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The blue Blumaroo shifted his hands around the bat. Nervous
as he was, he took a deep breath. Just as he sucked in his breath, a difficult
counter-wind started up. Elos uneasily glanced at the team. Brajes, a particularly
evil Moehog began to whistle, causing, for some unknown reason, sweat to seep
down into Elos’s tunic. He stared fearfully at the tree above him, whimpering.
Brajes’s brother, Kirik stared back, dauntingly swinging the plushie above him.
“Now!” said Elos, wishing that he had just stayed
home and counted potatoes instead of coming here.
The plushie dropped, Elos swung, and it was all
over. Elos plopped down onto the ground, crying, sobbing, and burying his pathetic
face into his hands. Brajes didn’t make things better. He ran round Elos, yelling,
“Oooh! How far, how far! Brilliant hit! Absolutely wonderful! Brilliant show!”
His sarcasm stabbed like a dagger, and Elos couldn’t
do anything but bury his face deeper and kick the plushie beside him, which
hadn’t moved an inch. Finally, he got up; ready to leave, but Brajes wouldn’t
have it.
“Look, fellows! Our star hitter wants to leave!
Can’t have that now, can we?”
“No! Never!” cried the rest of the team, forming
a circle around him.
Elos collapsed upon the ground, allowing the
grass to gently wipe away his tears by sinking them into the fresh-smelling
earth…
Elos woke with a start, gasping. Memories of
a past Whack-a-Plushie game flashed through his mind. Suddenly, Elos groaned.
Today was the championship game. All the children in the village had to be there,
but he wasn’t on a team. All he could do was watch and scowl at Brajes, the
captain of the best team in Meridell.
Changing into a fresh tunic, Elos ate a bit of
Flat Bread with Gruel, and then headed out. His mother stopped him.
“Eli! Oh Elipoo!”
Elos groaned. As if his weakling reputation wasn’t
bad enough; his mother treated him as though he was still the ‘Elipoo’ that
had come home crying from a Whack-a-Plushie game.
“Yes, mother! I’m here! And no, I haven’t forgotten
to feed the Turmaculus!”
His mother studied him. “It’s not ‘the Turmaculus,’
it’s your own pet! Haven’t you named it yet? Take it with you; you might get
lonely,” she said gently.
Elos shrugged offhandedly, running into the barn
and grabbing the Turmaculus Whistling tunelessly, he walked to the competition,
hiding behind a tree.
“So,” said Elos, looking at the Turmaculus, “
what should I name you? Brajes?”
The Turmaculus (appropriately, sure enough) stuck
his tongue out.
Elos chortled. “You’re right. That’s a disgusting
name, isn’t it? Makes me feel as though I’ve trodden on a pile of dung. How
about…Eli? No…I’ve got it! Little Eli…no that’s too immature. Hey! Remember
that trader from the other village? I liked him. What was his name again…Lee!
How about it?”
The Turmaculus twisted his face into a grin.
Elos smiled, “Good. Lee’s a fine name! Much better
than Brajes.”
The Turmaculus paused, then nodded, earning a
laugh from Elos.
“I know that voice,” said a loathsome tone of
voice, “it’s that cowardly pile of dung, Elos!”
Elos twisted around. “Ah, Brajes. You seem to
have gotten even uglier than when I last saw you. And look at that,” smiled
Elos, pointing at the small cut on Brajes’s face, “your head’s gotten a tad
bigger as well!”
Brajes scowled and cracked his knuckles, vanishing
into the woods.
Elos looked almost sadly at Lee. “I wonder—what
would it be like? To hold that shining trophy? To hear the crowds cheering?
To play on the fields? To hear the plushie skid far away onto the dirt? To hear
Rose clapping?” Elos thought for a moment, imagining Rose’s fair face and kind
smile, but sat bolt upright when he heard a voice.
“I imagine it would feel rather good. But as
for Rose, I know not her name, nor face.” The voice belonged to a handsome blue
Lupe-blue as the deep night sky. Elos knew him instantly.
“Jeran! Wh-what art thou-doeth here-yonder?”
Elos’s speech was cut into several odd bits and pieces.
Jeran stared. “You mean, what am I doing here?
I don’t care much for the fancy talk of the court. I’m staying till my wound
is healed. And I must say, your insulting skills are magnificent.”
Elos blushed, and then asked, “What wound?”
Jeran grimaced, then rolled up the sleeve of
his tunic. Elos’s eyes grew round with horror. There was a deep, jagged cut
in his arm. A crude bandage had been tied around the source of the blood, but
to no avail, for the bandage itself was sodden and loose; had Jeran given his
arm a shake, the bandage would have fallen off.
Elos shook his head. “I can help with that bandage.
I’m quite good at it; it’s almost a hobby. I do it for the woodland creatures
that Brajes-the Moehog-hurts. Won’t you come to our house?”
Jeran thought for a moment, then reluctantly
agreed. “Yes, and perhaps I can recruit some people from your village for the
army…I suppose you have your medical equipment at the village?” asked Jeran,
motioning to the village.
Elos laughed. “Medical equipment? We’ve hardly
got a strap of linen to spare at the house! Nay, come right along to the riverbank;
all of my ‘equipment’ is there. Come now, that wound looks absolutely disgusting.”
With those words, Elos scrambled through the
undergrowth, ducking under branches, jumping over stray logs and leaping over
puddles whose locations Elos had memorized. Jeran, however, was having more
trouble. He smacked himself on low branches, tripped over rotting logs, and
by the time they stopped at the bank, Jeran was sweaty, with matted fur with
burs and thorns embedded into it. His tunic was wet to his chest, giving the
impression that he had just come through some horrific battle instead of made
his way through the woods. Exhausted, Jeran sank down.
“You could pass for King Skarl’s army, the way
you made your way through the bushes!” smiled Jeran feebly.
Elos glowed with pleasure, then set himself to
work, gathering the needed bark, leaves, and various other materials. Finally,
he wheeled around. It was getting darker—and colder. He shivered, and Jeran,
without a proper tunic, was shivering as well. Elos, without thinking, deftly
struck two stones together and allowed the sparks to land on a few pieces of
bark. He fed the fire dried grass and twigs until it had warmed up enough. He
set himself to work on Jeran’s wound. He tore off the bandage, and then threw
it into the fire. He cleaned the wound with Aquaberry sap, made a cushion of
leaves, and then wrapped bark around it, till it looked clean and comfortable.
Jeran looked at it approvingly, and stood up without wincing. Elos snapped a
branch of wood into two, thrust both tips into the fire, and then offered a
torch to Jeran.
Jeran groaned, “Through the woods again, I suppose.”
“Correct,” called Elos, who had already begun
to climb over the rocks, Lee on his shoulder, squeaking away.
Jeran could only moan and scramble after him.
Finally, they reached the outskirts of the village.
Suddenly, Elos had a brilliant idea. He grinned evilly, and halted in front
of the last tree before the village.
“Could you wait until I call?” whispered Elos
to Jeran.
Jeran huffed and puffed; clearly, he would love
to wait and rest.
Elos made his way out, accidentally bumping into
Brajes.
“Hello, Brajes,” smiled Elos pleasantly.
“What’re you so happy about, worm?” growled Brajes.
“I met a friend in the woods today. A most wonderful
fellow! I told him about you, I did. He even saw you. He thinks you’re a filthy
lout of a neopet.”
“A friend, eh?” snarled Brajes, “Well then, let’s
see this ‘friend.’”
“Very well then. Friend! Oh, friend! An ugly
Moehog wishes to speak to you!” Elos called out into the woods.
Jeran elegantly swept into the clearing next
to Elos.
“Hello—Brajes, I believe it is? I’m afraid I’m
as unfortunate as to have met you, correct?”
Brajes stood dumbfounded, “Jeran? Jeran’s your
new friend?” he said incredulously to Elos, “B-but he’s a hero! You’re just
an ordinary, stupid worm—and you’re friends with Jeran?”
“I believe you have the general idea,” smiled
Elos, smirking.
“B-but how? How the [here, Brajes used an inappropriate
word] did you meet Jeran?”
“I really would love to stay and chat, Brajes,
but I’m afraid it’s rather chilly. Farewell! And watch your tongue!” Jeran and
Elos merrily bounded into the village, Jeran with a slight limp.
There was a great commotion in the village that
night when Jeran came. And a feast began (you know, those plump Meridell folk
will do anything for a feast): potatoes in every size, shape, and genetic makeup
were served on great bronze, silver, and gold platters, pumpkin juice was filled
in every keg, flask, and goblet. Wine was served to the elders, and the finest
neggs were brought out. It was a merry time…providing, of course, that you weren’t
Brajes.
“Potatoes please!” called Jeran, the guest of
honor.
“Whipped, scalloped, baked, mashed, boiled, broiled,
roasted, sweet, barbecued, or torched?” asked Elos’s mother, holding up dozens
of different kinds of potatoes.
“Err…I meant to say ‘pie,’” said an overwhelmed
Jeran.
“Lovely! Apple, Aquaberry, Voidberry, Blueberry,
Rainbowberry, Plumberry, Squishyberry, Squoshedberry, Squelchedberry, Snotberry,
Liverberry, Faerieberry… ooh that rhymes! Grape, Roseberry, Ginger, Calfberry,
Radishberry, Dungberry (it really is much better than it sounds, dear)…” smiled
Elos’s mother, pointing to a table with dozens of pies stacked one on top of
the other.
“On second thought, I’ll just have carrots,”
sighed Jeran.
“Our specialty! Pit-fired, oven-baked, barbequed,
boiled, raw, torched, juiced, sliced, smoked-negg flavored…” ticked off Elos’s
mother on her fingers.
Jeran banged his head on the table continuously,
wishing that he had food on his plate.
Everyone else, however (with the exception of
Brajes) was having a lovely time.
The villagers held a dance contest.
“Umm…Rose? Will you dance with me?” asked Elos
shyly to a pretty Acara.
Rose smiled and twirled about on the stage, causing
Elos to turn as red as the welt on Jeran’s forehead…
Finally, Jeran stood up. His appetite was long
gone. Finally, he turned to Elos’s mother, whom was absentmindedly chatting
about the history of smoked carrots.
“Yes, lovely, now I must be moving on,” he told
her as he excused himself from the table and wandered over to the stage.
“Elos!” called Jeran.
Elos made a waiting motion to Rose, and dusted
some bread off of his tunic.
“You called, didn’t you? What is it? What did
you think of the food?”
“I didn’t quite get to the food. But I must
leave to the war.”
“War? I thought it was over? Didn’t we just finish
up with Darigan?”
“Ah, well, there are rumors of his general, Kass,
to lead a campaign and destruction and the typical war story. Pity I can’t stay
longer. I will leave at dawn. I wasn’t going to tell anyone, but…you can be
trusted, Elos. My friend.”
Elos hung his head, and then brightened. “But
you’ll come back, won’t you Jeran? After this war is over?”
Jeran smiled at the young Blumaroo’s eagerness.
“Okay, then we’ll have a code so that we can share secrets and such.”
“How about ‘Lee?’” suggested Elos, grinning.
“Excellent choice. What’s the name of this village
again? So I know where to send any letters?”
“The name of the village is ‘Poppy-Rose.”
All was well that night. And Elos snuck a hardy
breakfast of tomatoes, potatoes, Flat Bread, and Gruel for Jeran. And when the
sun crept over the hill that shadowed their village, Jeran had been long gone.
And try though he might, he was always too busy for writing letters to Elos,
who grew strong and brave as the years passed. Years later, when Kass threw
him from a cliff to his doom, Jeran thought of Elos and smoked carrots, and
the humble little village of Poppy-Rose.
The End
Author’s Note: Hope you liked my story! It is supposedly what happens in
between the ‘years’ that Darigan and Kass have their destructive wars. Any Neomail
will be welcome, but I probably won’t be able to reply…anyway, feedback is eagerly
accepted, and have a nice day everyone!!!
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