Story: Fellyans (part eight)

Fellyans

(part eight)

The elf kicked, but the swan did not fly. Time passed, while the audience stared. Bede remarked, “Why must they engage in so much…”

“Why! To put themselves above it all. To act as patent fools, just so we know our places well,” Vincent said. “If the elves were competent, which in their own circles they are, we might imagine we deserved competence!”

“Next,” said Coral, lighting, “we might think of choosing our rulers for competence! There are other lineages besides the Queen’s!”

Vincent stood straighter, a little wind catching his hair. Alma laughed. But she might have been laughing at the swan, just plunged into Bede’s pond, soaking the legs of its rider.

“You forget how graceful they can be.”

A shutter opened, and Marshhawk began to squeeze through. As he squeezed, he fastened a hat to his head—one like the elf’s, in the colors of the Queen.

“What I need, properly,” he muttered, “is a cornet, for a decent salute. Look at them, like so many stumps in a swamp, no respect greeting Her Majesty’s what-you-call-it…”

“Envoy?” Jorinda said. Her arm, without ceremony, yanked the newcomer from sight. “Marshhawk, dear, we don’t have any papers to account for you. Do you understand what that means?”

The swan circled the pond, harassed by ducks. The dogs, even Gert, skirted the margin barking. The elf made a face of dignity, lifted his baton, and was suddenly in front of Vincent.

“Householder! Kneel!”

“I am Mr. Dwale,” said Bede. “The owner. It’s me you want.”

“O-oh,” said the elf. “You do have the look of Being Someone. My mistake. Kneel?”

“Thank you, no.”

“It will not matter,” the elf said, “in the long run.”

In Bede’s house was one parlor suitable for guests. His mother’s legacy lined its walls, kept safe from accidents by grillworked shelves. She had been a great collector of commemorative items, of porcelains in red and white (“It’s not class, having a mishmash”), and peculiarities of silver, like the fat Varkhund, whose slotted body bristled with tiny forks. (“Those are for berries. The Elves eat them that way.”)

The best chairs were in this room. They were thronelike, with seats and backs entirely beaded, and played a musical chime when any rear made contact. They were Bunting’s conjuring—from an early day before Jorinda had known better how to answer, “Would you like those dusty sofas spruced up, at all?”

The messenger carried a scroll, three or four pages of a questionnaire, the import of which Bede and Jorinda feared to learn.

“Business at once,” she said, “or lunch? I’ll ask the sprites to carry down our elf things from the attic.”

8

Fellyans

Fellyans (part nine)

(2021, Stephanie Foster)