Jeffrey Quyle - The Healing Spring

“I did not rape you!” he protested in shock as they slid to the floor. He rolled over and above her, holding her down against the floor.

“You did! I know you did. I woke up on your bed with you right over me like you are now, leering at me, and I found my dress was on backwards. You undressed me, used me, then tried to cover it up by putting the dress back on me, but you couldn’t even do that right,” she continued to try to slice him, and he changed his tactic, releasing one hand’s grip on the sprite’s body to grab her knife-wielding hand. He seized the knife and took it from her.

“I undressed you to put you in the healing spring waters after I rescued you from the wolf that was going to feed you to her cubs for dinner!” Kestrel said heatedly. “I undressed you, carried you into the spring water so that you could heal from the wounds the wolf gave you. Then I dressed you and carried you back here because I didn’t want to leave you alone unconscious where the wolf might get you again.”

Kestrel saw confusion on the sprite’s face, and then the fire went out from her eyes. “That’s really what happened?” she asked.

He nodded. “You can release me. I won’t try to harm you,” the small blue being said with a sudden sincerity that Kestrel believed.

Cautiously, Kestrel released the girl and stood up. She lay on the floor looking up at him, propped up on her elbows, then abruptly disappeared again.

Kestrel looked at the empty space beneath him, then looked at the tiny knife in his hand. She was gone again, but he had proof — in a sense — that he had encountered a sprite. He looked down at the cut in his shirt, and looked at the knife in his hand; they were proof to him that he wasn’t just dreaming.

There was another knock on the door. “Is there a woman in there with you?” the innkeeper was upon Kestrel’s threshold once again, though his voice seemed less confrontational than before.

Kestrel opened the door wide once again, giving the innkeeper another look at the room where he stood alone. “Shall I report this harassment to the army officials?” Kestrel asked.

“My daughter swore she heard a woman’s voice arguing,” the despondent innkeeper explained. “But I see there’s no one here but you, obviously. I apologize. Please come down to the dining room and have a meal on the house.” The man was defeated and throwing in the towel on his efforts to catch some improper behavior by Kestrel.

“Thank you; I’ll be down to eat shortly,” Kestrel said as he shut the door, then sat down on his bedding, still trying to comprehend all that had happened.

The sprite returned, once again popping into the room in a previously empty space in front of Kestrel.

“I’m sorry I almost killed you,” she said, standing warily just outside Kestrel’s reach.

“You didn’t almost kill me, but you tried,” Kestrel replied.

The blue figure squinted at Kestrel for a moment as though she were about to argue, then seemed to remind herself of some other priority she had to attend to. “My father says that I have to apologize, and I owe you a great favor for having saved my life at the spring with the wolf.

“You don’t owe me a favor,” Kestrel replied. “You would have helped me if you had seen the wolf attack me.”

“No I wouldn’t,” the sprite answered hastily. “I never help your race unless I have to, and now I have to.”

“I don’t need any help,” Kestrel told her, not pleased with the sprite’s attitude. “You can go your way and we’ll say everything is even.”

“No, we won’t. My father is the king of the sprites, and he said I have an obligation I must fulfill. I am obliged to help you. So I am going to tell you a secret word you can use to call me when you need help, and I will come to your aid.”

“What’s the point? You’re only doing this because you’re told to; it’s not coming from your heart because you feel gratitude for my help,” Kestrel answered.

“My name is Dewberry. When you need me, call me with your voice and your heart and mind all together,” the sprite instructed in a no-nonsense manner. “You can do this three times, and I will come to your aid three times. After that I am free; my duty to you is met, and I’ll not respond to your requests any longer.”

“It’s a pretty name. My name is Kestrel,” the elf told the sprite.

“That doesn’t matter to me. Just remember to use your heart, your mind and your voice all together to call me when you need me. Now I’m done here,” she answered.

“Wait!” Kestrel called hurriedly. “Before you go, tell me why you were standing at the spring when the wolf caught you.”

“I had a rash on my arm,” the sprite hesitated. “And I thought the water would cure it. But I knew the water at that spring makes members of my race fall asleep, and I didn’t know what to do. We all know about that spring; it not only heals, but it gives us wonderful dreams, an exhilarating sensation, one of the best things a sprite can feel.

“Not that it’s really any of your business,” she added, then disappeared from the room.

Kestrel sat down on his bed, and felt his head spinning as he tried to reconcile Dewberry’s outward beauty with the very ungracious personality she had displayed. It seemed a contradiction to Kestrel, and a sad one at that. Cheryl was not as pretty as Dewberry, but was so much nicer that she was far preferable, he concluded as his mind wandered until he decided he was hungry enough to go to the public room and take advantage of the innkeeper’s offer.

His meal that night was quiet, as he sat alone at one end of a table in the half-empty public room and ate the unmemorable food. He spent a quiet night in his small inn room, and left early in the morning, determined to travel as far and as fast as possible on the third day of his messenger duty.

That day was uneventful. Only a brief rain shower in the late afternoon broke the monotony of the long trail Kestrel ran through the forest. After the rain, the trail grew wider, and traffic grew heavier, indications that Kestrel was approaching his goal, confirmation of which came two hours before sunset when he entered the teeming metropolis of Center Trunk, the largest city of the elves of the Eastern Forest, thought to be the largest elven city of all.

The blue ribbon on his message tube provided the means for Kestrel to learn where he needed to end his journey. A policeman on patrol responded to Kestrel’s request for directions; one look at the blue ribbon and he described the landmarks Kestrel should look for on his way to the headquarters building of the guard services.

Lamps and candles were being lit when Kestrel passed through the guarded gate and asked for directions to see Colonel Silvan. He found his way inside the gated military enclave inside the city, and along a short route of internal roads and passages to a narrow, tall building, where he entered and walked past a woman on the first floor to find and climb the stairs that led to a third floor office with a guard posted at the door.

“I’m here to see Colonel Silvan,” Kestrel reported to the guard, an elf who appeared to be a spit-and-polish model of what every soldier should be; he felt suddenly nervous about his role as a messenger for the first time.

“Where from?” the guard asked, nodding towards the ribbon-sealed tube.

“Elmberg,” Kestrel answered promptly. “Commander Mastrin sent me.”

The guard held his hand out for the tube. “I was told to deliver this directly to Colonel Silvan myself,” Kestrel protested.

“I understand,” the guard spoke, for the first time giving a hint of some personality, as he acknowledged his recognition that he was putting Kestrel in a quandary. “Handing the message to me is as good as giving it to Silvan. I won’t open it personally, but the Colonel will want to read it before he interviews you.”