Myth and I took our leave of Di Betty and Skeeter.
As we hustled through the City Proper, I said, “On behalf of humankind, I’d like to apologize for those two.”
“Why?”
“You heard them. Urgh! What a couple of buffoons.”
Myth shook her head.
“They’re scared,” she said. “And they’re frustrated. The people here are simple folk. All they want is to have good jobs so they can provide for their families. And maybe to have a few coins for pocket money. But that’s not happening. So they blame foreigners. Neither Skeeter nor Di Betty blamed elves or any species in particular, just unknown foreigners. Doing that is easier than facing the truth is. It’s not just human nature to do that. Plenty of elves do it, too. No. Ronnie Bridge is to blame. He’s a vampire, making himself fat off people’s hopes and fears.”
“Well, maybe,” I said, reluctant to admit that people like Skeeter and Di Betty were not Narrows biggest problem.
“Hold on a second, would you?” said Myth. “I cannot wear this cloak any longer. It feels as if it’s trying to strangle me.”
Myth struggled to free herself from the undersized cloak.
“Do you think it’s safe to take it off?” I asked her. “What if someone sees you?”
“Most of the crowed has dispersed,” said Myth. “If anyone sees me now, I’ll just be another elf, not some evil foreigner.”
She handed me the cloak. “Here. And thanks. Your quick thinking may have saved my life.”
Myth smiled at me in that way that only she could.
“Oh. It was nothing,” I said, blushing deeply in the presence of her smile. “I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”
We walked on, eager to leave the City Proper. A few minutes had passed when…
Outside a tavern, a loud, boastful voice said, “Remember, friends, Ronnie Bridge will stop those foreigners from taking your jobs. Why, I’ll build a wall around Narrows if I have to.”
And there he was, right in front of us—the man who would make Narrows great again. Surrounding him was a group of gape-mouthed humans who worshipped the ground he walked on.
How can I best describe Ronnie Bridge to you? Hmm… Bulbous. If ever one word could describe a person, then Ronnie Bridge was that person. And bulbous was the word. His face was splotchy, puffy, and red. His eyes were deep sunk and squinty. He had a comb-over—a truly hideous one. Then again, is there any other kind? His belly bulged outwards and sagged downwards like… Hmm… This is a long shot, but have you ever held a frog by its front legs, letting its belly and back legs dangle below? You have! Well, I trust you did that because you wanted to examine the frog closely, not because you wanted to hurt the poor thing… Good! I was worried about you for a moment there, Mister. Did you notice how its belly plopped outwards and downwards as if it were a wet sack of garbage? Ronnie Bridge’s belly reminded me of that. He was… Bulbous.
Spotting us, he waved us over. “Come and talk with Ronnie Bridge, my friends. I’m going to make Narrows great again.”
I wondered if perhaps we should ignore him. But Myth… well, you can probably guess what she did. She hunched her shoulders, bowed her head, and gazed at the ground. Having been given an order by a human, Myth felt obligated to comply. Her feet shuffled along, slowly taking her towards Ronnie Bridge. I followed just a step behind her.
Ronnie laughed as Myth neared him. “Well, well. I’ve caught myself a Coney, and an attractive one at that.”
Myth may have felt the need to cower before that bulbous man. But I did not. I positioned myself between Myth and Ronnie lest he decided to, um, enjoy some hands-on sport with her. If he tried anything, I was ready to slap him so hard.
“Why are you out of your pen at so late an hour, Coney?” said Ronnie. “Not causing trouble, are you?”
“No, Sir,” mumbled Myth.
Ronnie Bridge laughed again. “Now, lads,” he said as he looked at the group of flunkies who were hanging on his every word. “This here is a properly-trained Coney. It knows that humans are better than it. Don’t you, Coney?”
“Yes, Sir,” mumbled Myth.
I bristled with rage. But not at Ronnie Bridge. That bulbous creep was a rat unworthy of my ire. No. I was mad at Myth. How can she stand there, letting that bulbous gasbag treat her like that, I wondered.
I wanted her to hit him, to knock him to the ground. And, as she stood over him, for her to declare that the elves would be free one day. But no. There she stood—utterly cowed. Why does she refuse to be the romantic hero who will save her people, I asked myself.
Oh, Izzy! What a silly young woman I was back then. Myth was not yet ready to be a hero. And after centuries of despair, the elves had no desire to fight for a dream. Elves fought only to protect their families and the other elves living in their Elvenhome.
Ronnie Bridge looked at me. He winked and said, “What about you, Sweetheart? Is this Coney bothering you?”
Sweetheart! Forget what I just said about Ronnie Bridge being unworthy of my fury. Sweetheart! Oh! That bulbous pig. I wanted to claw out his eyes. Nobody called me Sweetheart. Or Sweetie. Or Sweetie Pie. I was not opposed to a loved one giving me a pet name; I rather liked it, actually. But not Sweetheart. Only one person was allowed to call me that. No one else—not my Auntie Julie, not even Myth—could call me that. And Ronnie Bridge, that bulbous boob, certainly could not call me that.
“I’m not your Sweetheart,” I hissed. “And no, she isn’t bothering me. She’s my friend.”
“Your friend,” said Ronnie Bridge as he laughed. “Ain’t that adorable, lads. Our Sweetheart here has gone and found a Coney to be her friend.”
Sweetheart! Oh! He was asking for trouble. I nearly leaped at him, ready to rip his stupid tongue out of his mouth. But I did not. I kept my head enough to realize that doing so would jeopardize Myth’s life.
“Elves didn’t bankrupt sixteen businesses in order to become rich, did they, Ronnie?” I spat out. “Elves aren’t responsible for all the jobs that have been lost in Narrows, are they, Ronnie?”
Ronnie Bridge did not even blink when I insinuated that he, not “them foreigners,” had caused Narrows’ woes. He really was a slimy pile of human garbage.
“No, they didn’t,” he said. “Conies know their place. We’ve beaten it into them by now. No, my friends, the Conies aren't to blame—this time. Those traivellin fowk, the goblins, are responsible for Narrows’ troubles.”
The traivellin fowk. Long ago, goblin hordes invaded the Holdings. The war between the humans and the goblins lasted for decades. Those days were over, though. By war’s end, the goblins were on the brink of extinction. In order to survive, the goblin hordes disbanded; they put down their weapons and picked up tools instead. They built colorful, ornate vardoes and organized themselves into convoys.
Other species joined them—like ogres for instance. In the past, humans hunted ogres for sport. With their numbers dwindling rapidly, the ogres united with the goblins. This assorted mixture of species began to call itself the traivellin fowk.
Then the traivellin fowk returned to the Holdings, not as warriors but as migrant workers. Now they roamed the Holdings in search of work. Some convoys toiled as field laborers, providing food for the Holdings’ hungry inhabitants. Others repaired roads, allowing merchants to traverse the Holdings with ease. One convoy even found a niche cleaning out the Holdings’ outhouses. No job was too dirty. The traivellin fowk gladly did jobs that no one else wanted. They were not just a reality of life in the Holdings. They were a necessity.
“You stupid, bulbous man!” I shouted as I glared at Ronnie Bridge.
To his group of lackeys, I said, “Do any of you want to clean outhouses for a living?”
When no one volunteered, I folded my arms across my tummy and said, “I didn’t think so. So grow up and stop blaming the traivellin fowk for your problems. Come on, Myth, we’re leaving.”
Huffing, I stormed off. I had not gone far when I realized that Myth had not followed me. Looking back, I said, “Myth, let’s go already.”
Myth just stood there, staring at the ground. Of course, she would not follow me. Ronnie Bridge had ordered her to approach him. Only he could dismiss her. Such was the reality of being an elf.
My heart sank as I realized that Myth would rather be a docile servant than a champion of her people. Myth, my elven friend, was not who I had thought she would be. Doing what custom demanded mattered more to her than avenging the wrongs done to her people did.
Or so I let myself believe just then as I threw a silent temper tantrum. In truth, Myth was protecting her people. She cared so much about the elves that she let that bulbous monster demean her. If she had stood up to him, elves in general would have suffered for her disobedience. That was the lesson she had learned in Dawn—a lesson she would never forget. In time, I would come to appreciate this—to love it even. Once I had cast aside my childish fancies regarding elves completely, that is.
Ronnie Bridge laughed again. He waved his hand at Myth and said, “Off you go, Coney. Don’t let that hotheaded friend of yours get you into trouble.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said Myth as she curtsied. Then she hastened to catch me up.