Three days later, we arrived at the foot of Boyle’s Mountain.
“Braddock’s Statue is on the mountain’s summit,” said Bard. “We’ll need a shovel if we’re going to dig up the next clue.”
He pointed down the road, away from the mountain. “That wizened old man told me there’s a village that way, maybe a mile from here. Why don’t you fair dams—”
“Ahem,” said Myth as she crossed her arms and glared at Bard.
“Why don’t both of you wait here,” Bard corrected himself, “while I procure a shovel.”
“Procure,” said Myth. “You’re going to steal it, aren’t you?”
“No. No. No,” said Bard, chuckling nervously. “I’ll just… borrow it without permission.”
“Sounds like stealing to me,” replied Myth. “And I’m not getting involved in illegal activities.”
I nodded in agreement with her.
“I’ll give it back,” said Bard.
“Nuh-uh,” replied Myth, shaking her head. “You’ll mess up and come racing back here with a mob of angry villagers chasing you. They’ll take one look at me and decide to blame the elf. Nuh-uh. I’m not getting lynched because of a shovel.”
“Myth is right,” I said. “Fortunately”—I took off my knapsack, opened it, and pulled out my coin purse—“we can buy a shovel.” I handed a few coins to Bard. “That should be enough. Now, hurry along. We’ll wait for you here.”
Bard rushed off towards the village.
Myth and I watched him for a minute. Then Myth turned to me and said, “You’ll never get your change back from him.”
“I know,” I replied. “But I don’t mind, so long as he buys a shovel.”
Just then, I heard someone whistling behind us. Myth must have heard it, too, because both of us turned around at the same moment.
An elderly elf—a properly wizened old man—was walking through a field and towards the road. He was holding a pail. Liquid sloshed out of pail as he hobbled along…
Look, Buster, the pail was full of soapy water. I did not know that just then, of course. But I would learn it by and by. Now, I really do not feel like saying liquid repeatedly. So I am going to say water from now on.
Yes. Yes. I should narrate the story as I experienced it. But come on, Buster! Liquid just sounds silly.
So…
Upon reaching the road, the elf halted about twenty yards away from us. Just in front of him was a stone memorial. This memorial was situated at a bend in the road where the road veered sharply to the left.
The elf set down his pail of water. He pulled a rag out his trouser pocket and thrust it into the soapy water. Removing the now-sopping rag from the pail, the elf wrung it out. Then he wiped the rag across the surface of the memorial.
Myth and I walked towards the elderly elf. As we neared him, I noticed that the ground suddenly ended just beyond the memorial—there was a sheer fifty-foot drop.
“Greetings, Father,” Myth said to the old man.
He looked at her and smiled. “Oh, hello, young’un,” he said, his voice raspy. “It’s nice ta meet a youngster who respects her olders. Kids these days—bah! Ol’ Bran, they call me. Never Father like you just did. Yer folks done well, teaching you manners.”
Noticing me, Bran’s demeanor suddenly changed. “Begging yer pardon, young Miss,” he said as he hunched his shoulders and bowed his head. “I meant no disrespect by not greeting you properly.”
I smiled at him. “There’s no need to apologize, Sir.”
Gesturing towards Myth, I added, “This is Myth, or Mythilda. And my name is Izzy—just Izzy. There’s no need to call me Miss.”
Bran shuffled nervously and said, “As you wish, Mi… um.”
“It’s okay, Father,” Myth told him. “Izzy is a peculiar human—”
I slapped her arm playfully.
“—she’s not big on formalities,” Myth finished her statement.
“So, yer not her servant?” Bran asked Myth.
“Nope,” replied Myth. “We’re travelling together as friends.”
“Friends,” said Bran. He relaxed. “That’s good, young’un. Be a better world if more elves and humans were friends, so I’s always said."
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
Bran pointed at the memorial. “Come ta pay yer respects to the Boyle family, have you?”
“The Boyle family?” said Myth. “Izzy and I aren’t from Bramble, Father. I’m afraid we’ve never heard of the Boyles.”
Bran sighed. “Well, least you have an excuse, not being from Bramble. These kids today don’t think it’s important, remembering the past. But we olders—we won’t forget the Boyles.”
Bran pointed to the summit of Boyle’s Mountain. “Up there is Ol’ Braddock’s Statue.”
He shook a finger at Myth. “Remember that name well, young’un. Ol’ Braddock—the late Lord Boyle, that is—saved Bramble back when those cusses from the Holding Where invaded us.”
Bran paused and spat. “Curse them! A hundred and thirty years ago, they came here and pillaged everything they could. Ol’ Braddock, he stopped ’em cold right here on his mountain. More ’n a few elves fought with him; Ol’ Braddock had always been good ta us elves.”
He paused again and shook his head. “I was just a boy then. Shame of my life, not being able ta fight with Ol’ Braddock. But I remember him, and what he did for us elves after the war.”
Bran grasped Myth’s arm. “Remember this, young’un—it’s important. You see, Ol’ Braddock made sure Bramble did away with slavery—us elves were finally free. Best friend we ever had, Ol’ Braddock was.”
He patted the memorial “’Cept maybe for his descendants.”
Looking at Myth, Bran went on, “Now this here stone, young’un—take note of it."
He pointed at a name engraved on the memorial. “You see that name: Broderick, Lord Boyle. Remember that name, young’un. Ol’ Braddock’s great-grandson, he was. And as good a friend to us elves as Ol’ Braddock was.”
Bran sighed. “It was a tragedy, him dying so young.”
“What happened to him?” I asked Bran.
“Lord Boyle was on holiday with his family,” said Bran.
He pointed at another name engraved on the memorial. “His wife, the Lady Boyle, was as fine a woman as ever lived.”
Bran pointed at a third name. “And their wee boy, the Lad Bartholomew, was a polite young man—unlike these kids today.”
He paused and caressed the memorial. “The three of them came up here ta pay respect ta Ol’ Braddock. Something happened here at this bend. Maybe the horses got spooked. Or maybe the driver was taken with drink. It don’t matter—won’t change what happened.”
Bran shuffled over to the drop-off. “Their carriage plummeted off this here bluff. Shattered inta pieces, it did. No one survived.”
He shook his head. “Sad day for us elves, that was. And these kids today don’t remember.”
Bran pointed at Myth. “Remember the Boyles, young’un. Don’t be like them other kids.”
Myth bowed her head. “I’ll remember them, Father.”
“Good,” said Bran, nodding his head. “’Cause I’m getting old, ain’t got long left in Nisse Cul Tairna. And someone needs ta remember after I’m gone.”
He shuffled back to the memorial. “I left the Elvenhome after they died and moved up here. The Lairdessa herself said it’d be okay.”
Bran rubbed the memorial again. “Forty years now, I’ve been coming here every day ta clean this stone. Best job there is. ’Cause us olders, we remember.”
Bran picked up his pail. “Excuse me, but I best be off. This ol’ body don’t move so well and I’s got lots ta do still. Say hello to Ol’ Braddock for me if you head up the mountain.”
“We will, Sir,” I said.
“Good,” said Bran. “It’s been years since I’s been able ta climb up there and visit him.”
Pointing a finger at Myth again, Bran said, “Remember, young’un. Remember. ’Cause us olders won’t always be around ta remind you.”
Myth nodded and said, “Yes, Father.”
Bran shuffled away.
After he passed from sight, I said, “He was nice. But why did he call himself ‘an older?’ ”
“An older is an elderly elf who isn’t an Elder,” said Myth as she studied the memorial. “It’s just our way of telling between an elderly elf and an Elder.”
Myth ran her finger along the memorial’s engraved text. “Lad Bartholomew was just ten years old when he died,” she said quietly. “That’s so sad.”