E.L.F. - White Leaves Read online

  Then, will I know your Fate. Then will I be able to tell you the reason for your being, the why for the lacking of your leaf, and the meaning of both your purpose and your life.' Finally she trickled off, letting Shannon finally catch up and begin to form new questions. Most particularly was the question of these repeatedly mentioned choices. Why did Addl’laen speak of them as direly important? Did she already know the choices that were coming?

  'No.' The tree answered. 'I do not know the choices, because they are not mine and are not yet before you. However, I can tell you what I see coming with the course of things lain as they have been, stretching blindly as a jagged path through the forest and gloom of indeterminably innumerable futures of all possible directions. For one like me that guess is elementary, as Deh Leccend and all the Black Leaves would likely guess the same.

  Mankind will not heed the Elvine’s warnings handed down through the Veil walkers of the Black Leaves. We will come to see the days of old renewed very soon. You will play some immeasurable part in the change and rebirth of the now and old, in the council of the Elvine beneath Lord Dunesil, my son, the Llaerthir, the father of the seven guides of the Black Leaves’ emotionless minds. For the council will likely see you for what you are after much debate and amalgamation, as they always have to form a concentric, unanimous agreement. They will see you with reason, as I have. They will call you as Firea’csweise, and know you as their kin.

  In light of such a possible path, they will then forego their earliest decision on what to do about the abuse and rape and destruction of the mother in the hands of Mankind. They will overturn their decision to let a century pass of admonitions beneath the Black Leaves -each warning successively grown greater and more obvious with every passing year until it becomes clear that your kind will not heed when so consumed by greed.

  Then, they will decide instead upon the prompt unleashing of the fury of my Black Leaves, and bury Mankind, that the mother may begin to heal.' Finally, Shannon believed that Addl’laen was done, but the tree lingered in her mind, gauging her reaction to all that was predicted but subject to choice and change.

  'Lord Dunesil Llaerth will come to see the end of the ways of mankind, though I fear, it could be through foul eyes. You will come to see the end of the ways of mankind, and be the last, no longer kin to them, but to the Elvine and the Black Leaves and many others. And Deh Leccend, will see far beyond both of you with me. I love them all, and may miss them for a time. And I love you, even though you are not within my boughs for reasons I know not why.'

  “I love you too.” Shannon admitted. She couldn’t help herself, it was the only reasonable reaction to the personality, the knowledge, the intoxicating caress, and the lovely lulling of her musical voice. Addl’laen was the mother she never had, even though she was the one child of mind that did not belong to the Great Tree.

  Shannon was released, bequeathed the bearing of her Addl’laen name, Firea’csweise. She gasped in a breath, having held it in for how long she didn’t even know, and the tree’s mighty limb withdrew, rising on high anew as it went back to slumber. The change bearer swayed on her feet, just as Dunesil had done, but she righted herself as Deh Leccend came to her, offering his presence and arm for her to take hold. The Elvine Llaerthir was before her then.

  “What did she share with you?” He asked, dour in tongue. Shannon felt like she was either just waking or falling into a dream. Her body felt fuzzy, disconnected, and she responded like a drunkard, head lolling slightly aside as she smiled and spoke with a thick and luscious tongue.

  “You will live to see the end of the ways of mankind.” It was not a laughing matter. Shannon didn’t mean it to be. It just came out that way in her dazed state. Clearly the Elvine Lord did not wish humyns ill will. He wished them to be upright that he might love them, but if Addl’laen had said it would be, then so he knew it likely would.

  “And?” He asked, features gone intense and voice insistent.

  “I am kin to thee.” She giggled, biting down on the tip of her tongue as she smiled brightly with lazy lashes drawing close to sleep. “She called me, Firea’csweise, and I have decided, given choice, that I do not want to leave.” Deh Leccend grappled with her little figure, for she was weak in the knees. She was literally falling asleep on her feet, exhausted beyond all knowledge of it.

  Dunesil knew, with her previous hunger, it was a miracle she was still alive after speaking with the tree for the three days that had passed in what seemed to be no more than a brief but in depth chat from within the conversation. Quickly, the Elvine Lord moved for the bark of Addl’laen, took moment to bow graciously before her and reached down to touch her skin. The Great Tree knew his need, and offered freely of a peeling before he could so much as touch her. It coiled back and fell free, silver and white, and he bowed again upon taking it up.

  Shannon Hunter was left behind. All of her hopes and dreams, or lack thereof, had fallen by the wayside in the stupor of intoxication wrought by Addl’laen, the most glorious thing she’d ever known. Firea’csweise was born as she ate of the bark of the Evermore, and never would she go hungry again -not in all her years, no matter how many or few they turned out to be.

  “Now that you are kin to us, Firea’csweise…” Dunesil spoke as she drunkenly nibbled and gobbled her way through the sweet meal.

  “You have our gifts to make things well and be happy, to make things grow, and to tear things down.”

  She gulped down her mouthful and was asleep, given into the care of Deh Leccend, the Black Leaf. Her finder. Her savior. And now, her keeper, protector and guide, her indifferent partner in crime forever at her side.

  She couldn't even stop to consider how the Black Leaf felt about all that, but it likely didn't matter. He couldn't feel much anyway. He was stuck with her.

  Chapter 10

  Within the cabin it was all but impossible to hear the screech of rubber as the Concord’s landing gear touched down at Ronald Reagan Memorial National Airport in Washington D.C.

  Agent Connelly hadn’t slept through the entirety of the flight, dwelling deeply about what he would do when he arrived and what he would say when he went into the meeting with Deputy Director Michael Farsing. Gladly though, Ben Connelly didn’t miss the shut-eye, for he believed he’d come up with a foolproof plan for his reinstatement. As the plane slowed down on the tarmac, he envisioned the next steps of his journey.

  Upon touchdown, he would undoubtedly be picked up by a town car, already waiting. He would be taken to his hotel, and tomorrow, the pentagon to meet with Director Farsing to hand in his report and discuss either a vacation, or what he wished to discuss -reinstatement at the head of the Anti-E.L.F. operation based in Seattle.

  After considerable consideration, Agent Connelly believed whole heartedly in his reinstatement. It was inevitable, especially since it was Farsing who was his superior. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t be given the time of day to explain himself. He would be immediately placed on leave and given not a second thought, not even an iota of chance. However, he liked Farsing, and Farsing knew him fairly well. The Director was the one who’d sent him to Washington State to begin with, deeming him the appropriate man for the job as partner to Agent Fastez.

  And so it was. He disembarked the plane, found two agents awaiting his arrival with a sign that said, Ben Connelly. He retrieved his luggage, and was escorted to a black, unmarked town car and casually hastened away. Westbound over Washington Memorial Parkway via the 233 route, and over the tracks they left the airport behind, dropping off 233 on the western side and descending to Crystal Drive, northbound.

  They would follow it for a time, weaving through the streets until Crystal ended, and bent west on a whim, becoming 12th Street South. From there it was just a short jog under Highway 1 to the end of 12th, ending at a T-junction where they turned north again onto South Eada Street, a road Connelly was quite familiar with. South Eada Street would take them clear to the Rotary Road, and that would bring them full circl
e to the northern lots and entries of the Pentagon.

  They drove all that way, and no one said a thing.

  They didn’t need to, though one of the two agents offered him a cigarette when the ride began, which Connelly denied. He didn’t smoke, and even if he did, he wouldn’t need to right now. It wasn’t as if he was going before Farsing immediately.

  They arrived shortly at the pentagon, were admitted passage by the presentation of identification, and in little time, Connelly was on his way back out, having delivered his neatly packaged report of the events surrounding the death of Agent Fastez during the Murton and Norton incident. Of course, many things were omitted from the report, all of which revolved around his personal opinions of certain events.

  Free of the pentagon, Connelly was then taken to the tower of Sheraton National Hotel via the swerving path of Columbia Pike, past the ordered rows of the Fort Myer structure to South Orme Street for temporary room and board, already set up before his arrival. He checked in, took a shower, shaved and sat down with his laptop for a brief cup of coffee and the locating of a nearby library. The drink was bland, and awful. He suddenly wished for a good cup of Seattle’s renowned brew, and sighed, remembering the light burning of his hand on his way to the airport. He’d thrown out his last cup, and denied the offer of the officer in the terminal for a chance at one last cup. Odd, he thought, that he should miss it so much already. Seattle really did leaving a lasting mark upon you if you gave it a chance.

  Must be something in the coffee, he smiled wistfully.

  He’d found the nearest public library, Columbia Pike Library, jotted down its address, packed up his laptop and departed the hotel.

  Hopping into one of several cabs waiting in the hotel’s roundabout, he handed over the slip of paper with the address and sat back for the ride, still dwelling. The cabbie said nothing, taking him west, through a straight shot down Columbia Pike to take a right on South Walter Reed Drive. It was closer than he’d expected, and in little time he’d arrived in the library’s roundabout. Forking over a twenty dollar bill carelessly, he went into the low structure.

  With the ISBN of Christopher Stevens’ book in hand, a pleasant older lady named Gertrude helped him locate the book fairly easily.

  “Ah, here we go.” She said triumphantly, reaching high to but barely snag the book from its place on the shelf. She couldn’t quite fetch it, so Connelly snagged it himself, thanking her kindly.

  “Archery, huh?” She said lightly and commented. “You don’t look like much of a woodsman.”

  “I’m not.” Connelly admitted, smiling. “But I saw Mr. Stevens’ shooting during the Games and heard he had a book, so I came looking.”

  “Well, there you go then.” She said with a smile and left him to his private endeavors. Connelly took a seat amidst numerous other patrons in the open lobby, resting comfortably in a burnished leather-bound seat and opened the book, fighting the urge to move swiftly as a kid at Christmas unwrapping his latest gift.

  It began with a foreword, a brief history of Christopher Stevens’ life. He’d grown up in the western end of eastern Montana, near Butte, on a ranch, and hunting and fishing had been his way of life since his earliest days. It also expressed his love of nature and willingness to donate freely to Green Peace and PETA’s animal rights cause. Such was a grim revelation for Agent Connelly, for PETA was known for being particularly adamant and fairly extremist at times –not entirely unlike ELF.

  He read on, ending the foreword with Stevens’ credentials as an expert hunter, tracker, guide, and Olympic gold medalist in 2008 –and a full, detailed list of all the places he’d hunted and bagged a trophy. It was an impressive list that spanned the globe’s best and most challenging hunts, and even included bow-fishing. Stevens certainly was good. He was damn good.

  Then there came a small quote about the book,“How to shoot like a fantasy,” and why he’d written it.

  'In the games of life and death, for a hunter or sportsman, it is only the best who survive victorious. I wrote ‘How to Shoot Like a Fantasy’ from the perspective of the best at the time in hopes to help the next great to realize his potential and become who he was born to be, that I might pass the torch as greats are supposed to do. That, and to help even novice hunters have more success in the field.' The excerpt wasn’t very revealing, but for Agent Connelly, it had a foreboding feel.

  From the perspective of the best at the time… Passing the torch, and the talk of survival and victory... They all added up to the possibility of sympathizing with and joining a group like E.L.F. Or at least they did when applied to his investigation.

  He paged ahead, reading into the first chapter, only to swiftly grow bored. It was nothing more than telling about types of bows, packed with illustrations on how they were made, what they were made of, what their respective ranges were. Details filled the pages on the pros and cons of each type, and whether they were good for hunting, or better for sportsmen shooting at targets. It even came complete with an astonishingly deep depiction and a historic account of how the bows of various types were conceived and implemented throughout time –as though the man had been there to see the rise and fall of the ages that produced and perfected such weapons.

  Overall however, Stevens focused extensively on the fabrication of a bow that was just right for its shooter, and how to go about making one yourself, as well as how to know which type was right for each individual, along with personal maintenance of such an instrument so closely bound and customized to its user.

  Connelly was fairly amazed despite the droning words peeling off endlessly on the pages, and after reading it he decided even a person like himself could make the decision on which bow was the right choice. He could have smiled in the way Stevens had found a way to connect with him and help him discovering he would be a composite shooter, and that he would likely build his own, provided he had the right tools for the job.

  However, Connelly was not here to associate himself with archers, or take lessons from Christopher Stevens. He was here to investigate a federal murder and terrorist attack. He forced himself to focus while acknowledging Mr. Stevens’ obvious gifts and impressive well of knowledge.

  Chapter two was similar, though it focused primarily on arrows. Again, how they were made, materials, pros, cons, optimal uses, history of development, and detailed illustrated accounts of construction and the tools necessary for forging proper arrows of virtually any sort. He spent a fair amount of time going over the vanes, or fletching, and what materials should be used to make the feathering that allowed an arrow to fly straight. He detailed the types of vanes, and how they would affect the flight based upon their size and length and material. He went over the types of nocks appropriate for various types of strings and bows, including their weights and shapes, into how they affected release and flight.

  Stevens ended the chapter with a repeat of the above, only pertaining to all the necessary information that would apply to arrowheads in the myriad of styles, materials, weights, and flight adjustment properties.

  Connelly sighed and arched his brows. Christopher Crowe Stevens knew his stuff. He was understandably then, one of the foremost minds Agent Connelly could possibly imagine to exist in the field of archery. But setting appreciation aside, he paged to the back of the book, moving for a glossary of terms, acknowledgements, thanks, and an index of chapters, that he might find the things he’d hoped to find by reading this book, which was fairly monotonous for all the interest its technical jargon presented.

  There in the back of the book, Agent Connelly came across the acknowledgements, and discovered something intriguing.

  A special thanks...?

  “The author would like to thank Jason, especially, for his assistance in making the summer program of ‘Shooting like Elves’, possible. His diligence and determination in organizing the affair that brought archery’s ancient roots to the urban children of Seattle was not only noteworthy, but also an inspiration to an old man like, Christopher C
rowe Stevens.” Connelly couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Jason.

  It had to be Jason Brooke. Connelly just knew it, but he had to be sure. Quickly, he penned a circle around the passage and folded in the page as a marker. The librarians would have no doubt frowned on such treatment of what was still a fairly new and untouched book, but Connelly didn’t care. He paged back to the index, scanning for anything relevant to the summer program.

  “Shooting Like Elves” stared back at him in bold crisp texts. The final chapter. He couldn’t help himself, the pages nearly tore under his fingers as he skimmed to the first page of chapter eighteen and began to read.

  During the course of Stevens’ talk of the wonderful event and the hospitality of the University of Washington, Connelly discovered several things that might have been of lesser importance to anyone else. He learned that his students, or at least several of them had grown to revere him like a grandfather over the course of the mere week long camp. They even went so far as to give him the nickname, “Crow-Elf.”

  He expressed a mixture of confusion and understanding as to why they’d called him that, detailing an account of his primary student and the organizer of the event, a young man named Jason, whose last name was omitted, though it was unclear as to whether it had been left out intentionally or just by oversight.