Chapter 11

Shannon woke to a light touch, dragged from her dreams by a presence that scythed easily through all her exhaustion. She groaned, opening her eyes. Deh Leccend leaned over her, haloed in light. His pale features regarded her flatly, draped and shadowed by ebony hair like fine silk thread. Slowly, everything began to come back to her, but it wasn’t so startling and frightening as she would have thought before speaking to Addl’laen. It certainly wasn’t anywhere near as threatening as waking up in a hospital bed with a bullet wound and fears of what she’d done against the laws of men.

“Come awake, Firea’csweise, milady.” He bid her. “The council has been in session for quite some time now without you. They request to see you.”

She was pulled up, finding herself bedded on soft grass in a cozy notch nestled in the roots of a grand old tree, set like a bed above the earth. She’d been given a lightweight but warm mantle for her slumber.

“What time is it?” She asked, yawning as she sat up. She’d forgotten. Time was irrelevant here in the Veil.

“Why are you so concerned with time, Firea’csweise, milady?” He asked, cocking his head to the side. Shannon smiled, realizing her foolishness.

“Humor me, Deh.” She said. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Oh.” He answered, understanding. Humans, as he’d experienced for countless years, were obsessed with defining their reality in any available way, including the fabrication of the idea of time -that they might gauge the extent of what they might accomplish within a minute, or an hour, a day, a year or a lifetime. Perhaps it was how they came to grips with the inevitability of death and their relatively short, mortal life spans. Perhaps it was as had been speculated by many to have studied mankind. Humans desired to know of passing in order to know some sort of feeling of accomplishment and success, if not a meaning through the course of their lives -that they might judge themselves where no one else would be able or willing to do so.

“You have slept for roughly thirty human hours, milady.”

“Thirty hours!? I’ve never slept so long in my whole life!”

“Understandable.” He said. “You would have slept longer if I hadn’t woke you. I’ve never seen Addl’laen talk for as long as she spoke to you. I didn’t think a human so capable of conversation.” He spoke without intent to offend, and Shannon took none.

“She doesn’t even talk to Dunesil for any great length more than an hour at most.”

That’s right! Shannon remembered it all in a rush. She’d talked to the tree, or more accurately, it had spoken and she had only forged the beginnings of vague questions, which prompted further talk on the part of the tree.

“How long did we talk?” She asked.

“You don’t remember?” A question came back to which she merely shook her head, feeling a bit lazy and woozy.

“I surmise it is to be expected. Don’t fear your weakness. Your strength will return when your system has grown accustomed to the sustenance of Addl’laen’s bark.” He informed, ever-bland, but he made her smile. Something about Deh Leccend left her feeling much better off than she had any right to feel. She liked him for what he was, despite his lack of emotional connection. It made him strong, she reasoned quickly. She’d always been attracted to strengths of various sorts.

“You spoke for more than three revolutions. It should have killed you.” He admitted, only ever the facts.

“Three days?!” She asked again, bewildered. “I don’t think I’ve ever held a conversation longer than three hours!” Admittedly, Shannon didn’t talk much with most people she’d met throughout her life. She didn’t like many of them enough to do so, but even with those she had liked, like Jason, it was difficult to conceive having more than several hours’ worth of meaningful conversation.

“I do not doubt it.” Deh Leccend agreed flatly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Deh?” She asked, as she would do with anyone to try to get a rise out of them, but the Black Leaf only looked confused.

“Nevermind.” She giggled, rising to test her legs. He was there, close, nimble hands supporting.

“You must be slow.” He warned. “Your strength will be faint for some time. The sustenance of Addl’laen is strong. Soon you will become acclimated to its power. Then, you too will be stronger than you imagined.”

“I’ll be alright.” She shot back at him, but he only agreed with her.

“Yes, you will.” Hesitation seemed to be part of his very being. He was always careful and ponderous whenever he’d talked, but she presumed it came with the territory of being as ancient as he was. He’d likely learned the value of being succinct in talk quite some many thousands of years ago.

“Come, Firea’csweise. The council.” He reminded, offering his support as he beckoned away. She welcomed his steady touch, and followed him voicelessly through the halls of trees.

When they arrived, she was surprised to find it was not much more than a handful of Elves gathered within a little, deeply shaded glen, still somewhere within the palace of Llaerth. They were loosely clustered about a shimmering, gently rippling pond. Their talk was quiet. Dunesil could be seen easily, tall compared to his direct kin, and he held in his corner the queen, Qaiyi, so fey, and his seven sons. Opposing the Lord of the Elvine were three others. They embodied the council, she presumed in approach, descending delicately on the arm of the Black Leaf.

Her coming drew all eyes, and quashed all voices, except Qaiyi, who moved to welcome her and take up her other arm.

“Welcome, child, Firea’csweise.” She smiled. “You are just in time for the members to see you have come.” The queen beckoned to the three who opposed Dunesil and his kin.

“My dear councilmen.” Qaiyi greeted. “Gaze upon Firea’csweise. And know Dunesil speaks truth, and Addl’laen has indeed named her so -first human to see and know of the Veil since Tolq Uen.” She gestured to a seat between the two sides, nothing more than a simple, but beautiful lump of carved stone.

Shannon sat as bidden, bashful before the councilmen. She looked on Dunesil for strength, but Deh Leccend was there at her side in a moment, seeing and knowing her fears. He saw her abashed, and stepped forth beside her to kill her emotions. All three were as tall as Dunesil, but far thinner and gangly. They only differed in their faces.

“I am Kinnishir.” The first said on the left.

“Ethaylai.” Said the second with a light bow.

“Uerandaiir.” Sounded out the third, lightly touching his heart and nodding, and thereafter, they spoke perpetually, bizarrely in perfect union.

“We are the council of the branch of the Elvine, Faer-forged on the low of the limb, borne to oppose on behalf of the balance bequeathed unto all beneath the great mother and Addl’laen. We heed the words of the Elvine, through Dunesil, who speaks on the behalf of the Great Tree, and we weigh the voice of the Lord and all who speak here. We advise when all is heard, what would bode best by all.” They spoke, thin lips moving in unison, three voices working together, creating a rather odd droning. They were like a small choir, and Shannon couldn’t help but smile, imagining them singing barber-shop. Below them, the waters stirred gently to their voices.

“We understand you have spoken to the Great Tree.” They went on. “And we know it as truth through the voice of Dunesil. But before we make any decision, Firea’csweise, we must hear your voice say.” They paused, waiting for her to speak, but Shannon didn’t know what to say.

“We must know what the voice of Addl’laen has told you before we can decide what the Elvine are to do in the near future.” They clarified, as Dunesil stood up.

“Be advised, Firea’csweise.” He spoke. “The council, and the Elvine have come to a crossroads with your coming. You have sparked reason to believe that change is indeed upon us. Your coming is concurrent with the decision to be made by the council, to forego the admonitions we impose upon your kind and unleash the fury of the Black Leaves, or to stay our course in hopes humynkind will heed our warnings by the end of their allotted century.” He glanced from her to the councilmen and back again.

“Athaem has insisted it is time to lead the Black Leaves in the eradication of man’s injustices. Three of his brothers agree. One of the council does as well, but the rest desire to await the end of the promised century of admonitions before humanity is deemed -standing upon their terminus, heedless of ruin.”

“So please,” Chimed in his lively queen. “Speak, that we may decide the Fate of mankind.”

Shannon’s brows went up in surprised comprehension. Were they saying the fate of all mankind was resting on her shoulders? What could she say to such a fact? What could she hope to begin to voice which might let them decide to spare mankind? She didn’t agree with all that humanity had done and was still doing to the planet, but killing them all seemed a little extreme. However, she had to admit, she was not a great Elf like these people who had seen ages pass beneath them, and could predict the future by extremely educated guesses. Perhaps they were making this decision, because they knew mankind was truly going to kill the planet, without which they were doomed to die anyway.

She looked from Qaiyi to Dunesil in shock, and refrained from so much as opening her mouth. Worried, she then looked to Deh Leccend at her side. His steady presence stared back, and he could see the questions in her eyes.

“Yes, Firea’csweise, they are saying that mankind’s Fate rests with you.” He answered the questions unspoken. “But nothing which you say will matter either way. You must speak of what the Great Tree has told you, and nothing more.” He was so much easier to understand than anyone else. All she had to do was tell them what the tree had told her. The fate of mankind was not so much on her shoulders as it was resting in what the Great Tree had said. Such was a relief for her, for she did not view herself as the best defender of the human cause. She lowered her eyes to the pool at her feet, biting her lip to prepare herself.

“Please, if you would.” Dunesil gestured softly upon the waters with an upturned palm. Shannon took a moment to collect her words, and opened her mouth.

“She called me, Firea’csweise.” She began, but that was as far as she was able to go. She hadn’t even needed to speak this much. She could have merely sighed, so long as the tone of her voice was unsheathed over the waters. The pond below rippled beneath the vibration of her soft voice, reacting to her like a living thing. It shuddered violently, rolling away in great waves, as if she’d cast in a mighty stone. It doubly erupted with lights and colors and sound of its own.

All of her memories of the great tree exploded into existence from within the pond, forging it into a fountain that defied physics, pouring out all that her mind held of talk with Addl’laen in rising spouts and twirls and weaving trailers. Shannon flinched, startled so. She shied away, but could not take her eyes off of it. It was frightful, and felt like she was watching a brutal battle, an undeniably wretched killing field, despite its utter beauty.

The trio of councilmen gasped and recoiled of their own. The sons of Dunesil diminished, but the Elvine Lord remained firm, watching the chaos of the waters as if reading a book. His eyes were intense and resolved, and now he knew all that Shannon had been told by the Great Tree.

No wonder, he now knew, why Addl’laen had not spoken unto him. For what had been said was intended for the girl, Firea’csweise. It was true. She was the change bearer. The councilmen knew it also, and after seeing all that her voice unleashed, it was unanimously decided amongst them.

Shannon was at a complete and utter loss. She couldn’t have been further in the dark, clinging to Deh Leccend’s sure arm as if the waters were a threat she couldn’t begin to fathom. But, sure enough, the waters of the council’s voice-reactive pool went still, and they began jabbering amongst themselves, babbling of the Elvine tongue beyond her knowledge or understanding. The pool below rippled only gently beneath their voices, as it had been doing before.

Shannon glanced to Dunesil and his recoiled sons. His dear Qaiyi hung on his arm, hiding behind his taller bulk. She looked only upon Shannon, and there in her eyes could be seen more than mere fears. There was knowing of a strange sort. Quickly, Shannon looked up to Deh Leccend again, and for the first time she could have sworn she saw a glimmer of an attitude within him. It was still a cold, sternly ordered composition of a face, but something in his eyes read of sad resignation.

“Deh?” She questioned of him, and her voice prompted a series of much more powerful ripples. She cringed, despising this frightening pool. Again the councilmen were gasping and speaking over one another with only each other, but she ignored them, pulling gently on the Black Leaf’s arm. He looked to her, and his ever unreadable eyes were decidedly grim. However, he didn’t need to speak, for the councilmen were done with their jabbering quite swiftly.

“We are unanimous, Dunesil Llaerth.” They spoke as one. “The advised century of admonitions has been unbalanced and is deemed dead. In wake of the coming of the kin, Firea’csweise, it is time. You must unleash the furies of the Black Leaves before it is too late and the elements of the Powers are awakened.” They had decided, drawing Deh Leccend’s eyes from Shannon and placing them on Dunesil.

Dunesil hesitated dreadfully. He clearly did not wish for, nor relish this outcome, but he knew it now as the only possibly resolution. Even so, he would do his part to prevent the utter annihilation of humankind.

“What say your kin?” The trio asked. One by one, the sons of Dunesil spoke up, single word answers of agreement to the decision, but it was Athaem who spoke first. He was adamant within his agreement. He even wore a hint of a smile. Shannon couldn’t believe her ears. The fate of mankind had rested upon her shoulders, and now they were all going to die.

“My kin all concur, councilmen.” The Elvine Lord informed. “But I would seek to ask the time be withheld for one week. I would send my sons to the human leaders. I would send emissaries of peace and change in effort to spare their lives. I would seek still to sway the humans with an ultimatum.” He ventured boldly, and his voice prompted fair, vibrant ripples and waves upon the pond. The councilmen looked on, and Shannon noted something in the waters. She couldn’t define it, nor understand it, but its fairness had clearly meant something.

“Very well.” The councilmen trio must have seen a possibility of success in his proposed venture. Shannon brightened up with hope. Perhaps by the graces of Lord Dunesil, the race of man might not be laid to waste after all.

“We hear your argument and agree. You have bought time for mankind with your kindness.” They informed. “You shall have seven revolutions through which time you may make your attempts at swaying the minds of mankind by emissaries of ultimatum. You will send your seven to the leaders of men. But be advised, Dunesil, mankind is stubborn, as you know, and your time is short. You have only seven days. If the humans refuse to acknowledge the threat of their ends within such time, then their time is over. You will then unleash the furies of the Black Leaves, and allow them descend from the Veil of the Leaf’s Edge.”

“Very well.” Dunesil responded, bowing. “I understand and concede the council’s voice.” The trio likewise bowed, and turned to leave, each by his own path.

“Go, my sons. Spare the mankind their fate, if you can. I shall do what I can to help sway their ways, that they might prevent their own ends.” Dunesil turned on his sons, and they were gone, immediately. From there, he took up the hand of his queen.

“Deh Leccend, Black Leaf.” The Lord spoke, drawing his gaze. “You will take the herald of change to the leaders of men on this land and let her bear witness to the salvation of all or the coming of the old with the obliteration of all that is. If I should fail, pray thee, thine sword is still so keen as I remember.”

“Yes, milord.” Deh Leccend bowed dismissively, offering his hand to Shannon, now caught upon the grips of a tide of events she wasn’t so certain she was ready to witness.

* * *

The door closed behind him with a gentle click. The office was fairly dark, despite the lights, for the sunlight coming in through the vertical blinds behind the desk and high-backed chair left him squinting. A clock ticked dully on the right wall, and a heavy sigh came nasally from the man in the chair. Middle aged and spindly, with slick receding hair, glasses and suspenders, the man sat with balding head lowered, manila folder open on the desk before him. His face was down-turned and resting in his hands along with a silver click-pen. He was reading.

Agent Connelly thought it best not to interrupt, taking the opposing seat with briefcase prepared on his lap to deliver a bomb of redemption. He’d been practicing his argument for reinstatement for two days now, and he sat before Deputy Director Farsing as a bundle of anticipation. He was well prepared, and confident in his discoveries.

“You know, Agent Connelly, of all the people under my supervision, I expected least of all, to ever have to send you on emotional leave.” Michael admittedly sighed, lifting his head and lowering his hands as he closed the file of Connelly’s report. “But I really don’t have much choice in the matter.”
Connelly hesitated, looking down thoughtfully. He was pretending, but Farsing wouldn’t see it.

“If you would but think about it, Director.” He started. “I don’t believe I need to be relieved.”

“Neither do I, Ben.” Farsing responded sincerely. “But, my hands are fairly tied in the matter. You were close with Fastez, and that makes you a liability. If I was to reinstate you, and something became of it for the worse, it would be my ass on the line.”

“I understand, Director.” Connelly nodded. “But please, Mike. This is my job we’re talking about here. I’ve done it well. You’ve seen for yourself the results of bringing me to Fastez’s team. We’ve broken some serious ground against E.L.F. in the past two years, and we finally captured someone we believe can give us some real headway.”

“Yes, but admittedly, she escaped.” Farsing responded.

“Yes, that’s true.” Connelly couldn’t deny, but he’d been counting on the fact of Farsing bringing Shannon Hunter’s escape into account. He’d actually needed it to come about. “But I feel that her escape is due to Special Agent Black’s presence and involvement.” He turned on the very man who had delivered the news of his relief of duty.

“Arthur Black? How so?” Farsing questioned, brow and eyes narrowing as he suspected Connelly of merely blaming it on the closest available agent to relieve himself of responsibility, and Connelly could see it. He almost could have laughed, for what Michael Farsing suspected was indeed true, though he was going to make it seem as though the opposite was truth. He was lying to a superior, but only in order to get his full argument across the table. Afterwards, it wouldn’t matter what was a lie and what was not.

“Because, there are things he instructed me to leave out of my report.” He admitted, as if having never planned to omit them entirely. “Things I believe to be of instrumental importance to the developments of the Murton and Norton incident, as well as the death of Agent Fastez and the disappearance of not only the task force, but also the escape of Shannon Hunter, which occurred under his supervision as well as my own.”

“You withheld information from your report?” Farsing asked, arching a brow.

“Yes, but only to protect it from Agent Black. I had no intention of withholding it from you, sir, and I have prepared all of my notes.” He revealed, lifting his briefcase onto the table. “You’ll have to forgive the less than formal format of it all, but I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

“That’s alright Ben, just let me see what you have, and I’ll be the judge.” Farsing permitted him to proceed, and with laptop and papers extricated Agent Connelly went to work. He slid a photograph of an older, mountain-man-looking fellow across the table.

“Are you familiar with this man?” He asked, and Farsing shook his head.

“Should I be?” Michael took the bait.

“That is the Olympic gold medalist, sixty-five year old, Christopher Crowe Stevens, whose students affectionately call Crow-Elf.” Connelly said it fairly casually.

“Do you know what field he was in?” He hesitated, and Farsing shook his head. “I’ll give you a hint. It has to do with his nickname.” Of course, Farsing was too far detached from the entire E.L.F. ordeal to gather it in. He shook his head again.

“I don’t have time for guessing games, nor Olympic Games right now, Ben, and neither do you. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Christopher Stevens, the Crow-Elf, shot singles archery in the Games, and is now the oldest gold medalist in the history of the Olympics. His nickname, given by students after the publication of his book in wake of his gold medal, is a direct play on creatures out of fantasy games.

Of his many students during his seminars and instructional events held at the University of Washington in Seattle, most were young adolescents. However, two were young adults. Their names you will find in the report of the incidents surrounding Agent Fastez’s death. Jason Brooke and Devin Lock.” He halted, seeing understanding in Farsing’s eyes.

“As stated in ballistics testing and autopsy, Agent Fastez was indeed shot by a sniper from a hill during the attack on Murton and Norton, but it wasn’t a gunman. It was an archer. Stevens lives in a town called, Enumclaw, roughly an hour south and east of Seattle. I believe, in contact with Jason Brooke and Devin Lock, that Mr. Stevens could have been sympathetic to the Earth Liberation Front’s cause. I believe that he has either trained them to make the shot that killed Agent Fastez, or he was there in person himself to make it. I think you’ll have no trouble agreeing that a fifty-plus yard shot at a moving target in the dark and through cover is not a particularly easy shot to make, especially for an archer.”

“Agent Black informed you to withhold this information?” Farsing asked, sounding quite upset, and he certainly didn’t believe it.

“No.” Connelly admitted. “Not directly sir, no.”

“Then why did you withhold it?”

“I didn’t, sir.” Connelly spoke reverse now. “I only discovered this in route to D.C. as I pondered what it was that Agent Black advised me to withhold. But, I also found evidence to suggest that what I was told to withhold for my own good, should not be withheld, but rather, investigated through the apprehension and questioning of Christopher Stevens.”

“Which is what exactly?” Farsing asked patiently, and Connelly drew out the book, “How to shoot like a fantasy” by, Christopher Crowe Stevens. He slid it across the table.

“Mr. Stevens wrote a book about his archery after winning the medal, and has won many endorsements, as medalists often do. His teachings during summer events for youths at the UW rest under the shortened title of ‘Shooting like Elves.’

Likely to attract a larger, younger crowd.

In that book, he gives acknowledgements to a certain Jason, who helped to organize the event as well as studying beneath Mr. Stevens.” Connelly then slapped down a stack of paper, the faxes from the library.

“I contacted Mrs. Jennifer Riley at the UW, in charge of making the event possible on the campus grounds, and she faxed me the names enlisted to study for the week beneath the master himself. On this list are the names, Jason Brooke and Devin Lock. I believe the Jason in his book’s acknowledgments and thanks, as well as in a few of his memoir-like stories, is the Jason Brooke on the list, which of course, is our Jason Brooke placed as the mastermind at the scene of Murton and Norton Industrial.” He drew a heavy breath and settled in for the hardest part of the argument to get his involvement back in the game.

“However, Mr. Stevens also details something in that book, something that I believe could have been used in the efforts to help Shannon Hunter’s escape. In that book he describes a technique used in hunting, a technique similar to those employed by special ops military forces. Camouflage, environment optimization, persistence of optical illusions by deceiving the human mind and eye. He called it none other than Elf-walking, in that book. He’d developed it in the eastern Rockies when he was a child, beneath his father’s tutelage as an accomplished woodsman, and he later perfected it there in the Cascades of western Washington.

Not only do I believe it to be a valid technique if used properly in hospitable, optimal conditions, but I know it to be so, for what Agent Black instructed me to withhold from my report depends upon the validity of this technique, which also puts Stevens into closer lines for sympathizing with the E.L.F. by the very term he’d used to describe it.” He was suddenly cut off by Director Farsing.

“Did someone use this technique in the escape of Shannon Hunter then?” He asked, entirely anticipating where Connelly was going with all of this. Agent Connelly nodded seriously.

“As we were entering her room for a second round of questioning, the lights had been off and it was dark. We hadn’t even gotten through the door when I thought I saw someone through the glass in the door, standing in the room, covered in a black robe or cloak of some sort. We didn’t have time to even reach for the light switch before the explosion went off. By the time the debris cleared and the lights were on, she was gone.”

“However, I don’t believe they had gone anywhere in the chaos that followed.”

Farsing’s eyes widened. He saw exactly what Connelly had intended.

“I believe they used the oldest trick in the book, and due to the haste with which Agent Black assumed control of the situation, drawing us all away from the room, the girl and whoever was there in the room with her, slipped out right behind our backs.”

“I don’t believe it.” Farsing responded immediately. Connelly lowered his features, and shook his head.

“I didn’t either, at first, due to Agent Black’s insistence, but I assure you, Mike. You’ve known me for a long time now. I’ve never lost a case, and I’m not about to lose this one. This has nothing to do with Fastez’s death, but if I can catch his killer while I’m at the unraveling of the entire E.L.F. foundational structure, just beyond my reach as it stands right now, then I may as well. What I need is for you to sign off on my reinstatement. Send me back to Seattle.” He tried not to sound insistent, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted this. He wanted it bad. And he let Farsing see it.

“Alright, here’s the deal. I’ll get you cleared, but only so far as being able to apprehend and question Mr. Stevens. If he reveals any helpful information, or if he turns out to have actually been the smoking gun, then you’ll have your reinstatement.” He slid the book and the papers back across the table.

“Understand me, Ben. You are not to do anything else. Get Stevens. Question him, but go no further until you have confirmation on his involvement, or his students, or the whereabouts of anyone involved in the Murton and Norton incident.”

“Understood, and thank you, Michael.” Ben Connelly offered his hand, and Farsing took it strongly.

“You just better hope you aren’t wrong, Ben.” Farsing warned, but it was a wishing of luck in his own way. Connelly knew it for what it was, and with that, he’d gotten all he’d wanted.

In very little time, he would be on a small federal jet-plane in the company of a new group of agents under his direct authority and supervision, and they would have lift-off by day’s end. The flight would be a long one, and he would finally be allowed to get some serious flight-rest. It was always good for helping create jetlag, but Connelly didn’t care. He could finally rest easy, knowing he was at least back on track toward being in control of the events in his life.

He was going back to Washington.