Jeffrey Quyle - The Healing Spring

Kestrel reported to his commander early the next afternoon.

“Here is a report,” Mastrin told him, handing him a sealed wooden tube that presumably held papers. “You are going to be the courier for this; I’d like you to take it to Center Trunk,” he told Kestrel, referring to the far-off capital of the eastern elves. Kestrel had never ventured more than a few miles from Elmheng in his life, making the prospect of such a journey seem filled with potential excitement.

“It’s a report on your fire and your rain,” Mastrin explained, dimming some of the adventure Kestrel had imagined. “I haven’t put anything in writing about your brush with the deities, but I want to make sure you speak about that with Colonel Silvan. It doesn’t need to be in writing at this point, but the colonel will be interested in your story. When you reach the receipts desk at the Center Trunk department of the headquarters building, make sure you tell them you are to hand it over directly to Silvan yourself. Wait as long as it takes,” Mastrin emphasized. “This blue ribbon on the end of the tube shows that it’s meant for direct delivery, so they can’t argue with you.”

He felt guilty for sending the boy on this mission. His conscious weighed heavy, but he had concluded that Kestrel’s uniqueness — unique in multiple ways — had to be shared with someone in command of the elf defenses against humanity. He trusted Silvan to have the judgment and scruples to use the knowledge and the boy fairly. Kestrel’s story had set Mastrin’s mind adrift in speculation about all the implications of what the boy might face in the future.

“How long will the journey be?” Kestrel asked cautiously. “I’ve never been there before.”

“Never been to the big city before?” Mastrin asked with forced jocularity. Now that he had handed the report to Kestrel to take to Center Trunk, he had a foreboding sense that he had sealed the boy’s fate. “You’ll think it’s a wonderful place. It’s big — the trees are big, and it’s spread out from morning to night. There’re more elves than you thought lived in all the land, all gathered in one place.

“It’s about a two day trip, maybe three, if that arm slows you down. You don’t have to hurry,” Mastrin said reassuringly.

“It’s okay if I stop to say goodbye to Cheryl?” Kestrel asked.

“Certainly, certainly,” Mastrin affirmed.

“On your way, you can stay in any inn you want to. Just show them the ribbon on the tube; it entitles you to shelter. The innkeepers know they have to give you a spot — it’s the law, so don’t let them give you some sad story about how full they already are.

“Take care, Kestrel,” Mastrin stood and walked around the desk to shake the boy’s hand firmly. “Safe travels in your journey. May all the gods, ours and theirs, look upon you kindly.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kestrel replied, uncertain about his commander’s surprisingly friendly expressions, out of character from his usual military mien. He left the office and walked over to see Cheryl, carrying the message tube carefully in his unencumbered hand.

She greeted him at the door. “Kestrel? Again in the middle of the day? Please come in,” she ushered him into the parlor. I’m sorry that Malsten isn’t here to enjoy your company,” she laughed as they were seated. She sat on the divan with him, he noted exuberantly, though she kept an appropriate distance by sitting at the far end of the piece of furniture.

“Your father has sent me to Center Trunk,” Kestrel blurted out. “I wanted to see you before I go.”

“That’s such a long way!” Cheryl exclaimed. “Have you ever gone there before?”

“No, never. I’ve never gone nearly so far away,” Kestrel admitted.

“How long will it take?” she asked.

“Your dad said to take two or three days to get there, so I’ll need a couple of days to get back too, plus whatever time I spend there,” Kestrel estimated. “About a week all told.”

“It will be such an adventure!” Cheryl told him, her eyes shining.

“Have you ever gone there?” Kestrel asked.

“No. We were up in Firheng when I was a baby, but I don’t remember. Elmheng is the only town I’ve known,” she replied. “They say the trees are so large in Center Trunk.”

There was a silent pause, as Kestrel desperately tried to think of some topic to discuss.

“I better go. I don’t want your father to think I’ve been dawdling,” he at last said awkwardly. “I’ll miss you,” he told her as he stood. He hesitated just a moment more, then leaned towards her to kiss her, only to find that she was rising from her seat as he was lowering his head, and their foreheads knocked sharply.

“Ouch!” each exclaimed as they stood rubbing their foreheads, Kestrel blushing with embarrassment, until Cheryl removed her hands from her forehead and placed them on his cheeks. They looked into one another’s eyes, then Cheryl stood up on her toes, and their lips touched each other’s firmly, in a warm kiss.

“There, that was better,” Cheryl spoke first.

“I’ll miss you,” Kestrel answered breathlessly.

“You better! Don’t you get distracted by all the girls in Center Trunk!” Cheryl scolded him.

“They have girls in Center Trunk?” Kestrel asked, his eyes growing wide in mock surprise.

“Bad, bad boy!” Cheryl shrieked with a grin as she pushed him.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Kestrel said at last, after a long hug, and then he was out the door.

“What do you have for a traveler?” he asked the cooks in the commissary ten minutes later, and five minutes after that he had a sack of supplies and was on his way on the eastern road towards the capital city. He only had to trot along the lightly traveled road for three hours to be beyond the farthest distance he had ever traveled towards the east. Three hours more beyond that the sky was nearly dark, and Kestrel roused himself from his speculation about the meaning of his kiss with Cheryl as he was passing through a small village, one that he concluded was the logical choice for spending the night.

“I’d like a room for the night,” Kestrel told the innkeeper after he entered a dinghy clapboard building with a green shingle hung outside, displaying a crude painting of an oak tree, the universal sign of hospitality. Inside, the atmosphere seemed less than hospitable, as a local militia group occupied the tavern room, asserting its dominance in a drunken and noisy manner. Alec watched a serving girl hesitate and take a deep breath as she stood in the kitchen doorway with a wooden pitcher of ale. She plunged into the public room with a determined look on her face, shifting her hips to avoid groping hands from certain tables as she poured more drink for the customers and collected their coins.

“I’ve got no rooms left,” the man at the counter said gruffly. Kestrel thought his tone sounded peremptory, as if the man thought he was the final word on the matter, and it rubbed Kestrel the wrong way after traveling so far that day. He had looked forward to the opportunity to rest, especially to taking the sling off his healing arm.

Consequently, Kestrel took his tube and placed it firmly on the countertop, displaying the ribbon prominently. “You can find a room for me, can’t you?” he asked bluntly.

The expression on the proprietor’s face was momentarily inscrutable, then showed a craftiness that made Kestrel uneasy. “You’ll have your room, just like the regulations say,” the man told Kestrel.

“Orris, Captain Orris, come here,” the innkeeper barked loudly into the tavern, causing heads to turn.

A beefy man among the militia group rose and came sauntering over to the counter; he wore a deep red robe over his shoulders. “What is so important that you’d call me away from my ale and men?” he asked with an easy smile.