Umatelsa: Chapter Four

Chapter 4



Life in the North



The White Wolf Tribe was an ancient tribe. It is said that they came into being on one of the scattered islands, when the world was yet new, even before the forming of Umatelsa. Then the sea roared and began to bring the lands together into large continents. In midst of the turmoil, the little island of wild elves was swallowed by the furious waves, and all would have perished if the White Wolf had not appeared. She led a pack of mighty wolves that carried the elves on their backs and swam all the way to the newly created land of Umatelsa. They came to the Great North, where the trees were yet tender sprouts, and settled down, tending the fragile plants that were now mammoth pines. But they never saw the White Wolf again, so they christened their tribe the White Wolf, in honor of her. Over the years, the single clan expanded and migrated into dozens of tribes. Among wild elves, the White Wolf was not worshipped as a deity, but honored as a being entwined in their fate. They awaited her return. Through the ages, mountains rose and rivers flowed, birds nested and deer roamed free, Men were born on the southern lands and the Light Elves drew their borders. But the wild elves stayed in their forests, leaving only on dire missions and to trade. They were a people of trees, doomed to wither as a branch in the fire, if ever they left the forest’s protection.

Still they waited, for a sign, a sign when they would come forth, for a special purpose. For one day, the prophecies said, the White Wolf would rise again.

But, as most believed, that day was still far in the future. Life went on as they waited. The growing of vegetables, the building of houses, the gathering of Horno wool, the storing of food, and the raising of young ones. Winters of the North were harsh and unrelenting, but the summers warm and fruitful. As the wild elves believed, the Circle took care of its own. What the cold and starvation destroyed, the blossom of spring renewed. What the wolves hunted of the weak and the old, the birth of speckled fawns replenished. A tree hewn down must be replaced by a young seed. A gift taken must be returned with another. The wild elves took little of what was not theirs, inheriting a place in the Circle instead of seeking dominion over it, as other races did. They did not hunt and kill unless necessary, nor did they claim mastery over any animal to bear their burdens or drag their timber. What help they received was always out of the good will of the animals, who visited often in peace.

Life in the North was not easy. Everyone must do their share of work to sustain their lives and keep things going. Rhond struggled hard to adjust to this new home, having lived so long on his own with only a ferret as a companion. At first he was awkward with others when sitting with them at meals and kept far away from the children, who shunned him as well. His first weeks in this new home were not happy. Flashes of the burning stable still haunted his dreams, but of his parents, there was little memory left to him. He was lonely, and rather bewildered. However, time and curiosity eventually drew Rhond and the other children together. Furs settled in quite comfortably, and often would curl up in the Grandfather’s lap, as they both gazed out the window on sunny mornings.

When Rhond reached the age of nine, he was sent to Elders with the elf boys. Though wild elves lived hundreds of years, they matured as quickly as humans, so that survival would be easier. In the spacious schoolroom under the roots of a great pine, they faced ten years of hard training in lore, crafts, and arms. Rhond learned to swing a wooden sword, to read and write, to draw a bow, to track an enemy down and pounce without ruffling leaf or branch. He learned to chatter with the animal kind, to find different kinds of herbs and to apply them to shallow cuts or bruises, and to wrestle. At first the Grandfather was worried, fearing that the Elders would mistreat the human because of their biased views. The Elders indeed considered their new student with distaste, but soon even they thawed. Rhond, having passed the early shyness toward his fellows and tutors, showed both talent and wit. He was popular among other children, being of a friendly and open nature. There was no sign of any strife the Elders predicted. Grudgingly, the Elders admitted their liking for this bright human student, and eagerly poured their knowledge on him. So Rhond’s life opened before him, and at long last happiness was his again.

He never forgot the strange, hooded elf who saved him that night, when the Stones almost cast a homeless orphan from the forest. As Rhond grew taller and learned more, he became increasingly curious as well as grateful of the mysterious savior. Twice he glimpsed the elf among other dark-cloaked companies, but briefly and only from afar.

So it was, on a dark night when the moon veiled its face, he sat by the Grandfather’s feet in front of the roaring hearth.

“Who is he?” Rhond mustered his nerves and asked. “The tall one, the one who left so silently that night.”

The thick layers of Horno wool rustled and the great chair creaked. The Grandfather gave the boy a sideways glance, but of course he knew of whom Rhond spoke.

“Strange, that you would ask of him now, and not sooner,” he answered. “Blue-wing is his name. He has proven himself a great warrior. And a mage—a Dark Magus. No one knows where he comes from. No one knows who he really is.”

“Tell me more,” Rhond begged, for he loved to hear stories, and sensed a good one waiting to be told.

“He saved you that night, and I do not wonder why. Long ago, he came to us in similar circumstance, a little boy with nowhere to turn. To speak true you reminded me sharply of him when I first set sight upon you—ah, but that is a long tale, and too dark a one for an innocent mind.” The Grandfather shook his head, but seeing the disappointment in Rhond’s brown eyes, compromised.

“I will tell the tale simply then, as I see it interests you deeply. But you must promise to be off to bed immediately after.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” agreed Rhond eagerly.

“Let me see where to begin. Ah, Blue-wing came to us, somewhat younger than you are now. He carried in his arms a tiny bundle, and we realized that it was an infant girl. We took the baby into my house, warmed and fed her. The two were wild elves, you see, so there was no objection in taking the pair of siblings in. But Blue-wing had been harmed, we think. There were scars on his body—well, he was wary, and afraid. He flinched from the gentlest touch. Sometimes, I do not think he knew where he was or what he was doing. Anyhow, it was on the third day since we sheltered him that he disappeared. We did not see him again, until fifty years later, a long time for a human but not a wild elf. By then, his infant sister had grown into a young maiden with many admirers.

Blue-wing returned on a winter day, and stayed. He is respected among us, even by the Elders, because of good things he did for our village. Often, the dark magi come and go from his dwelling. It is our speculation that he was raised by them in those past fifty years, for he is definitely one of them.”

“What are Dark Magi?” Rhond imagined sinister shadows creeping here and there.

“Exiles. Outcasts. The hunted of society. Perhaps you will not understand it now, but I tell you that they are not evil, as other kingdoms would have you believe. They are dark ones because they are doomed to the shadows of the world. We alone of the races understand them, perhaps because we need them. We need their magic.”

“Magic?” Rhond asked, awed by the story. An odd, thrilling sensation tingled in him as he said the word.

“It is good for you to have such an ally. He has much to teach, if ever you find him. A good elf, kind-hearted, for all his silences.”

“Does he have a house here?” asked Rhond anxiously.

“Blue-wing lives on the tree behind the third one on my left,” the Chief answered, smiling at the curiosity of the human boy. “But I doubt he will be there. He comes and goes like a shadow, never staying long but always appearing again at the most unexpected time of trouble. Not even the most sharp of the guards ever catch sight of his departure or return. But it is late. Off with you now, as you promised. Take the extra blanket. It will be chilly tonight.”





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Rhond knocked diffidently on the door. There was no answer, and he waited, shifting from foot to foot. But after a while, there was still no sound from inside. Blue-wing was not there, as the Grandfather expected, but Rhond still felt extremely reluctant to leave.

“My brother will not be home until the beginning of the next moon-cycle, if he is the one you seek,” said a voice behind him.

Rhond turned to see an elf maiden with silver hair that flowed down beyond her shoulders. She had clear, colorless eyes like the rippling waves of a lake, and wore a refined but elegant gown that brushed the grass as se strode over them. Her smile was gentle and warm as she climbed nimbly up the winding stairs. Rhond could not help but gape in awe and admiration.

“Well?” she inquired as she reached him. He could smell the incense of herbs in the air.

“Rhond, son of Gary,” he bowed awkwardly, hand over his heart, remembering his manners. “Your brother saved me from being driven away, so I come to thank him.”

“I am Black-swan. So, you are that little boy. I did not attend the council that night. I doubt Blue-wing needs any gratitude. Anyway, would you mind coming for supper at my shabby dwelling?” Her manner was graceful and welcoming; it reminded him of something long past, comforting, calling softly.

That night Rhond wolfed down at least a dozen of dangarai rolls, a sweet kind of leaf with blueberry jam wrapped and hidden inside. This was a treat no boy could bear to refuse. Black-swan laughed heartily when he smeared jam across his face, and handed him towel.

“It’s good to have a guest around. To live alone is too quiet,” said Black-swan, looking with amusement at Rhond, who was tormenting his face trying to wipe up. “I would be honored if you come often.”

Rhond nodded, mouth full.

“It must be hard to live among us as a human,” said Black-swan. “Do they shun you?”

“I work hard. I do well. The Elders are happy,” said Rhond factually.

“You are a clever boy then. I had thought it would take more than that to sway those thick-necked Elders. But the others, the other children treat you well?”

Rhond scratched his head, considering. “I have many friends, and I can fight when I have to. No one can hurt me.” Black-swan chuckled.

“Well enough. Tell the Elders you wish to take lessons in herb lore here, with me,” she commanded.

“Would they agree?” The austere face of the herbmaster floated through his mind.

“What objection can they have? I am best of the healers here,” she reassured confidently.

So from then on, every day when the time came for herb lore, he left the others and came to Black-swan’s dwelling. She was a strict master, he found, firm and exacting but never unreasonable. He was pushed hard and doubled his efforts and learning, not only because he had to, but also because he wished to please her. Somehow, it gave him unequaled satisfaction to earn a smile or a praise from her. Often, when their lessons were over, he would play with Black-swan. They lay on the grassy earth and watched the white clouds fly by; they romped about with the wild wolf pups; they gobbled down dangarai rolls together with chipmunks who chirped endlessly for hand-outs. Black-swan not only showed him herbs, but also the patterns of flying birds, and the course of the stars. For hours she would sit in the evening, reciting each name of otherworldly stars. Rhond would make colorful flower coronets for her, his fingers weaving in and out as he listened and remembered.

“Are you ever going back?” she asked.

“Go back?” Rhond could hardly imagine a life outside of the forest now.

“To Tonor, your homeland.”

“I suppose. Someday,” replied Rhond vaguely, intent on a mushroom he was plucking for soup that night. The Grandfather had a particular addiction to it. “Will you go back? To wherever you came from.? You are not from here.”

“I wish I knew where my homeland is,” said Black-swan quietly. “Or was. Blue-wing never speaks of home. This is home for me, all these years.”

“Why doesn’t your brother stay with you? Does he not love you?”

She had her back turned toward him as she filled her basket with useful plants, but he saw her stiffen.

“You are young yet. You will not understand. Enjoy the life granted to you while you can, little one.”

They fell silent, until the sun set and all was dark. Then they went back to the village, two shadows spreading on the ground. Before their paths diverged, each leading to their own trees, Black-swan seemed to suddenly remember something.

“My brother will return tomorrow. When you hear the flute, you will know.”





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At first the melody was deep and sad; the broken memories of a hidden past. Then it rose high above the branches of the trees, the sorrow, the hopelessness, the desolation intertwined, tearing the sky into desperate pieces; a rupturing pain in the darkness, bleeding, bursting. It wrenched his heart, that lonely flute in the tranquility of the morning air.

“Do you hear that?” Rhond skipped excitedly, the load of firewood in his scrawny arms.

“Hear what?” Yellow Deer groaned as he gathered an armful of neatly hacked logs.

“The music. The one that is sad and twists around. It sounds like a story,” explained Rhond.

“There is always music, boy. The rustle of leaves, the arrow’s thud, the cricket’s chirp and yes, even the clank of wood falling out of your hands. Watch it!”

“I mean the flute.” Rhond felt it beckoning, drawing him with its silken coils of echoing song. How could anyone not notice it?

“The flute. I could teach it to you, or the Grandfather will, if you have the time.” Yellow Deer gave him a glance as if to see what kind of madness had overtaken the human. Rhond gave up and kept silent, laboring alongside the wild elf to replenish the wood supply of the Grandfather’s hearth.

As soon as he was free, he followed the sound, as if a hound drawn by the scent of a deer, for he knew who was playing the flute. The guards lurking on the edge of the village only gave him a cursory glance and let him creep away. The ground grew steeper as he ran, and rocks littered the hillside. He rushed on and on, not knowing where his feet led him, feeling only that the path was right. The song was calmer now, enchanting as willows swaying gently on a summer day. The boy seemed possessed by spirits as he darted uphill like a wild, young fawn, heeding nothing except the call of his heart. The sun had just touched the border between earth and sky. Most of the wild elves were completing their dawn tasks in the village, and by now the Grandfather would be searching for him.

An abrupt turn, and he was face to face with Blue-wing the Dark Magus.

The elf was still playing when Rhond stumbled upon him. His eyes were closed, and his dark hood was laid back softly. This day, the cloak wrapped around his shoulders was black, embracing him in darkness. A black ribbon tied back his silver hair in a simple warrior’s tail.

He opened his eyes then, and they were a calm, gentle gray melded with a shade of desolate blue, still and unfathomable as the waters of the deep.

The music stopped abruptly, leaving Rhond with a sense of sudden loss. For a moment, it seemed that he did not only look at the little boy, but into him, penetrating deep. Rhond squirmed under the silent scrutiny, and the wild elf abated, softening his face with a smile.

“You have grown since last I saw you,” said Blue-wing, pointing to the empty spot on the rock. Obediently, Rhond sat down beside him. “Why did you wish to find me?”

“I wanted to meet you,” said Rhond. “Black-swan told me to listen for the flute.”

“You heard it.”

“Yes.” Rhond noticed with interest the dozen arm rings, all wrought of slender sliver, on Blue-wing’s bared arm.

“And you came. No dizziness or fear?”

Rhond shook his head.

“Perfect.”

Rhond stared up at him in befuddlement. What is perfect?

“Would you like to learn?” asked Blue-wing. The breeze whipped loose a strand of his silver hair.

“Learn?” Rhond cocked his head, thinking of his endless studies and chores with the Elders. He could write the Elven runes better than most his peers, and his skill with a wooden sword was unmatchable among children his age. He could bind a bleeding wound, and name all the birds of the forest. There seemed nothing a boy needed further to learn. But somehow, sitting on the rock in the morning forest, there was a lure to the words of the wild elf, irresistible and undeniable. He sensed himself on the verge of a great adventure, or rather, a sweet secret about to be revealed. He had but to reach out and brush aside the veil that hid this treasure, his treasure.

“Will you teach me magic?”

Blue-wing turned his gray eyes upon him, piercing, appraising. Then, as if coming to a decision, he nodded slowly.

“Be warned. It will be hard. If I should find you faint of heart or unfit in any way, I will send you away.

“Yes…master,” agreed Rhond eagerly.

“Blue-wing will serve,” the elf corrected. “I will arrange this with the Grandfather.”

When the boy left, the shadows shifted, no longer melded into the shade of trees. Three cloaked figures emerged from where they had silently observed the meeting.

“You take great risk, Blue-wing. He is young, his qualities yet undefined.” The one who spoke, without thorough inspection, could almost pass as a Man. But his eyes and slightly pointed ears gave him a vaguely Elven look.

Blue-wing did not answer, but glanced down the way Rhond had reluctantly gone.

“Lunvil will not approve of this, guardian. We are the dark magi. I do not pretend to understand what we could accomplish in raising a young human pup, and outside our Order too. He is the son of the Red Dragon, yet still…” The female magus would have passed for a human too, but for her silver hair and fine cheekbones.

“I am taking him not because he is anyone’s son,” said Blue-wing. “In time, my reasons shall be revealed as good ones …or not. I promise you nothing.”

“A gamble, is it? With no certainty.” The third was an old Man, his head almost bald, and he rasped as he spoke.

“When have our lives had any certainty? The shadows hide us, and eat us too.” Blue-wing stood, scanning the sky for the sun’s position. “One day we must leave the shadows.”

“Ah, it has something to do with our Verses?” exclaimed the female. “Did you have some vision, some prophesy of this child?”

“Patience.” That was all Blue-wing whispered. He drew his hood over his face, and the others subsided in their doubtful questioning.

“Will you come with us this time? We spotted those Kermokren’s soldiers, Snenks they’re called, those half-beasts. They are on the northern borders of Soloi, poised to venture into the Great North, it seems,” said the old man. “Who thought Soloi could have been taken so swiftly?”

“I must remain here for a time.” said Blue-wing. Black-swan was on his mind, and he was more anxious than he showed to return to the village.

His comrades shrugged, for they were much used to Blue-wing’s unexpected comings and goings.

“We will bring news to Lunvil for you,” the first one said, and silently, the dark magi retreated back into the sheltering shadows.

Blue-wing watched them vanish into the forest, then turned in the other direction. Every step would bring him closer to the village, the only place that he could call home. Yet he hesitated, every time his feet carried him toward it, for it felt strange to be among the warmth and life and sun. Mockingly, he smiled. Blue-wing the fearless, frightened of a village.

Swiftly he moved between the trees, rustling not a blade of grass.

Black-swan was waiting.