The Tale of Isselrud

Ork brooded.

Twas another slow Fireday night at Shady’s; only one brawl and one hot-tempered game o’ darts gone horribly wrong. This gave him far too much time to stare into his third blood grog instead of drinking it. Almost ne’er a good idea for Ork.

Life since he begun giving things back had grown complicated. This was compoundedly worse for a great taker like him. He hadn’t become a taker to complicate things but to make things easier. That’s what he truly wanted; a life of ease. He worried he were losing sight of his original life’s goal. Of course, a wife and child had not been part of his plan either, but he was forced to admit that the undreamt-of stuff of family life had made his life more enjoyable, more worthwhile than he kenned in his happily wild and violent single days.

He absently stirred the pink foam on his grog with a finger. With those days long behind him, he pondered what could have gone wrong that he would end up like some ole feather-torn vulture sittin’ on a barstool with his head stuck in a tankard and a half-ate bowl of peanuts. He loved drinkin’, almost as much as he loved takin’, so why was good grog going bad? He wasn’t sad or mad or hungry or ailin’, nor was he feelin’ specially violent or drunk. So what was this? Why was he…

Dissatisfied?  The word circled his brain like the swirling booze.

Have I grown too rich, givin’ too much back, become too good at takin’? Wait a second sneeze. None o’ those things is bad. Well…maybe the middle one… No! Some of my best memories are of Scrithams Day, when townsfolk open the took goods I return or re-gift ‘em to another. So why do I feel so…skint?

In the past, the only way Ork beat a funk like this was to do some takin’. Sooner was best, and with Scrithams Day just a few days away, it made sense. If’n for no other reason than to finish his list.

Ork jammed a fistful o’ peanuts in his cloak pocket for later and left Shady’s with a purpose. Outside, it smelled like smoke and felt like snow. He trudged up the dark, soggy road, headed to Ampleblood’s house, one of the oldest an’ largest lodges in the town of Rancor.

Ampleblood was a man who liked to pay in gold, and in whose house a talented taker could find a horde of bobbles an’ glintin’ frivolities passed down father to son, again an’ again. He had recently returned from the war where, twas rumored, he filled his shield and helmet with yet more treasure. Ork knew better than to take such gossip by its face, but it had still whet his interest.

Ork made quick work o’ the lock on the back door, an easy task for the man what installed it. He then crept through the kitchen, passed the long dining table an’ drinkin’ horns, then past several empty bedrooms and into Ampleblood’s clan hall. The sole light came from the dying embers in the fireplace.

In the hall, there were a great many trophies o’ war and the hunt, and objects o’ beauty. Shields and weapons lined the tall walls, between battle horns, drums, antlers and skulls. The entire room was a declaration of the clan’s prowess and power. Everything was displayed to draw the eye up to these emblems and the throne in the corner. Ork shook off the dizzying tale these symbols told, reminding himself that this clan’s prominence was a nostalgic dream, since Chief Blacktooth’s clan now held the real power and Ampleblood had no heirs. Still, the effect was not lost on Ork.

Sparkles caught his eye immediately and he crossed the fir-strewn floor to a shelf on the far wall. Here he found a finely wrought bear in gold and a silver bowl inlaid with black stones. The bear he could easily trade to Gob when next he came to Rancor, and the bowl would make an excellent Scrithams Eve return. He wrapped these in rabbit pelts and started to place them into his bag.

Ork stopped. Taking a choice item or two was nothing new. He’d done it all his taking life. It was this new habit he’d developed of taking a second item with the intent of returning it what caused him pause. Just one way his life had become more complicated.

Another stray thought crossed his mind. He pulled back the rabbit pelt from the bowl and examined it again. Maybe he was a little drunk after all. He hadn’t realized when he picked it up, but had stolen this bowl before.  He chuckled.

I took it, returned it, twas re-gifted, and now I’m taking it again. This is a well-traveled bowl.

As Ork turned to leave, he spied a white gold cloak pin shaped like a diving dragon, resting in a small, padded box of elderberry wood. The design was not of the people.

He reached for the pin with no thought for selling it or giving it back. It wasn’t even about the thrill of taking. It was merely for the having. Twasn’t the rare metal or the intricate design what he wanted, though these were pleasing, to be sure. He’d taken and sold items of white gold before and was sure that jewelry in the shape of a dragon had passed through his hands in the past. But there was something ‘bout this pin what drew him to it.

At that moment, he heard a scraping and a soft cough, and he scrambled behind the large throne in the corner. He watched as a ragged, slip of a figure stepped through the mantel, onto the broad hearth, an’ scanned the hall. Its bare, soot-smudged feet padded silently into the room.

The figure reached up with pale, delicate fingers and pushed back the hood of its tattered cloak to reveal pointed ears protruding through stringy, ivory hair. The ears and willowy physique were familiar. For a moment, he thought it were Scrithams. The mystifying boy from Witchwood often took a similar form.

Ork was about to stand and speak his name, when the figure turned to him. The narrow, androgynous face and black, almond shaped eyes told him everything he needed to ken.

Twas an elf child.

Since the latest war with Faelandale, lost children had trickled into Rancor, including the rare elf child or two. They all showed up hungry and bedraggled. If none claimed kinship, then they promptly fell between the cracks of tribal society with the other orphans on the streets. Some begged, some took, some even died, and some simply vanished as if they’d ne’er been there at all. Nobody saw them. Nobody missed them. Nobody cared.

The elves were the more pitiful of the lot. Their almond eyes, angular features an’ gossamer ears just added to folk’s distrust and abhorrence. They were ugly, skinny, pale, and, most of all, alien. And, of course, no elf child could ever be claimed.

To some, they were the offspring of those what killed their own offspring, or brother or spouse. To others, they were an ill omen, like a crow astride a tombstone or shield. That is, if they paid them any heed at all. For tradition held they should be ignored. They were invisible – the product of an overactive imagination or too much grog.

The child skillfully slinked across the clan hall in a straight line for the elderberry box. Ork thought its gait and bearing could be those of a boy. As it reached for the pin, Ork again had to stop himself from standing. The elf canted its head. Its ear twitched upward. It snatched the box and ran back to the hearth.

As it scurried up the flue, Ork tiptoed to the fireplace, gave a listen, then left the hall. He rushed through the dining hall and kitchen, and out the back door, locking it behind him. Without hesitation, he skirted ‘round the lodge to the road an’ waited behind a scrubby holly. A few moments later the elf child popped out o’ the chimney and dropped onto the roof.

It slid down the steep sloped thatch and hit the ground with a splat. Without brushing off the mud, it ran through the herb garden an’ hopped the stone fence onto the road. Ork followed. The elf stuck to the shadows, following the main road, then took Dregs Trail to Hamshackle.

Hamshackle was a small shanty town what had sprung up in recent years in a draw on the backside of town. Ork didn’t come here. The handful of families, orphans, and “lost souls” what squatted here had nothing to take.

At last the elf came to a patchwork of shacks made of scabbed lumber, fir limbs, and cloth. It stopped in the narrow alley between rows, looked both ways, an’ slipped through a narrow gap hid by a loose plank. Ork caught up an’ peered in the narrow, makeshift door. There, an accidental channel, no wider than a rabbit trail, snaked between the weaving walls of several shanties. Ork heard a cough and saw the elf rubbing its arms in a wee, moonlit opening on the other side. He watched as the elf sat on a nest-like pile of pine branches and pulled out the elderberry box take from Ampleblood’s lodge. It held the box in the moonlight, staring with its gem-like eyes at the contents. Its head fell forward, its body shook with sobs.

Ork remembered Tusints, the elder saying, “One should grant them less consideration than a shadow, less reflection than a mote of dust. At most, an upright member of our tribe should turn up their collar against them like a gust of winter wind.”

In this way, tradition ensured they would not take food from your table or clothes from your children, or warmth from your hearth. They would not take from the strength of the tribe. They were somebody else’s problem. They were nobody’s problem. They were not worth a word and not worthy of a blade to end their pathetic lives. They would simply go away – and be remembered no more.

Ork turned to walk away. A pitiful keening escaped the passage to pry on his ears. It was the sound of a broken heart.

He took a step, and without warning, a tear appeared on his cheek. He captured it on the tip of his finger and examined it.

How did that…? What the tufflebuff is wrong with me? Goin’ soft in the head.

(Poor, confused Ork.)

He put one foot in front of the other and walked. Ten steps from the elf’s rabbit hole the first snowflake floated into his sight. He held out his hand an’ caught it. It held shape for a moment, then melted.

It’s only one.

He took ten more steps and saw another snowflake and another and another. He sighed and could see his breath on the air.

It’s gonna be cold tonight…

He took a few hesitant steps. Good thing I got a warm fire to go home to.

He stopped, closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn’t shake the image of the shivering elf child.

Warm… Fire… Home… Watch it now, Ork! You don’t want any trouble. Think about the tribe. Think of Burkta and Korka!

He turned and looked back up the alley. Korka… If I hadn’t taught her to mistrust an’ stay away from all elves, what would she do?

Korka’s heart wasn’t blunted like his. She hadn’t fallen in with bad company, spilled blood, or lived the crooked life he had. At times, she was his North Star.

Swamp gas! What are you getting yourself into this time, ya old fool?

Before he knew it, he was squeezing through the narrow gap between hovels. The elf heard him comin’ and scrambled about the tiny space, lookin’ for a way out or up. It was trapped.

By the time Ork arrived, the elf was frantic. It picked up a small sharp rock and threw it at him. Ork blocked it with his hand. It then tried to run past him, but he easily blocked the way. It went side-to-side like a caged animal, its dithering dwindlin’ into a rockin’ motion. At this distance, Ork could now tell that the elf was a boy.

Ork pulled his cloak around himself and sat on the ground.

Eventually, the elf boy became still, except for a shiver. Ork held out his hand, gesturin’ for him to sit opposite him. He shook his head and backed up a step.

Ork blew on his hands, then put them in his cloak for warmth. His fingers found the handful of peanuts from Shady’s. He pulled them out and offered them to the elf. The child rubbed its arms.

“Your loss,” said Ork. He opened the shell of one and ate the nuts inside. “M-m-m, good. You sure you won’t try one? Here, you try.”

The boy inched forward.

Ork placed the nuts on a small scrap of bark what lay beside him and slid it toward the elf.

The boy took another step.

Ork scooted back until he was against the opening to the passage.

The elf knelt and then crept on his hands and knees across the frost. He picked up one of the peanuts and scrambled back. He cracked open the shell and seemed pleased both with the ease of this task and two tiny nuts within. He sniffed the nuts, then took one into his mouth and chewed. He grinned and ate the other nut. His hunger took over and he sat down with the bark o’ peanuts on his lap and began shelling and eating ‘em. His grin grew with each nut. Suddenly, he made a sour face and spit out the nut he had been eatin’. He picked up the entire batch and drew back to throw it at Ork.

“No, wait! Sorry. Sorry,” said Ork. “Sometimes you get a bad one like that. I think Shady gets ‘em cheap.”

The elf stared at him and the remaining nuts in his raised hand. Finally he lowered the bark and ate another one, and the grin returned.

Ork stood and the elf jumped back. Ork held out his hands. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. I’m not going to hurt ya.”

The elf stared dubiously at him.

“Look… I don’t know if you can ken a single word I’m sayin’, but if you want more o’ those nuts… or maybe some real food, you should come with me.”

Ork held out his open hand and the elf eyed it. After a few moments, he dropped his head, turned and picked up the elderberry box. Very gloomily, he walked to Ork. He eyed Ork’s hand and the box and then placed the box in his hand.

Ork looked at the box in surprise. At that moment, the elf made a dash for the gap. Ork grabbed him by his cowl and pulled him back to get a better grip. The boy struggled. Ork blocked the way again and set the boy on the ground. He then held out the box.

“I’m not after this,” he said. “But, catch me on another day…”

The boy warily approached the box and snatched it from Ork, retreating to the farthest corner.

“Boy,” said Ork. “Take my hand. I’ll take you home.”

“Home?” said the boy.

Ork stiffened. The elf’s voice was gentle as any young boy’s, but he hadn’t actually expected him to speak. “Yes, home. You know that word? Do ya know what it means? Do ya know what I’m sayin’?”

The boy held out his hands and moved them up and down mimicking a balanced scale.

Ork offered his hand again. “Come with me. I’ll give ya more food.” He pointed to the nut shells on the ground. “Food.”

The boy stepped forward an’ put his hand in Ork’s. His small fingers were cold as river rocks.

Going back through the narrow passage was more difficult than going in, but Ork exhaled and managed to do it with the boy in tow. Once out, he released the boy’s hand. The boy stayed put an’ looked up at him.

Ork looked at the child o’er his crossed arms. “I’ll not drag ya,” he said. “Ya come with me, it must be because ya want to.”

The boy sneezed, then reached up and pulled on Ork’s arm to get to his hand. “Home. Food,” he said.

 Ork nodded.

As they walked down the alley, the boy turned to Ork, gently tuggin’ him to a stop. “The others,” he said.

Ork scowled. “Others?”

His companion looked behind him then pointed to his chest and shook his head. “Like me, not like me.”

“Children? Orphans?”

The boy nodded and pointed up the alley in the other direction. “More.”

“More Orphans?”

Again the boy nodded. He looked up into Ork’s face. His obsidian eyes lost their gem-like hardness. “Home? Food?”

Ork’s breath was pulled from his chest. He felt tight in this throat, and his lungs and stomach sunk. His arms went limp and he dropped to his knees. He then took the boy by his slender arms. His vision blurred slightly as his eyes grew watery.

“I…I can’t…I can’t save them all,” he admitted.

The elf child reached up and touched Ork’s cheek, lifting his face. “You …will.”

The boy’s words knocked the wind from him again. A tear escaped from his eye.

What just happened? he asked himself. What power has this child over my heart?

Ork collected himself and the boy, and snuck through town all the way to his house. His companion never left his side. On the way, Ork took a scarf left carelessly on a line and wrapped it ‘round the boy. “Fools,” he said. “Twould be ruined by snow if we hadn’t saved it.”

(Clever, thrifty Ork.)

“By the way, what’s your name, boy?”

The elf just stared at him with his nearly impenetrable eyes.

“I need a name when I introduce ya to my wife an’ daughter… My name is Ork. And you are…?”

The boy taped his chest. “Isselrud.”

“Issel—. What kind a name is that?”

The boy shrugged.

“Is that what your ma an’ da called ya?”

He nodded.

“An’ the dragon pin in that box…Tis theirs, ain’t it?”

Again he boy nodded, but then scrunched his eyebrows an’ cocked his head at Ork.

“Huh?” said Ork. “Oh, yeah. I seen it.”

Ork slunk past his neighbor’s farms and into his house. He pulled the curtains, sat the child at the table and served him a bowl of stew from the firepot. He then stoked the fire to warm up the place.

“You had a late one,” said Burkta, coming in from the bedroom. “Oh, Scrith–”

Suddenly she let out a scream and jumped behind Ork. “That’s not Scrithams!”

Ork turned an’ put his hands on her shoulders. “It is well, Burkta. It is well.”

“Have you gone mad? That’s a-a-a—”

“Elf child?”

“Yes! No! There is not an elf child in this house! Oh, crabapple! What’s it doin’ here?”

Korka came runnin’. She stopped when she seen their visitor.

“Don’t move,” Ork said to them. “Don’t move. I don’t want ya to frighten ‘im?”

Burkta bunched her hands on her hips. “Him? You don’t want to frighten him?”

The elf child was poised on the bench ready to spring away.

“This is Isselrud.”

“Oh, sure!” said Burkta. “Ya think giving it a cute, little name is gonna make me like it, don’t ya? Well it won’t. An’ it won’t bend the arms of the council or Blacktooth!”

Ork sighed. “I know. I haven’t figured it that far yet.”

“Hadn’t figured it…? You be the cleverest figurer ‘round these parts, Ork, but ya gone too far this time. Do you recall what happened last time you brought a strange child into this house?”

“Of course.”

“Korka! Don’t touch it!”

Ork looked away from his wife. His daughter and Isselrud were looking at each other and grinnin’. Korka’s hand were inches away from the boy’s shoulder. She reluctantly lowered it.

“Him,” said Ork.

“Fine. Korka, don’t touch him.”

“Can we keep ‘im?” asked Korka.

“No!” said Burkta.

“Yes,” said Ork.

Husband and wife locked eyes like rival arena warriors.

“Get rid of it–him!”

“No.”

“Is this one o’ your schemes?”

“No.”

“I don’t like it. Any of it!”

“I know.”

“I don’t think ya do, Ork. I don’t want this!”

“An’ he didn’t want his folks killed, yet they was.”

Burkta tightened her jaw, her face turned like Ork struck her with his hand.

Burkta was orphaned by the previous frontier war an’ taken in by a kindly uncle in Rancor. His wife became a second mum and he a second Dad. It were a bitter sweet memory echoing with great loss and great love.

Ork continued. “He needs a father and a mother, Burkta.”

“And a sister?” said Korka.

“Especially a sister.”

Burkta stared at the elf in her house and Ork saw her eyes soften. The tension in her lessened. Isselrud sat and resumed eatin’ the stew.

“I know ya want a son, Ork,” she said, “but with all the orphans in the world, you couldn’t bring home one of our own.”

“An elf child is what Fate dropped in my path tonight.”

“So be it,” said Burkta. “We’ll get kicked out o’ the tribe, ya know?”

“That’s a blow I’d like to dodge. So, for now, we must treat Isselrud as we did Scrithams. He must be our secret.”

“How long is he staying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to take him back to his people?”

“Too far. Blast it, woman, I don’t know! Maybe. Or maybe I get Gob to do it.”

“Gob?” exclaimed Burkta. “He’d sell his own mother if there was silver in it.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“I am,” she said crossin’ her arms.

“Burkta, he may need to stay here a long while.”

She tapped her foot. “I am a patient woman, Ork…”

“Yes, you are.”

She gave him the evil eye. She hated when he complimented her to win a fight, mostly because it worked. An’ he hated the evil eye, but he knew it was a sign he was ‘bout to win her over.

(Wily, silver-tongued Ork.)

“An’ how long must we keep ‘im a secret?”

“You in a hurry for the tribe to find out?”

“No. Keeping ‘im a secret is the only sensible thing ya said tonight. But I know how hard twill be to keep this secret.”

Ork nodded. “Fret not. I’ll sleep on it tonight and if nothin’ comes, I’ll ask Scrithams for help.”

“Ah, better still. Make sure you ask him tomorrow an’ bring him home. Maybe he can do … something.”

The morn next, Ork made it known in Rancor that there were fever in his house and folks should stay away. He then marched into Witchwood and waited for Scrithams at the spot they first met. He woke in the afternoon with the mysterious boy lookin’ down at him.

“Has it been a year?” asked Scrithams?

“Almost,” answered Ork.

“What sort of fun are you planning; the usual?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Do ya grow bored with our little game Scrithams?”

“No, but I like it more when you invent a new one.”

“Well, listen close…”

*

When Scrithams appeared in the doorway that night, Korka ran to him and gave him a hug. Isselrud was right behind her, but stopped several steps back. Burkta also gave their friend a welcoming embrace before returning to her kitchen.

Scrithams and the boy eyed each other. Scrithams closed his eyes, his ears glowed faintly, and his appearance changed to that of an elf. Isselrud bowed deeply to him. Scrithams spoke to him in a strange language. Isselrud stood and they began to converse.

“You speak Elvish?” said Ork.

Scrithams looked at him with his cryptic eyes. “I do not spend all my time around Rancor.”

The two elflings sat at the table and conversed for a long while. At last, Scrithams nodded. Isselrud left the table to join Korka in the room next and Ork and Burkta sat. Scrithams closed his eyes and returned to his familiar form.

“What did he say,” asked Ork.

Scrithams shook his head. “He speaks little or hides much about his parents, aside from their death. Until that changes, I don’t think we can find his people.”

“They’re elves.”

“Yes, but how many of your people live in this kingdom? Do you know how to find one unknown to you?”

“It takes much asking and patience.”

“And you are one of them. Elves are even more distrusting than your kind. Still, I will try.”

“Anythin’ else?”

“He kept asking me when you were going to save all the other orphans.”

“The other orphans?” exclaimed Burkta, her face turning red.

“All the other orphans,” said Scrithams with a smile.

“All!”

Ork glared at Scrithams and said, “Thanks!” He then turned to his wife and gave her a sheepish grin. “I was going to tell you…”

“Oh, no! First you bring an elf into my home and now…”

She stood, grabbed their wedding knife from the hearth and stabbed it into the table with a thud.

Ork stared at the blade, then back to her. “Love…”

“Don’t ya coo ‘love’ at me!”

Ork held up his hands. “What do ya want, Burkta?”

“I want to know, Ork. I want to know I’m gonna have a family and a tribe and a home after you’re done!”

“I promise—“

“Swear it!” She inclined her head toward the knife.

He stared at her. In all their years of marriage, she had always taken him at his word, and he’d always done his best to not disappoint. He had failed a few times, but had never lost her trust. He stood an’ yanked the knife from the table. He placed the blade in his hand.

“The last time I swore with this blade was on the day of our weddin’.”

Burkta nodded. Korka and Isselrud peeked in from the next room.

Ork drew the edge across his palm. It were sharp as the day he bought it an’ it cut deep. He clenched the blood in his fist and looked into his wife’s eyes.

“I swear to honor and protect ya. You shall never want for food or fire or home or tribe. Fate willing, I will give ya children, and you shall never be lonely again.”

*

Over the nights next, Ork and Scrithams sneaked into Hamshackle, in disguise; Ork as a chimney spirit and Scrithams as… Well, as himself. With Isselrud’s help, they hunted down all the orphans they could. They found most banded together in small groups. There were twelve altogether; seven boys, five girls, no elves. Two were brother an’ sister. None knew of any living kin in Rancor. They gave each child blankets an’ food in exchange for what memories they had of their family an’ home, an’ the locations where they might find more orphans. Most had heard tales o’ the scritham an’ the chimney spirit what helped him spread good cheer, and so were eager to help. And Ork wrote everythin’ down to remember every detail.

(Sly ole Ork.)

As they left the shanty town on their last night there, Ork said, “Just one more thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Scrithams.

“I need to take a book.”

“What kind of book?”

“The very hard-to-take kind.”

*

The night next, Ork made a secret visit to the lodge of the tribe’s chronicler, Catchrat. He was familiar with the old man’s lodge and scribing room from his youth, when he studied under him. That is, until he got caught taking parchment and ink or, rather, selling them. Not long after, Ork took up takin’ as his craft.

Scrithams entered through a small kitchen window and let Ork through the door. As he turned, his elbow knocked a wooden bowl from the table and it smacked the floor, spinning like a noisy top. He stuck out his foot to stop it. He stared wide-eyed at Ork, who held up a finger to his mouth and listened. They stared at the rafters waitin’ to hear footsteps or voices. The lodge was quiet.

Scrithams looked at Ork and shrugged.

Ork whispered and pointed at his ear. “He’s hard of hearing.”

“Then why are we whispering?”

“Best not to take risks.”

“You could have got in here by yourself. Why did you ask me to come?”

“Tis easier for you to get through that window, and I need you to use your special gift.”

“I have a special gift?”

Ork touched his ear and wiggled it.

“Oh! Magic.”

“Sh-h-h.”

They crept through the small dining hall and into the scribing room.

Schrithams pointed to the many books. “Which one.”

Ork selected a very large book from the middle of a stack and blew off the dust.

“I thought you said it would be hard.”

Ork shook his head and continued up the stairs. After a pair of squeaky steps and held breaths, they arrived at the chronicler’s bed chamber.

The old man rested on a hard, wood bed. His gnarled toes jutted from the quilt at the foot while his head was propped up on a large, red tome with worn leather bindings. A war hatchet laid across his chest. A scar split his left eyebrow and the eye beneath it was open.

Scrithams stepped back behind the door frame, but Ork gestured for him to follow him to the bed. Scrithams pointed at his eye and then the old man.

Ork shook his head. “It’s glass.”

They slunk across the floor, watching for any movement. The old man was still.

“Is he dead?” asked Scrithams.

He reached out to poke him, but Ork stopped his hand. They crouched closer until they were just inches above the old man’s face. Ork put his fingers above the chronicler’s lips.

Catchrat let loose a resounding snore and they jumped back. They froze and waited until the old man let out his breath in a kind of whistling sigh through a gap in his teeth.

Ork raised the book from the scribing room and compared it to the tome under Catchrat’s head. It was similar in size and shape, but was black and smooth.

“I need ya to make this book look exactly like that one.”

“Why that one?”

“That’s the book we have to take.”

Scrithams eyes grew large. “I thought you said not to take risks.”

“All taking comes with risks. Mastery depends on knowing when it’s worth it.”

“This had better be worth it.”

“Risks are also what make it fun.”

Scrithams tilted his head and thought for a moment. “You are indeed wise, Ork.”

Ork handed the book to Scrithams and pulled out a wispy, green windcloth scarf.

“Oh, that’s nice!” whispered Scrithams.

He examined both books and closed his eyes. The tips of his pointed ears briefly lit up as bright as candles. The black book shimmered before becoming a well-worn twin to the red tome.

Ork threaded the scarf under the nape of Catchrat’s neck, then slipped it in-between his head and the tome. He gently cradled the old man’s head, lifting it ever so slightly while Scrithams pushed the old tome out with their new one.

“Ork?” said Catchrat.

They froze.

“Remember to clean your quill and count the new parchment.”

Ork carefully lowered his old master’s head and removed the scarf. He gently pulled up the quilt to Catchrat’s chin and they crept to the door.

“There’s a good lad. Now cross your ‘T’ or I’ll dot your eye.”

*

On the walk back home, Ork looked at Scrithams. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You were right. That was fun!”

Ork grinned. “Wait till we put it back.”

Scrithams gawked at him and Ork laughed.

At that moment, Isselrud appeared from a bush.

“What are ya doing here?” asked Ork.

“I finded another.”

“Another orphan?”

The boy nodded.

“You’ve got to stop, we don’t have—”

“An elf.”

Ork clenched his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Ah!”

“Head hurt?” asked Scrithams.

Ork nodded.

“Worry not,” said Isselrud. “I know of her…family. You save her.”

“A girl elf? How am I supposed to save a girl elf? I can’t even figure how to save you! If this fails, I lose everythin’!”

Isselrud took his hand and his fear melted away like the first snow. There were things bigger than his fears, like cold toes and empty bellies.

“You will not fail,” said Scrithams. “You always figure a way.”

Ork looked at his companions and scratched his chin. “I had better or Blacktooth will skin me and use my guts for his bow. He’ll want to use me to show just how much he hates elves. It’s not fair. He can do anything he wants. Why, he could take in a whole tribe of cursed fairies and no one would dare say boo.”

Ork straightened. He stared at the sky and a crooked smile spread across his lips.

(Clever, clever Ork.)

“Are you ill?” asked Scrithams. “You’ve got this look on your face…like the blood has froze in your brain.”

Ork grinned at him. “How do your ears feel?”

Scrithams raised an eyebrow. “Shiny.”

“Good. We have much to do, and some of it will be more fun!”

*

Scrithams Eve, it snowed all night. In the morning, the folk of Rancor awoke to a smooth, glistening blanket of white and lots of joyous surprises. As usual, many valuable and dear items had been returned by the scrithams. Old was renewed, dear was more cherished, and of course, everyone looked forward to friends and feastin’ in the town square.

But, for a handful of lodges, the surprises left caused more confusion than joy. In each of these homes, a strange child was found sleepin’ by the hearth and a warm fire. When they were waked, each one told the same tale: The scrithams had whisked them away in the night and, with the help of a crotchety, ole chimney spirit, placed them before the fire with a box, a cup of warm milk, and a tart. The tarts must have been magic for the children fell asleep as soon as they ate them.

When questioned, each delivered child admitted to being an orphan and said that the scrithams had told them to give the box to the person what woke them and to wait. Inside the box, the home owners found objects plainly borrowed by the scrithams, and a scrap of parchment wrapped tightly ‘round a family token. The parchment had these lines scribed on it:

Your things, your hearth

Your child, your heart

All of these families ended up at Chief Blacktooth’s lodge with orphans in tow. They banged on the door and demanded the guards take them to the chief. His man, Grimhand was summoned and arrived somewhat groggy from the night before. He told them to go away as the chief had not risen yet and would see them at the feast. They yelled an’ fussed an’ made such a bewildering, chaotic clamor that Grimhand relented and showed them into the throne hall.

By the time Chief Blacktooth appeared, all the families present in the hall had discussed the morning’s surprises and elected Ampleblood to speak to the chief for them. The chief’s wife, Tigara, hearin’ that a crowd gathered in the throne room on Scrithams Day insisted on hosting them while her husband listened to their strange tale. Within the hour, the chronicler was fetched, toting his ax and an arm full of books.

*

“So, Catchrat,” said the chief. “Has anything like this ever happened to the tribe before?”

The old man scratched his gray head. “Not that I recall, my chief. But let me see these tokens you spoke of.”

Each of the families came forward and showed Catchrat the token from their box. He examined each closely and also the big red tome.

“My chief,” he announced, a last. “These tokens are identical to ones in the Blood Tome. And the children’s family names are here too. It can mean only one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The children returned by the scrithams are kin to these families and can be rightfully claimed. There is no question in my mind; their families are of the tribe.”

The families and children looked at each other. Slowly, each little group circled up. Adults took a knee to be face-to-face with their new-found children. Before long, there were hugs an’ tears an’ laughter an’ many astonished comparisons.

“Hey! You’ve got my mother’s ear.”

“You’ve got my uncle’s mole.”

“He’s got your nose.”

“She’s got your smile.”

The chief dismissed the chronicler and his men and told the families to go home and prepare for the Scrithams Day feast. Suddenly there was a scream.

Everyone ran to the room next.

The chief’s wife run to her husband’s beefy arms. She was shakin’. Finally, she turned an’ pointed to the fireplace.

“A-a-a elf is on our hearth!” she said.

Blacktooth and Grimhand pulled dags and marched across the room. The guards and crowd followed a few steps behind.

There on the hearth, they found a wee elf girl sleeping. She was curled up around a wooden box, like a squirrel in winter. A warm, invitin’ fire burnt in the pit beyond. They circled the child. The chief looked at the folk around him, and the children whose faces pushed into the gaps between adults to stare at the elf. He saw the naked dag in his hand and the blade in Grimhand’s fist. Again, he eyed the elf child sleeping peacefully at his feet. The only sound came from the crackle of wood in the fire. Slowly, mechanically, he sheathed his weapon an’ reached across Grimhand’s chest to place a firm hand on the stony warrior’s arm. They made eye contact, the man bowed to his chief and put away his dag.

“What’s in the box?” asked one of the children.

All eyes were now on Blacktooth. He scratched his broad chin and took a knee beside the elf. As he reached for the box, the girl stirred and awoke. With wide, black eyes, she started at the chief’s large, fierce face and the crowd surrounding her.

After a moment, she pushed the box forward to Blacktooth and whispered, “For you.”

Blacktooth reached for the box.

“Don’t touch it!” said his wife.

“Ignore it,” said Grimhand. “It is no more than a shadow.”

“Aye,” said one of the women. “It is dust.”

The chief eyed his people. Aside from Grimhand, who gripped his weapon, their eyes were wide with wonder and fear. He tensed his jaw.

“I can no more ignore it-her than you can. Look at you. You can’t tear your eyes away. By our tradition you would be right. We should all turn our backs and hope she goes away, but that is a tradition of fear. I refuse to bow to fear. And by my blood, this is my house. I will see what’s in the box.”

He picked up the box and opened it while the room held its breath. He stared into it, then reached in and pulled out an ivory comb. He handed it to his wife.

“Tigara, I gave you this comb as a bride price. I did not know it was gone.”

His wife warily took the comb. “It disappeared just the other day. I was afraid I lost it. I didn’t want to tell you.”

Grimtooth then pulled out a spear head and glanced at a vacant spot on the wall next to the fireplace. “This is from the spear I gave Tarana for her first boar hunt.”

Tigara knelt beside her husband and eased the spear head from his hand. “She passed that winter.”

“Anything else in the box,” asked Catchrat.

The chief looked in. “A purse and a scrap of parchment.”

“Well…?” said the chronicler rubbing his hands together.

“The purse once held Tigara’s dowry.”

“And…”

Blacktooth glowered at Catchrat. “And what, chronicler?”

“Is it another family token, my chief?”

Blacktooth swallowed and looked at the elf girl. The room could hear him grinding his teeth. He breathed in through his nose and let it out, then pulled out the wad of parchment. Again, he stared at the elf. He pulled back his hand to throw the parchment into the fire.

“No!” cried Tigara, grabbing his arm.

The chief froze and locked eyes with his wife. She slid her hand to his fist, then looked at the strange, pale girl with onyx eyes cowerin’ on their hearth.

“Husband,” she said at last. “Don’t throw away our last chance to have a daughter.”

All Blacktooth could do was stare at Tigara while whispers licked their ears.

“I have missed her too, Tigara,” he whispered, “but this… Are you sure?”

“I must know what is in that parchment.”

“She might be nothing to us. I don’t believe it could be anything.”

“Aye. This all might be nothing. But if what I think is in that and in the Blood Tome…”

“I-It cannot be.”

“I would rather know than wonder for the rest of my days.”

Blacktooth smiled proudly at her. “That is brave girl I married.”

He opened his hand and together they opened the parchment and read.

 “Your things, your hearth, your child, your heart.”

“And the token?” asked Catchrat, eyeballin’ the tiny medallion.

“This means nothing to you beyond its history, does it, chronicler?”

“Forgive me, my chief. I am by nature a curious man.” The chronicler paused. “But… its import to your family, indeed to our tribe, is not lost on me.”

Blacktooth tossed the token to the tribe’s chronicler, who immediately delved into the Blood Tome with vigor. The room waited in tense quiet whispers.

“Ah, ha!” said Catchrat, at last. “The emblem on this token is not one your family has used for years, my chief. This is…” The old man thumbed back through the Blood Tome. “Ah, here it is. This is the emblem used by your great, great, great grandfather, who fought in the first frontier war, and … H-m-m. I don’t recall seeing this before! It says here … he took an elf war bride.”

A murmur ripped through the room.

“That cannot be!” said Blacktooth, his voice echoing off the rafters. With quiet restored, he continued. “My great, great, great grandmother was Forcana, the daughter of a clan chief.”

“Aye… It says that here as well, but he took an elf wife also, in Faelendale, who disappeared during the last months of the war.”

Blacktooth looked down at the elf girl beside him. “You mean to tell me that this… child is my kin? And mind your tongue, Catchrat, or I will take it from your mouth!”

Catchrat grunted, then bowed deeply. “Great Chief, given the circumstances…This record in the tome, together with the child bringing you a family token… I have no choice but to say… According to our custom, the choice is yours.”

Blacktooth stared at the pale, scrawny girl and her alien features. She had the countenance of the enemy; one he had faced across distant battlefields. He then looked to his wife’s abnormally beaming face. She had not appeared so hopeful since before the death of their daughter.

He eyed the faces around them and stood. “I choose … I choose to claim this child by the rights of kinship.”

The crowd erupted in murmurs and whispers.

“What is everyone doing here?” someone shouted over the hubbub.

The people crowded in around the hearth turned to the door. Ork stood in the door, towing behind him an elf child, tied with leather straps at the wrists.

“And what am I supposed to do with this?” he said and pulled the elf into the room. “I assume this is some kind of bad joke!”

The elf boy fell to the floor. The elf girl squeezed through the crowd and ran to him. Ork jumped back.

“Ack! Another one!” he shouted. “Should I … catch it?”

Blacktooth roared over the heads of the others. “Stop! Do not touch her!”

Ork froze and bowed to him. “You’re right, of course, my chief. I should ignore it. But I tried that with this one, and it didn’t go away. After it handed me a box, I realized that it was not an imaginative hangover. What’s going on here?”

Catchrat stepped forward from the group. “Do you have this box with you, Ork?”

“Aye.” He pulled a wooden box from a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Open it,” said Blacktooth.

Ork opened the box and peered inside. “Hey, it’s our weddin’ knife!” He pulled the ceremonial weapon from the box and pointed it at the elf boy. “Did ya take this?”

“No, Ork!” said Ampleblood. “It was the scrithams.”

Ork eyed the large warrior and the blade in his hand. “That would explain why we didn’t find any returned things from them this year.”

“There’s more,” said Ampleblood. “Take another look.”

Ork slipped the knife into his belt and dumped the wad of parchment into his hand from the box. He set the box down, opened the parchment, examined the small token and read the note silently. “What does it mean?”

Catchrat stepped forward and held out his hand. “May I?”

Ork dropped the note and token into his hand. The old man scurried closer to the firelight and opened the Blood Tome once again. The room turned their backs on Ork and the elves to watch the chronicler at work.

“Anyone mind telling me what’s happening here?” asked Ork.

A dozen people in the room shushed him.

Ork held up his hands. “Excuse me,” he said under his breath.

Shortly, Catchrat motioned to Ork to come closer. “Come here, Ork, and bring the child with you.”

Ork and the boy moseyed into the circle of people near the hearth.

“I think you can remove that binding,” said Tigara. “He doesn’t seem interested in running.”

Ork removed the leather straps from the boy.

“Look here, Ork,” said ole Catchrat, pointing at a page in the book. “I know you can appreciate this.”

Ork stepped beside him. The firelight warmed the pages of the ancient tome, givin’ the pages a pleasant, golden tone.

“See here,” said the chronicler. “This token you handed me is a match for this one. And here… your great, great, great … grand uncle, Ironshield, who served under our chief’s great, great, great grandfather in Faelendale, he also took an elf war bride at the same time. This is remarkable!”

Ork stroked his chin. “Yes, remarkable.”

“You know what this means, don’t you, Ork?”

Ork looked at Catchrat’s grinning face and then frowned at the elf boy beside him.

Chief Blacktooth stepped forward and said in a warning tone, “Before you say anything, Ork, know that I and Tigara have this day claimed this elf girl as our own.”

Ork let his jaw go slack. “But-but… He is the enemy.”

“He’s a boy.”

Tigara spoke up. “A child in need of a father and a mother.”

“He’s an elf!”

“Our daughter is an elf.”

“M-m-maybe the scrithams made a mistake.”

Bloodtooth addressed the room. “Have the scrithams ever returned an item to the wrong home?”

The crowd looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Seems to me, Ork, that the scrithams have returned this lost knife and this lost child to their family.”

“Let’s not forget the old totem,” said Catchrat.

Ork shook his head. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Besides, you need a son, Ork. Someone to pass on your…um…. What do you do again, Ork?”

“I tinker and farm, my chief.”

“Ah, yes, and locks!”

“Yes.”

“And haven’t you and Burkta wanted a son?”

“Aye. That we have.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Ork nodded. “Aye. I claim this child by the right of kinship. Though I don’t know how I’ll explain it to Burkta.”

Tigara leaned in. “She’ll understand, Ork. Trust me.”

(Clever, lucky Ork.)

Shortly after, there was heard an odd confusion of singing and laughing in the streets of Rancor as each family brought home its new member and prepared for the Scrithams Day feast.

*

By the time Ork, Burkta, Korka, and Isselrud showed up at the feast, everyone in town had heard of the miraculous happenings the mornin’ had brung. While some had mixed feelins ‘bout the outcome, all had a glorious, happy feast. They exchanged gifts and re-gifted returned items, and had lots and lots of squealerkey pie to go ‘round.

Ork was the first to present his entire new family to the chief, his wife and their new child, as was the custom o’ the tribe.

Blacktooth motioned Ork aside. “Aren’t you glad I twisted your arm, Ork?”

Ork nodded. “Thank you, my chief. Our little family is complete.”

Blacktooth nodded knowingly. “All these new children…” he said, gesturing to the children running around the tables in the square. “Now Scrithams Day also is complete.”

The two men clanked their tankards together and drank down their grog.

“And Ork… Make sure Burkta brings Isselrud by to play. I think it will be good for them. Korka too, of course.”

“My chief,” said Ork with a bow.

(Cleverest ever, Ork!)

*

That night, as Ork and his family gathered ‘round the hearth to sing songs an’ tell tales, Isselrud tugged on Ork’s sleeve and pointed to the door. He listened and heard a faint noise from outside

Ork peered out the window and glimpsed, through the curtains, the silhouette of an armed stranger pacing in the shadow of the big oak in front of the house. Ork ducked to the side, his back to the wall. He looked at Burkta and Korka and Isselrud. “Burkta, take the children into the cellar. Now!”

While Ork’s family hid themselves, he took his cold-iron hatchet and dag from their hidin’ place. He put the dag in his belt and hatchet in the crook of his arm, then stepped out onto his porch.

An elf, dressed in shimmering, white windcloth and silver chain mail, stood silently in the snow before the front step. He shifted his weight and Ork heard the jingle of his silver spurs on the cold ground. Ork’s sharp eyes caught the glint of metal from the pines by the road. Two more elf warriors, dressed like the first waited in the moon shadow of the trees, along with three large reindeer, fit with white saddles and reins. Ork knew the legend of the elf warriors who rode to war on fierce horned beasts. The elves called them knights. Though, in recent times, they were few in number, these warriors were feared in battle.

Ork eyed the leader’s shining sword, still in its scabbard. He looked to his obsidian-like eyes, trying to discern his intent. “What do you want?” he asked.

The elf bowed his head courteously. “We came seeking a child of our people.”

Ork tightened his grip on the hatchet. “You know my people don’t take in elf children.”

“And yet we know you have taken in this one.”

“What? How?”

The leader gestured to the other elf knights. “We watched him with your family, and the revered one from the wood, for several days before your festival.”

“Why?”

“We were tasked with his safety.”

“All of you?”

The leader nodded. “A task we yield to you. He is your child now.” With that, he turned and walked away.

“What?”

“When the time is right, he may yet be joined to his people.”

Ork stepped down from his porch into the snow. “You’re not here to take him?”

The knight looked over his shoulder with a grin. “No.”

The leader mounted his reindeer and the others knights followed.

Ork ran further into the snow. “Wait! What do I call him? What is his name?”

The elf knight looked down at him. “What name did he give you?”

“The only name I could get from him was Isselrud.”

The knight grinned again. “Seems appropriate.”

“I know a bit about elf names. Surely that is a pet name.”

“What is your name, so that I may take it back to my people?”

“Ork. I am called Ork.”

“Ork, Isselrud will remain in your care. See that no harm befalls him. When the time is right, we will return.”

“And when might that be?”

“When does the century plant bloom?”

“I don’t know. Every hundred years?”

“When the time is right.”

The leader lightly tapped the side of his mount with a spur and instantly the beast bolted away followed by the other knights and beasts. Ork watched as they disappeared into the mist and snow of the valley.

When the time is right.