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Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess – Chapter 20

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Chapter Twenty: Epilog

Three years after the events in this tale, I was sitting beside the fireplace in the Singing Siren Tavern in the city of Antriador, having just finished telling the tale of Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess, when I heard a voice calling out. “Gah! You are the worst story-teller ever!”
It was Jholiera. She was no longer dressed as an orphan boy. Nor was she clad in her leather elven-style princess dress with a leaf motif carved into it, and lots of gold jewelry. She was dressed as a traveling warrior, with armor carefully tailored to her short and feminine form, and a sword on her back that was nearly as large as she was. Her golden hair, now almost reaching her waist, was styled into dozens of thin braids, each adorned with beads of bone and ivory. She threw her arms around me and pulled me close in a tight embrace, then released me before continuing.

“You are the worst story-teller ever. None of that was right—the pies, the goblins, the elves. None of it happened that way at all. Only that bit in the Inn with Ellwood Cyrene was remotely true. And I most certainly did not kiss you. Not even once.”
“A little romance makes for a better story,” said I.
“I’m surprised you didn’t have me throw myself at you.”
“I had to keep it proper,” said I. “You were dressed as a boy most of the story.”
“Come here, you great fool,” she said, and taking my face in her small hands, she pulled me down to her eye level and kissed me, this time deeply, on the lips, and with great passion. It was such a shock that for a moment I couldn’t speak.
“What are you doing now?” she asked.
“I am pondering a new ending to the story.”
“You’re not thinking of making up an ending where I show up in a tavern dressed as a warrior and, taking your face in my small hands, I pull you down to eye level and kiss you, this time deeply, on the lips, and with great passion, are you?”
“Of course not,” said I. “Perish the thought.”

THE END

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess – Chapter 19

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Chapter Nineteen: Wherein I make an escape, a plot element that I normally wouldn’t reveal, but you know that I am alive anyway because I am telling you the story.

I was given another bowl of the delicious mush, which I ate, this time with more difficulty because my back really ached when I bent over to eat like a dog. I certainly didn’t sleep though. Oh you can be sure of that. I didn’t sleep. Knowing that you are going on trial in one hour is not nearly the cure for sleepiness that knowing you are to be executed in the morning is.

“Eaglethorpe,” a voice called.
I turned to see Jholiera bathed in the light of the setting sun as it diffused through the trees. She was no longer dressed as a boy. She had on a leather dress cut in an elven style with a leaf motif carved into it. It left her shoulders bare and though her form was slight, there was no longer any question that she was a young woman. She had golden jewelry on her arms and a delicate golden crown on her head.
“Eaglethorpe, how are you?”
“I’ve a pretty nasty stab wound in my back, and my arms are aching from them being tied behind me. I think I skinned my knee when I was trying to eat from a bowl like a dog, but there’s no way to check. Oh yes, and they are going to kill me in a few hours. Other than that, I’m fine.”
“Come here, close to the bars.”
I did as directed and she reached through the bars and cut the bands that were holding my wrists together. My muscles cried out as blood rushed back into them, and a shooting pain went from my back straight into my heart.
“I think I shall die before they have a chance to kill me,” said I. “Serves them right.”
“Don’t say that. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“How?”
“I’ll be back after midnight. In the meantime, try to get some rest.”
“You have no idea, girl,” said I, as she went off into the trees.
Remarkably I did sleep this time. I must have. I don’t remember falling asleep or even sitting down. But when I was awakened by small pebbles hitting against my face, I found myself sitting against the wall of the cave.
“Ow! Stop it,” said I, as one of the small pebbles hit me in the eye.
“Quiet you,” said Jholiera. “I’m almost ready to rescue you. Get over here and wait by the cell door. You have to be ready at a moment’s notice.”
“Why aren’t you rescuing me now?”
“I don’t have the key yet.”
“You don’t have the key?”
“Calm down. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She did return, but it wasn’t in a few minutes. It was quite a bit later. In fact, by the time she did return, I was beginning to fear that the first rays of predawn light might make escape impossible. But when she arrived, Jholiera did have the key. She quickly opened the cell door, and taking me by the hand, led me through a maze of trees. We hurried around massive trunks and over fallen logs, through curtains of trailing vines, until we came to another small glade. Here was my beautiful steed, which is to say Hysteria.
I can tell you I had a hard time saddling my horse due to my injury. But with the elven princess’s help, the deed was soon done. As I prepared to mount, Jholiera stopped me.
“Thank you Eaglethorpe,” she said, and gave me a tender kiss on the cheek.
“You are coming with me, aren’t you?” I asked. “You can’t live with such a horrible father, or marry such a horrible husband.”
“Don’t worry. My father is not so bad. And Iidreiion probably won’t want to marry me anyway after he finds out what I had to do to get the key away from his cousin. Besides, I’ve had enough adventuring for now. I just want to stay home and be safe.”
With that she gave me an even tenderer kiss on the cheek. I climbed into my saddle and took off through the woods, just as the early dawn was beginning to break. And I never saw the little elven princess again.

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess – Chapter 18

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Chapter Eighteen: Wherein I find out what fate the elves intend for me.

It was well into the morning before I was given a clue as to what was going on. Three new elven men arrived outside the bars of my cell. I mean that they were new because I hadn’t seen them before, not that they were new because they were newly born. In fact, they were fully grown though their age was indeterminate, all looking quite youthful. One had long grey hair while the other two sported long blond locks. It was the grey-haired elf who spoke to me.

“You are to be tried for the kidnapping of a princess of the elven people,” he said.
“This is a big mistake,” said I. “I had nothing to do with any kidnapping. Quite the contrary. I was helping her return to her home.”
“All the important details will come out in the trial,” he replied. “Our only purpose at this moment is to introduce ourselves. I am King Jholhard and I will act as your judge.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I sighed. “I know that I will be treated fairly by Jholiera’s father.”
“This is Iidreiion, Jholiera’s betrothed, who will act as the prosecutor.”
I didn’t know what to say to this fellow. I looked into his face and didn’t see any obvious malice. Maybe he would simply present the facts as known. I certainly hoped he was dedicated to the truth and not to seeking out a conviction at any cost as is so often the case in human societies.
“And this is Iidreiior and he will act as your defense counsel.”
“I am very pleased to meet…” I stopped and looked from my defense counselor to the prosecutor, back to my defense counselor, back to the prosecutor, back to the defense counselor, back to the prosecutor. They looked exactly the same. They were twins.
“Um, well when is my trial to begin?” I asked.
“In one hour,” replied the king. “You should take your rest until then.”
I was not going to rest until then. I defy anyone to “rest until then” in a similar situation. Try this with someone you know. Tell them “I’m going to tell you something that will change your life in one hour. Rest until then.” See if they rest. Or tell them “In one hour you will find out if you live or die. Rest until then.” I will wager that they won’t rest. Or tell them “In one hour I’m going to give you a pie. Then don’t give them a pie.” They won’t rest. That may not be exactly the same, but they won’t rest. Watch and see.
“What are you doing now?” asked the king.
“I’m pondering the future.”
“Such as it is,” he said, nodding sagely. Then the three walked away, leaving me to my own thoughts.
An hour later I was marched out of my cell and taken to an open glade within the wood. This space had obviously been used as a ceremonial center for many years. Covered areas had been built for spectators as well as individuals involved in whatever ordinance was being performed. The awnings were made of wood, but they were covered with many layers of vines, while here and there trees grew up through them. Most of the seats were intricately carved of stone and had been worn very smooth by extended use. I was led to a spot on one side, where Iidreiior waited. On the other side of the glade, stood his twin.
A few minutes after I arrived, a whole crowd of elves began filing into the open forest area. There must have been about two hundred of them. Though I carefully watched for her, Jholiera was nowhere to be seen. At last King Jholhard appeared and took his place in a stone chair raised only slightly higher than the others.
“What is the charge?” asked the king without any preamble.
“The prisoner is charged with the abduction of a princess of the royal blood,” said Iidreiion.
“How does he plead?”
“Guilty,” said Iidreiior.
“What? Wait.”
“After having weighed all the important details,” said the king, placing far too much emphasis on the word important for my liking. “The prisoner is hereby found guilty as charged.” “What? Wait.”
“Recommended sentence?”
“Death,” said Iidreiion.
“Agreed,” said Iidreiior.
“What? Wait. What kind of trial is this?” I demanded accusingly, my back straight, but without my arm being outstretched, as it was still tied to the other arm.
“It is a show trial,” said the king. “It is called a show trial because it is only for show. There is no real justice involved.”
“I know what a show trial is,” said I. “I’ve been in enough of them.”
The two hundred or so elves in attendance watched mutely as I was dragged back to the cell in the cave and left there once again. All in all, it was hardly worth being dragged to the glade in the first place. They could just as easily have told me I was guilty and condemned to death right there. Sitting down, I leaned against the wall of the cave and winced as my back came into contact with the stone. After a few minutes the king appeared outside the bars.
“Why bother with a show trial that lasts three minutes?” I wondered.
“As I said, it is for show,” he said.
“But why? I never kidnapped your daughter. I was helping her come home.”
“Yes I know. It’s her punishment. She needs to learn that she can’t run off. There are consequences. Your trial and your execution tomorrow morning will remind her of that fact.”
“You’re going to execute an innocent man to make a point to your daughter?”
“It’s not as though you were an elf,” he said. “You’re only human.”

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess – Chapter 16

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Chapter Sixteen: Wherein we travel for two days without may companion uttering a single word.

Jholeira curled up in my blanket next to the fire and went to sleep without another word. I didn’t think this strange, but when she did not deign to speak to me the following morning I began to feel a little put off. I decided that if she wasn’t going to speak to me, then I wouldn’t speak to her either. We packed up and left our campsite in complete silence. By elevenses I was getting rather tired of the quiet. Over a brief meal of raisins and cheese I tried first to coax her and then to trick her into speaking. She would have none of it however and I eventually stopped trying.

The little path that we followed wound down through a series of small valleys, eventually coming to the stream. The trees grew thick on both sides of the stream and indeed on the far side there was a vast expanse of forest that is Elven Wood. The stream itself was no more than twenty feet wide and its broadest expanse and in those places where it widened out thus, it was only a few inches deep. Though the banks were icy, the water was clear and free-flowing. Upon reaching it in late afternoon, we followed it southeast until, finding a narrow spot where the water deepened to several feet, I stopped to drink and look for fish.
The greatest skill I ever learned, with the single possible exception of story-telling which is more of an art form than a skill, is that of guddling fish. Fish which have swum up the shallow part of a stream, will often take shelter under a rock or a ledge when they come to a deeper and slower moving part of a river. When they do, they become prey for the guddler. He reaches his hand under the ledge, knowing where a fish ought to be, and carefully locates the fish’s tail. Then he begins tickling the fish with his finger, tickling its tail, then tickling its belly, and finally tickling right under the gills. Then with a quick grasp, he pulls the fish from the water and tosses it up onto the shore, ready to be cleaned, cooked, and eaten. If the temperature of the water made the fish sluggish, you couldn’t tell it by the ones I found, though it didn’t do me any good sticking my arm in. I caught two lovely river trout that day, one which I cleaned and cooked over the fire for our supper, and the other which I kept captive by running a string through its gill, and tying one end to a sapling, and tossing the other end, attached to the fish, back in the water. This second fish we ate for breakfast.
It was late the following afternoon before we reached the intersection of the stream with the East Road. By this time I had resolved myself to the fact that my little orphan boy/girl was never going to speak to me again, but as we crossed the small bridge which spanned the juxtaposition of the road and the stream, as bridges are wont to do, she at last broke her silence.
“We should spend the night on this side of the stream.”
“Why?”
“The forest is dangerous, especially at night.”
“I don’t care,” said I. “I’m not talking to you.” “Yes you are,” she replied.
“No. I am not.”
“I was not talking to you, but now I am. But you are definitively talking to me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“I’m not talking to you. I’m just telling you that I’m not talking to you.”
“That means that you are talking to me, because in order to tell a person something you have to talk to them.”
“No you don’t.”
“Now you are just being contrary,” said she.
“No I’m not.”
“Fine,” said she. “I don’t care whether you are talking to me or not…”
“Yes you do.”
“I don’t care whether you are talking to me or not and I don’t care whether you are being contrary or not. In either case we should spend the night on this side of the stream.”
“No we shouldn’t,” said I.
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I explained.
“Well as long as your reasoning is sound,” said she.
“No it isn’t.”
We spent the night on the west side of the bridge, just at the edge of the trees on that side of the stream. By the time we made camp, it was too late for me to find any fish to guddle, so we ate dried beef and drank coffee for our supper. Jholeira curled up in the only blanket while I snuggled up in my coat and set my head upon a large flat rock to use as a pillow.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
“No.”
“I’m sorry I stopped talking to you. You have been a very great help to me and you didn’t have to and here I am wrapped up in your only blanket while you have nothing but your coat to keep you warm.”
“I have the fire. Besides, it is only fitting that you have the blanket, being an orphan or a girl or a princess or some combination of the three.”
I stayed awake quite late watching the stars and listening to Hysteria complain about her lack of oats. She should have happy, as in that particular spot by the bridge there grew not only an abundance of grass but some early flowering szigimon, which any stable master can tell you is the very best horse feed in the world. Many times she has had to make due with busy grass, which is the least best horse feed in the world—not that it is bad for horses, but it does nothing more than give them something to chew on and doesn’t provide any real nourishment. You would think by now she would know when she had it good.
“What are you doing?” asked a small voice from the other side of the campfire.
“I’m pondering horse feed,” said I.
“Well, go to sleep.” It must have been some kind of elf magic, because no sooner had she said this than my eyes closed, seemingly of their own volition.

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess Chapter 12

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Chapter Twelve: Wherein I hear the story of a Princess of the Elves.

Not having a hare to cook for our morning meal, and in truth I never really expected there to be one, I didn’t bother building a fire. We shared cold pickles and Hysteria ate the last of her oats. The sun was high in the sky and even though we were eating our meager meal amid large drifts of snow, as long as we stayed in the sun, it was pleasant enough. As you can imagine, my mind was reeling at the possibility that my orphan boy was not only a girl and an elf, but quite possibly a seventy-nine year old half-orphan princess. My mind was so awash in the news that I scarcely paid any attention to the pickles I was eating. It was a real shame, because I enjoy a good pickle. My poor old mother made some of the best pickles ever.”

“What are you doing now?” asked the half-orphan princess.

“I’m attempting to ponder pickles.”

“That figures,” said she.

“But I find myself unable to.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because of you, my very own little liar.”

“Stop calling me a liar. I didn’t lie. Everything I’ve told you is the truth… except for the part about being a boy and being called Galfrid and being an orphan.”

“And now you claim to be a princess.”

“I am a princess,” she argued. “My father is Jholhard of the wood elves.”

“Come,” I said, wiping the pickle juice off my fingers. “Let’s get going and you can tell me your woeful tale as we ride.”

We remounted my noble steed, which is to say Hysteria, and started off once again down the road. The mood was subdued. At least the mood was subdued between myself and the half-orphan princess. Hysteria seemed quite jovial, and threatened to break into a trot on several occasions. I can only assume that she was happy to have had oats for elevenses. I am sure she didn’t realize that we had no more.

“It is just like in your story of the Queen of Aerithraine when she was trapped in Fall City,” Jholeira said at last.

“What is?”

“Being a princess. It’s like being in jail.”

“You were locked away?”

“Well, not really. I had the run of the entire wood. It’s just that I didn’t realize just how small a world that wood really was until I left.”

“Now we come to the first plot element,” said I. “Why did you leave?”

“I ran away,” she said. “I ran away because my father was going to force me to marry.”

“Well that’s hardly worth running away over,” said I. “I mean, fathers all across the world are busy arranging marriages for their daughters. What was wrong with the fellow? Wasn’t he tall enough? Was he bald? Did he have a wooden eye? It was a wooden eye, wasn’t it?”

“He didn’t have a wooden eye.”

“If he didn’t have a wooden eye, then what was wrong with him?” I wondered. “Maybe you are just being too picky.”

“There was nothing wrong with him. I just didn’t want to marry him. I didn’t want to marry anyone.”

“That seems a bit obstinate to me,” said I.

“Don’t berate me about it now,” she sulked. “I have paid dearly for running away. I was captured by slavers and taken halfway to Lyria. I only escaped them when they were attacked by bandits. The bandits took me captive and carried me away to their camp in the mountains. I was taken from the bandit camp when it was attacked by trolls. The trolls took me into the woods. Then I was stolen away from the trolls by ogres, who put me in a cage and took me to their horrible city. There things got even worse when I was captured from the ogres by a band of wererats.”

“Hold on.” I counted them off on my fingers. “Slavers, bandits, trolls, ogres, and wererats… If this were my story, then next would come… harpies.”

“Pixies.”

“Oh, well, that doesn’t sound so bad. Pixies are little.”

“Evil pixies.”

“Still. Little.”

“Evil pixies from hell.”

“Ah. But at least you got away from them.”

“I managed to escape.”

“Because they’re little, right?”

“Um, yes. But then I was captured by pirates.”

“Pirates in the middle of North Lyria? By the Ogre Mountains? Far away from the ocean?”

“They were on holiday.”

“Pirates on holiday?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. And how did you get away from them?” I asked.

“One of the pirates, a woman named Prudence released me. I think she was jealous that the pirate captain might fancy me instead of her.”

“Prudence? Prudence the pirate?”

“That’s right.”

“And you say she was jealous?”

“Yes.”

I ran through the details in my mind. Slavers, bandits, trolls, ogres, and wererats. Then came the pixies, but I would change them to harpies. Finally there was Prudence the pirate. Prudence who was jealous. Possessive! Possessive Prudence the pirate. Or Prudence the possessive pirate. Yes, I quite like the sound of that. Prudence the Possessive Pirate—that had to be a half-crown story if ever I heard one. I could take a title like that, work it into something, take it to every pub and inn in Illustria, and make a fortune. Of course I would send the half-orphan elf girl a percentage. On the other hand, she said she was a princess. Princesses are rich. She probably doesn’t need the paltry amount made from the sale of a story. She might be insulted if I tried to pay her.

“Now I’ve had more than enough,” said she.

“You don’t want any money?”

“No. I’ve had more than enough adventure and I want to go home,” she replied. “Are you carrying on some other conversation in your head about how you are going to take my story to every pub and inn in Illustria, and make a fortune, and not pay me anything for it?”

“Of course not,” I replied. “You want to go home. And besides, I am a firm believer in maintaining all the appropriate copyrights.”

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess – Chapter 4

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Chapter Four: Wherein we make decisions about our supper

When we were not two hundred yards down the road, I let Hysteria drop to a trot, for in truth I did not expect anyone to follow us into the night, daring wild animals, bandits, or hobgoblins regardless of how fine a pie smith Mistress Gaston was reported to be. A few hundred yards beyond that, she dropped of her own accord to a walk and I expect she was beginning to feel a bit mopey because of the slap the orphan had dealt her. At that moment I was less interested in her mental condition than my own physical one though, because I was holding a cast pie pan in each hand and they were both heavy and still quite warm.

“Here.” I turned in the saddle and handed one pie to the orphan. “We can eat while we ride. If we wait until we find a campsite, the pies will be cold.”

“Do you have a fork?” the boy asked.

I mused that this seemed an unlikely request from any boy, most of whom I have found uninterested in tableware on the best occasion, and especially from an orphan whom one might have supposed to have been forced by necessity to dig into all manner of food scraps with his hands. However it was not a question to which I needed to reply in the negative, for I always carry a fork in the inner left breast pocket of my coat, which I call my fork pocket. I gave the orphan my fork and pulled my knife from my boot to use on the remaining pie.

“This is a very nice fork,” said the orphan.

“Of course it is,” said I. “That fork came from the table of the Queen of Aerithraine herself.”

“You stole this fork from a Queen?”

“Impudent whelp!” cried I. “That fine fork was a gift from the queen, with whom I once had the pleasure of spending a fortnight.”

“What kind of queen gives a man a fork?”

“A kind and gracious one.”

That apparently satisfied the boy’s curiosity for the moment and for the next few minutes we concentrated upon the pies. I am not one to mourn a lost pie and that is well, for the pie that was lost to me on that night, as I have previously mentioned, was a pie for the ages. A fine pie. A beautiful pie. A wonderful pie. This new pie was almost as good though. It was a crabapple pie, which was a common pie to come upon in winter in those parts, which is to say Brest, as cooks used the crabapples they had put up the previous fall. This pie was an uncommonly good pie, with nutmeg and cinnamon and cloves and butter. I had more than a few bites by the time the boy spoke again.

“What kind of pie is that?”

“Crabapple,” I replied. “What pie do you have?”

“It is a meat pie.”

“A meat pie,” I mused, as I thought back upon how long it had been since I had eaten any other meat than the dried venison I had in my saddlebag. I had eaten a sausage a week before, but it had been a fortnight and half again since I had eaten mutton stew with potatoes and black bread in Hammlintown. That had been a fine stew and the serving wench who brought it to me had been nice and plump and had smiled quite fetchingly when she had set down the tray. Stew is a wonderful food and even when it is not served by a nice and plump serving wench, it always seems to give me the same feeling when I eat it that a nice and plump serving wench gives me when I see her.

“What are you doing now?” asked the orphan.

“Pondering stew,” said I.

“Well stop it. Rather ponder this instead. You eat half of your crabapple pie and I will eat half of my meat pie. Then we can trade and eat the other halves of each others pies.”

“Alright,” I agreed. “But this will mean that I have to eat my dessert first and my supper after.”

“Just pretend that the meat pie is your dessert and the crabapple pie is your supper.”

“A crabapple pie could be a fine supper. In fact I have been to countries where the most common part of a supper is crabapple pie.”

“Fine then.”

“But a meat pie is in no country a dessert.”

“Then trade me now.”

“How much have you eaten?” I asked.

“About a fourth. How much have you eaten?”

“About a fifth.”

“Then eat another twentieth,” said he. “Then we will trade pies and each eat two thirds of what remains and then trade them back. At that point, we will each eat what remains of the pie we originally started with. That way you can think of the first portion of the crabapple pie as an appetizer, the portion you eat of the meat pie as your supper, and the final portion of the crabapple pie as your dessert.”

“You are a fine mathematician for an orphan,” said I. “But it suits me. Will it not bother you that your appetizer and your dessert are of meat pie and your supper is of crabapple pie?”

“I have decided that I will make this sacrifice,” said he. “Since it was you that provided the meal.”