Chapter 7
The more diminutive races on Erulxe are descendants of the Fairy-folk, or Fey. The Fey generally have access to more magical abilities due to their ancestry. This aspect of their upbringing sets them apart from the other races.
The Fey were abundant in the past, but as the magical energy diminished from the world after the ancient cataclysmic event, their numbers diminished as well. Several of the Fey races have even become lost to the ages. Their existence required more magical energy than the world now produces.
Among the remaining races, there are only a few which still live among the masses. The largest populations are the Luchorpan, the Dragonis, and the Gnomes. These three races are said to hold the knowledge of why the magic of the world began to fade many centuries ago, but they guard the secret tightly.
No one outside of Fey heritage is allowed to know the true reasons. Throughout the centuries, many have tried to ascertain the knowledge. Some have gone about it through indoctrination, while others have used torture. Neither practice bore fruit.
It wasn't unusual to see members of the Fey races out in major cities. Their presence was said to change luck and influence fate wherever they were located. For this reason, they were usually either cherished or despised.
----------------------------------------
Lennard walked around the walls of the shop, admiring the selection of ingredients available today. A shipment had arrived not long ago, and the shelves were packed with bundles of dried herbs and pouches of ground spices. He inhaled deeply, taking in a world of amazing aromas. The magic held within the exotic ingredients seemed to infuse his body and refresh his soul.
After browsing for a while, Lennard made his way to the counter with a small pouch of a pungent spice mixture labeled "Golden Kurrey," which he placed delicately on the counter. "Kinet, has the Mayor passed by yet?" he asked his friend.
Shaking his small head, Kinet replied in his unusual accent, "No, I canna say I've seen 'im. Why, there be a problem?"
"Not a problem per se," Lennard told the short man behind the counter. "He is meeting with the townspeople to tell them of the pyre for old Granny being held tonight."
Kinet was a type of Fairy-folk known as a Luchorpan and stood only slightly over three feet tall. Kinet's attire was a grassy shade of green, and he always wore a floppy hat over his short brown hair. It was typical attire for his race, although most were said to have large upright hats.
Kinet was the only Luchorpan Lennard had ever met, so the tall hats he had heard described to him seemed far-fetched.
"Ah, the old lass finally passed on, did she?" Kinet said, hanging his head respectfully. "May ye find wealth and prosperity in all your lives to come, dear Halan."
Lennard, out of respect for the small man's beliefs, hung his head as he offered his short prayer. He let the sentiment hang in the air for a moment before interrupting the silence.
"Her passing is why I am here, Kinet," Lennard said, looking up slowly and meeting the small green eyes of the Luchorpan looking back at him. "Do you happen to have any Aramanth?"
"I do indeed, Lennard, but that's a mighty potent plant. Ye aren't planning anything dastardly, are ye?" Kinet said, winking at the large physician.
"No, no. It's for a satchel I'd like to place on the body. It's said to ward off evil spirits and grant safe passage for the soul of the person who's died. The Aramanth is mixed with a few other aromatics and will bring a feeling of ease to all who smell the aroma as it burns. I have the rest of the ingredients already." Lennard explained.
The Luchorpan nodded his head. "Ah, yes. I've indeed heard of the concoction of which ye speak. Never been around to smell the aroma myself, though." Kinet added.
"You have been a part of this community for what, four, five years now?" Lennard asked. "You are more than welcome to attend. We have been lucky enough to not have suffered more deaths in the time you have been here. Perhaps your presence has affected our luck?"
"Now don't be placing all that superstitious nonsense about Luchorpans' luck on me, boy," the small shop owner said, pointing his finger at Lennard's chest and winking. "Or I might be grabbing the tail of someone to see if the rumors about it being so soft are true." Kinet said sarcastically. At least Lennard hoped it was sarcastic.
"Well, I can certainly verify the rumors about our tails are true," Lennard replied with a mischievous smile. He waved his tail near the counter as if in challenge.
Kinet's face broke open with a wide smile. "Oh, ye do play dangerous with that tail, don'tcha?"
The two laughed, and Lennard placed his hand on the small man's shoulder. "How's Alanitsa?" he asked. "She off running another one of your errands?"
"Aye, lad. Off hunting Greywood. It'll be nice and fresh for ya when next you need it," Kinet responded.
With the jokes and conversation aside, Kinet reached far under the counter's top and produced an ornate wooden box with a simple lock. He removed a key from around his neck and slid it into the hole on the front of the box.
"There's not many whom I'd trust to see where I hide my valuables, consider yourself a true friend now that ya know my secret," Kinet said as he turned the key.
With a click, then a small creak, the lid of the box opened, and Lennard peered down into it. To his amazement, all he could see was a black void, into which Kinet reached his hand.
"A spatial box. No wonder you don't let people know about your secret hiding place. That box alone could probably buy this town and four more just like it!" Lennard said reverently.
"I don't know if it be all that valuable, lad, but it does have a fair amount of value to me," Kinet replied with a somewhat vacant stare. His hand fished around for a moment, then withdrew a long, golden rod of Aramanth from the darkness inside the box.
The long-stemmed plant emanated a small amount of golden light along the shaft, proving how fresh the product really was. The flower at the top of the plant was in full bloom, with six petals, three blue and three orange alternating in color, and spread open, revealing the dark brown seed in the middle.
"It's beautiful," Lennard whispered as he saw it emerge from the darkness.
"Aye, she is indeed," Kinet responded. "She'll not come cheap though."
Lennard fished into his pocket and laid a handful of coins on the countertop without removing his eyes from the flower.
Kinet's face split wide with a grin. "Would ya like me to wrap it up for ya then?"
Lennard left the shop two silvers and four coppers lighter than when he had entered. The Luchorpan was a greedy little man, but he gave Lennard a fair price, returning one silver and two coppers from the pile he had placed on the counter. He even threw in the Golden Kurrey as thanks.
Lennard held the paper-wrapped flower gently in his hands and made his way back to his clinic. As he pulled up his robes and trudged through the main street's muck again, the Mayor caught sight of him and beckoned him over with huge sweeping waves of his arm.
"Lennard, Lennard, you should use the walkway down at the gates. The bath you took has gone completely to waste now," the Mayor said as he helped Lennard to step up onto the wooden sidewalk.
"Maybe you should build another walkway in the middle," Lennard huffed as he flicked his paws to the rear and removed the excess mud caught between his toes.
"That is a really good idea, Lennard! Why didn't I think of that?" Mr. Ansong said. His eyes began wandering, inspecting the area, his finger came up to his mouth, and he mumbled under his breath.
Lennard knew too well the Mayor's penchant for losing his attention, as his mind began exploring new ideas. He rolled his eyes at the man.
"Kyaro," Lennard spoke after a few moments. He waved his hand in front of the Mayor's face. "Did you need me for something?"
"Oh, yes, Lennard. Sorry about that. I think it would make a great deal of sense to build another walkway, maybe two. But that's for another time. Yes, were you coming from the lumber mill by chance?" Mr. Ansong said and glanced down the street for a second before returning his gaze to Lennard.
"Technically I came from The Kinder Tinder, but I stopped by and talked to the twins before that. They are getting things ready, and little Mika is off telling the townsfolk to the East as you asked." Lennard replied.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"Excellent work," Mr. Ansong said and clapped his hand to Lennard's shoulder. "Ooo, why so tight? You feel like you haven't slept in days, but you just took a relaxing bath right?"
Lennard's face flushed, and he took a moment to gather his thoughts before answering. "Yes sir, the bath wasn't for relaxing and de-stressing though. More of a quick cleanse to remove any contaminants from the morning's activities. It's probably just the stress of the day built up." The cadence of his answer sounded strange to his ears, but the Mayor didn’t seem to notice.
"Oh yes, it has been a stressful day hasn't it?" The Mayor nodded along. "You should teach your apprentice how to properly massage, that way he could work all the knots out while you relax in your tub."
Lennard knew there was no innuendo hidden behind what the Mayor had said, but he couldn't help wondering if someone had seen something earlier and said something to the Mayor. His mind quickly went back to his bathroom and its window. He distinctly remembered it being closed and the vine he called Charley obscured the view. His anxiety level spiked, but calmed a little with his mental reassurance.
"That's a great idea, Mayor." Lennard said in response. "Do you need anything else from me? I have something I need to finish at my lab before tonight's activities."
"Oh, no. I just wanted to see if the word was getting around is all." Mr. Ansong said. "I'll leave you to your work. See you tonight." He gave Lennard a small wave as he walked along the sidewalk and left Lennard standing near an alley.
Lennard watched Kyaro walk into Fironik's General Store and muttered to himself, "He really phrases things in strange ways." Then started walking down the alley toward his clinic. "I am getting way too paranoid, and we haven't even done anything yet."
----------------------------------------
Harlow carried the portrait back into his room and loaded it into the clothing chest with a few other things he kept, mostly books and some clothing that still fit him. He had grown several inches in the last year and gained a fair amount of weight from being able to eat properly. The changes in his physique left his wardrobe rather limited.
Luckily, his most recent stash, a carved-out section of a romance novel his father had tossed to him one night, hadn't been touched in the frantic search. So he bit down on the sprig of Wenetta he had hidden there as he loaded his things.
It didn't take long to load the small trunk, and once finished, he spun in the center of the room and surveyed the damage. It was still in a state of disarray, but he found nothing left that he couldn't live without. He had been able to pack all his worldly possessions into a single small clothing chest.
Harlow closed the lid with a click and a sigh. He grabbed one of the side handles and hefted the chest upward. "Oof, this is heavier than I thought," he said as he managed to get the chest into his arms. "Maybe I don't need all of my books?" he grunted and moved the chest into the living area. "I think you're gonna have to be pulled rather than carried."
With the idea of a pulling cart in mind, Harlow went looking around the house for something he could use to slide along the ground with the chest on top. He ventured out to what used to be the stable and found an old wheelbarrow. Its wooden sides were cracked from years of neglect, but the metal frame still looked strong.
Harlow easily pulled the dry, cracked wood from the wheelbarrow frame. He then found some oil and lubricated the wheel. The protruding nails he either pulled or broke off with an old hammer he found lying on the straw strewn ground.
The entire process only took around half an hour. He loaded the chest onto the frame and secured it with some twine. He then walked to the fireplace located centrally in the living room. On the top of the semicircular fireplace, a single stone stuck out from the others. It was right in the middle of the half circle which made up the face of the fireplace, and was black and polished rather than the sooty gray of the rest of the bricks.
Harlow touched the stone and said his father's name. A small feeling of warmth entered his fingers when he touched the stone. Then, appearing before him was an image of his father. It was opaque and misty, like seeing a ghost but with more detail.
The image lay passed out on the floor of a house Harlow didn't recognize. His clothes looked stained and ripped, barely clinging to his body. At first, when Harlow was younger and viewed images of his father like this, he would become extremely concerned. Now it had happened so many times that it didn't phase him.
The magic used by the hearthstone allowed mental communication between members of the household, so even though his father was most likely passed out, he would hear Harlow's voice in his head. If he didn't wake up from the experience, which he rarely did, he would remember the conversation as a vivid dream.
Harlow spoke, saying the words out loud, although it was totally unnecessary. "Father, this is Harlow. Are you awake?" He waited a few moments for a response. When there was no reply, he continued. "Father, I am leaving this house. I have my things packed and will not be returning. I hereby relinquish my claim to this property and my ties to this house. Goodbye, father."
Harlow had spoken out loud for a reason though. By stating he was relinquishing the house to his father and ending his ties to the house, he would no longer be linked through the hearthstone. Once he released his fingers from the stone, he would no longer be attached in any way to this place. His father wouldn't be able to contact him via the magic of the hearthstone any longer either.
He also gave up any claim to the property when his father died. That was never something Harlow wanted anyway. His father was a farmer, and apparently from the stories people had told of him, he was a great farmer in his past. But that was before his mother died. He simply couldn't cope with the loss and turned to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain.
Being taught by Lennard, Harlow now knew there were many things which could have been used to help his father through the trauma. Medicines and counseling could have helped keep him moving forward. But the time for that was far past, and everyone knew it.
With no regrets but great sadness, he ended the one-sided conversation by speaking his mother's name, "Dinaya." Her image appeared, replacing the image of the drunken man he called father.
Her name had been stored within the magic of the hearthstone. Since she was no longer available to answer, a generic image of her circled slowly around, unmoving. He had watched his father stare at this image for hours at a time. He would cry and drink and fall over. Then when he came to, he would reach up and do it all over again.
Harlow stared at the image for a few moments. "Goodbye, mom," he whispered. Tears began streaming down his face. With a hitch in his voice, he continued. "I really wish I could have known you more. I wish Father could have shown me how to be a man. I wish our lives would have turned out better, normal, like everyone else."
He sobbed, letting his emotions out. He held tight to the hearthstone, the image of his mother blurred by the tears. He continued speaking through the sobs. "I want you to know that I found someone. He is my teacher. I am not sure how everything will turn out. Or why this happened. He didn't plan on this, and neither did I. But, it did, and we love each other." Sniffing and drying his eyes with his other hand. "In the end, that's all that counts, right mom?"
The image didn't move or respond. It hung there in the air and twirled. He watched for a few more minutes, knowing this would be the last time he would see her. Harlow whispered, "Goodbye, mom," and removed his hand from the stone. The image dissipated.
When he was younger, he would talk to the image of his mother. His father would be passed out or off somewhere getting loaded, and her image was the only thing he had to talk to. He didn't remember much of his mother personally, but he knew her image and treated it like she had been there with him. He would never be able to see her again now, and the sadness tore at his heart.
His ties to this family were completely severed, and he would have to deal with that from now on. The thought both scared and excited him. This chapter in his life was finally closed.
He was glad to be away from Brodil. If he never saw the man again, he would be fine with that. He would miss the image of his mother. He would miss the dreams of his youth, dreams of having a normal family. He would miss being tied to a place, even though it was almost falling apart.
He wiped away the tears and straightened his back. It was time to leave. He moved to the wheelbarrow and started to push it out the door, but stopped. He opened his clothing chest and removed the portrait. He hated his father, but when he let go of the hearthstone and lost his only attachment to his mother, he felt for a brief moment, the loss his father must feel all the time.
He couldn't let his father get away with all the things he had done to make Harlow's life awful, but he couldn't bring himself to take away the last things he cherished either. He took the portrait over to the fireplace and set it inside.
He wanted his father to know that he could have burned it, could have destroyed it, or left with it. But he chose to give him this one last boon. He also wanted him to know that he was more of a man than him. That he respected people's things and was moving on with his life.
With a renewed resolution, he wiped away the soot from his hands, stood up, and grabbed hold of the handles of the wheelbarrow. "I was wrong, you are gonna have to be pushed, not dragged," he said to his clothing chest and moved it out the doorway.
----------------------------------------
As Lennard walked into his clinic, he found that he had a patient waiting for him. This was not an uncommon occurrence, and luckily he hadn’t been gone long.
"Welcome, Jozel," he said as he noticed the old man sitting on the couch in the reception area. "How are you feeling today?"
Jozel Karamini was now the oldest living person in Greenby. He was only a year younger than Granny to begin with, but his health had been declining rapidly of late and he frequently stopped by the clinic complaining of pains or ailments which he always expected Lennard to address immediately.
"I've been better," Jozel snapped. "Why weren't you here? It's daytime and business hours."
Lennard was used to Jozel's snippiness, but still didn't like being told off by the old man. "I'm sorry, Jozel, but I had an errand to run." He paused and looked the man in the eyes before continuing. "Jozel, Granny died this morning and I have been assisting the Mayor with arranging her pyre for tonight."
The expression on Jozel's face changed from sadness to glee before finally returning to annoyance as Lennard told him the news. "Tonight? The pyre isn't supposed to be held until the third day," the old man said with a little too much volume. "Why in all the realms would you want to hold the pyre on the same day? That doesn't make any sense. How's everybody supposed to know?"
"I know, it's unusual," Lennard cut in. "But with the harvest festival next week, the Mayor decided that holding a pyre today, a week before the festivities, would be best for the town. He doesn't want to spoil the celebration."
He explained to the old man and placed his hand on the man’s frail shoulder. "Besides, there are no official rules that say a pyre has to be on the third day, that's just a convenience really. Letting people get things ready at an easy pace."
Lennard led the old man into the exam room and sat him on a chair. He asked him what was ailing him today.
"Well, now this news about old Granny has me upset," Jozel replied. "But I came in to get some more of your... your stuff. The stuff I rub on my knees and shoulders."
Lennard knew exactly what he wanted and had anticipated as much. The old man practically bathed in the pungent ointment and reeked of its use. "Lyan balm," he filled in for the old man.
"Yes. That stuff," Jozel exclaimed.
"No problem," Lennard replied and stepped away from the old man. "I'll go grab some for you."
He had only taken one step towards the lab before hearing the old man ask, "Where's that boy you have for such things, your fetcher?"
"He's off running errands for the Mayor as well," Lennard replied and walked out the door. He felt he was a patient and compassionate man, but there were always limits to those qualities in a person.
He set the wrapped Aramanth on the counter before grabbing a tin of the pungent ointment from the shelf. This was his last jar, which meant he would have to make some more soon. Then he returned to the old man and handed him the tin. "Here you go, Jozel. Will you be able to make it to the pyre tonight?"
Muttering something indiscernible under his breath before responding, he said, "Yeah, I'll make it. Can't not say goodbye to old Granny."
"Good to hear," Lennard replied and once again patted the old man's shoulder. "Is there anything else you need today?" He knew he had made a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.
"Yeah, one more thing," Jozel slowly stood, holding on to Lennard's outstretched arm, and removed his tunic. "Put some of this on my back, I can't reach back there anymore."
The air expelled from Lennard's lungs and he deflated. His shoulders slumped with resignation as he took the tin back from the old man. With a slight twist, he opened the lid and a fresh wave of spicy minty aroma wafted up.
He dipped a finger in and wiped the medicinal salve over the old man's back. His fur had fallen out in patches, revealing the wrinkly pink skin underneath. His spine was a visible ridge running down the center, its curved bones showing the years of hard work the man had endured.
Lennard did feel sorry for the old man and made allowances for such needs, so he took his time and massaged the ointment into what remained of the musculature surrounding the man's spine. He pressed in with his fingers and made small twists with his thumbs, which stimulated blood flow to the area.
As he worked his way down the old man's spine, he heard, "Don't you go touching my tail now. You're a swell enough fella, I suppose, but I ain't lookin' to get felt up by ya'."
"No sir," Lennard replied. "I'm not looking to feel anybody up today either." He lightly chuckled at the old man, but thought to himself, Actually, I might be looking to feel Harlow up later.
"You know that boy of yours ain't gonna last much longer though, right?" Jozel spoke. "He's gonna get felt up by someone soon and wind up chasing the dragon. His papa sure ain't in no state to make him a man. Too bad that."
The words struck home. Lennard's hands suddenly stopped as Jozel said, "felt up." His brain automatically wondered if that was what he had done.
Had he just felt Harlow up? Did he secretly hope for a physical connection to form? He had already had this discussion with himself and knew the answer. His insecurity and fear mucked up his brain again.
The thought was fleeting. He knew himself well enough to not get lost in the midst of confusion the old man's words had evoked. He realized his hands had stopped moving and returned his focus to the massage he was performing.
I had no intention or desire to form a physical bond with Harlow. Lennard thought to himself. I knew it was a possibility, but minimal. No, my only intention was to offer him a chance at a normal life.
The thought was true, but the way he felt. So close to the boy, and so quickly. It was more than he had thought possible, more than was normal. That thought confused and scared him.
He finished applying the ointment and Jozel pulled down his shirt. The old man actually thanked Lennard for the massage and left a silver coin in his hand. The old man hadn't known how the words he had spoken held such relevance in Lennard's life, but the payment felt like an apology.
The words from Jozel, Kyaro, and the Poldare twins showed him just how much attention was being placed on Harlow and his life for some reason. The timing couldn't be worse.