“Well,” said Myth, “there it is: the Reserve.”
Panting, I halted beside her. We had endured an arduous journey through the craggy hills of the Holding Moonlit. My legs ached so much; they were absolutely screaming at me, moaning about how weary they were. But our pains had been worth it. Because here we were, standing at the border between Moonlit and the Reserve, the home of an Innuatti clan called the Owala. Before us stretched a vast prairie of waist-high grass speckled with wild bergamot, goldenrod, and yarrow.
I gulped air into my lungs, attempting to catch my breath. “I never thought I’d see one of the Innuatti homelands,” I said. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Myth. “But it’s a harsh, untamed beaut—”
“Whhooo-doo-doooh!” boomed a raspy voice. “Whhooo-doo-doooh!”
Startled, I jumped slightly and grabbed hold of Myth’s arm.
Myth chuckled and said, “No need to be afraid, Izzy.” Pointing to a spot in front of us and a bit to our left, she added, “Look.”
Amid the grass, I noticed a large prairie chicken strutting about as if it were the king of the roost.
The chicken raised the feathers on the side of its neck, exposing the orange air sacs hidden beneath. “Whhooo-doo-doooh!” it bellowed once again.
“I think that boomer is trying to impress the hens,” said Myth. She looked at me and grinned. “Maybe he fancies you.”
I slapped her arm gently. “Don’t be vulgar, Myth. Oh, and implying I’m so small that he’s mistaken me for a hen isn’t funny. Besides, I don’t have feathers.”
“Maybe he’s not too smart. I mean—autumn is approaching, mating season must be over.”
“Whhooo-doo-doooh!” cried the chicken one last time. Then he gave up and strutted off, probably in search of a more fert… no, um… promising location.
“Good luck!” Myth called out to him.
We stood there awhile, admiring the wild, yet tranquil countryside.
“Whhooo-doo-doooh!” sounded in the distance.
Myth chuckled again. “You’ve got to admire his persistence.”
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “But I was hoping to see more than just a lovelorn chicken. Where are the Owala?”
“Sorry, Iz,” replied Myth. “I doubt they stand at the border, waiting to talk with strangers.”
I huffed. “Well, that’s just rude. I was really looking forward to meeting some of them.”
“My ancestors were Owalan, you know,” said Myth. “So if you don’t mind stretching the truth, I guess you can claim that you talked to one of them.”
“Your kinfolk came from here, really?”
Myth nodded. “Most elves in the central Holdings can trace their ancestry back to the Owala.”
“Do you know anything about them?”
“Not really,” replied Myth, shaking her head. “We’ve lived with humans for hundreds of years; too much time has passed.
“But a few years ago, an elf I know, Bedwyr, traveled to one of the coastal Holdings beyond the Reserve. He was too lazy to hike the long northern route through the Dwarfdwel Mountains. So he decided to take a shortcut through the Reserve.
“According to Bedwyr, he ran into some Owalan warriors who were mounted on giant birds not far into his journey. The warriors didn’t speak to him. Instead, they blocked the route forward and pointed at the direction he had just come from. Bedwyr had no choice but to turn around.”
“That wasn’t very friendly of them,” I said.
“I wouldn’t draw any conclusions about the Owala based upon that story, Iz,” replied Myth. “This is Bedwyr I’m talking about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bedwyr was always making up stories no one would believe,” said Myth. “All the elves in Dawn knew that. When Bedwyr returned to the Elvenhome and told his story, most people assumed it was just that—a story. But I wasn’t so sure that it was just another one of Bedwyr’s whoppers.”
“You believed him?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Myth. “But… How can I put this?”
Myth rubbed her chin and scrunched up her face as if she were pondering what to say.
“If Bedwyr went fishing and caught nothing,” she said, “he’d claim that he had battled a gigantic fish for hours. Naturally, the fish would escape just as he was about to reel it in. But if he managed to catch even a minnow, then he’d proudly display it for everyone to see. To Bedwyr, catching a fish—any fish—was an accomplishment, so there was no need to embellish his tale.
“Bedwyr’s account of his trip to the Reserve lacked the drama that he put into most of his stories. Since he never claimed that he’d fought an army of Owalan warriors, I’ve always wondered if he were telling the truth. But it’s Bedwyr, so you can never be certain.”
“So his story didn’t inspire elves to abandon the Elvenhome in droves so they could live among the Owala?” I asked her.
“W-why would we do that?” replied Myth, clearly taken aback by my question.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve always thought that elves would love to rejoin their kindred. You know—throw off the shackles of human oppression and live free again.”
Myth chuckled. “That’s a fanciful idea. It’s a very Izzy thing to say.”
Shaking her head, Myth added, “It’s also completely wrong. Sure, a few foolish elves dream of rejoining the Innuatti. But for most of us—the Holdings are our homes. We don’t want to give up our lives so we can rough it in the wilds with people we don’t know. We just want humans to treat us fairly—that’s our dream.”
Myth waved her hand at the prairie before us. “This isn’t.”
“So,” I said, folding my arms across my tummy, “you don’t want to visit your ancestors’ homeland?”
Shrugging her shoulders, Myth said, “It’s not important to me, Iz.”
“Really?” I replied, not bothering to keep the disbelief out of my voice.
“Why dwell on the ancient past,” said Myth, “when we’re alive today?”
…We’re alive today. How could I argue with that? Myth was always so practical. Of course, she would not concern herself with “what was.” No, she only cared about “what is.” That particular trait was one of her qualities I most admired.
I admit that my head was usually in the clouds, Mister. I always sought to romanticize people and situations. And I enjoyed doing that. It was part of what made me Izzy. But floating too high into the clouds can be dangerous. Travelling with Myth was a boon because her common sense kept me from drifting away. And I think my sappiness helped her. Too much reality can turn you into a grump. Yes, we complimented one another.
Anyway…
Taking a deep breath, I took one small step into the Reserve.
Turning around, I beamed at Myth. “There. Now I can say that I’ve travelled into the Reserve. And you’re my witness.”
Myth’s lips curved upwards into a grin as she suppressed a chuckle. “Bravo, Izzy,” she said. “Truly, you’re one of the greatest explorers in Nisse Cul Tairna.”
“And don’t you forget it, Missy,” I replied, slapping her shoulder.
I glanced around at the prairie, savoring my triumphant voyage into the Reserve.
Looking at Myth, I said, “So, where should we go now?”
Myth shrugged. “Anywhere you like.”
“But it was my idea to come here. It’s your turn to pick a destination.”
“I’m happy going anywhere, Izzy. You decide where our journey will take us next.”
I thought for a moment, mulling over all the places I wanted to visit. One location stood out more than the others did.
“Well,” I said. “We rushed through the Holding Bramble. Maybe we should return there and explore it properly.”
“Um, Izzy, we spent a month in Bramble,” replied Myth. “I wouldn’t say we rushed through it.”
“Well, yes, maybe we didn’t just pass through it,” I admitted. “But I still think we didn’t see enough of it.”
“Hmm,” uttered Myth, watching me closely. “Didn’t a tavern keeper tell us about a Beet Festival that Bramble is going to host? You were very interested in that festival, I recall.”
“Oh, was I?” I muttered, slightly embarrassed that Myth had so easily figured out why I wanted to return to Bramble.
“Uh-huh,” said Myth. “And I remember that this Beet Festival is going to occur in the autumn.”
Myth gasped dramatically. “Oh, my goodness! Autumn is nearly upon us. Why, we have just enough time to make it to Bramble before the Beet Festival begins.”
Let me add, Mister, that Myth looked incredibly smug just then.
“Okay, Missy,” I grumbled. “You’ve figured it out. Congratulations. But you don’t have to look so smug. A good slapping would wipe that haughtiness off your face.”
Myth folded her arms and shook her head, but she was also smiling. “A Beet Festival, really?”
“I think it sounds fun—quaint.”
Myth sighed. “Okay, Izzy. Let’s head to Bramble and your Beet Festival. Perhaps you’ll be crowned the Beet Queen.”
In response, I punched her arm playfully.
Turning our backs to the Reserve, we headed towards Bramble. Unbeknownst to us, we were also about to embark upon a grand adventure.