Chapter Ten
“It’’s not right. He protects a human and sacrifices all of us. Why must I be locked in the Heights when my love is down below? I wish to see her, to be with her. I cannot stand to live apart any longer.”
“Stop your whining, Ruffin,” the young elf’s mother said. “You blaspheme the King. He does what he must and who are you to question his wisdom? Besides, you never loved Aramela as much when she was at your side as you do now that she is not,” she scowled.
“The King risks the safety of all of us for a human child. He’’s grown too old and too weak to know what is right.”
“And you are blinded by your lust for your woman, son, and you no longer speak rationally. Hush now. I will hear no more of this treason in my home,” she lambasted him.
“Treason? You call me a traitor? Have you lost your mind too, old woman?”
“Do not speak to me so. I am still your mother,” she snapped as she approached the angry boy with a broomstick she grabbed from the comer.
“Will you strike me now with that, mother? Do you think I’’m not strong enough to thwart you? I am no longer a child, and you are blinded by your loyalty to the old ways.”
“They have served us all well, Ruffin, have they not, the old ways? I do not see you complaining for want of food to eat or clothes to wear. Do you toil so hard that your fingers are raw from your labors?” she asked, mocking. “You are a lazy, good for nothing child.”
The auburn-haired elf moved slowly to the other side of the small room. He turned his back upon his mother for a moment and obscuring his movements, he picked up a cooking pan made of cast metal that was sitting upon the table before him.
“If your father were still alive, he would put you in your place,” she chastised. “He was a good man, a loyal elf. What has become of our family?” wringing her hands. “You would not have spoken to him the way you speak to me. You would have shown some respect.”
“He was a fool, mother! He was a simpleton. Look around you. What did father do for us? He left us here in this hovel and now I cannot even be with my love,” he said more agitated than before, his back still to his mother.
She swung around, “My husband was no such thing! He was a good and kind man and he loved us dearly. How can you say such horrible things? I am ashamed for you. You dishonor us all,” she said, sobbing. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“You are no better than he was, mother. You are weak and sentimental. I will not live this way forever. I want more than this!”
“What you may want and what you will get depends upon how hard you work, son. Things do not come to us merely for wanting them. Such foolish talk. I raised you badly and now I suffer a mother’s pain for it. May the First forgive me. What have I brought into this world?”
“I will have more! This human’s presence here will not keep me locked up in the Heights. The King lives gloriously in his palace and I live like a dog, tending his gates, keeping him safe so that he can sacrifice our happiness for a man-child. His own son even ran away from him!”
“I will hear no more of this!” she said, raising her broom menacingly at her son’s back. “Treason! You speak treason!” she yelled. “Look at me and tell me that you will shame me. Do not hide in the shadows and speak about defying the King. Say it to my face so that I can see your eyes and know if my son has gone from me forever,” she exclaimed frantic, but Ruffin kept his back turned to his mother. “Where is your honor? Where is your courage? Are you afraid even to look upon me?”
The old woman jabbed Ruffin with the rounded end of the broom, yelling all the time, as her anger built and built with the frustration of so great a disappointment.
“Turn to me, I say. Coward! Coward!” she screamed at him, thrusting the broom handle into his skin.
Anger mounting, the elf, tortured by envy and tormented by love, whirled with loathing in his eyes. He needed to still her shrill voice, to quiet her feeble-minded prattle. Ruffin could bear the insults no longer. His mind was exploding. He lifted the heavy pan with his right arm and struck her hard upon the side of the head. The old woman crumbled from the impact like a charred piece of wood, and no sooner did Ruffin bend down to assess the damage, when the light of her life went out forever. Frenzied, he looked around for something to stop the pool of blood spreading rapidly across the wooden floor. Panic overcame him as he realized what his ire had done.
“Oh no! Oh no!” he lamented, kneeling before her prone body and blotting the crimson stain with a dishtowel. “Mother? Mother? I did not mean it,” he wailed. “You made me do it. You always insult me. I didn’’t want to hit you, but you wouldn’’t stop yelling at me!” he screeched, dabbing at the smears.
Tears streamed down his smooth face as he attempted to gather his wits about him.
“Calm down now,” he admonished himself as he ran to the corner of the sparse room and sat with his head in his hands. “I must deal with this. What is done is done,” he spoke aloud. “She was so mean to me. What choice did I have,” he reasoned. “She did not care about my sufferings.”
As the violence of his actions sunk in, he began to feel oddly better, not worse. A sense of empowerment overtook him, along with a morbid sense of freedom and he commenced to plan once more. An idea was forming in his head and he embraced it with a vengeance, even as his dead mother’s body lay no more than ten feet from where he was sitting.
He pushed the small table off of the woven mat upon which it stood. Knocking the chairs to the side, he snatched the rug and brought it over to the battered body that lay upon the smeared floor. He dropped it on top of his mother’s corpse and tucked one side in under her, trying not to gaze upon her face. Using his foot, he pushed her so that she rolled along with the mat until he could only see the top of her grey head and the worn soles of her small boots.
Ruffin lifted the dead weight and carried it into the even smaller adjacent chamber which served as her sleeping quarters and sewing room. Propping the bundle against the wall, he opened the trunk that stood next to the tiny bed and he threw its contents upon the floor. He then lifted his dead mother’s body and placed it roughly into the trunk as if it was a sack of dirty laundry. Haphazardly throwing the contents that he had strewn all over back on top of the rolled mat which lay now bent and twisted inside the trunk, he slammed the lid closed. Reaching into the dresser drawer, he grabbed a wooden box that held her few valuables among the other odds and ends that she had collected during her poor and simple life. Ruffin stuffed the coins into his pocket and felt around until he found what he sought. He withdrew a heavy lock and with it, he secured the latch upon the trunk. Turning his back quickly upon his crime, he then left the room.
He grabbed a rucksack from a hook upon the wall and packed it rapidly with some articles of clothing. Ruffin also placed a loaf of bread and some hard cheese inside. He grabbed his cloak from the rack and threw it over his shoulders. Finally, he reached for the sharp knife his mother used to pare the flesh from the fruits and vegetables they ate each evening. He carefully fastened it inside his belt. Possessed, he blew out the candles, scanned the room for the last time and then cautiously opened the door.
Peering outside and hoping that no one was in the dark alley, he looked up and down the narrow passage. When he was satisfied that he could escape unnoticed, he quickly stepped onto the wooden landing and shut the door behind him. Pulling his cloak over his head, he sped down the street.
Keeping to the shadows, Ruffin navigated the cramped alleyway, hugging the darkness until he reached the broader avenue that marked the end of his small street. There were very few people out and about at this hour as it was suppertime and the elves of Seramour treated this hour almost like a ritual, a family time, rarely interrupted.
He moved hastily along, wishing now only to leave as fast as possible. All thoughts of his terrible deed he banished from his mind and with selfishness and lust driving him, he made his way to the remote lift that he spent the daylight hours guarding. This particular passage to the ground was rarely used by anyone anymore. It was built to accommodate the solitary gatherers who sought out the moonberries, those luscious fruits that only revealed themselves when the moon was bright. They grew in pod-like pouches which opened for only a few days each month. But the elves had learned a tiel or so ago how to cultivate them in the Heights, rendering the evening sojourns to the ground below unnecessary.
Devon sat heavily upon the soft soil by the lift. In one hand he held a parchment and in the other, a mug of cider. Ruffin approached him from behind, sneaking up silently, using the cover of darkness and the surrounding bushes to conceal his coming. He was ready to draw the small knife from his belt as soon as he drew close to his friend’s back. Devon must have heard some noise or sensed his arrival, as he turned suddenly to face Ruffin. A look of surprise, though not an unhappy one, crossed his face. The renegade elf, possessed by his evil course, grew nervous and agitated.
“What brings you here at this hour? Your shift does not begin for quite some time?” Devon inquired wide-eyed.
“I could not eat tonight. Too much ale last evening, I suspect. I needed to walk about a bit. I thought I might keep you company,” he responded, sitting down close to his friend.
“Well, that was surely kind of you. It does get lonely here every night. Well, with no one even using this lift in ordinary times, you can imagine,” he answered, relieved to have someone to talk to for a change.
Devon put down the paper he was reading and began to scrounge around in his backpack for something to offer Ruffin as they sat together.
Ruffin seized the opportunity immediately. While Devon’s eyes were searching his bag, he placed his right arm around his shoulders affectionately. Devon looked upon him and was surprised by his friend’s behavior. As he opened his mouth to question it, Ruffin pulled his left hand from inside his cloak and thrust the sharp blade deep into Devon’s chest. He turned it swiftly, reaching for the heart. Red blood spurted from the wound in spasms, having hit its mark. Devon’s head slumped heavily on Ruffin’s shoulder, shock still upon his eyes.
The young elf was surprised at how easy killing had become for him and he found that he actually enjoyed it. In the recesses of his soul, he felt a pang of regret or perhaps merely apprehension, but he refused to allow it to surface. The actions he committed empowered him and made him feel in control of his world for the first time in his memory. He believed that what he did was necessary and that it was forced upon him by others.
Evil never bears responsibility when it rears its ugly head. It is an emotion riddled with blame and self-righteousness. Ruffin felt justified in escaping the prison of Seramour, and his mind had become so saturated with loathing he could not see clearly through the fog that this hatred enveloped him in. In only a short while, he had become a monster, a vile and detestable renegade. He had perpetrated matricide after all, and yet he sought only to flee and satisfy his other urges.
Ruffin let Devon’s head fall to the ground as he slid out from under his weight. He cleaned his blade on the cloth of his friend’s jacket and then casually put it back in his belt. The elf, by now possessed by the evil that coursed through his veins, stood and grabbed the feet of the corpse. He dragged it into the nearby bushes and rudely covered it with some loose branches and leaves.
I will be long gone by the time anyone discovers him, he thought. No one comes here anymore anyway.
“His soul will be halfway to Sedahar before anyone happens upon him,” he said aloud, laughing like a crazy man.
As if possessed, he carefully undid the latches that secured the small lift closed. Flipping the trap door open, he stepped into the dark space and felt the platform securely beneath his feet. Ruffin slowly lowered himself just a few feet with the ropes and then he reached up to close the panel above him. As soon as it was shut tightly, he lowered himself to the ground.
The air was heavy with moisture, and his lungs were heaving and blowing by the time he reached the damp soil below. The sky was dark and the clouds concealed what little light the half-moon shed upon the surface. He stepped off the platform and began to walk in the direction of Aramela’s home. Her father was a trapper and he lived upon the surface all year long, ascending to the Heights only when he needed to sell his skins at the market. Ruffin visited her surreptitiously often and he knew the way to her cottage by heart. He had to be careful of the old man though. There was nothing but enmity between them and he disapproved of the relationship Ruffin had with his daughter.
The young elf had fallen so far so fast, that he was totally unaware of his blood-spattered tunic and his deranged look. He traipsed through the woods like a school child on an outing. All he could think about was his lover, and the thought of laying in her arms once more compelled him forward unhindered by regret or remorse. Seramour was no more than a distant memory, a childhood vision. He was free now. Aramela would understand his need. She would take him in and comfort him forever.
He broke into a run and ignoring the twigs and branches that scratched his face and arms and ripped his clothing. He stumbled upon a small rock that obstructed his path unseen and he fell headfirst into a stagnant pool of muddy water. Frenziedly, he raised himself up and continued to run. His sleeve got caught on a protruding tree limb and he tore it loose, incognizant of the half he left behind. Like a wild animal, he entered the clearing that surrounded Aramela’s modest home. He saw the candle burning in her window and he dashed headlong for it.
She awaits me, he thought, totally unhinged now. She must have known I would come.
“Aramela? Aramela?” he whispered at the window. “Let me in. I am here, my love.”