David R. Downing

         The stranger came to the city from the east, his path revealed by the swirling clouds of dust that his plodding footfalls kicked up in his wake. The noonday sun burned through a cloudless sky. The sweat stung at his eyes as he joined in a ragged line of field workers returning to the city to weather the worst of the midday's heat.

         His appearance was ragged, his clothes caked with the dirt and grime of many nights spent on the road. He carried his meager possessions in a burlap sack strung loosely over one shoulder. His head was shielded from the burning sun by the hood of his cloak drawn well over his face. As a traveler, he was unremarkable. He was not the only stranger to have come to the city seeking refuge.

         The man waited his turn of inspection by the soldiers who guarded the earthen walls that separated the city from the surrounding farmlands. Standing in the shade of the walls, the stranger wiped the sweat from his brow and licked his dry parched lips. In a courtyard on the far side of the gates a group of children played a dodge game with the discarded hoops from the wine sellers—their rapid paces and quick turns growing clouds of dust that were slowly carried out beyond the walls to powder the fields beyond.

         When the stranger's time at the gate came, he was waved impatiently through by the soldier who looked sleepily at the long line of peasants waiting his approval. It was an unusually long line, and the soldier was more concerned with seeing the end of the line than he was with scrutinizing those that formed it. He gulped down a long draw of lukewarm water from the bladder hanging from a hook inside the gatehouse and waved the next group forward. His nap would be slow in coming today.

         It was hot, very hot, and dry. It was nearing mid-summer, and the spring rains had yet to come. Every worker in the assembled crowd understood the effects that the drought had on their lives, and the strain of it showed in their faces. The mood of the city was at once sleepy and tranquil, yet panicked and desperate. In low voices that the children could not overhear, the worst had been whispered. Some said that this was a year when the rains, when they came, would be meager and slight. Some said the rains would never come.

         The throng tottered into the city, finding at length the shoreline and harbor where sailing vessels from all corners of the world were tied up at the rough wooden docks. Their crews were busily taking inventory of their ships' holds while their captains' bartered for the goods from this small desert port. The ships carried loads of fruit from the South, baled cotton from the North, and precious spices from the lands far to the east; all goods that were desperately sought by the residents of the city.

         But there was little for the city to offer in exchange. Already the dry seasons had restricted the harvest of the melons for which this land was known. And the nuts were still green and would not be ready to be pulled from the ground for many weeks to come. Merchants in the city found that they could demand of the local populace a higher price for the few crops that were being harvested than the ships' captains could afford to pay. Many a vessel left the harbor with holds heavy-laden with the goods that her captain and crew had hoped to sell in the city. And many a resident, with an empty stomach and wearing a ragged and torn garment that would again not be replaced, watched the ships ply their way out to sea.

         The stranger squatted by the edge of a stone pier and gazed out across the bay. No fewer than thirty vessels were tied up at the docks or at anchor just offshore. They carried the livelihood that the city so desperately needed, yet only a few captains had allowed their crews to disembark. This was a dying port and the captains knew it. Better to cut the losses and seek out a more prosperous harbor than to spend time onshore. Most captains agreed on the obvious choice of action: restock the essentials and head back down the coast.

         Turning his back to the bay, the stranger followed a group of weary field hands to the town's market place. Here a narrow alley, meandering between two tall mud-strewn buildings, provided some shade from the afternoon sun. Vendors large and small displayed their wares to the crowds mulling beneath brightly colored tarps that flapped in the afternoon breeze being funneled through the alley. The smoke from the bakers' ovens drifted upward along with the smells of cooked meats, ripened fruits, and too many unwashed bodies.

         The stranger paused briefly at the wine seller's stand. With three copper coins he could purchase a pint of cooled wine, with another he could buy a melon harvested from the fields just this morning. Yet another two coins would buy him a bowl of rabbit stew and a lump of bread to sop it up with. Instead, the stranger settled for refilling his flask from an open water barrel and bargained his last copper piece for a small loaf left over from yesterday's ovens.

         Feast in hand, the stranger walked slowly through the marketplace, finally settling on an empty landing where he could sit and enjoy his meager meal. He climbed the half-dozen steps that led up to a small platform, lowered his burlap sack, and rested his back against the sun-baked wall. From this vantage point he had a good view of the marketplace, and he made a few mental observations as he chewed his stale bread.

         This was the market's busiest time of the day, a time when most laborers sought refuge from the sun and rested before returning to their tasks in the evening. They came here for food, drink, and entertainment. Mixed in with the crowd were several performers: jugglers, dancers, and musicians. The sounds of their diversions echoed noisily around the sun-baked walls on the alleyway.

         The stranger took this all in while slowly enjoying his coarse meal. Then, after draining the last of the water from his flask, he reached for the burlap sack and sat it upright between his legs. He worked at the laces, slowly loosening the sack, and lowered the burlap to reveal the contents.

         The sack held a single item. It was a musical instrument, a harp of sorts. But this was no ordinary harp. It was made from the finest woods and inlaid with precious jewels, the colors of which were unlike any that were commonly seen in this land. The afternoon sun reflected off its smooth surface and sent shafts of light, sea-blue and forest-green, to paint the walls of the marketplace. The silvery strings seemed to reflect the light of a mountain stream as the afternoon sun danced off of the harp. It was, in itself, a piece of art, and the quality of its craftsmanship was evident in its appearance.  Already, a crowd had begun to form at the base of the platform, drawn by the beauty of this unusual instrument.

         Freeing the harp from its container, the stranger spread out the burlap sack and raised the instrument to his lap. Slowly and haltingly, he began to strum.

         The sounds were strained, his fingers pensive. A slight chuckle came from the assembled audience. The skills of this musician were clearly not a match for his instrument. The stranger smiled wryly, and worked out a simple tune, a scale really, one that any child in the studies could have easily replicated. He paused here and there to twist the string-keys and adjust the tone ever so slightly—though no improvement was apparent to those listening. Suitably unimpressed, the crowd began to trickle away from the landing.

         But there was one other that had noticed the stranger's possession. One of the merchant captains, wandering the marketplace in hopes of finding wares for bartering, was drawn by the amused crowd and had shouldered to the front of the assembly. He stood now at the base of the landing and eyed the man and his instrument intently. While the peasants saw amusement, the captain saw opportunity. An instrument such as this could not possibly belong to this stranger. It must have been stolen from some hapless noble—a collector of things rare and unusual. Surely, then, this stranger, this imposter, must be a thief and a robber! He was a risk to the tranquility of this peaceful market. He upset the balance of wealth in the town and he couldn't be trusted. Such was the thinking of the seaborne trader.

         With any luck, and with a few coins slipped to the tired soldiers assigned to the marketplace, the instrument could be returned to its rightful owner, or given to one in whom the safekeeping of the harp could be entrusted. Of course this would be, in the opportunistic captain's mind, the safety of no other than himself and his vessel, set to sail on the evening breezes.

         The captain forced himself to the base of the landing. "Here, songster," he called as he tossed a handful of coppers up onto the landing, "let's hear you really play. That is, if you can!" This drew a roar of laughter from the crowd and the eye of the nearest guard. The captain met the guard's gaze while fingering a bright gold coin in an unspoken promise of cooperation. Perhaps there was a bargain to be struck in this dying city after all.

         The stranger gathered up the tossed coins and tucked them in a pocket of his cloak before continuing with his ineffectual strumming. While the sound of the harp was sweet, the tune carried no rhythm; the tones, no harmony.

         The patience of the captain grew thin. "You! Beggar! I paid for a tune, not for screeching!" Turning to the laborer at his side, he joked, "Is he a player, or a thief?" The simple laborer returned "Thief!" referring to the taking of the coins and failing to grasp the deeper implication of the captain's remark.

         "Play a song, thief," returned the captain to the stranger, "or I shall call the guards at once and have them find the one who can play a song on that instrument. Perhaps then we will know who the rightful owner is!"

         In a voice as dry and course as the bread he had just eaten, the stranger broke his silence...

         "Have you heard of the Aelves, my friend?"

         "Have I heard of elves?" roared the captain, amused by the question.

         "Aelves," corrected the stranger, his dry voice curling over the vowels.

         "As a child, yes." The captain continued, "I've heard the women tell the stories of the forest dwellers. As a man, my friend," continued the captain, his voice heavy with sarcasm and speaking more to the assembled audience than to the stranger, "I have traveled to many lands and seen a great many things. But I have never seen a creature such as an elf."

         This drew a roar of laughter from the crowd. The dusty field workers knew the stories of the elves as used to comfort weary children. They understood that the stories of the dark and cool forests brought relief to their children's fears. The concept of the forest elves was a pleasant thought, but it was fair to say that there were no adults who believed the stories to be true.

         When the laughter had died down, the stranger spoke again. "My friend." This time the stranger's voice was softer, more confident. "I have seen the Aelves. And, if you are willing, I will play you their song—a song of the Aelves."

         Softly, subtly, the stranger's tune had changed. To be sure, the rough scale was still there, but intertwined in it was a delicate melody. It was quiet and almost unnoticeable, like the whisper of the wind through the trees, like the falling of a leaf on the stream. The song had indeed changed, and though few in the gathered audience noticed the improvements, some began to tap their feet or to nod their heads in rhythm to the tune.

         "Play it then!" barked the captain, still skeptical of the stranger's abilities but resigned to let him try.

         The stranger nodded and, after a reflective pause, spoke again. "My people, also, have tales of the Aelves. And though my home is far from here and in a land quite unlike your desert harbor, the stories are similar. Like you," the stranger nodded to the sea captain, "I have considered the fairie-tales of our mothers to be little more than women-talk. As a child I probed the forests surrounding my town and spent many a day in hiding, waiting for the Aelves to show themselves. Never did I see any; never did the Aelves show themselves to me. Like you, I suspect, I quit believing that the tales were true.

         "As I grew out of my childhood my eyes looked past the safe confines of my mother's stories. As a young man I set out to see what lay beyond the broken walls and faltering fields surrounding the village where I was raised. I set out to the west, following the setting sun, not knowing or caring where it was I was headed. It was a journey without reason, a destination in itself, and one that I now find difficult to explain. Wanderlust, that's probably the best way I can describe the motivation. Captain, seeing the youth of your crew, hanging from the highest masts with inquisitive eyes peering down into this unremarkable port, I suspect that is a motivation that you too are very familiar with."

         The captain nodded his head in agreement. The stranger's question had struck a chord within this firm man. This was indeed a familiar yearning to the captain, one that he could personally relate to.

         "I journeyed past the fields that I knew so well, then past the outlying villages that my people commonly traded with, then into places that I had only heard about in stories. I saw many a great site and wandered far from my homelands.

         "With little money I learned to fend for myself. I grew to understand the people of these far-away lands were as eager to hear my stories of home as I was to explore their wonders. I learned to entertain with stories and with song. Along the way I picked up a talent for the stringed instrument—oh, not on instruments this fine, to be sure, but instruments that could carry a song fairly well."

         The stranger continued to strum his simple tune as he told his story. The melody, at first so strained and tenuous, now flowed smoothly. Each note resonated clearly from the harp and down the sun-baked alley. While the sounds of the market continued to drown out the man's music, several of those passing by were drawn by the tune and lingered at the base of the platform. A few copper coins, tossed up to the landing, came to a silent rest on the burlap sack.

         The man's music, though simple, was unusual. It spoke of lands far away. In it was the warmth of the rising sun, the fury of the raging river, and the peace of an evening beside a crackling fire. The melody carried the flavors of the kitchens, the smells of the marketplaces, and the seductiveness of peoples from afar. It was at once mysterious and familiar, threatening and comforting. And it was altogether soothing to the tired ears of the townspeople.

         The stranger continued his tale. "But, to say my fortune was good would be untrue. Daily I struggled for my keep, and many a night I fell to sleep comforted only by a burlap sack for my pillow and with an empty stomach to motivate me in the morrow.

         "As fate would have it, I found myself in the worst of conditions in the lands just beyond those mountains that form the border on your fields. Perhaps you have heard of these lands. They are a harsh place, and the people who live there are the equal of them. No true dwellings exist in these lands as there is no single place fit for both the heat of the summer and the cold of their winters. Rather, the people move with the seasons, carrying their homes with them and following their herds of woolen stock from plain to mountain to plain, all as the seasons dictate.

         "I traveled with these people, from the warm retreat of the valley floors to the foothills of the snow-capped mountains in the heat of the year. So the summer was spent, and the early fall, but the winter would come. With the first snows, the family that had been hosting me rolled their tents and looked down again to the valley far below. It was time to leave the mountain meadow that had been their summer home.

         "Going back into the valley, though the wise thing to do, was not for me. That was the way from which I had come. I was not ready to return and retrace my steps, so I bid goodbye to the family. They waved goodbye as the first snow fell swirling down from the peaks—leaving me with little more than a few days' supplies of goat-cheese and the cloak upon my back. It was a foolish thing to do, but I was determined not to turn back, but to cross the high peaks ahead and see the lands that lay beyond."

         In the busy marketplace, a growing crowd grew increasingly hushed. The song, now confident and firm, resonated cleanly off of the whitewashed walls. The throats of many of the gathered folk sang in tune to the flowing melody. Those in the rear pushed closer to the platform, eager to hear every word of the man's story. At the front of the assembly stood the sea captain, now resigned to the fact that this stranger was unlikely to lose possession of his fine instrument on this day, but interested, none the less, in where this man's rambling was taking him. The pace of the entire market slowed; listened. The seed had been planted.

         Overhead a wispy cloud momentarily bathed the alley in a cooling shadow before moving inland to be consumed by the thirst of the mid-day desert heat.

         "The way was difficult and dangerous," continued the stranger, his words spoken in time to the flowing melody. "More than once, I slipped on the narrow trail and barely missed falling to my doom from some overhanging precipice. As I climbed, the air grew colder, the ice in the crags bringing a chilling breeze down from the lofty peaks. The swirling snow that had driven the shepherds from their summer pastures grew stronger. When evening came, I counted myself lucky to find a small cave sheltered from the winds. I burrowed into a back corner, huddled beneath my cloak, and spent the night in a shivering sleeplessness."

         An afternoon breeze swept in off of the harbor. It flapped against the shady cloths of the stalls and brought a scent of the sea's cool water through the aisles. The sweat dried from the men's foreheads and shoulders, bringing with it a surprisingly cool effect. A band of high clouds, swept swiftly across the otherwise blue sky, washed the market in shadow, then sun, then shadow again. Near the base of the small platform a young lady drew a shawl up over her shoulders and brought her arm around the daughter at her side. The girl looked up to her mother, smiled, and returned her attention to the stranger.

           The man, his fingers now flying effortlessly over the strings of his instrument, continued his story. "I awoke in the morning to a howling wind. The snow, driven even to the back corner of the shelter, formed a light crust over my huddling shape. My legs were stiff from the cold and, already, my feet were numb. I could not stay where I was and hope to survive another night.

         "Squirming to the front of the overhang, I was greeted by a wall of white. Squinting up and down the face of the cliff which I had ascended the previous day, I could discern no path; no trail that I could follow. Weighing my options, I chose to continue upward. At least going up, I reasoned, would allow me to see the rock face immediately in front, and in that method, I could inch my way over the top of this range.

         "While that decision was arguably the correct one, it was not an easy one to complete. My fingers quickly grew numb and my shivering threatened to shake me clear off the trail. But, as I had no other option, I pushed upward. For untold hours I continued to struggle with no choice but to continue on my way.

         "However, as darkness approached, and with my strength just at its end, I faced the sickening reality that I would not cross the range before the night closed in. In desperate haste I reached for a too-far handhold, missed, and slid down the icy slope. I hit hard on a frozen outcropping and lost consciousness."

         The stranger struck three sharp chords and then the instrument was silent. After a pause, he continued again, flawlessly changing keys as he resumed his strumming—softly, mysteriously—almost as if the man himself did not know what would come next. As one, the crowd held their breath in anticipation, not so much due to the man's words but to the mysterious tinkling melody that was emerging in the tune.

         "I awoke," continued the stranger, his voice barely a whisper, "to the warmth of the sun on my back. I scarcely dared to open my eyes, but when I did I was greeted by a view of green grasses and colorful flowers in a field as warm and lush as any that I had ever seen. Raising my head, I saw that I lay at the edge of a grassy meadow surrounded by high trees. How I got to this place, I still do not know.

         "A young girl's voice, mellow and sweet, greeted me. ‘You were lost.' she whispered, as if in answer to my question. ‘We brought you here.'"

         "Raising my head, I saw her sitting patiently on a nearby stone. She was radiant, with pale skin and long blonde hair that came nearly to the ground. She was dressed in a simple white gown that draped around her legs. At her side was a steed, white as the blowing snow and with its mane long and unruly, casually nibbling at the long grass of the meadow.

         "‘Come, follow,' she said and bound away from the rock with steps as light and fresh as the dew on the grass. Obediently, her mount followed in her wake. Turning back to me, she looked over a fair shoulder and smiled. ‘I meant you,' she giggled. ‘He,' she motioned to her horse, ‘knows where we are going.'

         "I gathered up my few things and hurried after her, my mind full of questions. Where were we? Who was she? Where were we going? Her only answer was a smile.

         "I followed after her for hours, with little more than a word exchanged between us.  The trail we followed shadowed a small stream, its waters bubbling along the grassy banks that we wandered on. Presently we broke from the trail to work through a small series of hillocks leading us towards a taller massive in the distance.

         "As we neared the top of a small rise, the girl and her mount stopped. I could hear the sound of music coming from the shallow beyond, and with it the sound of many voices singing. It sounded like a celebration; a dance."

         Could it be? Could this be a light rain falling down on the town? Children cast their heads back, eager to catch a falling drop on an out-stuck tongue. Yes! It was raining! A tired wife was grabbed by her labored husband and swung around the market street in a dance. At last! The clouds had come! There would be some rain at least. And this respite, however weak and however brief, was a welcome thing indeed.

         The stranger continued his song. There was an air of gaiety in the tune now; a brightness and a freshness that had not been in the tune before. He smiled as a drop of rain splashed against his harp and then was sent shimmering back into the air by the strumming of the strings.

         The stranger continued. "At the crest of the rise, the lady stopped, and came back to my side. ‘These are my people,' she said, ‘and this is our celebration. It is a time of great joy and of deep meaning for us.' I nodded my head in supposed understanding. The gaiety was unmistakable. The happiness that spilled out of the small valley was evident. This was a celebration indeed!

         "Turning from me, the lady swung herself lightly onto her steed. So mounted, this young girl assumed a new majesty. She was beautiful, to be sure, but she was also regal. She beamed with power and authority. In her eyes was a determination and a resolve that I had not noticed before. She turned again to me and spoke, her voice soft but firm. ‘You were lost and are welcome here,' her eyes fixed upon my upswept gaze, ‘but you are not to interfere.' I shrugged my shoulders and nodded my consent. I was honored to be allowed to witness the festivities of this mysterious lady. I would do nothing to disturb them."

         A rush of wind scoured the narrow marketplace. It brought with it a freshness, a respite from the afternoon's parching heat, and a promise of more moisture to come. In the distance, a flash of light was chased by a deepening thunder that rolled across the fields and crashed against the town's whitewashed walls.

         "Topping the rise, I saw that the hills sheltered a small valley, circular in shape and filled with scores of creatures quite unlike any that I had ever previously seen. They were human-like in appearance, but their size was smaller. Their step was much more lively and frisky than their bodies seemed capable of. Indeed, they appeared to bound and soar about the small valley as if held up and carried by unseen wings.

         "And the valley itself seemed to be distorted in size. While the creatures and the white robed girl appeared of human size, as did I, the grasses of the meadow seemed to take on gigantic proportions. The rocks appeared to be the size of boulders, and a stand of dandelions seemed to tower above all those assembled there, like a field of summer corn hangs over the farmer. In the magical environment of this celebration, it seemed as if we all had taken on miniscule proportions.  

         "The people, if the creatures could be called such, danced and filled the valley with their gaiety. They hardly noticed my presence, but they quickly gathered around the white horse and came between me and my guide. One took the reigns of the steed and led rider and mount to the center of the assembly while others surrounded the horse, stroking its mane and delighting in just being able to touch the mount.

         "The young girl was never more radiant than when she was at the center of the gathered Aelves. Indeed, she seemed to absorb their adoration and glow in their presence. As one, they all cheered and continued their dance in a circle around her. As quickly as it had opened, the circle of Aelves closed and re-circled around the young girl and her steed. I was blocked out, but could still clearly see what was happening as each of the celebrating Aelves came to the horse, one by one, and presented the girl with a small item whose importance was unknown to me.

         "But my presence was not completely unnoticed. One of the attending maids brought to me a goblet filled with the most delightful wine that I have ever tasted. Parched, I downed it quickly, and the maid refilled the goblet just as quickly. The beat of the drums was infectious, the swirling dance of the Aelves intoxicating. I retreated to the edge of the clearing to rest upon a log, my head swimming with the activity of the gathering."

         A steady, heavy rain began to beat down upon the city. The stranger found that he had to raise his voice considerably just to be heard above the drops pelting against the canvas awnings and the swirling of the growing storm. The people celebrated this sudden and unexpected end to the drought. Families gathered to dance in the rain, and the stranger was losing his audience to the festivities going on around him. Already many vendors were closing their shops for the afternoon and lashing down the covers in order to protect their wares from the wind and the wet.

         Oblivious to the growing storm, the stranger continued to play his song. And, while his song retained its playful tune, there grew in it an ominous minor melody. The stranger's fingers flew over the strings, landing harder on the beats and drawing deeper chords from the recesses of the instrument's capabilities. His voice was almost a shout when he began again.

         "The effects of that wine were immediate and resolute. I was overcome with a drowsiness that could not be denied. I slept, I do not know for how long, but when I awoke the valley was silent and in shadow. Overhead, a swirling mass of dark clouds blocked out the light of the early evening sun. The Aelves were no longer dancing. They all lay facedown in the grass, heads towards the center of the clearing where the young girl now stood all alone. She gazed upward, into the darkened sky as if in anticipation and expectation."

         A flash of lightning, breaking itself against the piers just outside the marketplace, froze the faces of the children. Parents looked apprehensively at the gathering waves that pounded against the pilings. The children's fears were justified. It was time to bring the celebrations inside; to watch with awe as the streets filled with running water that washed away weeks of dust from the sun-washed walls. Quickly the market cleared, parents led children by the hands and exuberant wives pulled their not too reluctant husbands behind closed doors for an unexpected, but long overdue, afternoon of playful companionship.

         As if in recognition to the people's decision to retreat indoors, the skies broke open and released their onslaught. Sheets of rain pounded down from the heavy clouds, driven against battened doorways and shuttered windows by the swirling winds forming off of the bay. The sudden darkness of the afternoon was pierced by sporadic flashes of light and thunder that rumbled through the crooked streets and alleyways like a runaway cart being drawn by wild ox.

         All but the most foolish celebrators sought shelter. The sea captain, however, was not one to celebrate. Reluctantly, he retreated to a spot on the far side of the alley, one where he was somewhat protected from the furious onslaught. He tugged his collar up close to his neck, and strained to listen in the growing roar of the storm. He had paid for this song, and he would hear this story out.

         The heavy clouds drove back the sun and cast the entire market in the deepest of shadow. The stranger's song was all but a shout as he continued in the midst of the storm's chaos and torrent.

 

         "It came from above, the beast. Its heavy wings beat against the clouds, clearing a path for its circular descent while its fiery breath left a glowing ring against the darkened sky. It circled above the valley and the prostrate creatures shivered lower into the grasses. Only the girl stood to face the monster.

         "A thunderous roar echoed across the valley and shook the ground at my feet. In a flash, the monster spiraled down from the heights and with a frightening sweep of its scaled limbs snared the girl in a taloned grip. Rising again with a single flap of its leathern wings, the beast circled around the valley and flexed its massive claws in a merciless crimson knead. The innocent blood of the girl, her body now broken and crushed, rained down on the small valley and onto the Aelves who remained in it.

         "I tried to fight, to roar out against the injustice, to flail against the monster. I ran to the top of the rise with throwing stones in each hand, but my assault was not a threat to this monster. With a careless flap of his leathery wing, the beast threw me off my feet. My head bounded off of a half-buried stone, and I knew no more."

         The stranger drew a powerfully resonant chord, lowered his head, and buried his face in his heavy cloak. A single shaft of light, lancing through the roiling storm, landed squarely on the minstrel's bent shoulders, marooning the stranger in an island of brilliance amidst a sea of torrent.

         Choruses of thunder careened through the town, answering the lightening flashes that sparked the bay. The sun-baked town, cooled by the relentless pouring, grew misty strands of steam to swirl into the roiling skies overhead. The captain squinted against the wind and the rain. Later, he would tell of the mysterious vision of a young girl in misty white that appeared to join the singer on his precarious stage. But now, he was focused only on the stranger and the song that sounded so clearly, though the harp remained unstrummed and the stranger's breath was consumed in sobs.

         The stranger lifted his face to the skies. With the steady rain washing the tears from his cheeks, and with his shoulders heaving in breathless sobs, he finished the song.

         "When I returned to my senses I was no longer in the ensorcelled valley. I was back on the high mountain, surrounded by the swirling snows and freezing winds. In front of me stood the girl, a wide smile forced upon her strained face. Above us, circling among the craggy peaks, the monster waited.

         "I started to ask ‘Why?', ‘How?', and ‘What can be done to save you?', but she stopped me. With a reassuring finger to my lips, she hushed my words, she confirmed my fears, and she answered my questions.

         "She whispered, ‘The story that you have just witnessed is neither blessed nor evil; neither happy nor sad. It is none of these, and yet it is all of these, all at one time. It is what it is. It is a story of our people, a song of the Aelves. The song is your future, and our heritage; my fate and your destiny.'

         "‘In witnessing our story you have become a part of it. No gift is without price, no pain without reward.' Then the young girl drew this harp from within her robe and placed it in my upswept arms. ‘Tell this story,' she said. ‘Let the world hear our song; let it be refreshed. Let our sacrifice not be in vain.' And with that, she cast her gaze upward to the waiting monster and smiled. He descended, and it was done." 

         A massive bolt of lightening singed the air with a blinding flash of white hot brilliance. Shards of stone, blasted from the steps below the stranger, were missiled into the drenched walls of the deserted marketplace. The flash was echoed by tremendous sheets of rain, pounding as it the sky itself had been rent and wrenched into a relentless maelstrom. This, even the sea captain could not deny. He ducked into a nearby doorway, strained to latch the heavy door behind him, and left the stranger all alone to face the swirling wind and torrent.

         The stranger left the city, heading to the west, his sodden footfalls splashing sluggishly in the ruddy tract that he followed. Overhead the thunder roared as if in pain, and the darkened skies cried out as if in sorrow, and the song of the Aelves played across the land.

 

 

Copyright 2006, David R. Downing

Laboratory Informatics consultant by day, struggling author by night, David R. Downing just tries to keep up. You may come across David typing frantically away on his laptop in some hotel lobby, airport waiting area, or cramped airplane seat. David travels frequently for his day job and it is often that while he is on the road that his better efforts surface.

David received his first break with “The Dragon Princess” in The Sword Review and has since had a few more stories published at the site – including “Prayers” a Bonus Feature. He’s got several more tales on the streets and his stories “Vilkatis” and “The Executioner” (Both featuring Kalat from “Prayers”) will soon appear in Forgotten Worlds magazine.

All this as a result of a decision to quit donating his evenings and traveling time to the betterment of Informatics and instead devote the time to putting down on paper (well... electronic bits actually) some of the stories that keep floating into his head.

 

The wisdom of that decision has yet to be determined. 

 

 

Cover: "Surrender" 

Copyright 2006, Rachel A. Marks

Rachel A. Marks is a homeschooling mom to four beautiful kids. She's Managing Editor for the Christian Literary Magazine, Haruah, and is currently working with her agent to publish her first novel. You can read more about her on her webpage: < www.shadowofthewood.com >.

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