Marcus Steve's Arc

Chapter 4 of 8

Marcus climbed the hill to his rented house as the sun dropped. The porch boards creaked under his boots. The red chimney threw a long shadow across the yard. He sat on the top step and turned out his pockets. No coins. No salt. Nothing to bring the widow tomorrow. The fairies landed on the porch rail in a row. "You need a gift," the lead fairy said. "Empty hands tomorrow and she closes the door for good." "I spent the last coins on the salt," Marcus said. "I have no trade goods. I have the house and my boots." The smallest fairy's wings buzzed. "We can call someone. He owes us a favor." "Who?" "A friend," the lead fairy said. "He teaches this work. He owes us three lessons. We'll spend one on you." She cupped her hands and blew a thin whistle. Marcus waited. A few minutes later, boots came up the path. The man who stepped into the porch light was short and slim, with white hair pulled back and pointed ears. A gold heart hung at his throat. He wore a green coat with yellow stitching. He looked at Marcus the way a farrier looks at a horse's hoof. "This is the one?" he said. "Stand up. Turn around." Marcus stood. The elf walked a slow circle around him. "You're big," he said. "That's a start. You have a house. That's more than most. But you have nothing in your hands, and tomorrow you need something in your hands." He tapped his own chest. "I am Lysander Heartweave. The fairies called. I came. Show me the house." Marcus opened the door. Lysander walked through the front room, running a finger along the mantel. He stopped at a wooden box on the shelf. He lifted the lid. Inside sat a pair of gold rings. Marcus had not seen them before. The landlord's, maybe. Left behind. "These were here when you moved in?" Lysander asked. "Yes." "Then they are yours." Lysander closed the lid and handed him the box. "But do not give her both. Rings are too much for a second visit. She will think you are buying her." "Then what do I bring?" Lysander thought. He looked at the shelf, the hearth, the kitchen door. He walked to the woodpile by the stove and pulled a clean split of pine from the top. "Firewood," he said. "One good piece. A widow burns her own fuel. Bring her a stick of dry pine and say you cut it yourself. Useful. Humble. Correct." "I didn't cut it." "Then cut one tonight." He pressed the split into Marcus's chest. "Keep the rings hidden. You will need them later, for a different woman. Not this one. Not yet." Marcus took the wood. The fairies watched from the windowsill. He had his gift. He also had a second problem now: a pair of gold rings he had not earned, and a coach who already knew what he would do with them.