Chapter Nine

The two travelers were weary; they had come many, many miles, having been on the road for almost a fortnight. They had come out of the forest long ago, and the land swelled visibly. Towering mountains and rolling hills they now had to cover, and they had to cross many rivers. Yet the rivers provided unlimited drink, and game in that area was plentiful.
Other than the dryads, Ficum had seen no habitation in this wilderness, unless one counts wild beasts. He was tired of having no one to talk to, for though he could tell as much as he wanted to Beesa, a dog could not compare with a human. For all that, Beesa was a good natured dog, playful and happy, and Ficum was cheered more than once with his canine companionship; but he still longed for a fellow traveler who was human.
One day, Ficum and Beesa were crossing a wide, golden field. Trees were dotted here and there, giving welcome shade from the intolerable heat. Ficum was humming to himself, in an attempt to amuse. Suddenly he was aware of a pair of eyes watching him suspiciously, and even threateningly. He stopped, calling Beesa to his side; and he listened. All was still. He cast a quick glance around him, but perceiving nothing, walked on, shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling. He started to hum again, when once more he was conscious of a hostile glare. This time Beesa was the one to stop, sniffing the air. The dog growled and whipped around, snarling and showing his white teeth. He lurched away from his master, tearing toward a tree about twenty yards back. Ficum gave a shout, and ran after him. Then Ficum saw a tremendous, hairy wolf-thing come darting out from behind the tree, and leap upon Beesa. The two rolled on the ground in a growling heap, snapping and biting savagely.
Ficum, though startled, knew he had not a moment to lose. Drawing his sword, he was about to help his dog, when a shrill whistle rippled in the air. The hairy beast shook itself loose from Beesa and galloped away. Ficum quickly grabbed Beesa before he ran off in pursuit. It took all his strength to hold the furious, howling dog.
“Beesa! Quiet!” yelled Ficum, sharply. Beesa paid no attention to him. “Beesa! Shut up, will you!” And Ficum rapped his dog smartly on the head. Beesa sat down submissively, but continued to whine. A sudden, clear voice caught Ficum off his guard.
“Drop your weapon!” Ficum looked up and saw the same wolf, but with it was the last sight he expected to see: a girl. She wore a light dress of blue, which fit close enough to her upper body to show a slim and well-proportioned figure. The sleeves were not lengthy, covering half her arm; tight at the shoulder, but loose nearer the elbow, casting down a long corner of cloth. A white girdle rested elegantly on her waist, and her dainty feet were fitted into delicate, pretty sandals. Her thick hair, black and extremely curly, tossed down her back, waving in the breeze. Her large, mischievous dark eyes were positioned gracefully in a round face covered with clear skin, fair and healthy, matched with a pretty mouth and nose, the former set in a firm line. In her small hands she held a bow and arrow held taught to the string, and a quiver full of more arrows hung on her back. Ficum was so astounded that his mouth dropped open. The girl, who was obviously of a laughing nature, smiled playfully, relaxing her weapons; she said rather humorously,
“Why do you not speak? Are you dumb?” Ficum shut his mouth, and with a red face said in his best manners,
“Pardon me, madam, but I am rather busy holding onto my dog, who, I fear, would attack your dog if I let him go.” She grinned and with a sparkle in her eyes, mockingly answered,
“My dog is obviously better trained than yours; I don’t have to hold onto her, see?” She laughed. Ficum glared at her, his manners forgotten. It was hard for the boy to be laughed at by a mere girl. He retorted, also quite tauntingly,
“I wouldn’t have to hold onto my dog if SOMEBODY’S wild dog had not stalked us threateningly, causing my good, loyal dog to feel he had to guard me. My, my, aren’t we careless?” She frowned and said, pulling her bow back into attack position,
“That’s not funny.” Ficum only laughed. She stared at him angrily, and then said again (finding no better retort), “Drop your weapon! You are a stranger in these parts. I will shoot you if you do not drop your sword!” Ficum did not believe her and said so; but he obliged. She lowered her weapon too. “I suppose I should not tell my name to strangers; but you seem an honest boy, though you are an exasperating tease.” (Ficum thought this was hypocritical.) “My name is Elinor, and this is my dog Mym; you are…?”
“Ficum. My dog is named Beesa.” She smiled, without mockery, and said,
“Do forgive my earlier manners, it is a bad habit of mine to tease unmercifully, with no exception for people I do not even know. Isn’t that horrible? Where are you from?” Ficum hesitated, and said
“I hail from the west.”
“How long have you been traveling?”
“A fortnight tomorrow.”
“Oh my, so long a time. And you so young to travel by yourself. What is your age?”
“Thirteen years.”
“Really? I am thirteen years, too. What a coincidence! At last I have someone my age to talk to. Would you like to stay with us?”
“Who’s ‘us’?”
“Oh, my family, of course. You are welcome to stay. That is,” she smiled slyly, “if you think your dog will behave.”
“Only if yours will.”
“No need to worry about mine. Mym’s a very well-behaved dog. Unlike some I could mention....” Ficum rolled his eyes.

The girl beckoned Ficum to follow her, turning around quickly and calling her dog. Ficum obeyed, but not without tying a long leather cord around Beesa’s neck and holding it firmly. By the time he was done, Elinor was already many strides ahead. Bother, he thought. He had to run to catch up with her. She looked back as he came panting up behind her.
“I’m sorry; did I go too fast?” she inquired. Then seeing the leash on Beesa, “Oh, I see…precautionary reasons, I suppose?” Grinning, she glanced triumphantly at her free dog, and with a boisterous skip, darted ahead, calling, “Come on, Master Slug! Don’t be lazy! We should arrive at my home before dark!” Ficum watched her incredulously. One moment, she could be understanding and kind; the next mischievous and taunting. Oh well. He never did understand girls.

+++

“Is it all right if I call you Elinor?” asked Ficum.
“Why else would I say that is my name?”
“Elinor, where are we?”
“In my country,” she answered smilingly.
“You know what I mean; what is the name?”
“It is called Rosteran.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“As long as I can remember.”
“Do you mean you lived somewhere else when you were a baby?”
“Perhaps,” said Elinor. Abruptly she changed the subject. “What is the name of your country?”
“Myriada,” sighed Ficum. She looked at him.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“Aye,” said he. “Have you ever heard of my country?”
“Never in my life. Have you ever heard of mine?”
“No.” They walked in silence for a few minutes, each thinking that the other would make an excellent friend.
Rosteran was bordered with wild, gorgeous mountains. It was a beautiful country: large, lush and green, in the center of which was a majestic stone castle. Proud, colorful flags waved lustily on the pinnacles of the castle’s towers, and at the foot of the castle was a prosperous village. A few farmhouses skirted the outside of the village, few and far between. A cool breeze, differing at times from soft to strong, constantly blew through the valley like it was the breath of the mountains.
Elinor and Mym led Ficum and Beesa along a winding, narrow mountain path. It was tedious, and though it looked a short distance, the rough uphill climb made it long. The sun was beginning to set when they arrived at the top and looked down on the scene described above.
“This is my home,” said Elinor tenderly. “And there is my house, that pretty white one right at the bottom of this mountain. See the barns and the animals? ’Tis a nice farm, is it not? Why, there is my mother, see her brown dress and white apron? I made that apron myself. Come, Ficum, let’s hurry!” She bounded down the path like a mountain goat, her dog not far behind. Ficum followed more slowly, not because he felt less excited, but because he was not sure he could run so fast without stumbling.