Dennis McKiernan: Into the fire

Southwesterly they turned, faring down the Crossland Road and along the southern flank of the Battle Downs, so named for the battle fought here where the High King and his host were victorious even though sorely outnumbered by the Horde of Foul Folk they faced. And they rode at a leisurely pace through the October days, the road now clasped within the Edgewood among leaves turned red and gold and russet in the crisp fall air.

In the early morning of the fourth day after leaving Stonehill, they saw ahead a great dark mass rearing up into the sky. It was the remarkable Spindlethorn Barrier, a formidable wall surrounding the Bosky entire. Befanged it was and dense, atangle with great spiked thorns, long and sharp and iron hard, living stilettoes, and even birds found it difficult to manage among its nigh impenetrable, interwoven branches. High it was, rearing up thirty, forty, and in some places fifty feet above the river valleys from which it sprang. Wide it was, reaching across broad river vales, no less than a mile anywhere, and in places greater than ten. And long it was, stretching completely around the Boskydells, from the Northwood down the River Spindle, and from the Updunes down the River Wenden, until the two rivers joined one another; but after their joining, no farther south did the Thorn grow. It was said that only the soil of the Bosky in these two river valleys would nourish the barrier, yet the Warrows had managed to cultivate a long stretch of it, reaching from the headwaters of the Spindle in the Northwood across to the headwaters of the Wenden in the Updunes, completing the Thornring entire. As to why it did not grow across the rest of the land and push all else aside remained a mystery; though the granddams said, It's Adon's will, while the granthers said, It's the soil, and neither knew the which of it for certain. There were only five ways through the barrier, passages like tunnels through the thorns: Spindle Ford in the northeast, The Bridge in the east, Tine Ford in the southeast, and Wenden Ford in the west, and the little-used northern tunnel through the ring there where the Northwood stood. In times of troubles these ways were stoppered with massive thorn barricades, plugging the passages as would corks plug bottles. Only recently had word come that the war was ended, and the ways now stood open for any and all to pass through.

The cavalcade fared toward the eastern way.

But when they came to the barrier, the Elves stopped, Talarin saying, "We have brought ye safely to the land of the Waerlinga, yet we would not cause a stir by riding within. Hence we bid ye farewell here at the eastern gate."

And though the Warrows protested, Talarin would not be swayed, saying such a force of Elves entering would no doubt cause alarm, even if but temporarily. Even so, Talarin did promise that a time would come when by twos or threes Lian would visit.

And so, Phais and Loric embraced the Warrows and kissed them each good-bye, as did Aris and Elissan and Jaith. And when Phais came to Tip and Beau, tears running down their faces, tears in her eyes as well, she whispered, "Good-bye, my wee friends. Ye shall be in my thoughts forever." It was not until the Lian had ridden away that Tip realized just what she had said, "… in my thoughts forever," and she was an Elf.

Drawing pack ponies behind, into the thorn tunnel they rode, sunlight filtering down through the scarlet leaves overhead, Lark calling out, "Ssshh, ssshh." Two miles they rode ere emerging from the wall, coming unto a wooden span set upon stone piers and bridging the River Spindle. They stopped and looked down at the water flowing below and the slash of sky overhead, and then they clattered on across and into the Spindlethorn tunnel beyond.

Three more miles they rode within, but at last they emerged into the sunlight at the far side. The countryside lying before them was one of rolling farmland, and the road they followed ran on to the west, cresting a rise to disappear only to be seen again topping the crest beyond.

"We've arrived," said Beau joyfully. Expansively he flourished his hand in a wide sweep and inhaled a great draught of air, reveling in the smell of the land: forest and field and clean-running streams and fertile soil above all. "This, my friends, is the Boskydells, the best place in all the world."

It was the last day of October, with a high blue sky overhead.

On they rode and in the evening they came to the village of Greenfields, and after an enquiry, they put up in the Happy Otter Inn, for the eld buccan they had asked said it brewed the best beer in all of Eastdell, which immediately started a quarrel with another eld buccan who favored the brew at the Green Frog, west aways in Tillok. Leaving the two eld buccen disputing one another, they rode to the western edge of town where the Happy Otter stood, Gorth Cotter, proprietor.

The beer was splendid.

The next morning on they continued west along the Crossland Road, reaching the town of Raffin and riding a bit beyond, to turn down a long dirt lane and come at last to Aunt Rose's farm, for although she was years passed away, Beau yet thought of this stead as the farm of his Aunt Rose.

The place was quite grown over in weeds and such, having been unlived in for several years now, and the house itself quite weathered; a small goat shed out back leaned precariously, all but ready to fall. Yet the apple trees were quite hale and burgeoning with crop, and the soil of the fields was fertile-dark.

Beau looked at the others and said, "With a bit of painting and yard and field work and other such, well, that should fix it right up."

On a chill day in November, Tip swung the scythe and sliced through another swath of dried weeds, while Beau raked the cuttings into a great pile. And as he raked, weed dust and dried pollen flew, and of a sudden Beau inhaled sharply and then loudly sneezed.

Tipperton paused and looked at the sky and so very soberly said, "Careful, Beau, you just might destroy the moon."

As Lark sat in the yard, her ear pressed to the trunk of an apple tree and her eyes wide as if hearing some twiggy secret, and as Melli rattled about in the kitchen, Linnet and Rynna sat on the porch, each sipping a good hot cup of tea. And they looked at one another and wondered why their buccarans, along the fence line, were laughing like a pair of loons.

Concerning Beau and Tip, they remained closemouthed about their wartime adventures, but everyone in the Bosky knew that they had been singular heroes of that war, for why else would Elves and Dwarves and even the High King come to see them. Why, it was even told that Stone Giants were seen emerging from the earth nigh the place where Tipperton and Rynna lived, but others pooh-poohed the notion, for who could believe such? Too, it was said that Silver Wolves were seen running across the fields of East-dell, nigh Beau's place near Raffin-or so they did tell.

Some years after the Great War, a Wizard named Delgar came through the Boskydells specifically to see Beau Darby, mainly to congratulate him on finding the cure for the plague. It seems that Beau's red medical journal had been a gift from this Mage a number of years past, when Beau had been but a stripling. What else they might have said to one another remains unknown to this day.

Someone noted a peculiar thing about Tipperton and his wartime experiences: whenever anyone spoke of Drag-onships and Fjordlanders, Tipperton would seem to withdraw, as if suffering from some hidden guilt concerning those men of the north, as if he were somehow responsible for the deaths of some in the war; ah, but who could put credence to such speculation? Besides, even if some Fjordlanders did die as a result of some act of Tipperton's, surely their deaths were inadvertent, wouldn't you say?