Chapter 4: A Stitch in Time (pt. 3)

In our last installment of The Tale of Jarthen, Bertronius was reunited with his friends from the Fethil, Nelhoepher and Lem, who told him their own tales of adventure and folly in the forest. Jarthen pursued further covert observations of his commander Jellihondor, witnessing his parlay with the blue elf, Benno, before having a run-in with a less-than-pleased Glothnafar.
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Glothnafar led Jarthen past the lad’s own tent and towards the edge of the forest where he and the other centaurs kept their possessions. Being a nomadic, forest-dwelling people the centaurs felt little need for tents, typically sleeping in the woods surrounding the clearing. Because of Glothnafar’s deep loathing of him, Jarthen had scrupulously sought to avoid this area of the camp during his time in the Rebel Army, so that he would not have to hazard any unnecessary contact with the centaur.

Glothnafar didn’t speak a word to Jarthen until they had apparently reached their destination, which was a messy heap of weapons, various foodstuffs, and other things laying on the edge of the forest. Jarthen could see several other centaurs milling around in the general vicinity of the equipment, while a few others were engaged in conversation in the forest – they remained silent, but all of their eyes gazed back and forth between Glothnafar and the boy, in an inquiring, though not wholly unfriendly way.

“All right, boy-child,” Glothnafar said in a tone that, though quite stern, betrayed a glimmer of pleasure in the delivery of his orders. “Since you have been so efficient in your preparation for the coming journey,” these words were deeply tinged with sarcasm, “I have some more productive labor to occupy your time.” With this, Glothnafar picked up a sack of what appeared to be recently harvested wheat. “I want you to remove the hulls from this wheat, by hand, and if I so much as find a single husk marring this grain…” he trailed off menacingly in a way that let Jarthen know that the consequences for negligence would be harsh indeed.

Jarthen was aghast! This was a completely intolerable request, but, at the same time, he knew better than to protest, as it could only garner a less palatable task for him. So, without another word, and attempting to keep his cool, Jarthen sat down on the slightly damp ground and set to work removing the husks from the wheat.

It was an arduous process, to be sure. He had to take each grain off of the stalk, remove its hard, inedible shell, discard it, and finally place the valuable nugget of sustenance into another sack. Glothnafar watched Jarthen while he labored in this fashion for about half an hour, breaking the silence only to insult Jarthen’s technique, and chastise him for making even the smallest of mistakes. The lad knew that the centaur sought to get a rise out of him so that he might further punish him, so Jarthen did everything in his power to repress the resentment that was steadily growing in his bosom.

Jarthen fails to repress his resentment

Jarthen felt like he could hardly stand it any more – the tedious work, the ever-watchful eyes of the centaur and his constant insults – when relief came at last in the form of a jovial Rethnaki. “Hullo Glothnafar!” he called to the centaur in a friendly manner. “How do ye do today, me good fellow?”

“I am well, and yourself, Rethnaki?” Glothnafar responded in what was easily the friendliest manner Jarthen had ever heard the centaur speak in. “What is it that you desire?” he inquired solicitously of the elf.

“Well, if 'twouldn’ be too much trouble fer ye, Jellihondor’s asked ta speak wit' ta boy, here,” Rethnaki replied, gesturing towards Jarthen. “Can ye spare him? I’m sure tha’ one o’ ta elves would be happy ta winnow tha’ wheat fer ye – as ye well know, we do ha’ talents fer tha’ sort o’ thing,” with this Rethnaki gave a friendly wink, and, grabbing a handful of wheat, passed his hand over it causing the husks to fall easily away from the grains, which he proceeded to shake off into the appropriate bag.

Glothnafar cast a baleful look towards Jarthen, but grunted an assent to Rethnaki’s request all the same. Immensely relieved that he was at least temporarily free from the tedious work, Jarthen sprang to his feet with alacrity and could hardly help from dashing off ahead of Rethnaki as they walked away from the displeased centaur.

*****

“Go on in, boy, they’re a-waitin’ for yeh,” Clemhand gently urged, as he handed Bertronius the gnome’s sword. Bertronius had felt the knot of anxiety growing larger and larger in his throat on the entire walk over from Nelhoepher and Lem’s tent. Bertronius accepted the stubby blade and nodded to the older spy, who’d escorted him, and lifted the flap of the canvas tent to face the army’s spy commanders.

Inside, the tent was dark, with small candles scattered around creating soft orbs of light. After a moment, Bertronius’ eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see a large table in front of him covered in maps, scraps of paper of various sizes, shapes, and colors, and innumerable mugs half-filled with ale or strong black tea. Three men sat together on one side of the table, facing him: the one on the right was completely bald, but sported a bushy black beard and a mustache that was curled up at the ends, the one on the left was tow-headed and clean-shaven, with a handsome, square jawline, and the one in the middle was a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and a closely cropped graying beard. Where the other two men sported skeptical, aloof expressions, the man in the center leaned forward onto the table and regarded Bertronius with a friendly gleam in his eye. “So, young man,” said the man in the middle, “I hear you’ve brought us something well worth seeing. Let’s have a look, then.”

Bertonius gave a sharp nod and then stepped forward to the table. Feeling that it was important to show his respect to the spy commanders, Bertronius fell back on the etiquette training he’d received in his education in Opleneer. He knelt down, and with a flourish, presented the three men with the sword lifted high on his outstretched palms.

Bertronius: earnest lad with gnome sword

Bertronius held his pose until the gruff, bearded man testily said, “Where d’ye think yeh are, boy? Neerhemhind, in her majesty’s palace at a bloody ball? Put the damned thing on the blasted table!”

Bertronius mumbled and apology and got back up to his feet. As he put the sword on the table, the man with the salt-and-pepper hair smiled. “Don’t mind him. Old Craggle there has no appreciation for the finer things - ” He was cut off by Craggle’s gruff voice.

“That’s bollocks, that is! I’ve loads of appreciation for fine shite,” craggle responded.

“No, Craggle, McNab’s right,” said the blond man at the other end of the table. “You’re the coarsest man I’ve ever met! There’s a reason you’ve only been stationed on the front, you know.” Craggle made a grunt of annoyance at his collegue’s statement.

McNab turned back to Bertronius. “Craggle does have a point, though. Where’d you learn that to be proper, lad? Some fancy-steppin,’ I’d say, a boy of means, presumably. What’s your name, anyhow?”

Bertronius was sweating, even though the air was crisp and cool. “My name is Bertronius Worthis. I’m from West Fethil, but my family thought it best to send me to Opleneer to get a proper education. I was forced to take etiquette classes there, sir.”

“Oh a vassal!” responded the fair-haired gentlemen to McNab’s left. “We don’t get many of those here, you know. I myself am of the Iloskin clan, so I’m sure that some of my people know some of yours.” Bertronius nodded, slightly unnerved by Iloskin’s smug expression.

McNab, a gentlemanly sort of spy

McNab picked up the sword and examined it, while Craggle lit a few more candles and carried them to the table. “Well, Bert…” McNab looked up at the boy quickly. “I can call yeh Bert, right?” Bertronius nodded, and McNab continued, “Good, good. Not so stiff an' proper like Iloskins over there. Bert, this is a sight worth seein,’ yeh know that?”

“I thought it might be, sir,” Bertronius responded, feeling more at ease.

“Definitely a rebel artifact, that’s for sure. Best we hear the entire story, I think,” said McNab. McNab settled himself back in his seat, and all three men turned their eyes to the boy ahead of them. Bertronius took a breath, ignored the knot of anxiety that had never really abated, and launched into his tale for the third time of the day. He began describing his experiences with the magical forest paths and what he remembered about the rebel camp, and answered the spies’ questions as best he could, struggling to recall each detail no matter how small. The questioning went on for the better part of two hours, with the spies going over and over certain parts of his story with a fine-toothed comb. Eventually, the three men seemed satisfied, and McNab spoke. “Bert, you’ve done fine, you really have. You’ll make a grand spy, and we’re lucky to have you, fancy education and all. You’ve been runnin’ with those two bumbling dunces, Nel and Lem, haven’t you?”

Bert tried to hide his surprise that his friends were not more highly regarded. “Yes, I do.”

“Right, nice lads, but gits nonetheless. Got in on technicalities – not like you, boy. Anyway, train with those two for the meantime, we’ll find ye yer own partner later.” He paused momentarily, and Bertronius could see that McNab was a man whose mind was always turning, always evaluating the puzzles life presents. “Bert, go see Flumpert. He’s a magickologist by trainin’ and I’m sure he’d love to speak to ye about those magicked-up paths you discovered in that godforsaken forest.”

Bertornius nodded and bowed deeply before walking out of the tent. As he stood, blinking in the brightness of the day outside, Bertronius could hear the muffled speech of Craggle, McNab, and Iloskins. Bertronius couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard McNab say, “That’s a gem, that one is. Smart as a whip…and a Worthis to boot! He’ll go far.” Bertonius smiled, and set off to find his friends’ tent, and his bedroll, so he could finally get some sleep.

*******

“Ye owe me one lad, Jelli’s actually off a talkin’ ta the gnomes,” Rethnaki said to Jarthen with a bemused twinkle in his eye, as soon as they were out of earshot. “Ol’ Glothnafar would ha’ had ye there till we left if 'twere up ta him.”

“Thanks Naki,” Jarthen replied gratefully as they walked back towards the elvish area of camp. “Why does he hate me so much? What’d I ever do to him?” Jarthen asked, his anger reignited at the thought of his unfair treatment at the hands of the centaur.

Rethnaki thought for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders, saying “I dunno lad. He jus’ don’ care fer yer kind is all – I ain’ sure about particulars, but there are quite a few folks in ta Rebel Forces that make it a general rule ta hate humans, ‘cept most ain’ so vocal abou' tit.”

Jarthen wasn’t satisfied with this answer, but it was clear that Rethnaki did not have any further insight into the matter, so the boy decided to change the topic of conversation to Rethnaki’s phenomenal chaffing ability. “How did you do that thing…you know with the wheat, what was that?” he asked as they arrived back at their almost packed up tent.

“Oh, ye liked tha’, did ye?” Rethnaki asked flashing Jarthen a charming smile. “Tha' was nothing,” he continued with exaggerated bravado, “jus’ a wee taste o’ the magick we elves can do.”

the impressive "magick fingers" of the elves

“Really?” Jarthen asked – he had heard that elves possessed some magical skill, but he had only seen it demonstrated for the lighting of fires and similarly banal uses around the camp. Nevertheless, these little displays hinted at something that was well beyond the scope of Jarthen’s experience, and excited in him a profound sense of curiosity and interest.

“Aye lad, some o’ us are better than others, to be sure,” Rethnaki responded to Jarthen, as he sorted through his belongings that remained unpacked. “Jellihondor, for instance. Now, I’ve heard-tell, and seen enough ta know 'tis true, that he possess some powerful magical abilities. Some say tha’ he can make lightning spring forth from his very hands!” Rethnaki said, clapping his hands loudly to emphasize the immense power of Jellihondor’s magic.

“Wow! When does he use it? In…battle?” Jarthen asked excitedly – the thought that he might be able to see a display of such awesome magickal ability made the prospect of battle even more palatable.

Despite the lad’s entreaties, Rethnaki had become distracted by his few remaining belongings that needed to be packed: he hummed to himself mutter, “hmmhmmm, I’ll take ye, and ye…oh yes and ye....” Jarthen sighed, supposing that he would just have to wait until their journey had commenced to resume his conversation with Rethnaki.

Just as Jarthen and Rethnaki had finished packing their belonging and the components of the tent they would share with the other elves on the journey, Jellihondor appeared looking slightly haggard. He spoke in a husky voice, “come on then lads, we’ve got ta be movin’ out so we can make some progress before nightfall.” He motioned with his hand that they should follow him with their packs.

Jarthen and Rethnaki walked with Jellihondor as he collected the other rebels who would make up the remainder of their contingent. Helliktan, Helkint and Elcrona along with Zartheim, 15 other elves many of whom Jarthen recognized, two gnomes, and a dwarf eventually joined the party as they made their way towards the forest’s edge – Jarthen noted that Benno, the blue elf, was absent, and he had not been replaced by another curious looking elf. The lad felt himself shudder as the approached the location where Glothnafar had forced him to mill the wheat: indeed, the centaur was at the edge of the forest waiting for Jellihondor and the rest of the group.

“Very well: I believe we are all here,” Glothnafar spoke, addressing the assembly of rebels that had gathered at the forest’s edge. “There is no point in spending any more time here: we have a great journey ahead of us.” Without another word, the centaur turned and walked into the dense forest; Jellihondor and the rest of the party fell into line behind him.

Just as he was about to follow Rethnaki into the forest, Jarthen paused on the edge of the clearing and looked back at what had been his home for the past several months. He felt a pang of homesickness for the camp, as he had felt more at home there than he ever had in the Fethil, until Rethnaki turned around and spoke to him in a coaxing, sympathetic voice, “Come on then lad, tis time ta go.” Jarthen took a last glance, and, taking Rethnaki’s waiting palm, he proceeded to enter the forest.