Larkspur Mittel: The Lark & Owl Trilogy

3 - The Wee Critters

Hero stood in the middle of the droll kitchen, taking orders from a stout owl maid. 

"Get ye up girl, make like a droll and puddle! Put those skinny lark-y arms to work! I've got to get to the market, and me other messages before curfew, so ye've got nearly four hours to make a larks-mark! Never ye mind that the master hasn't been present for a fortnight, he'll be on his way soon, so make yer mark!"

With that, the maid left, and Hero was on her own.

She looked around wondering where to start. The droll home to which she'd been assigned was large by lark standards with several dark (heavy curtains covered all the windows) rooms, filled to the brim with junk. Not just hanging pictures of old, droll ancestors, books and furniture, but good-for-nothing droll junk, thought Hero.

Drolls were superstitious, and they were hoarders. 

This droll was no exception, and particularly hoardful, thought Hero. They considered larks good luck in the home, and were always looking to hire larks to cook, sing or just keep them company. But no self-respecting lark would ever want to clean a droll's home. The darkened rooms bothered the larks- owls were much better workers in the dark- and so the only ones they could find were very poor larks, or the misbehaved ones from the Wobash Cynders children's home. 

The drolls paid a high sum to have orphan lark children clean their homes, and Boer Mam couldn't refuse the money. It was needed to run the children's home. 

Hero regretted her bad luck. 

Though there was some consolation in that they'd made it back home without much incident. After running the whole way back to the city walls in the deep sand and darkness, Adelmus dreaming of fen wagons and clutching his bad arm, and Hero wondering what the parcel was that she carried and hearing the lark woman's voice urging her to be careful, the owl guard at the Western Portal, a narrow entrance about the height and width of four stacked peat crates, listened intently to Adelmus's story.

He'd told the guard the truth. He explained that he was a lark singer who tried to fly home with his friend on his back, but that he was new to flying and had taken them to the desert instead, where they had crashed. The guard was so astonished to see them appear at the gate in the night. He took pity on Adelmus's hurt arm, laughed at their story and let them in.

'Fate is wit ye! Them Hummerboys is normally guarding the gate but was called to a meeting only a moment earlier. Brutal thugs wit' metal in the veins! They'da thrown ye back out to the desert and you'da be degul-meat! Lucky it was me here!' the guard had told them.

But Boer Mam was not to be fooled. She knew they were up to something, and assigned Hero droll duty. Adelmus had gotten off more easily, with his broken arm and what with being a lark-singer. Though he'd be replaced by another singer until his arm healed, Boer Mam had been gentler with him.

Hero looked around the droll home again, unsure of where to begin. There were just so many things!

Amulets and charms filled every room, and covered every surface. Barrels of acorns and onions, pieces of amber, old apple cores, candles, clocks, coins and crickets jumping about in glass containers filled the shelves along the long, dark hallway. There was dried mandrake hanging above every door, and two rooms filled with mirrors, rocking chairs, umbrellas, horseshoes, horse tails and rabbit feet. There were frogs jumping about in a closed, third room, along with dragonflies, ladybirds, and many baby tortoises. Dusty old books and newer ones filled the shelves, including a whole wall of a family history it seemed, of the Suluag Droll family. 

Suliman Suluag, his name was carved above the hearth, over the doors to each room, on the chairs and on several portraits. He was ugly, like all drolls, thought Hero, but at least he had a dignified expression.