The Difference

By Margaret R. Dean

(Holt of Restless Winds, +153)

"Twig! Are you going somewhere special, lad?"

The slim elf youth crossing the holt with his eyes on the ground, scuffing his moccasins in the dry leaves that were beginning to drop from the trees, paused and looked up. The elf who had hailed him, the wanderer called Fourhands, stood in the entrance of his weatherbeaten leather tent, holding the flap open. He gave Twig a friendly smile.

"No, nowhere in particular," answered Twig. He'd been heading toward the high ridges with the vague notion of doing some climbing, but he didn't mind being distracted.

"Good," said Fourhands. "Come in here for a moment, then." He beckoned to Twig with a tilt of his head. Curious, the youth followed him into the tent. He blinked a few times to accustom his eyes to the dimmer light within; the tent was lit only by what sunlight came through the smoke hole at the top. It smelled faintly of leather and wood shavings. In one corner a set of carving tools and what looked like a half-finished knife hilt were laid out carefully on a piece of hide, along with an unlit clay oil lamp. In another corner was a neatly tied up bedroll. Bags and bundles were piled along the back wall, the paraphernalia of a wandering trader and entertainer. Fourhands had crossed the tent and was rummaging in one of these.

"I was hoping you'd come by, Twig," he tossed over his shoulder. "I have something for you."

"For me?" Twig wasn't used to getting presents. He was an orphan, and though he'd been more or less adopted by his half-brother Groundcrawler and his lifemate after his parents' death, and various of the other holt elves took the time to teach him necessary skills and provide a bit of substitute parenting, he was not often thought of when it came to gifts. Since Fourhands' arrival an eightday or so ago, Twig had seen several of the other children flourishing around toys and games and, in Sleepy-Eyes' case, a new hunting knife, but he had not considered that Fourhands might have brought something for him.

Fourhands paused in his rummaging and looked over his shoulder at Twig. "Did you think I forgot about you? Let me tell you, my lad, an elf in my position can't afford to forget anything. Most elves only have to keep track of one tribe's worth of friends and kin. I have to keep straight—oh, several eights' worth, at least, counting elves, trolls, and humans. How do you think it would look if I called the chief of one tribe by another chief's name, eh?" He grinned, and Twig smiled tentatively back.

Fourhands made a dive into the pack he was sorting through and came up with a leather-wrapped bundle. "Here it is." He straightened, then stepped toward Twig with the object in his hands. Twig took it gingerly. It was a large bundle, but light for its size. He stared at it stupidly until Fourhands said, "Well, go on. Open it. It won't bite." The youth looked up into the wanderer's smiling face, its gray eyes crinkling at the corners. Then he sank to the floor of the tent with the bundle in his lap and began to pick at the thongs that secured the leather wrapping.

By the time Twig uncovered the wrapped object, Fourhands had turned and was retying the pack straps, humming tunelessly under his breath. He paused when the youth stammered, "It—it's beautiful!" Twig sat gazing wide-eyed at the round-bellied, eight-stringed instrument in his lap. It was made of dark wood, polished to a soft sheen, and inlaid around the soundhole with an intricate knotwork design.

Fourhands squatted beside him, looking down at the instrument. "It's called a bandore. The last time I was here, Stringstriker mentioned to me that he was teaching you to play, so when I ran across this I thought of you."

"It's beautiful," Twig repeated in a whisper. "B-but—" He looked up at Fourhands almost fearfully, the suspicion of tears in his brown eyes. The wanderer looked dismayed.

"Now, don't tell me you've stopped playing while I was away!"

"No, it's not that! It's just—well, I'm not very good at it yet." Twig hung his head. "I keep practicing, and I know the chords all right, but my fingers just won't keep up with the notes… It never sounds right," he finished miserably.

"Well, these things take time," said Fourhands. "Do you think I learned to play the flute in a moon or two? I got myself a new kind of instrument this trip, called a rebeck, and you would not believe some of the weird noises it makes. Some nights I'd be sawing away at it, and it'd sound so much like a cat in heat I was afraid some lovelorn cousin of Fire-eyes was going to jump me any moment." In spite of himself, Twig grinned. "Anyhow," Fourhands went on, "it helps to have a decent instrument. What have you been practicing on up to now, one of Stringstriker's cast-offs?"

Twig nodded hesitantly. "It's good enough for practice. Maybe I can keep practicing with that, and save this for when I'm better."

"Nonsense! You won't get any better as long as you're using an inferior instrument. No, the bandore's yours, for practice and performance. After awhile it'll be like an old friend. You'll see. Why don't you give it a try right now?" Fourhands suggested. "You'll probably have to tune it first, but that's one of the best ways to get acquainted with an instrument."

Gingerly, as if he was afraid of breaking it, Twig took the bandore in his lap and stroked his thumb softly over the strings. He blinked, then tried again with the same result. He looked up at Fourhands in confusion. "It's strung upside-down! It's got the notes running backwards, high to low! How am I supposed to—is it supposed to be like that?"

The wanderer regarded him with eyes slightly narrowed. "It's not strung upside-down, Twig. You're holding it upside-down." He reached out, took the bandore from Twig's grasp, and flipped it over so that the neck was in Twig's right hand rather than his left. "Try it that way."

"But that's backwards!"

"Is it?"

"Well, of course it is! Stringstriker taught me—"

"Maybe it's backwards for Stringstriker. It's not backwards for you."

"What?" Twig stared at Fourhands in utter confusion.

"Twig, don't you realize—High Ones! Maybe you don't." Fourhands rose and went over to where his carving was laid out on the floor of the tent. He stooped to pick up the knife hilt. Then he whirled on the youth. "Twig, catch!" Startled, Twig snatched at the wooden object as it sailed over his head. As his fingers closed around it, Fourhands shouted "Halt!" The youth froze with the knife hilt in his hand. "Now, which hand did you catch that with?" Fourhands asked him.

"My—my left hand," Twig answered slowly.

"Exactly. Twig, hasn't anyone ever pointed out to you—hasn't anyone noticed that you're left-handed?"

"I'm what?"

"Left-handed," Fourhands repeated. "Don't you—look, Twig. Most elves—and most humans and trolls, by the way—favor one hand over the other. It's stronger, quicker, handles things more deftly. For most people it's the right hand. That's why things like musical instruments and bows tend to be designed for right-handed people. Has anyone been teaching you archery?"

"Catclaw, a little," said Twig. "I'm not—"

"—not very good at it yet," Fourhands finished with him. "That could be why. You could probably use a left-handed bow, too."

Twig looked at his hands curiously, flexing them. He was beginning to understand. "You mean—my left hand does things better than my right?"

Fourhands nodded. "Some people are born that way. It is something you're born with, not something you learn."

Twig considered this. "Maybe it's because I was born outside of Recognition," he offered.

"Oh, I doubt that. Left-handed people are rarer than the other kind, for sure, but I don't think it has anything to do with Recognition. Humans and trolls don't even have Recognition," Fourhands pointed out.

Twig looked down at the bandore again. "But what does that have to do with—oh, I get it! The chords are the easy part. I don't need to use my good hand for them. It's the picking I need quick fingers for. Maybe that's why I can never keep up."

"I expect so," Fourhands said mildly. "But now that you've got a left-handed instrument, you should start improving faster—once you get used to chording with your right hand, that is. That may take a while. In the meantime, tell Catclaw you need a left-handed bow. I'm sure she'll know what you're talking about. It's just a matter of reversing the grip. Have you been learning any knife fighting?"

"Yes, from Sundiver. Do I need a left-handed knife, too?"

Fourhands laughed. "No, a knife works just as well in either hand. But I'm sure you'd get on better holding it in your left hand. Though it may confuse Sundiver a bit at first. There's an advantage to being a left-handed fighter, you see. Most right-handed people are used to fighting other right-handed people and are caught off guard by a left-handed attack. There's this one human tribe I know of, 'way to hubwards of here, called the Rahkahchi, that are mostly left-handed. They're a warrior tribe and they consider right-handed people inferior. None of the other human tribes in the area feel much like arguing with them about it."

Twig considered his hands again. "I'm left-handed," he murmured at last. "I'm not really clumsy, I'm left-handed. I'm different from them, that's all."

"That's all," Fourhands agreed. "I'm just surprised no one's noticed it before."

"I'm not," Twig said almost inaudibly. Then he looked up at Fourhands. "But you noticed."

The brown elf shrugged. "Like I said, I remember things. For instance, what happened to that knife hilt I chucked at you?"

"It's right here." Twig picked up the object from the floor and held it out to Fourhands. Both of them grinned when they noticed he held it in his left hand. A thought occurred to Twig. "Fourhands, are you right-handed or left-handed?"

The wanderer's grin broadened. "Me?" He chuckled. "I'm both. And that, my lad—" He took the hilt in his left hand and feinted with it as if it were a finished knife, his movements deft and graceful. "—is rarer than either of 'em." He flipped the knife hilt to his right hand and feinted again, no less skillfully than he had with his left. "Before I found my Talent—" He tossed the object into the air, where it hung apparently unsupported for a moment, then began to twirl end over end. "—my tribe-name used to be Two-hands." He cupped his lean brown hands under the knife hilt and let it drop into them. He winked at Twig.

The youth rose to his feet. "Thank you for the bandore," he said. "I promise I'll practice every day. And—and thank you for telling me about being left-handed."

"My pleasure, Twig." The wanderer's smile said that it was indeed a pleasure.

Twig smiled back and turned to go. Then a thought came to him and he turned back slowly. "Fourhands?"

"Mm?"

"There's something else I found out a little while ago … I haven't shown very many people yet…" Twig closed his eyes and concentrated, felt his feet lose contact with the packed earth of the tent's floor as the pull of the world loosened its grip on his slight body.

"High Ones!" breathed Fourhands. "You're a glider!"

Twig lowered himself the few handspans he'd lifted off the ground. He opened his eyes. Fourhands was staring at him in wonder. Then the wanderer broke into a chuckle. "Well! You are a rare one, aren't you, Twig? Have you got a teacher for that yet?"

The youth shook his head. "Not really. The only other people who know are the chieftess and Stone Hewn. And Hewn said he couldn't teach me. Do you think you could?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't know, Twig," Fourhands answered seriously. "I can't glide. Arin says that gliding and levitation are really the same Talent turned different ways, but mine's not strong enough to—Arin! Now, that's a thought. Why don't you ask him? He's a glider and levitator both."

Twig's brown eyes went round. "Arin?" he said in a small voice. "But he's so—so—"

"What? Tall?" Fourhands' eyes twinkled. "Imposing? Intimidating? Not really, Twig, not if you talk to him. And there's nothing he likes better than teaching people things. Tell you what." He moved forward and took the youth's arm. "How about if we go look for him together?"

Twig looked up at him and grinned. "I think that's a great idea."

The wanderer grinned back at him. Then he lifted the tent flap and the two of them stepped out into the afternoon sunshine.

THE END

"The Difference" is dedicated to my brother Thom

(aka "Karnaj the Barbarian"):

Southpaw and proud!