Lexaurrin Village; the year of disgrace 1352
Staggering out of the wooden shack, the chubby boy looked in confusion. The sun hung high in the sky and he could not see a living soul around. The little elf furrowed his brow and rubbed his piggy eyes.
“Boys?” he shrilled out in a high-pitched voice.
A soft breeze wafted the smell of freshly baked goods under his nose. The still sleepy pudge woke up at once as he caught the scent.
Auntie Odila is baking! I smell the bread. And also... Cakes?! His eyes sparkled, and a drool coursed down his chin, sticking in his thick full-beard. He promptly forgot all his worries and headed toward the source of the irresistible aroma of sweet dainties.
Waddling on his short, bow legs, he passed by the elven huts, which resonated with the rhythmic clatter of spinning wheels and the lively billingsgate of nettle and flax pickers. The boy, accustomed over the years to these familiar sounds, now focused solely on the munchies dominating his mind.
He crept noisily under the tavern window and stood on tiptoe, peering in with curiosity. To his surprise, he found the kitchen deserted. Yet, an almost royal treat awaited him on the table beneath the window. A loaf of brown bread, nearly the size of a boy’s head, sat in a scuttle. Next to it, an array of unguarded cakes beckoned with tempting aromas. And so many colours and textures—fruity, cheesy, honey, and even poppy seed rounded sweets called kolache.
The sight made the voracious elf feel dizzy, and he had to grab onto the window frame to prevent himself from falling. The overwhelming aroma found its way into his nose, and the boy’s lips smacked loudly as if he had already feasted on the pastries.
Oh, Mother Nature! All that food together. That bread, how perfectly baked it is. I’d have it with butter or lard. Or a piece of goat cheese!
The boy’s taste buds encouraged him to continue in a daydream, recalling all those wonderful earthly foods for which it was worth leaving the heated straw mattress each morning.
And these kolaches, I’ve never seen so many kinds in one place! I don’t know which flavour to choose. Wood strawberries? Bilberries? Plum jam? Honey? Or maybe cream cheese?!
The slam of the door made the elf duck. His clumsiness turned it into a hard fall on his butt. The boy shrieked in surprise and quickly covered his mouth with his palm.
“Where did the cow vetch put the broom again?” railed Odila, the first of the taverner Werner’s wives. After that, a rumble began echoing through the kitchen. It sounded more like a band of rampaging robbers than a comely elf-woman.
The din suddenly died down. The bearded boy under the window dared not even utter a peep. Odila glided across the kitchen to the table with a silent elvenkind footstep and leant over the pastries.
“Well, did you turn out well, cakes?” she crooned with a fruity voice, picking one and biting into it. The symphony of blissful sounds pouring out of her lips filled the boy’s eyes with tears.
“Hmm, I am so crafty. I deserve a second one,” she declared, reaching for another.
“Oh, no! She’ll gobble them all,” fumed the elf into his palm, not realising he had spoken his concerns aloud. In an instant, slender elven fingers clenched his large, rounded ear with the force of a crayfish claw. The roly-poly squealed like a piggy that he resembled and rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Pepin!” Odila hissed his name, glaring at him like a viper eyeing a mouse. A fear flashed in the boy’s eyes.
That was not the first time when the gluttony blinded Pepin, so he forgot good manners and appropriated something that did not belong to him.
“What are you doing here?” she continued in the same dangerous tone.
Odila’s lovely elven face, not marred with a single wrinkle, had clouded over like the sky in a summer storm. Her long, straight hair of the ripe grain hue cascaded over her shoulders like waterfalls. Leaning over the boy, she unwittingly tickled his nose with a stray strand. Pepin, who was about to celebrate his ninth name day, gazed at her with a blend of awe and respect.
“I... I came to see how you’re doing, Auntie,” he lied without convincingness, but did not perceive it as untrue at all.
Pepin thought he could sneak a taste of just a few pieces without anyone noticing, given the large quantity of cakes. After that, he would make his rounds in the tavern, saying hello to Aunt Odila and Werner’s second wife, Aunt Bertha. He would then ask if he could try their famous kolaches or, at least, the delicious brown bread.
“Then why didn’t you come in the front door?” said Odila, her tone laden with distrust.
“I would’ve come, but I’d have to rest for a while because it’s very far,” he mimicked old Elias, the eldest elf in the Lexaurrin Village.
Odila blew a raspberry mockingly. Releasing Pepin’s ear, she straightened up and cast a sidelong glance at him.
The fleshy child bore a figure akin to a beer keg on bowed legs. With a full-beard veiling his first and second chin, Pepin resembled an elf about as much as celery resembles a daisy. He did not inherit neither thick hair nor the pointed ears—the characteristic features of the elven race. A wispy tangle of golden curls covered his head, with two round ears, like duck mussels, protruding from it. And his short, broad nose resembled a pig snout, accentuated by his obesity.
If half a Lexaurrin hadn’t witnessed his birth, I wouldn’t believe he came to this world from the womb of a pure-blood elf-woman. Don’t let this happen to me too, Mother Nature, Odila throbbed with fear. Then she traced out with her ring finger in her palm the sign of the elven faith—a set of four circles crossed by a fifth at their centre.
Pepin caught her movement and squinted, straining his poor eyes to get a better view.
Does she count how many cakes I get?! he thought, holding his breath in surprise.
Odila clenched her hand into a fist and turned her attention back to the misfit elf staring at her with his sky-blue eyes.
“What?” she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty, as she began checking herself uneasily.
Not a single strain tarnished her white fine linen smock—a loose long blouse. Yet, underneath it, countless of dark freckles studded Odila’s skin, particularly on her cleavage. The area where nature has not been very generous with her in the other ways. Odila always kept her bodice tightly laced, aware of her lack, even though it was mainly her perspective and did not let anyone talk her out of it. Not even Werner, the innkeeper and her husband, who regularly assured her—How fond he was of her dappled puppies.
Pah! No way! And that’s why you are marrying another woman with a bigger chest than I have, Odila fumed at her husband and irritated herself as well. Although the idea of living in a polyamory had originated in her mind.
She pulled her loose bodice tight, feeling insulted by everyone in the village at the moment, and then she glowered at Pepin staying under the window.
“What are you staring at?!” she shouted at him and returned in her thoughts to the previous wedding night when she had to bare herself in front of the new wife.
“Can I taste these cakes, Auntie?” begged a drooling Pepin, who did not have any idea about adult problems at his young age.
“No.”
“Why not?” he whined.
“Because I didn’t bake them for you,” she riposted with irritation.
“Are you going to eat them all yourself?” he stared at her in disbelief.
I’d rather devour them myself than fatten up a butterwort like you, she called him by the name of a carnivorous plant and also one of the flowery elven curses.
“They are for the wedding,” she announced sternly, considering the discussion closed.
“And the bread?” blurted out Pepin in a hopeful voice.
Just then, Werner’s second wife entered the kitchen, humming a cheerful melody. She glided across the room with dancing steps and frolicky slapped Odila’s arse. The cranky elf-woman bristled up and retaliated by poking Bertha in the ribs.
The fact the taverner wedded not one, but two elf-women, and was apparently about to marry a third, did not shock Pepin at all. Although Werner was the only man in the entire Lexaurrin with so many wives, Mother Nature did not seem bothered by it, and therefore did not bother the villagers. However, the taverner’s family did not go completely unnoticed, and occasionally, other elves talked about them. After all, the village stood in the middle of nowhere, and their wedlock was one of the few interesting subjects for conversation. The more fascinating one, but less common in those days, was the birth of a bearded child that occurred after the summer nettle-picking season nearly nine years ago. That little elf standing beneath the window of Werner’s tavern now.
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Pepin gazed at the squabbling aunts. They were like chalk and cheese. Odila, standing at four feet nine inches, was unusually tall for an elf-woman. Elves, by nature, were shorter and smaller in stature compared to humans. In adulthood, only a few pureblood elves exceeded five feet in height, and none grew to six.
Whereas Bertha stood at the typical height for an elf-woman, measuring four feet and six inches. She kept her long, walnut-brown hair in small plaits and carved pendant with a poppy flower and an otter hung on the leather cord on her neck. The floral motif referred to the month of her birth, and the animal depicted the nature spirit ruling at the same time.
The wood-carved charm was no bigger than an elf’s palm, drawing attention to Bertha’s bosom, accentuated with her favourite saffian bodice. She wore a white blouse with the rolled-up sleeves tucked into a circle skirt, crafted from fabric dyed with beetroot—a vegetable loved by Pepin for its sweet juice. But he loved Odila’s skirt much more, thanks to its vibrant hue lent of dyer’s woad. The colour reminded him of the dark blue mantle worn by Jordan, the esteemed sorcerer and teacher of the Lexaurrin.
“Who did the bugbear send to us for his elevenses?” laughed Bertha, jerking her head towards Pepin.
“You shouldn’t joke about the bugbear,” cautioned Odila, drawing her head between her shoulders.
“I meant the fellow who goes into the woods at night to talk with the tawny owl. He was asking me about you the other day, wanting to know if you appreciated the candle-larkspurs he made bloom for you on Bealtuin,” she smirked and winked roguishly.
“Oh, that cuckoo. Let him go to the meadow to shred his seed at ladies’ smocks,” Odila blew a raspberry, forgetting to watch her language before the boy’s ears.
“What elevenses?” asked Pepin, as usual, triggered by the single word.
“Go home to Mama. She’ll prepare it for you,” Bertha replied.
“Really?” Pepin’s face brightened, oblivious to the mocking undertone in her voice. “Well, then, I’d better hurry home before nightfall,” he imitated old Elias once more for being the ingenuous creature, and started waddling away.
But after a few steps, he paused and turned around.
“Goodbye, aunties!” he called to them, remembering good manners.
Werner’s wives also waved at him with forced smiles.
“Poor Maria. To have such a duffer as a son,” muttered Odila once Pepin was out of earshot.
“Do you really think she cuckolded her husband with the bugbear on Mapon?” Bertha sneered.
“Stop calling that name!” Odila snapped.
“Don’t tell me, you’re afraid that I’ll summon him by saying it,” giggled Bertha, helping herself to a cake.
Odila hesitates with an answer.
“No, I’m not,” she said afterwards and continued. “But it brings bad luck, and we definitely don’t need it now,” she pointed to the pastries for the wedding in her hand.
“Phain,” replied Bertha with her mouth full.
“Mother Nature. You’re such a grub,” Odila sighed, wiping the cream cheese from Bertha’s bodice with her finger and licking it off.
Bertha swallowed a bite and replied with a lascivious smile.
***
Pepin strode down the unpaved road winding through the elven huts, his mind unburdened by doubts about his origins or the complexities of the villagers’ relationships. His home was Lexaurrin—an elven village hidden in the depths of a forest spreading out in the south of a kingdom which name he could not remember. Money was a foreign concept to him, and he rarely encountered any humans; those he did were merely visitors from town, coming to trade goods. At his young age, Pepin did not demand too much. All he needed was always to have something good to eat, a warm and dry place to sleep and know how to return home.
The road lined with wooden cottages, where one could not go astray, slowly curved to the flax fields. Memories of the previous harvest flooded Pepin’s mind, reminding him how his father had forced him to help there, and he started aching all over. He halted his steps, wearily leaning against the low fence, gripping it for support as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Hey, you! Boy!” called a familiar voice.
Pepin raised his head and squinted over the fence at the waving figure, immediately recognising Elias, the eldest elf in the village.
That oldie was clad in his typical garments: flaxen tawny breeches tinted with boiled onion, a buckskin shirt, and a light grey wool jerkin. Despite celebrating his one-hundred-and-eighth name day at the end of winter, his face remained unwrinkled—a testament to his elven blood. But his thinning white hair, unsteady gait, and trembling hands manifested his advanced age. Like all men in Lexaurrin, Elias lacked a beard, as Mother Nature did not cast the curse of shaving upon elves as she did to humans. His grey-blue eyes, naturally cold in appearance, belied Elias’ friendly character. Time had transformed them into doorways to the void, and his pointed ears had not heard well for more than a decade.
“Don’t you want some water?!” bellowed Elias.
“Y-yes! I’m dying of thirst!” Pepin howled passionately.
“Then come in! I’ve got a bucket full!” the old elf beckoned and walked away.
Pepin got to move, dragging himself with a similarly heavy step as Elias’, until he reached the gate hanging askew. He crossed the invisible boundary by his bare foot and entered the elder’s property. Elias did not look back at him and continued along his humble dwelling. Pepin peered at the crumbling hut and grimaced as his eyes fell on the moss-covered shingles.
The roof needs to be repaired before this autumn. His father’s words echoed in his mind. You’re old enough to climb a ladder, so you’ll help me.
The obese elf shuddered at the thought, his first and second chin wiggling, followed by all the rolls of his fat, as he was terribly afraid of heights.
“Boy! Are you not thirsty?!” Elias’ voice snapped him out of his unpleasant thoughts.
“I... I am! Terribly!” Pepin answered in a similar loud voice and quickly waddled over to him.
Elias bent down to the elf. “I just retrieved this from the well,” he lowered his voice as if sharing a great secret, then handed Pepin a bucket full of rust-coloured liquid.
“The water from your well is the best in the village!” said Pepin sincerely.
“I know, boy. I know,” grinned Eliot impishly, but in the next moment, his face contorted with pain.
Pepin stopped smiling and grabbed over the heavy bucket before Elias tottered. Phew. That was a close shave! He almost split it all. Pepin pressed the bucket possessively to his chest.
Meanwhile, Elias doubled up, holding his abdomen. Pepin turned away from him and took a long pull on the water, again and again, slaking a more severe problem—his thirst. Elias groaned and then unleashed a thunderous burst of wind.
“Bless you!” Pepin responded absentmindedly.
Elias opened his mouth to say something, but a sudden movement in his gut robbed him of words, although giving more strength to his legs. Pepin watched the elder dashing towards the latrine with an indifferent expression. It was not the first time he had witnessed such a scene. Elias was famous in Lexaurrin not just for of his old age, but also because of his persistent digestive issues.
The distance between the water source and the privy was only thirty feet. Elias covered it as if on the wings of the wind and the door slammed behind him. Once more, Pepin took a swing of the rare liquid and clicked his tongue with delight. The bitter-sweet-salty flavour of the water from Elias’ well was as unique as its copper colour.
“What a shame that my parents don’t appreciate it,” Pepin muttered disappointedly, recalling the scorching hot day when he brought it for refreshment to them. His father turned green about the gills after the first sip, while his mother instantly threw up into the spinning wheel.
“If only we had it in our garden, I’d drink it every day,” he sighed and put the bucket down.
“Boy? Are you still there?!” came Elias’ voice from the privy.
“Yes, I’m standing at the well,” Pepin replied aloud.
“Good. Because I need you to bring me clean braies!”
“Who-what?!”
“Braies! The underwear!”
“Oh, I got it.” Pepin slapped his forehead. “But I don’t wear those, gramps!”
“From the house! It’s in the chest!”
“You don’t understand. My father won’t lend me his ever again, and my dear mother was furious the last time I put hers on!” Pepin confessed bluntly.
“At MY house!” Elias yelled from the latrine.
“Oh, I see. Well... alright,” Pepin muttered under his breath, glancing around the dwelling.
“Get me the braises, boy!” repeated the oldie, because he did not hear Pepin’s silent reply.
“Yup! I’m going to get them!” the elf assured him, but not before refreshing himself with the rusty water once more time.
He moved with great difficulty, as having the belly full of liquid now. But there was no need to hurry. Neither the oldie nor the latrine had anywhere to run. The boy reached the entrance to Elias’ hut with a tottering gait. The door of his dwelling bore a strong resemblance to the one behind which the eldest elf of Lexaurrin was currently sitting on his throne. Pepin grabbed the frayed end of the rotten rope used as a handle and opened it on the second try. At the moment, his stomach growled violently, making him hiccup.
Someone’s thinking about me. Probably my mother with the elevenses, he recalled why he headed home. Then he stumbled and fell flat on his face.
“Ouch!” he whimpered.
Pepin struggled to get up on all fours and then rolled into a sitting position. When he turned around, he saw an animal lying on the threshold of the entrance. It was Elias’ short-legged, blotchy dog with long, floppy ears.
“Fritz!” shouted Pepin.
The old basset hound, who had never answered to his name, opened one of his brown eyes.
“You, lazy git! You can’t loll about here like this!” flared up the chubby elf, who was now having trouble getting up.
Fritz closed his eye again, feigning deep slumber. Pepin pushed himself up to his feet and promptly covered his mouth with his hand to keep from throwing up. The room reeked, and the copper-tinted water churned in his stomach like turbulent billows. Pepin cast a wary glance at Fritz, suspecting that he might have silently released the gas. He then let out a thunderous belch worthy of a seasoned sponge, waved his arm to clear the air, and surveyed his surroundings. Elias’s modest dwelling comprised a single room with a stove, a bed, a cupboard, and a chest. There was no table or chair, and unwashed dishes piled up wherever Pepin lay his eyes, with swarms of flies buzzing around many of them.
The bearded boy wrinkled his nose and followed the trail of dirty clothes leading from the entrance to the unmade bed, perhaps intended to help the forgetful Elias find his way in an emergency. The unpleasant odour of spoiled food soon mingled with the stench of urine, a consequence of Elias’s incontinence in his advanced age. Pepin had visited Elias’s hut before, so he the mess did not surprise him.
The omnipresent stench was still unpleasant to him, despite his upbringing in a village. Without hesitation, Pepin staggered over to a battered chest with a broken corner and tried to open it. The heavy lid lifted slightly, but his overstuffed stomach immediately protested against the effort. Then he caught the outline of a pointed object, stirring his childish curiosity and lending strength to his stubby arms. He tugged at it with a determined effort, shouting like a hero who slain the monster, as he uncovered the mysterious treasure it guarded. Nestled among heaps of crumpled, stained clothes lay a cobalt blue sorcerer’s hat. Pepin’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He hastily turned away from the chest as the water from the well boiled back down his throat. Pepin gasped for breath and fought to suppress the urge to vomit.
No, I can’t do that. It would be an awful shame to waste such great water, he soothed himself and his stomach, then turned back to the chest, extracting the hat with almost religious reverence. Oh, Mother Nature, it’s so amazing. Pepin started running his plump hands over the almost velvet fabric. The great mage Gwyddion, Born of Trees, had to wear one just like it, he recalled his beloved fairy-tale hero.
He licked his lips, darted a stealthy look at the door, and clapped the blue lid on his head. A blissful sigh came from his mouth as the brim slid over his eyes. The musty smell of the cloth, neither the size of the hat, did not extinguish Pepin’s enthusiasm.
“I am the master of all the forces, and no one can stop me!” he exclaimed, raising his arm in the manner of his idol, then performing Gwyddion’s famous dance with new, ungainly choreography, only to disappear with a terrible bang inside the chest with the final movement.
The heavy cover slammed shut behind him, and the room fell into a dead silence.
“Ouch!” came a muffled wail after a while, followed by the heartbreaking cry.
Fritz, who had watched the performance as a silent spectator, yawned, taking a long moment to do something. Then the dog rose, languidly heading off to find Elias, who was already snoozing at the latrine by the time.