Yost
MidafternoonA fortnight they’d been at this.
First, the ancient oak tree in the center of Yost’s city square had very suddenly shed all of its leaves and died. It was a bit of a fixture, having survived a fire that destroyed much of the city some twelve years ago. Upon its sudden death, likely due to some tree parasites or disease or whatever it is that trees get, there was a sort of mass mourning.
There was a small ceremony. A crowd amassed in the square to hear a speech given by the Lord Mayor, followed by some poignant stories about the tree and being some sort of favorite haunt in their childhood and other such rubbish. As it was told, there was even a band of minstrels playing some soft, sweet melody. All this in the shadow of a dead tree.
A tree. A tree. In a city literally built within a forest, with trees much like it on all sides. Humans are unpredictable, yet highly ritualistic creatures, forming arbitrary attachments to passing things like moths drawn to only very lucky or unlucky flames. They are dangerous, disgusting, smelly brutes and… well.
I’m getting carried away. Where was I?
Yes, for a fortnight.
So then, on the eve after the great dead tree ceremony, the wolves came. They wandered into the city square through all its empty streets, passing beneath illuminated windows and skulking in muddy alleyways from their dens deep in the forest. And when they came to the tree, they began circling it.
That was all.
Circling the tree, round and round, bewitched by something about its sloughing bark or its naked branches. Who could say? By morning, they were still doing it. Three of them, padding in a trampled circle of dirt around the oak’s base, utterly transfixed. Naturally they were shot, skinned, and disposed of before noon. That’s what humans do. But the rest of the pack came that night, and began circling anew. That’s what nature does. Once the humans think they have control of something, it comes right up, smacks them right in their faces, and jerks up its forearm.
I like nature.
They were killed too, of course, but not before this event was witnessed by others not armed with bows and arrows. Word began to spread that the tree was cursed. This was confirmed when, by next morning, the city’s dogs had been called to the tree! All sizes, from big galoots to little rat terriers, padding in a circle.
Now, no one wants to kill dogs. Remember the bit about arbitrary attachments? Evidently one canine is not just as good as the next. But I digress.
The dogs were reined in and dragged back to their homes, where they pawed at fences, whined at all hours, slipped through open doors and became just a general pain in everyone’s neck. All over that damn tree.
Two weeks of this now. No one knew what to do. Chop it down? That seemed harsh. Burn it? Detestable, considering what it represented to these human twits. Curse at it very loudly, cry and scream, and hold one’s head in their hands? That seemed to be what everyone agreed to do, because it was all they did. Yost was a well-off city, thriving off its exports of lumber, ore, and textiles, and most of its residents were able to enjoy long, comfortable lives. But in the face of something like this, they seemed helpless. If I were there it would have all been rather gratifying, but it was just as fun to hear about.
Well, the Lord Mayor finally had a solution. Two elven priests, a male and a female (though who could tell them apart), happened to be passing through, and after much begging and a fat pledge of coin, they agreed to perform an exorcism of the tree. An errant demon, they explained. Frightening but altogether harmless, and seemingly uninterested in humans. Casting it out of the tree should put an end to the canine fixation on some old dead oak.
But this was only a diversion. They hadn’t come for the tree, it was nothing to them.
They came for her.
“Bring to us Marelli Beltran,” they requested of the Lord Mayor. This was along with the coin too, of course. “We have business with her.”
“The Beltran girl?” A notable person. Mostly from her odd appearance and, supposedly rumored, the mysterious circumstances of her origins. Otherwise, she was perfectly pleasant as far as anyone else was concerned. Perhaps, the Lord Mayor thought, she was half elven. It might explain her white hair. “Relation of yours? Or… do you simply need something mended?”
“Never met her,” the female priest replied.
“This is between the City of Veyhollow and her,” the male priest added. What he didn't add was that she had never been to Veyhollow either.
The Lord Mayor had no choice but to agree. Marelli would be sent for.
The willowy elves, clad in their silvery robes and ivory jewelry, both settled on a bench outside the city hall. Just down the curved path to the city square, the dogs that got loose from their owners could still be seen circling the infernal tree. While the male priest opened a book in his lap, the female quietly watched them.
And they waited.
