Rascals. Ikfael’s home was occupied by rascals. One had turned into three. What was next? Nine? Would her peaceful glen turn into an orphanage?
Heavens forbid. Heavens forbid. Heavens forbid. Three is the direction of five. The proverb was often more true than not. Let it be so!
True, Ikfael had grown accustomed to Eight’s presence. The grilled fish was welcome, as was the deer meat. Even the vegetables were good, especially when combined. Of course, nothing compared to the food from the other world.
That had been a shock. It was enough to make her heart stop. If she’d had a heart, she was sure it would have. Just having coffee with Diriktot was nerve wracking.
Another world? Another world!
Her eyes had rounded like an owl’s when Diriktot took her along for a visit. He’d plunged them into the rivers of people and wandered between the tall towers and metal carriages. The colors, the noises, the motion—all she’d wanted was to shut herself away, but her magic didn’t work.
“Different rules,” Diriktot had said, “but still interesting.”
What in the Imperfect God’s name did that mean?
Diriktot had wanted to reward her—as if the coffee wasn’t enough—and so he had taken her on a tour of another world. Why? Ikfael had just wanted peace and quiet.
Her life was enough. She slept on the water. Twice a year, she accepted tribute from the villagers downstream. They brought her tasty food. Yearly, the elder sleeping under the glen awoke to commune with the stars. Keeping the glen calm was a small service to her. Ikfael didn’t need more than that.
There was a saying: “A god gifts with ten hands, but you only see one.” Meaning, gods always had more than one purpose for everything they did.
What was Diriktot’s purpose? To show her how strange the other world was? She didn’t need that! Eight was strange enough.
It was no wonder she’d needed to rescue him so many times. He came from a place of giant metal serpents and collegiums filled with books from floor to ceiling.
Coffee was better with milk and sugar. She’d learned that too. Also, donuts, while sweet, were not good for her stomach. They were so delicious, though. Her mouth salivated at the memory.
There was a beehive near the mushrooms to the south. Maybe she should send Eight to retrieve some honey. It wouldn’t be the same, but the sweetness was attractive; it’d almost be worth the cleansing ritual he’d likely require afterward.
She glanced his way. He was playing with his spear again.
Ikfael sighed. She was just a small spirit and had only grown so skilled because of her good fortune. If not for the elder sleeping under the glen, she would’ve died long ago. Ikafel’s gratitude to the elder was as immeasurable as the sea.
She’d tried to tell Diriktot about the need to keep the glen peaceful, but the god had paid her no mind. He only showed her books full of paintings. Books full of patterns. Books full of information so dense with experience, her mind spun afterward.
The paintings were so real. It was like they’d captured people and events in amber and pressed them between the pages. There was also a large flat book on a wall whose cover flashed with motion, portraying small people acting in small ways. None of it made sense, but it was astonishing all the same.
Ikfael’s Water Arts were such that she could make moving sculptures, but she’d never thought to tell stories with them. All that was needed was to color the water, and then her figures would become more lifelike.
Eight deserved credit for the quality of his sculptures. They were whimsical. They had personality. They told a story.
He possessed hidden talents. Not to mention the ridiculous—utterly ridiculous—number of connections to the World Spirit. It was as if the child had the skills of an elder. Not like the one under the glen, of course, but a village head or something similar.
He’d used those skills on Ikfael’s behalf, though. She’d give him that. He wasn’t as polite as the other two children—didn’t have their good sense—but he tried, in his own way, to be mindful of her desires. Ikfael flushed with pride at the memory of his gifts. They were offered without anything requested in exchange.
Diriktot wanted to give him choices. Who knew what gods truly wanted? Not Ikfael.
She didn’t know much beyond her territory and the village to the east. There was the obnoxious bear to the south, the trappers to the north, and the poison vines to the west. The heavens above. The elder sleeping below.
That was all she knew, and now there was the rascal too, who’d somehow made the days more interesting and tasty. The boy who’d come from another world, full of shocking mysteries. The one who turned into three.
Ikfael knew she needed time to understand what she’d seen. Fortunately, she’d have grilled fish every day to fortify her, sometimes with salt—she’d have to encourage Eight to get more.
Oh, heavens. Maybe he knew how to make donuts? The thought was a strong one, and saliva dripped from her mouth.
Would honey be enough? Or did donuts need sugar? There’d been so much of the stuff in the other world. Here, she received maple sugar about every other year in the tributes from the villagers. The midsummer solstice wasn’t far off, but there was no reason to be patient—not when donuts were on the line.
Ikfael looked for Eight and found him still playing with his spear. He’d likely run into difficulties dealing with the villagers. Her own history with them was complicated, but with his skills he should be able to manage.
She snickered. Wouldn’t it be a fun bit of mischief to set him among them, though? No doubt a few would try to take advantage of his youth, only to be surprised by his otherworldliness, not to mention the uekisheile, spirits, and gods watching over him.
Oh, heavens. Wouldn’t that be a delight? One almost as good as donuts.
