pitched.
“Exactly child. And that’s what those men did to Ansella.” He slowly reached out and took her hand. He
squeezed it feebly and looked her in the eye.
“Human men did that to your mother too, Shantheya. They caught an elven maiden alone in the woods and
they raped her.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide. For a moment, even the miracle of her voice was forgotten. It was the first
time anyone had ever told her anything about her mother. Linera answered all her questions by saying she,
Linera, was the only mother Shantheya would ever have and there was no use carrying on about what would
never be.
“Is that why she didn’t want me?” she asked the Elder.
“Oh, child, it wasn’t that she didn’t want you. She had no choice!” He spoke haltingly, with frequent pauses
for breath but the fierceness of his emotions still showed in the faint words. “She couldn’t go to her own
people. They would have called her unclean and banished her. She couldn’t stay here either. We aren’t bad
people but most would never have accepted an adult elf living here. I had a difficult enough time convincing
them to foster you.”
The old man seemed to have run out of breath and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Shantheya sat
without moving. His words had touched her intimately but there was too much there for her to grasp easily. It
overwhelmed her thoughts. She had a real mother who had once loved her, who might still love her.
Somewhere in the elven forests, her mother might be thinking of her at this very minute, wondering what had
happened to her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded of the Elder. “Why didn’t you tell me a long time ago?”
The old man looked at her and his mouth opened, but all that emerged was a whistle of escaping air. He
waved feebly and Dovin emerged from the shadows to kneel at Shantheya’s side. She had forgotten he was
near, had forgotten everything, even the wonder of her speech, in the whirl of her newly gained knowledge.
“Jelledim-root,” the Elder gasped and Dovin nodded. “I have some steeping,” he said. He rose and moved to
a low table nearby where a small cup sat covered with a bit of cloth. He took the cup, added a drop of honey
from a small jar, and knelt back by the pallet. Gently lifting his father’s head, he eased a sip of dark, oily-
looking liquid into the slack mouth. The old man shuddered but his breathing eased immediately. A moment
more, another two sips of the elixir and his eyes cleared somewhat as well. He nodded to Dovin, who kissed
his forehead gently and moved softly back behind Shantheya.
She watched this in a state of numbed shock. When the Elder spoke again, she had almost forgotten her
question.
“Perhaps I should have, child. Perhaps I should have told you long ago. In part, I feared your reaction. I didn’t
want you to hate the elves for denying your mother a choice, nor the humans for refusing her. I thought to
wait until you were older, until you could understand the forces that compel evil actions from those who are
not evil.”
His rheumy eyes open wider as he weakly grasped her hand and stared intently at her. “Please, Shantheya,
do not hate. Hate destroys. It corrupts and warps the soul.
“Neither humans or elves are hateful folk. They are ruled by pressures and forces that have evolved over
centuries. Try to understand them. Pity them, perhaps. But do not hate them.”
The Elder looked beyond Shantheya at Dovin and sighed. His eyes were troubled. “I pray she is not still too
young to understand. My time grows short; else I would have waited to speak.” He opened his mouth as
though he had more to say but nothing emerged. Instead, he closed his eyes.
Dovin stepped forward and brushed an iron gray strand of sweat soaked hair back from his father’s forehead.
A shudder shook his shoulders, but when he turned his eyes were dry. “He needs rest now, Shantheya,” he
said. “You may return tomorrow.”
She arose and nodded. Her hands rose to the pendent. The leather thong was long enough to slip easily over
her head without untying the knot. With trembling hands, she removed it and offered it to Dovin.
He shook his head. “It’s yours. A gift.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then at the shrunken, still figure of the Elder. Slowly, she looped the
thong back over her head and dropped the stone inside the front of her shift. “Thank you,” she said and
thrilled again at the even flow of her own voice despite the turmoil in her head. She wiped away a tear but
another slipped out to replace it. Her lower lip quivered and she spun and raced through the doorway of the
hut.
The torchlight was bright after the dim interior of the Elder’s hut, and she halted, looking wildly about in
confusion. From the joyful shouts and laughter off to her left, some of the children were still playing in the
village circle. She turned blindly in the opposite direction. A few half-running steps brought her out of the
firelight and into the dimness of the wooden huts. Safely hidden within the shadows, her steps slowed and
she walked with her head down, still wiping fiercely but futilely at the tears on her cheeks.
She hated to cry. Crying only showed your weakness; it let the others know how much their jibes had hurt
you. When you had no words of your own to respond to their taunts, your only option was to pretend no
response was needed, that their mockery had no effect on you. If her enforced silence deprived her of a
weapon, it also served as a shield, but only so long as she managed to hide the pain of their taunts. Those
who teased her, Cante chief among them, was quick to seize upon any display of weakness.
Almost as though her thoughts had summoned him, Cante’s voice leapt from the nearby shadows. “Hey, half-
breed! Since the Elder’s sick, why don’t you come tell us a story?”
Shantheya spun away from the voice and fled.
She never ran from Cante; like tears, fleeing only served to encourage him. If she simply stood and endured
his taunts for a few moments, he usually got bored and left her alone. But with tears already streaking down
her cheeks and a terrible knowledge pounding in her thoughts, she’d never be able to face him with her usual
stoic reserve. And so she ran.
There was a startled “Hey!” from behind her, then the pounding of footsteps as Cante took up the pursuit.
Though heavier, he was also larger and longer of limb than Shantheya and she knew she had no hope of
outrunning him in a race of pure speed. She darted into the break between two nearby huts, crossed a
narrow, alley-like separation and ran between yet another pair of huts. She dove under a set of drying racks
loaded with half-cured hides, rolling through the dust and bounding to her feet on the other side. There was
a crash and a yelp behind her as Cante crashed into one of the racks. Silently but fiercely wishing that he’d
truly harm himself, she didn’t even glance behind her to see how much the collision had slowed him. A breath
later, she heard him grunt as he dropped to the ground and drug himself under and past the drying racks.
“You’re dead, half-breed!” he yelled. “I’m gonna pound you good!”
Shantheya wasted neither words nor thoughts on a reply. Though he’d never seriously hurt her, he’d caused
her bumps and bruises enough that she had no wish to face him when he was angry. Her best and only
response lay in escaping him, at least for now.
She could run for home, of course, but the idea of escaping by seeking the protection of the woman who’d
hidden the secret of her birth for so long was repugnant to her. And Linera would no doubt question her
tearstained face. Shantheya wanted no questions right now. What she needed was a place to hide; where
she could sit alone and think, and perhaps cry. The shore seemed the perfect place. She could find shelter
amongst the reeds and thickets bordering the lake. But first, of course, she had to get there.
The village was laid out in a series of concentric rings surrounding the village circle. The elder’s hut sat several
rows back and opposite the water. In order to reach the lake, she had to either cross the village circle or
travel halfway around the village. Crossing the circle would be a long, straight dash that would play to Cante’
s speed and negate her small advantage in quickness and agility. She could also hear shouts of laughter from
that direction; some of the other children were still out and playing. Few of them were as mean as Cante. But
if they were unlikely to join him in her pursuit, there was no telling if someone might decide to curry favor by
sticking out a leg as she ran by.
With her path decided, she turned again into the narrow space between two huts, seeking a zigzag path that
took advantage of her agility and size but still led towards the west side of the village. She could no longer
hear Cante’s footsteps behind her, so she slowed a bit, sticking to deep shadow and listening intently for
sounds of pursuit. Reaching the smoke hut, she crouched in the shadows. She’d heard no sign of Cante’s
footsteps. With a clear view of the lake, she paused.
There was a broad path, a dozen steps wide, between the walls of the hut and the underbrush bordering the
shore. The path led to a cleared area to her right, where a series of racks held the villages fishing canoes.
Nets woven of vine bound with strips of sinew were piled nearby.
She waited for a moment, her heart beating fiercely in her chest and her breath ragged in her throat. Seeing
nothing and hearing only her own harsh breathing, she leapt to her feet and sprinted from the shadows of
the smoke hut towards the brush.
Halfway across the opening, she spotted a faint shadow against the hard packed earth. A smoke-hardened
branch, used to support the carcasses as they cured on the racks of the smoke hut, lay in front of her. Too
late, she tried to lengthen her stride to step over it but her foot landed on the stick, which rolled beneath her.
She took two stumbling steps and went down hard. The impact of hitting the ground forced a muffled cry from
her lips. As if in response, footsteps pounded nearby.
Frantically, ignoring the pain in her scuffed palms and bruised chest, she heaved herself half aright and half
crawled, half ran the last few steps into the brush. Dropping to her belly, she wriggled forward, clawing her
way into the narrow spaces between the gnarled trunks of the brush. She wormed about, looking back the
way she’d come as Cante stepped into view a dozen feet from where she lay.
“That you, half-breed?” he called. “I knew you’d come here. You can’t hide forever!”
Shantheya lay quiet, scarcely daring to breathe.
“Just go away!” she thought fiercely. “Just leave me alone!”
But of course her silent exhortations had no effect on Cante. He stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes
boring into the shadows, seeking some clue as to where she lay hidden. Slowly, he took a step forward, then
another, luck or some half-sensed perception guiding him almost directly towards her position.
“Half-breed! Where are you?”
Shantheya lay without moving, trying to sink into the loamy soil beneath her. A faint taste of bitter metal told
her she’d bit her lip hard enough to bring blood. Her belly was a tight knot and something tightened about
her chest, striving mightily to suffocate her. Her heart pounded in opposition to the pressure, as though it
wanted to free itself from the confines of her ribcage. She watched Cante’s slow approach. A chant took
shape in her mind, a half command, half plea timed to the pound of her pulse in her ears.
“Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!) Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!)”
Step. Cante moved closer, now but a half-dozen strides from her.
“Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!) Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!)”
Step.
“Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!) Go! (THUD!) Away! (THUD!)”
Step.
Shantheya’s stomach roiled and she clamped down on the bile in her throat. She could stand no more. She
prepared to leap to her feet and fling herself at him. Even in a state of near hysteria, she had no illusions
about what she could do to him. He was twice her weight and thrice or more times as strong. But anything
was preferable to this. Her hands clenched into fists and the muscles in her legs tightened.
Something moved among the canoe racks.
The faint but unmistakable noise froze her in place and spun Cante half about to face the direction of the
noise. The moonlight shone on his silhouetted features and she could see the grin that crept across his face.
“There you are!” He rubbed his hands together and strode towards the racks.
Shantheya inched her way forward, trying to see who might be among the canoes. If it was one of the other
children, Cante might have an ally to help him search for her. If it was an adult, it might be her chance to
escape.
Cante stopped a few strides from the mass of shadows that were the stacked canoes.
“Come on, half-breed,” he crowed. “Don’t make me come in there and drag you out.”
He was answered by a low, drawn-out hissing sound. Shantheya could no longer see his face but he took a
half step backwards and tilted his head to one side.
“Half breed?” he said, no longer seeming so sure of himself. Then he shook his head slightly, and called out in
a louder voice. “If you’re trying to scare me, it ain’t gonna work.”
The hissing which answered him was louder this time, more pronounced. There was a brief flash of white in
the moonlight as something moved within the shadows.
Cante took another step backwards. Again, something moved within the shadows, then stepped full into the
moonlight. It was large and white, luminescent in the silvery glow. The light almost blinded Shantheya, and,
combined with the incongruity of its size; it took her a moment to realize she was seeing a drake.
With a snap like that of an ice jam in the spring thaw, it spread its glossy wings. The long necked curved into
a graceful ‘S’ to bring its head down and thrust forward within inches of Cante’s face. It hissed again, a short,
loud burst of angry sibilance.
Cante screamed. It wasn’t a yell or a holler; it was a scream of pure terror. In the moonlight, the ground
beneath him abruptly darkened and something glistened on the inside of his legs beneath his short tunic.
Shantheya suddenly realized he had lost control of his bladder.
Time seemed to stand still; the tableau frozen in place. Shantheya lay in the shadows of the brush, mouth
agape, staring at the huge swan as Cante pissed himself. The stillness was broken when the drake drew its
head back and struck Cante in the middle of his forehead. To Shantheya, it didn’t seem a vicious blow but it
was sufficient to knock him back a stumbling step. He half turned and she could see his the terror on his face
as, arms flailing, he caught his balance. His mouth gaped open as though he would scream again but no
sound emerged. He spun about and fled into the huts.
The swan did not move for a long moment, it’s wings spread as though it would take flight, it’s head turned in
the direction of Cante’s escape, then it swung about to stare unerringly towards the spot where Shantheya
lay.
Slowly, Shantheya stood up and stepped out of the underbrush. She was bemused, her thoughts distant, as
though the happenings here had nothing to do with her. Some small, faint part of her mind whispered she
should be afraid, that the bird had just assaulted Cante and was likely to attack her as well but that thought
seemed as distant and irrelevant as the sighing of the wind through the trees and she ignored it. She stood
unmoving as the drake, huge and blindingly white and regal as any king in the Elder’s tales, folded its wings
and approached her. It doubled its long, graceful legs beneath it and settled to the ground before her. Its
head came forward and that fearsome bill, which only moment before had so sharply rapped Cante’s
forehead, gently stroked her cheek. It lay its head on her shoulder and she threw her arms about its long
elegant neck. The paralysis of her thoughts vanished and everything came crashing in at once: the Elder’s
illness, the details of her own history, the wonder of her speech, her fear of Cante. They struck her with the
force of a summer thunderstorm and the tears came again. The flood of sobs wracked her body and leached
the strength from her knees so that she half collapsed against the swan. It cooed softly in her ear until she
had wept herself out; until the knot of fear and anguish and incomprehension in the center of her chest had
dissolved and she was as empty and desolate as the shattered shells in a long abandoned nest.
When she had at last recovered herself, she stepped back, expecting the swan to leave. Instead, it extended
its head, wrapping its neck about her and forcing her closer. Unsure of its purpose, she yielded to the
pressure and allowed it to guide her until she stood at its side. Still, it did not relent but continued to exert
gentle pressure against her until she suddenly grasped its intent and wonderingly slid aboard its broad back.
As soon as she was securely seated, her hands clasped firmly in the feathers at the base of its neck, it stood.
It waited a moment, as though to be sure that her perch was secure. It took several long steps, gathering
speed, extended its wings, and launched itself into the air.
There was an explosion of wind and noise and feathers. The pit of her stomach abandoned her. Shantheya
wanted to scream but her lungs heaved in their efforts to draw in the swirling air and she had no breath for
anything other than a brief cry. The wind rushed past like a summer gale, whipping her hair so it stung her
cheeks, and so loud in her ears she half feared she would be deafened. Over one pristine shoulder, she could
see the village falling away below them, the ground spinning dizzily as the great bird spiraled upwards. She
squeezed her eyes tightly shut and buried her face in the down at the base of the swan’s neck.
She clung to the swan in an exhilarating mixture of terror and excitement. After a moment, their flight settled
down. The wing beats grew less frenzied and settled into a smooth, powerful rhythm. She could feel the
mighty muscles beneath her thighs and her hands as they bunched and released, bunched and released,
with each stroke of the great wings. Slowly, the death grip of her hands eased. The frantic pounding of her
heart slowed and her breath came easier. She became aware of the soft yet slightly scratchy feel of the
feathers beneath her, and the warm, musty odor of the down in her nostrils. The wind, while still loud in her
ears, no longer seemed likely to inflict permanent damage. She slowly lifted her head and opened her eyes.
She was incredibly high in the air; so far above the ground the very concept of height seemed to lose
meaning and she felt no fear of falling. The view was not like staring down from the limbs of a tall tree. When
she climbed trees, she knew she looked at a long fall and was deliciously afraid. Here, she felt as though she
looked at a world ensorcelled by a great wizard; one captured and shrunken and spread upon a table for her
review. Only the mountain called Storm Mother, standing tall in the northern distance, seemed unaffected by
her position. As usual, its peak was obscured in a wreath of dark clouds. A tiny thread of silver leaked from
one dark flank and wound its way across the foothills to feed the lake that arced below her. A lumpy quarter
moon, the lake was drained at the southern end by another narrow, tumultuous river. Although she’d never
seen either river before, she knew their names were Ice Bearer and Land Quencher. The moon, nearly full,
painted the waters a vivid argent, and was in turn reflected in their depths like a great eye. She half expected
it to wink at her but she was too ephemeral for its weighty gaze and it only stared back at its sibling in the
sky. Along the concave bank of the lake, the village nestled close to the water. From this perspective, the
shadowy collection of huts bore little resemblance to the place where she’d spent her entire life. A wide
expanse of low, scruffy hills rolled away to the western horizon. Something moved on those plains; a restless
mass that she took to be a herd of antelope. She had only a vague idea of the direction they traveled and no
experience with which to judge their distance from the village but guessed that there would be a hunting
party and a village feast on the morrow.
Across the water from the village, the eastern bank was heavily forested. The dark expanse of trees
shrugged off the moonlight, choosing only to reveal the coarsest features of its outline. An occasional lighter
spot showed through, clearings or thin spots among the trees. She wasn’t sure if they were naturally
occurring or had been cleared by some intelligent hand. Village tales said elves and wood wights inhabited
the forest, eager to snatch away an unwary child for diabolical purposes that were never quite explained in
detail. Shantheya did not know if there was any truth to the tales. However, she did know adults from the
village seldom ventured into the depths of the distant forest, although the women gathered nuts fallen from
the trees along the fringe. Only the Elder dared the depths, usually in search of herbs or strange fungi. And
so it was with a tug of apprehension she realized they were descending towards one of the clearings she’d
spotted moments before.
The swan banked, moving in a great, slow circle that kept its left wingtip pointed at the opening among the
trees. The circle grew tighter as they dropped until, with a fierce flapping of its wings that nearly deafened
her, they touched ground. A half dozen running steps brought them to a stop and the drake stood for a
second, wings extended, neck stretched to its full length. It gave a loud, honking call and settled to the
ground. Shantheya slid from the broad back and peered about her.
She stood in an oval clearing, oriented perfectly north to south and too regular to be natural, atop the crown
of a low hillock. The ground, covered with a thick, springy blanket of grass that felt wonderfully cool beneath
her bare feet, fell away to all sides. Tiny flowers grew among the blades. The moonlight leached away their
colors but had no effect on their sweet scent that perfumed the night air. The trees at the perimeter were
towering oaks, as evenly spaced as if planted by hand. It would have taken three or four children, all holding
hands, to ring the massive trunks. The leaves were wider than her two hands together and as long as her
forearm.
She turned slowly, looking about her, then gave a small scream as a shadow at the north end of the clearing
resolved itself from the backdrop of the trees. She could see only the outline but could tell that he wore armor
and held a spear in its right hand. She stood frozen, scarcely breathing, but he showed no reaction to her at
all. He only stood, stiffly erect, as though on guard. Beside her, the swan sat and serenely ignored the figure.
Staring in awe at the silhouette, it suddenly registered that the guard’s left arm ended abruptly just past the
elbow.
She waited a moment more, closely watching for any sigh of movement, before her curiosity grew sufficient to
outweigh her fear. Taking a deep breath and gathering her courage, she started across the hundred feet of
distance that separated her from the figure.
She was sure the guardian, as she’d begun to think of him, was carved of stone before she’d covered half the
distance. Details became apparent as she got closer.
The stone was dark, gray or brown perhaps, close grained and evenly colored. He wore a breastplate, and
greaves, with peculiar sandals that laced half way up his calves. A pleated skirt, possibly armored as well, fell
to just above his knees. An oblong shield, strapped to the missing piece of his broken left arm, lay in the
grass beside him. His helm was smooth and unadorned, with a nose piece and curving cheek protectors that
concealed most of his features. Something about his eyes and lips, however, along with the slenderness of
his frame beneath his armor, convinced Shantheya he was Elven rather than human.
As the details resolved themselves in the tricky moonlight, she realized the statue was old, ancient—weather
beaten and worn. The rain and snow, sun and wind, of perhaps centuries had done their damage. Edges,
particularly along the shoulders, arms and head, were rounded. Details, like the sigil carved into the
breastplate, were blurred. She reached up and ran her fingers along the faint lines of the symbol. She
thought it may have been a bird, with some sort of geometric design in the background, but the erosion was
too far advanced for her to be sure.
A faint noise behind her caused her to turn her head. The swan had followed her. It turned itself about a
couple of times then folded its legs beneath it. It tucked its head beneath its wing and was still. Shantheya
sat down in the thick grass next to it and leaned sideways against the great feathered body. It shifted its
weight slightly to accommodate her.
She reached into her tunic and pulled out the pendent, rubbing the smooth stone between her fingers.
Glancing down at it, she thought it and the statue may have been composed of the same stone but the
silvery light made it impossible to be sure. The pendent in her right hand, she slowly reached up with her left
and fingered the pointed tips of her ears. She wished the statue was bare headed, so she could see its ears
as well.
“My name is Shantheya,” she said aloud. “Like Ansella, and like my mother, I am an Elf.” The words slipped
smoothly and easily from her tongue, as though her vocal cords were as capable as those of the Elder
himself. “I am Elf,” she repeated, “and I can talk.” The words were simple but they echoed within her
thoughts, ringing of conviction and intent. They were an affirmation, a promise of fidelity to herself, arising
from the new core of knowledge she carried within her. Still clutching the pendant in her hand, she lay staring
at the statue until her eyelids closed and she drifted off to sleep.
#
The swan stirring beneath her awoke her. The moon had set and the stars were bright overhead. At the
swan’s urging, she once again climbed aboard its back. A few running steps, the snap of those great wings
and they were off. As they rose above the level of the trees, she could see a faint hint of dawn in the east.
By the time the swan deposited her near the canoe racks where it had picked her up the previous evening,
two fingers width of sun had crept above the horizon. The drake stroked her cheek once again, bowed jerkily
a couple of times before her, then turned and launched itself into the air. She stood watching in the dim light
until it disappeared in the haze of distance. Kneeling on the sandy shore, she quenched her thirst and
splashed her face with water. Then she started off through the village towards the hut she shared with
Linera.
Several people were moving about in the village circle as she approached it. She recognized Cante, with a
couple of the other young boys his age. She paused then started resolutely forward. He recognized her as
well and quickly stepped out to intercept her path.
Although he still towered over her, he no longer seemed as scary as he had the night before. Her mind was
filled with a picture of him standing before the swan, a look of terror on his face, his own urine flowing
unheeded down his legs. What would his companions think of that, she wondered? What would the village think
of him if they knew he’d been so badly frightened by a bird he pissed himself?
And, she realized, there was nothing preventing her from telling them the story. The pendent hung about her
neck; she was no longer bound by silence. She could speak up to defend herself. Her knowledge was a
weapon and her voice a hand with which to wield it. She could renounce Cante; expose his cowardice to the
entire village. She lowered her head so Cante could not see the small smile that played about her lips and
waited for him to speak. Let him think things were still as they were before, she thought. Let him begin his
taunting and teasing, thinking her a defenseless mute whom he could attack with impunity. It would make her
response that much more sweet.
Cante, his followers grouped behind him, wasted no time in obliging her. “Hey, half-breed, where ya been?
Linera’s been looking all over for you. You too stupid to find your way home? Or just too scared to walk
around by yourself in the dark?”
Shantheya whipped her head up, her eyes blazing, her mouth opening to renounce him, to spill his shame
before his friends. Cante stood before her, hands on his hips, a smirk on his lips. Up close, he seemed even
less like the person who had so terrified her scant hours before. He was somehow smaller, shrunken not
physically but in presence. His bravado hung about him like an ill fitting robe.
She could speak up, and perhaps shatter that thin veneer of power. But the prospect of doing so no longer
filled her with glee. Where would the glory in that victory be? It would be like pushing over the rotted stump
of a once might tree. Anyone could do it. There was no demonstration of might or valor in the action. It was
merely an act of wanton destruction. She thought of the warrior who had stood guard over her the night
before. Were he here to listen to her tale of vanquishing her enemy, would he congratulate her? What of the
Elder? Would he take pride in how she had used his gift?
She stared back at Cante, and spoke. “My name is Shantheya, not half-breed. Yes, I am Elf, like Ansella, and
like my mother who bore me. Do you think to shame me by pointing that out?”
Cante took a half step backwards, his mouth half open, his eyes clouding in puzzlement. She didn’t know if it
was her words or the act of her speaking them that startled him more. Nor, she realized, did she really care.
She brushed past him, suddenly anxious to see Linera. Her foster mother was perhaps angry but certainly
worried as well.
The morning stillness was suddenly broken by a high, undulating cry. Shantheya stopped dead in her tracks,
her head lifting, her mouth opened in a round ‘O’ of horror. Though there were still people moving about, the
village suddenly felt empty and desolate. A presence, the heart of the place, had departed. The cry came
again. She recognized the death wail, sounded to awaken the Keeper of the Final Gates when a new soul
was approaching. She also recognized Dovin’s voice.
Behind her, Cante spoke as the cry trailed away. “Gee,” he said curiously. “I wonder who died?”
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