Child Bride
Margaret R. Dean
Holt of Restless Winds, +154
The first of autumn's chill tinged the clear evening air. The weather sorted well with the mood of the Holt of Restless Winds. Fires burned and music played. The elves of the holt danced their joy at the reuniting of friends and kin, as those who had stayed at the permanent holt site welcomed back those who had gone wandering over the summer. But they also danced in poignant celebration of those who would not return, those who had fallen in battle and were with the High Ones. Victory was celebrated too, since the combined forces of two elf tribes had succeeded in driving hostile humans from the territory of Restless Winds' allies, Great Water Holt. Yet victory always has its price. The dances tonight were wilder than usual as the elves sought to purge their grief with a flame of music and physical abandon.
Twig sat among the musicians near one of the fires, wringing chord after strident chord from his bandore in time to the beat of hide-covered drums. Above him Fourhands' rebeck wailed out its melody under the lash of the bow, and a double counterpoint poured from the flutes of Nightshade and Quietsong. Twig wondered for a fleeting moment why Nightshade was not dancing—the usually irrepressible blonde maiden had been oddly withdrawn and moody since the departure from Great Water Holt—but the thought was quickly driven from his mind by his need to concentrate on his fingering.
Twig was playing much better than he would have been able to only a turn of the seasons ago. He had Fourhands to thank for it; not only had the wanderer brought him the bandore as a gift, he also had the perceptiveness to realize that Twig was left-handed and therefore needed a left-handed instrument. Twig's music study had progressed much faster since then. His friendship with Fourhands had also progressed considerably over the past turn. By now he looked on the wanderer almost as an elder brother—one he felt closer to than he ever felt toward his real half-brother, Groundcrawler.
Not that Twig would ever express his feelings to Fourhands. He knew the relationship could not last. Another couple of seasons at most, until the new green came round; then the wanderer would surely be off again on his travels. His remaining even this long with the Holt of Restless Winds was unusual for him. Though he customarily turned up every one or two years, to visit and trade and entertain the holt with his puppet shows, he rarely stayed more than a season or two.
Twig was not sure why Fourhands had stayed longer this time, but he thought it was probably because of Arin. The tall, hawk-faced, snowy-haired elf had come to the holt a little more than a year ago, not long before Fourhands arrived. The two of them struck up a friendship soon after when Arin asked Fourhands to teach him the finer points of levitation. It never ceased to amaze Twig that Arin, who was Twig's own mentor in gliding and whom the youth regarded as old and wise enough to know everything, could have anything left to learn. But Arin maintained that learning was a process that never stopped, no matter how long one lived. It was hard to tell whether the ancient elf derived more satisfaction from acquiring knowledge or passing it on to others.
Nevertheless, even Arin would not be able to hold Fourhands in one place for too much longer. Twig supposed they might even leave together. Arin had made it clear from the beginning that he was only a visitor in the Holt of Restless Winds and sooner or later would depart for his home, far toward sun-goes-down. Twig had also heard Fourhands express an interest in one day visiting this Daystar Holt. Come the spring, they might both be gone, Twig thought glumly. He wouldn't exactly be lonely—Moss would still be here, and Tangle, and some of the other friends he'd begun to make among the younger elves now that he had more confidence in himself—but it wouldn't be the same.
Unless, the sudden thought thrilled through him, he went with them…
Twig had little time to mull over this exciting new idea before the current tune came to an end. As the youth strummed a final chord on the bandore, Stringstriker plopped down next to him, pulling a breathless Heartsease down with him. "Whew! I need a rest!" the older musician panted. "Why don't you let me spell you, Twig? You haven't shown the holt girls your paces yet," he added, grinning. "Go on. I'll take over here while you dance."
"Good idea," Fourhands seconded him from nearby. The gaudily clad entertainer was using the pause between dances to tighten a string that had gone out of tune. "Show 'em how it's supposed to be done, lad." His gray eyes smiled at the youth. Twig returned his smile and laid his bandore carefully aside while Stringstriker fetched his lute. In a few moments another dance tune rang out through the crisp night air. Twig grabbed the hand of Sunset Glow, who was standing nearby talking to Sleepy-Eyes, and whirled her into the circle of dancers right out from under the other youth's nose. The elf maiden didn't seem to mind this at all. Her delighted laugh sent Twig's spirits soaring.
Twig really did dance well. It was one of the few things he had been able to do well even before he and everyone else got over the misconception that he was "slow." He leapt and whirled with abandon, losing himself in music and motion. With a small part of his mind he noted with satisfaction that his recent growth spurt hadn't slowed him down any, though at other times he was often at a loss about what to do with the unaccustomed length of his limbs. That was certainly not bothering him now.
The tune came to an end and there was another pause. Sleepy-Eyes came marching up to claim Sunset Glow as a partner for the next dance. Twig didn't mind—changing partners was part of the fun. He glanced toward the musicians to see if he was wanted there. Stringstriker, with his lute in his lap and his lifemate leaning contentedly against him, waved at the youth encouragingly while Fourhands made a shooing motion at him.
Twig looked around for another partner and suddenly caught sight of Tangle, sitting on the ground at the edge of the firelight. The curly-haired elf maid was watching the dancers with round, wondering brown eyes. Impulsively Twig hurried over to her. "Tangle, would you like to dance?"
"What?" She looked up at him in confusion.
"Dance. Do you want to dance with me?" He held out his hands to her.
"Dance?" she repeated slowly. "I don't … know how … to dance."
"That's all right. I'll teach you. This next one is easy—just three steps and a hop, then swing around. Come on!" He grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet as the music started.
The dance was indeed a simple one, though lively, and it did not take long for Tangle to learn it. Her face glowed with happiness at having mastered such an exciting thing. Her clear laugh rang out as the steps repeated over and over. "I can dance! I can dance!" she cried.
Twig caught the eye of Tangle's mother, Tawn, who was dancing with Shadowfire. The golden-haired elf woman gave him a warm smile as she whirled past. Tawn always appreciated anything anyone did to make Tangle happy. The musicians were smiling too as they plunged into the final chorus.
Twig and Tangle launched into "swing your partner" with an extra spurt of energy—too much energy, as it turned out. Tangle was larger and heavier than Sunset Glow, for her body was that of a full-grown elf despite her child's mind. Twig felt Tangle's hands break from his grasp. Propelled by her own momentum, the coppery-haired maiden stumbled across the dancing ground, straight for the musicians. Stringstriker dove out of her way a heartbeat too late. Tangle tripped over his feet and pitched forward toward Fourhands. Fortunately the wanderer was ready for her. Holding his rebeck up out of the way with one hand, he caught her arm with the other as she barreled into him and prevented her from falling. He half-whirled from the impact, staggered a little, then suddenly froze, gazing down into Tangle's upturned, open-mouthed face, his eyes locked with hers.
The hum of surprise and amusement from the rest of the holt ceased. All of the elves stared at the motionless pair, realizing one by one what had happened. It was Tangle who broke the tableau. With a wordless wail of terror, she tore herself from Fourhands' stricken grasp and ran for her mother. Tawn caught up her daughter in a tight hug while looking over Tangle's shoulder at Fourhands, eyes wide. The wanderer stood for a moment staring at the ground, his tanned face bloodless. Then he turned and stumbled off into the dark in the direction of his tent. Tawn began to draw Tangle toward their hometree as the murmurs ran from elf to elf.
"Recognition … Recognition…"
# # # # #
The fires were out and both moons had set, but the night was clear. The stars gave enough light for Tawn to see by as she made her way across the holt, the occasional dead leaf crunching under her soft-booted feet. Somewhat to her surprise, yellow lamplight leaked out around the doorflap of Fourhands' battered leather tent. She would have thought… Tawn stopped herself. She was not really sure what she would find inside the tent. She hesitated a moment before lifting the flap, but only for a moment. There was no use putting off a vitally necessary conversation.
The wanderer lay on his bedroll at the far side of the tent, flat on his back with his arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the smokehole in the roof. He had changed his bright performance garb for his usual brown leathers, worn and comfortable. But his restful appearance was illusory. When Tawn entered he started up as if in fear, relaxing only slightly when he saw who it was.
"Tawn." His voice was hoarse with strain. "Tawn, I'm sorry. Komei's bones, I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize, Fourhands. There's no need." The golden elf woman dropped to her haunches halfway across the tent from him and stared down at her clasped hands a moment before continuing. At last she said slowly, "Sunwolf and Heartsease always warned me this might happen. That there was nothing physically wrong with Tangle … nothing to prevent her Recognizing." She looked up at Fourhands. "I'm just glad that it if it had to happen, it was with someone she's fond of, who's fond of her—"
Fourhands groaned, rubbing his lean brown hands over his face. "Tawn, think about what you're saying. Of course I'm fond of Tangle, always have been. Everyone knows I get along well with children. That's just the trouble. She's a child, Tawn, for all that her body kept growing after her mind stopped. How can I—how can I join with her? She'd have no idea what was going on. It would be like … like…" He gestured helplessly. There was no word in the elvish language to express what he wanted to say, and the human word for it was too ugly.
"You'll hurt her far worse if you don't," Tawn said in a low voice.
"I know. I've heard the stories—even more than you, I expect—about elves who sickened and even died from denying Recognition. I'm beginning to believe them." He ran a hand through his sunstreaked brown hair, then gestured toward one corner of the tent. A guttering oil lamp illuminated a set of carving tools scattered over a piece of hide, along with a half-finished woodcarving of an unidentifiable animal. "I was trying to do some work earlier, but I couldn't. My hands were shaking too badly. And it's only just happened."
Tawn spoke firmly. "Fourhands, we've been friends for a long time … more than friends on occasion. I trust you. I know you'll be gentle with my daughter and not hurt or frighten her—any more than can be helped. And then…"
"And then what?" he challenged her, his gray eyes coming up to stare into her golden ones. "She and I settle down into an idyllic lifemating? You know better than that, Tawn. What kind of a mother do you expect Tangle to be when she's a child herself? She'll need a lot more help and support than I can ever hope to give her."
"She'll have it," Tawn said calmly. "I'm not going anywhere, Fourhands. Recognition or no Recognition, Tangle is still my daughter. And I'm not the only one." Her voice grew gentler. "I think with all the wandering you do by yourself, my friend, you've forgotten how it is to have people there when you need them. They've been there for me ever since I had Tangle—Heartsease, Redthorn, Cloudwatcher, plenty of people. You won't have to carry the burden alone any more than I did."
Fourhands nodded slowly, but the expression on his weathered face did not lighten. "You're right, Tawn, I had forgotten … and I'm grateful. But that's not the real problem. The real problem isn't Tangle, it's me. You've known me long enough to know the way I am. I'm a fiddlefoot, always have been."
"Fourhands, nobody's going to force you to stay just because—"
"Nobody but me." He got to his feet and paced across the tent to the open doorflap. He stared out at the stars overhead for a time before speaking. "I've met a lot of wanderers in my travels. All of them have different reasons for it. Some of them are looking for something. Others are trying to get away from something. It's not like that with me. Wandering isn't just something I do—it's what I am. The open trail is part of me, part of my soul." He turned back to look at Tawn, his voice dropping to a half whisper. "But now, so is she."
Tawn nodded, blinking back tears. It was nearly an eight-of-eights since the death of her lifemate, Fleetfoot, but Recognition was an experience not easily forgotten: the inextricable bonding of souls that might have nothing to do with love.
"And there's the child," Fourhands went on, looking out the doorflap again. "I can't deny I've always wanted a son or daughter of my own, ever since—" He stopped and glanced sidelong at Tawn. "Never mind. Shadows from my Tragic Past, as Arin puts it. But I'd want to make sure my child was safely born. And then…"
"And then?" Tawn prompted when he trailed off.
"I don't know." He was silent for a while. Then he said softly, "Do you know what my dream's always been, Tawn? To find a mate who was just as footloose as I am, a companion on the trail. I love the open spaces, but it gets cursed lonely out there sometimes." He laughed without humor. "The High Ones have a funny way of granting wishes, don't they?" Tawn said nothing, her eyes filling with tears again. Finally he asked her, "Where is Tangle now?"
"In our hometree. Fourhands—"
"I'll be gentle, Tawn. I want to hurt her as little as I can." He lifted the tent flap and stepped out into the night.
# # # # #
All the way across the holt, Fourhands kept repeating silently to himself, I must be gentle. I must be gentle. He forced the words into the rhythm of the refrain that pounded through his blood. When he reached Tawn's hometree, he could see no light from door or window; yet he knew she was within, and not sleeping. He could feel her presence. He pulled himself up into the doorway of the hollowed-out tree, then paused just beyond the threshold.
**Pril.**
There was a stir, a rustle of bedding from the far side of the tree, then the sudden, solid impact of a body. Arms clutched him tightly, a warm, damp face burrowed into his chest, tangled curls brushed his chin. **Prath … Prath … Prath** His soul name was the one articulate word amid the raw emotion of her sending. Its rhythm matched the one reverberating through his body.
Almost involuntarily his arms went around her, pulling her close. She whimpered and moved against him, nuzzling his neck like a young animal seeking nourishment. As her scent came to him, musky and earthlike, Fourhands realized that the elf he held in his arms was no longer even a child. Tangle's body knew what it wanted even if her mind did not, and for now the body had taken possession of the mind. What drove it was sheer animal instinct, and Fourhands was hard put to it not to be swept up in the hot tide. It would be so easy… But he could not, not like this. Even Recognition could not force him to couple like an animal with a child he loved. Gentle…
**Pril,** he sent, seeking for her spirit with his own as he drew her back across the darkened hometree and sat her down on the bedfurs. **Pril, yes, I'm here, I've come. Don't be afraid.**
Words came from her at last—disjointed and confused, but words. **Prath? Don't understand … I feel … want you … I want … I want … like hurt, but not … want you near me … inside … don't understand…**
He stroked her tear-wet face and smoothed her tangled curls. **It's all right, my Pril. I know what you want. I understand. I feel it too. It's something we have to do together, and we will. But I want you to know it's a good thing and nothing to be scared of, though it's so strong and wild.
**Do you remember the story I told you once about the tumbleweed and the wind? How the wind blew down all the plants that tried to stand up to it? But the tumbleweed didn't try. It gave itself up to the wind instead, and the wind tumbled it and rolled it along till it came to a lovely green place where it could take root and flourish. Do you remember?** He felt her nod against his chest. **Then roll with the wind, my Pril, and don't be afraid.**
Tangle nodded again and cuddled against him, trustingly now, not in that desperate, searching way. He let his hands run through her soft curls for a few moments while he prepared himself, then reached for the lacings of her dress. "We have to take our clothes off first, little one…"
As he removed her clothing and then his own, Fourhands felt the tide of arousal pounding through him again. Tangle felt it too, he knew; her touch and scent told him almost as much as the bond they shared. Again he reminded himself that he must be gentle with her, only to realize that "gentle" must take on a new meaning between them. He must not be rough or hurtful, certainly, but the slow, roundabout approach to the final joining that he had savored with other, more experienced females was wrong for Tangle. It would only confuse her. As always, he must be direct and simple if she was to understand.
He eased her down onto the furs, lay down beside her, and drew her into his arms. The soft touch of her skin against his set his blood afire. Her body responded too, clinging to him, moving against him even as he sensed her renewed confusion at what she felt. Once more his soul-star sought hers, wordlessly soothing and reassuring her. His hands caressed her, offering physical comfort and arousal at once, before he reached down and parted her already damp thighs.
In the end the joining was easier than he had feared. Their bodies knew what to do, mov ing to their own primal rhythm. The wind of passion caught them up and carried both of them to the height they strove for. Fourhands' last thought, before the explosion of sensation that annihilated all thought, was that sometimes the High Ones showed strange mercies to their bewildered descendants.
# # # # #
Afterwards he held her for a long time while she cried. Their bond reassured him that it was sheer excess of emotion that made her weep, not any fear or pain. He cuddled her and rocked her back and forth until her tears abated. He assumed she would go to sleep once she calmed down, but sleep did not come immediately. He felt her stir, and then her questioning voice came out of the dark. "Fourhands, what's going to happen now? Mother said I would have a—a baby."
"That's right."
"Like Tigger did? I remember when she got big and round, and Mother told me there was a baby growing inside her."
"So there was. It grew inside her for two turns of the seasons and then was born. Taum song, her son. That's how elves come into the world, you know, Tangle, you and me and every other elf there is."
"Is there a baby growing inside me right now?"
"Yes, I expect so, though it's so new and small that even the best of healers might not be able to tell for sure just yet." He ran a tender hand over her belly. "Our child, Tangle. That's a good thought, whatever comes after."
"I like babies," Tangle said tentatively, then let the subject drop. Fourhands did not press her. There would be time enough later to explain to her what it meant to be a mother, and anyway, Tawn would do a better job of it than he could.
Later that night, Fourhands was awakened by Tangle clutching at him while her frantic sending invaded his mind. **Prath! Prath!**
He started up in alarm. **What is it?**
She clung to him, burying her face in his chest. **I had a bad dream. I dreamed you went away. You won't go away, will you, Prath?**
It was the question he'd hoped he would not have to answer, at least not yet, for he could not lie to her. **Pril, I—**
He felt rather than saw her flinch, a slight drawing away of the mind from the use of her soul name. All at once she burst into sobs. Through her tears she sent, **You will, you will! He said it and then he went away and he was dead and left me and I don't want to be Pril because it makes me remember how he went away and was dead no no no—**
"Who? Who was dead?" Tangle didn't answer, but all at once Fourhands knew. Recognition gave him knowledge of her soul name, as she learned his. That was how Recognition worked. It had not occurred to him to wonder before now if the childlike Tangle had ever discovered her own soul name before the accident and injury that made her what she was.
Or had it? The accident in which her father died … one of the two elves who would know his child's soul name as surely as if Recognition had given it to him. Fourhands had heard the story long ago from Tawn, how Fleetfoot died in a landslide, pushing Tangle out of the way only to be caught himself. They found them three days later, Tangle cradling her dead father's head in her lap, smoothing his hair. Her spirit had never matured any further since then, remaining always the child, and no healer could help her.
Did she get to him before he died? Fourhands wondered. Did he look up into her eyes and whisper into her mind, **Pril, my Pril** before his spirit fled his broken body? It might explain why Tangle had never grown up. She had denied her soul name, denied her own maturity, because the memories associated with it were too painful for her to bear. But she could not hide herself from him, Prath. He might—just might—hold the key to the grown-up self she had locked away. But for now she was a child, a child in a woman's body, who clung to him and begged him not to leave her. Whatever she was or might be, she deserved an honest answer.
**Pril, my own Pril. I will stay as long as I can. That's a promise, the only promise I can give you. I will stay as long as I can, and wherever I go, I will always come back to you. You are a part of me and I am part of you. Nothing can change that. Please … don't cry anymore.**
In time her weeping ceased, but she continued to cling to him until she fell asleep again.
# # # # #
Twig was up almost as soon as the sun, after a restless night plagued by visions of what had happened on the dancing ground. The youth had tossed and turned and debated with himself all night, but at last he came to a decision.
Fourhands was not in his tent, and Twig did not quite have the nerve to go to Tawn's hometree to look for him. He was just about to ask Watcher if she had seen Fourhands when he spotted the lean form of the wanderer sitting on a rock by the riverbank, his eyes on the roiling water of the ford. Twig approached him hesitantly, gathering his courage, but Fourhands turned around and saw him before Twig could speak.
"Good morning, Twig," he said with a slight smile.
"Good morning," Twig replied automatically, a little taken aback. Nevertheless he plunged on. "Fourhands, I want to talk to you."
Fourhands moved over on the rock and gestured for the youth to sit next to him. "Talk away."
Twig did not sit down. Instead he stood twisting his hands together nervously. "It's about Tangle," he began.
Fourhands' expression remained neutral. "What about Tangle?"
"Well, you Recognized her, and—and I know you weren't planning to stay here very much longer, so … so if you don't want to lifemate with her, I will." Twig stood as tall as he could manage as he said this, looking the wanderer straight in the eye.
Fourhands blinked at him in astonishment for a few moments, then slowly shook his head. "No. I know it took a lot of courage for you to offer that, Twig, and I thank you, but I can't accept it. It wouldn't be right for any of us."
"But it was my fault!" Twig burst out, his voice cracking in his agitation. "If I hadn't asked her to dance … if I hadn't let go of her…"
"Oh, is that what's bothering you? Look, Twig, it wasn't your fault. Recognition isn't anybody's fault. It just happens, like the weather or the change of the seasons. It comes when it comes, to whoever it chooses, and nothing anybody can do or not do will stop it." He grinned wryly. "I'm just waiting for the day Liar finds that out." His grin softened into a pensive expression. "We have to believe there's some purpose behind it, that when two elves are drawn together like that, there's a reason. What happened to Tangle and me is something the two of us have to work out for ourselves."
"Does that mean you're going to stay here and lifemate with her?" Twig asked half challengingly.
Fourhands' calm finally wavered. He ran a hand through his hair with a deep sigh, look ing back out over the river. "I'm not sure, Twig. I'm going to try. I promised her and Tawn both that I'd stay as long as I could. I'll certainly stick around long enough to see our child born. After that—well, we'll just have to see. It's been such a long time since I had a family that I think it'll take me a while to get used to the idea."
Fourhands continued to stare out over the water for a few moments, then turned back to look at Twig. "Come here and sit down, lad," he offered. This time Twig accepted. "Talking of families…" the brown elf went on. "You're very fond of Tangle, aren't you, Twig? Tawn tells me you're always willing to spend time with her, teaching her things—sort of like a big brother."
Twig looked down at the scuffed toes of his moccasins. "I guess so. I never thought of it that way. Tangle's bigger than me."
"Only in body," Fourhands said quietly, "and even that won't be true for much longer, the way you're growing. But it occurs to me that if you're like a brother to Tangle, and I'm her lifemate, that makes you and me brothers as well. And that thought pleases me more than I can say. If Tangle and I are going to start a new family here at Restless Winds, I'd like you to be part of it. The next few years are going to be hard on Tangle. She's going to need people around her who care for her. I suspect you'd be there anyway, but I'd kind of like to make it official. What do you say, Twig?"
For several long moments Twig sat motionless, staring at the ground between his feet, unable to answer. Born out of Recognition, orphaned as a young child, brought up by Groundcrawler and his lifemate more out of a sense of duty than because of any real affection, Twig had never found it easy to imagine being wanted or needed by anyone. While he'd always had teachers and even friends among the elves of the holt, he had never truly belonged to anybody. Now Fourhands was offering him a place in a family of his very own. It was more than he could have asked for, far more than he had ever expected.
"I—I'd like that," he finally whispered, blinking back tears as he looked up at Fourhands.
"Then it's settled," said Fourhands, his face relaxing into a smile. "Do you want to come along with me and talk to Tawn? We still have to work out living arrangements and things like that. And then I suppose we'd better let the chieftess know." He rose and held out a hand to Twig. The youth rose also and Fourhands put an arm around his shoulders. Together they started back toward the holt and the new life beginning there.
THE END