The Halfling

Chapter 6

Morris, of course, went with this plan of donning the Elven costume because he knew that the guards patrolling Thornwood did not cease near the castle-gates. Instead, they extended to far-away borders where Men lived, a-watching and a-prowling. He had also overheard, in his long coming-and-goings that there were boats planted near the Eastern exit, ready to wade out of sight. He wondered why many a whispered cry and muffed tears accompanied these conversations. But no time had he to think of them for, sooner or later, an Elf would head for his direction.

"Just in the nick of time," cried someone. The Company jumped, straightened their backs, looked. "What's wrong? You're all jittery? Don't tell me you were a-sneaking and carousing. Ah! In front of the captain! The Elves will fall because of this undiscipline! But hush, you need not speak with your drawling tongues. Only follow me for we shall watch for the prisoners—I believe they are headed East."

They found it hard to believe that they weren't discovered. Nonetheless, they marched with the captain, creeping through the forest, going down byways, twists and turns. Then, the sound of rushing water drowned out the cacophony of the forest.

From the leaf-riddled floor, they emerged into the riveting Forest River, which glimmered like the scales of a snake. Wide it spread, its riverbanks steep and grave. Each gush of water reminded them of a sob.

"Soon, it shall start," the Elf-captain said, voice smooth and clear. "Offering our fallen peoples to the Falls. In their sleep, they shall float upon the blessed waters, the River of Lot, as olden lore calls it, and be purified."

The Company was silent. None were willing to compromise their identities; none understood him, either.

The captain looked at them, his golden brows gathered into a grave line. Whitened were his hands, pale as sheets of ice in winter. His fingers danced in the air, landed on the tip of his bow. He stirred.

Swift as he was, the slime thwacked him on the head with a rather sturdy piece of wood he nabbed in the forest.

They chained him with briar-tangles and ivy-twines, sturdy enough to seal his movements. They stood for a while, observing the captured Elf-captain.

"It was a good thing I hid that club," Morris muttered.

"We've no time," Theresa said. "The boats are already there. Look!"

Their heads spun. They gazed at the sleek, brown vessels floating down the river peacefully, as if pilgrims silently wandering, muttering prayers. The boat-prows were set on a destination: a dangerous fall. But none flinched or cowered.

They scrambled for the riverbank. Then, they ceased, faces fallen. Within the riverboats were coverlets of white, their rises and falls outlining bodies of Elves who once were.

Samuel swallowed. "I don't feel good about this. They may be insufferable but desecrating their ancestors' deathbeds...Well."

"Oh, shush, you!" Morris' mind raced. He was not quite interested in these things but he had to consider it. "Fine then: let's move a body from one boat to another and then slip inside."

His companions thought, nodded, and set to work. First, they waded into the water, and hauled two boats from the silent procession. Then—with crumpled foreheads and strained eyes—they took a body from one boat and lay it on another. They bowed to the bodies, uttered a few apologies and offered prayers. Finally, Morris seized some wood to be shaped as paddles.

All this done, they hopped inside the boat they halted. The boy, wearily, eyes blinking, shifted the woods' form into those of paddles. He got to rowing then, together with Morris. Once, he called for a bit of sailwind but he found none in the end.