Family Matters
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel

Thumbnail art by  tegerio, color by  Major Matt Mason


Part Twenty-three



Low:

We were escorted out of the Palace and through the gate to where we had arrived. Matt tipped his cap to the watching guards as we ‘ported back to the Musashi.

As soon as we appeared aboard I looked at my husband. “I made no such offer, Matt.”

He grinned at me. “Remember, sweetheart, you and Tali let me do the talking, because – “

“Because you’re more diplomatic than we are,” I said, shaking my bushy tail irritably. It’s the truth; where Matt tries to talk, I’m far more likely to order weapons free. Tali would likely try to seduce the opponent first, and then start blasting if that didn’t work. “Do you think they’ll take you up on the offer?”

Matt shrugged. “Maybe.”

[Note appended to manuscript: “He’ll talk really smoothly – when he's trying to get out of paying for drinks.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Michael?”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Yes, Matt?”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Kindly leave this plane of existence.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Sure! It’s always Opening Day somewhere!”]


***


Winterbough:

"Dat dizzy dame's got da strangest trainin' regimen I ever seen, Master."

This was Brother Cellini's comment to me as the two of us walked around the west part of the [Star-Mirror] on a blustery afternoon. We'd previously visited Windimere at her lair on the other side of the great lake, and I'd taken up with the turtle's suggestion that we do a bit of road work, "which is good in da eyes of da Lady."

So we were jogging along, but our progress was halted by a rather remarkable sight, which we saw off in the distance, near where the trees started to thin out and the hills started to rise, on their eventual march up to the heights of Mount Humbert, far off to the north.

We could see a figure in ‘Kelly Green’ riding astride a very large feral sheep, which every so often reared up and then leapt across a rocky chasm, twisting around as it did so. The flowing ginger-colored head-fur could only mean that it was Una Sawyer, out for a spin.

I haven't mentioned the feral sheep of the Vale before to you, largely because the topic hadn't come up. In fact, it had only been in relatively recent times that the sheep had re-entered the picture.

In the Long Ago, many centuries before [The Coming of the Skunks], the question of raiment had evidently come up. Probably, it must be said, not at the behest of the roe-bucks, who I'm sure were quite content to go about in what had been bestowed upon them by the Stars Above. Allowed "the lads" to breathe, you understand. The roe-does, of course, had different ideas on the subject, no doubt not content to experience further Elfhamian winters without at least some sort of covering.

And thus it was that the Elfhamian sheep was started to be domesticated. I say "started," because in the thousands of years since, no fur's managed to finish the job. The roebucks had managed to collect a few somewhat tractable specimens; i.e., a group of sheep that wouldn't bite the hoof of you inside five seconds, or were slightly slower or slightly less able to climb up sheer rock faces.

It was a buck that was being punished, or one that had had a few too many pints, that was on shearing duty every year. The wool, when harvested, was very coarse (and had spots of roebuck blood on it, here and there), but the roe-does were able to take it, and from it, make the cloth that clothed the deer of the Vale.

Surprisingly, it was the bucks that were clothed first, supposedly. The better to preserve the appetites of the does, 'tis said. In any event, from somewhere or other, the bucks developed the tweed cloth that to this day is favored by cervine mels in the Vale (and not a few of the ex-Prisoners, as well). The roe-does made their own homespun garments, not to mention their own black dyes to give them their traditional look.

Oh, yes, and a few daft roebucks actually managed to figure out how to milk the ewes to make cheese. I would have wanted to have had a conversation with the first roebuck of the Vale who tried that on, just to see what in the Netherhells possessed him.

In the time of my three-quarters mad grandsire, Third of His Name, there was a small industry for making woolen yarn, woolen cloth, and woolen clothes (not to mention Elfhamian cheese). None of this was exported because the yields were fairly small. Luckily, the clothes were built to last.

When Skull Forest came about, like a lot of things, the woolen industry of the Vale collapsed, and what comparatively little progress had been made in domesticating Elfhamian sheep had been mostly lost. They went back to their ancient ways, scrambling up the sides of the rocky areas in the north of the Vale, or skulking about in the wooded areas. The looms and distaffs in many an Elfhamian home gathered dust.

The Regeneration itself didn't do much for this industry, in spite of the vastly increased demand for cloth that it caused. This was of some concern to the [Doe-Moot], since that lot didn't like coppers flowing out of the Vale. As I found out later, the solution didn't come until the Travelers were brought to our country by the Wolf Queen.

They had a great deal of knowledge regarding weaving and dyeing (no surprise), and more to the point, they were able to convince their mates, the ex-Prisoners from the Grey Horde, to take up the task of (re)domesticating the sheep.

A few of the ex-Prisoners had been shepherds in their native land, and took up the task with some nostalgia. And, it must be said, with a great deal of perseverance, since a steady stream of them had to go to the roe-does and their mates for various healing magicks. It wasn't until they worked with a few bucks to design shepherd's crooks with multiple knobs that they managed to get things to where it was at least even money in wolf versus ram, ewe, or even lamb. You had to watch out for the lambs, in particular. Cute and cuddly, Elfhamian lambs are, but they're born with teeth and the instinct to use them.

But by the time I'm talking about, there'd been a small-scale revival of the woolen industry, and the Vale was on its way toward self-sufficiency once again in clothing -- no doubt to the relief of the does.

The matter of cheese was left strictly to the bucks and the wolf-mels, who liked their Elfhamian Rarebit of a cold winter's day. Pretty pungent stuff, especially since the wolf-shepherds believe it's the feistier ewes that give better milk.

I'll take their word for it.

[Note appended to manuscript: “They also adore Princess Grace.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Really, wolfess?”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “Oh yes. They’re there all the time, but then you know how hard it is to separate the sheep from the ghost.”]

[Note appended to manuscript: “ . . . “]

Where I'm getting to with this whole line of chat is this: as with Elfhamian Ants, now and again you got a wolf or buck with more than a bit of daftness to actually want to ride an Elfhamian sheep. Speak of going to Travelers or the [Moot] for healing magicks. A particularly dangerous hobby if you cornered one in the hills. There was one shepherd who went missing for a few weeks as his ride carried him clear one-third the way up Mount Humbert before becoming exhausted. The sheep, I mean. The lunatic wolf, for his part, went one-quarter mad, and kept burbling "potato-potato-potato-potato" for a while.

Una Sawyer, amazingly, had taken up the riding of Elfhamian rams as a hobby, something that put her far beyond the pale for the [Moot], and even astonished some of the wolves. Your average roe-buck, catching sight of her off in the distance, would merely chuckle and refill their pipe. They might well have admired the sight of her, moving along at high speed over the rocks, her head-fur flowing in the breeze. She certainly was a sight in her feral riding leathers, which as I've said were tanned Kelly Green.

As to what she was up to, I couldn't say. It certainly didn't seem to me like she was preparing for either of the Challenges. Brother Cellini said "Dat dame is gettin' her head straight fer da combat." Given the way she was taking some of the large boulders, I would have thought a straight head was the last thing Una Sawyer was going to get, but in that, I could have been mistaken. The Vicar of Elfhame, of course, had far more experience in this sort of thing than I did.

"How's da combat lookin', Master?"

Cellini, I think, was hoping that the two young does would come to their senses, and square off for a few brisk rounds of Muscular Mephitism. That would have had the approbation of the mels of the Vale and of Glenallid, but I think the turtle was slowly learning the ways of the roe-does, and didn't push the matter.

"Well, we'll have a look in on the way back. I heard last night at the [Sheaf] that the target for the rolling-pin throw was almost ready."

So saying, we picked up the pace, and had a few bits of light sparring to break things up. It put me in a good frame of mind.

Which lasted up until the moment I saw the target.


***


Tessie:

“[It is so,]” I said to Mrs. Fletcher as I set bowls down for her and her mate, “[that here is a stew I have prepared with my own paws for you, Goodwife Fletcher, and for your mate, and I hope before the Lady – er, the Stars Above that it may nourish you, so that you may continue to prosper.]” I ladled a helping of thick vegetable stew into the bowls. There was a plate containing slices of fresh-baked bread already on the table, and I stepped back, my paws clasped at my waist.

I’ve had to serve guests at the Master’s Lodge, of course, as well as his homes down in the Capitols, so I’m used to standing there and watching while other people eat. Of course, I haven’t been eating quite as much as I used to, and the Regalia has me exercising every day.

And my and Sixth’s fawn has me feeling queasy every now and then.

Thinking of Sixth made me recall the scene in the Temple when Una Sawyer made her challenge to Belladonna Sumac. I’m sort of pleased that at least two does feel that they’re willing to fight for him, but still I’m a . . . Elves Don’t Lie, I’m scared.

Scared of being put aside, of always being second in the household. Sure, we’ve been sort of married in the sight of the Lady, since I’m carrying his fawn. And that means that our child will always be older than any fawns he has.

I guess I’m just scared of the future, and what it might bring.

“Put your trust in the Lady, kid,” the Regalia whispered in my ears.

In the meantime, judging from Mrs. Fletcher’s approving nod and Mr. Fletcher’s clean bowl, I am learning to keep a proper Elfhamian household.




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