Story: Fellyans (part seven)

Fellyans

(part seven)

Bede and his visitor watched them out of view.

“I’ve been holding my breath. Are those your sprites? That night you had the turnip supper at Melchior’s, Langham came home all fired to bring them on as hands, shearing time. I thought it was nonsense.”

“Have I introduced myself?” Bede asked, for intimate talk requires its preliminaries.

“Mr. Dwale, aren’t you? I suppose Langham has never given you my name. It’s Coral.”

“Bede, please. Coral, may I tell you I’m sorry? I’d have been all in favor of having you…”

“And Langham would have said no. I’m not a mouse altogether…” she began, essaying a few steps in her armor. “Gracious, what a nuisance! How do you get on a horse?”

“With a pulley, or a ladder, and with the aid of a squire. But you don’t mean me. Shall I take your helmet?”

“That, yes. I can’t tell by feel what your little friend has me wearing under all this. We’ll go in, if you’re willing, and I’ll have Jorinda’s help.”

Through the few paces to the kitchen door Bede puzzled why she ought to have said, “if you’re willing”; why Langham’s wife should doubt her welcome, seem almost allowing of…

He bumped a solidness. It was his new acquaintance, frozen at the sight of Vincent. The Hutterer slouched against the doorpost, picking burs from a threadbare trouser leg. Astonishment bloomed on his face.

Coral cried out: “Say something! Let me be sure!”

Astonishment achieved the high ground briefly, before a shove of bitter surmise displaced it. “They’ve got you collecting bounties, Coral? I can’t say that gear becomes you. Langham didn’t strike me any toadier to the Queen’s law… I suppose he left you.”

“He didn’t. He looks after me.”

Alma’s head poked from a bedroom window.

Vincent, who was being told by Coral that his rags most certainly suited him to a tee, and were exactly the way she pictured him, except that, of course, she never pictured him—

Said: “Oh? Well, I picture you just as often as I’d picture…”

“One of Marshhawk’s spells coming off?” Alma called.

Vincent peered up. “Farmer Langham’s wife and I are speaking privately.”

“The two of you and Mr. Dwale. How about a Queen’s messenger, riding over the hill yonder, on his swan?”

Coral said, “No. That doesn’t seem right either.”

Right or not, it was true.

The elf wore the velvet pantalettes, cinched jacket, and heeled boots of his office, topped with the broad-brimmed hat and plumes of gold and rose. The plumes bobbed and the swan bobbed, its webbed feet coming flat and deliberate, its body rolling, wings thrusting left, right, tandem. Every few paces, the swan went to earth, appeared to take a strengthening breath, and got itself plodding again.

7

Fellyans

Fellyans (part eight)

(2021, Stephanie Foster)