Elfish by Julie Steimle (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

And it got bigger.

She had done this before. She could do it again.

“You can stop now!” Robin shouted up at her. She had risen in the boughs, reaching upward as the tree spread its branching canopy over all the houses. Yet she did not stop.

She had done this before. She could do it again.

However, the tree began to creak. The branches were too heavy to hold themselves up. The tree had grown too fast. And the tree began to fall—branches first, collapsing on the houses of the offending neighborhood. The roots tore up their foundations.

Yet the tree itself began to wither, go brown, shrivel and become hollow. Its scent turned acrid.

She had done this before. She could do it again.

“Heather!” Robin called up! “Get down from there! Stop this! It’s dying!”

But swallowed up in her grief, the Elf let the rest of it go, the wild anger within her expressing itself in the last dying breath of the tree struggling to live.  

It ceased to grow. The Elf clung to the branches sobbing.

She had done this before. She could do it again… couldn’t she?

Shaking his head, Puck climbed up. Breathless when he sat next to her among the dead boughs, he gazed on her form. She was no longer the vengeful goddess. She was Rowan again, a shaking child about the size of a ten-year-old, in the charred rags of the elvish woman he had come to care for. Resting his head on hers, Puck sighed. “I knew it was bad news when the Seven came looking for you.”

“The Seven?” Rowan murmured, looking confused. “The Seven what? Deadly sins?”

Moaning, Puck shook his head, taking on the shape of skater boy to at least speak to her in equal form. “You forgot already? Did they not lift the curse on you yet?”

Rowan wiped her face, shaking her head. “I’m cursed?”

He nodded. “But knowing you, you probably hurried back as soon as they stopped whatever those witches in Oxford were up to. They didn’t have a chance, did they?”

Eyeing him, she said, “What are you talking about Puck? The only witches I know are the ones who stole my hair and destroyed my trees.”

“Same ones,” he muttered, cradling her head.

She shook him off. “Hey. I think… I think I saw Sir Harris.”

Puck perked up. “Who?”

“Sir Harris!” She slapped him on the arm. “My knight. I told you about him.”

Slowly, Puck nodded. “Sir Harris… who died back in the twelfth century?”

“What century is it now?” Rowan asked, looking around.

Puck shrugged. Whenever she got this way, she was living in the moment—the exact moment. Her memory was like Swiss cheese when as Rowan. She only remembered the parts she wanted to.

“The twenty-first,” Puck said.

Blinking at him, Rowan stared with wide eyes. “Are we in the End of Days already?”

Puck moaned. “I suppose so. What do you want to do? Dance and sing ‘I told you so’?”

Rowan shook her head, laughing. “Nope. I am going to party like it’s nineteen-ninety-nine.”

Moaning louder, Puck hung his shoulders. “It is so stupid that you like that song. Why is that the one thing you remember?”

Hopping up, Rowan looked around them. “Why are we atop an old dead tree?”

Closing his eyes, Puck realized that she was having a dissociative moment. He had seen it before when he had taken her back from Isle of Man to her forest where she had regained some semblance of herself. Honestly, he missed Brigidt—the original elf he had fallen in love with but would not have him except as a dear friend. He was rather satisfied with the modern term ‘friend-zoned’. It had taken millennia to find a sufficient description for what he had endured. But then, it had been his fault she had left her forest in the first place and had gone adventuring. He had been the idiot who had convinced her—on orders of Maeve—for her to take a trip around the world. Of course, he would never tell Daniel that. He had a feeling even this Seven would not approve.

“You made this tree, Rowan,” Puck said, following the impish form of his friend as she climbed down to the ground. “Just a few minutes ago. Remember?”

The Elf hopped down onto the cracked and dried rubble remains of concrete. Puck followed, hoping he would not have to intervene. She was unstable. Her mind had cracked. She might go supernova again and burn the town down, for all he knew.

However, Rowan merely examined the tree, then the roots, then the road, taking in the destruction. Her eyes went glassy black, though still in Rowan form. “They destroyed my forest a second time. But this time I cannot bring it back. Oh, Puck. My soul is lost.”

Puck rushed up to her, shaking his head, glad she was comprehending, but scared for her. “No. No, Rowan. The Seven, they’ve come to find you. Your soul is not lost. You’re right. It is the End of Days.”

“But my wood is dead,” Rowan murmured. “My soul is dead.”

He shook his head more. “No. Dearest. No. You did everything you could.”

“I did not bridle my rage…” Rowan whispered, her eyes going back to Brigidt green. She shook her head. “I was always warned that I had to learn how to bridle my rage. That if I did not, it would destroy me.”

Puck wrapped his arms around her. “You’re still here. You’re not destroyed.”

“But…” Rowan shook it off and kissed Puck on the cheek. “You’re so nice. Let’s go play a trick on the sheriff.”

He blinked, letting go. He stared after Rowan as she skipped off from the tree. She definitely had lost her mind. The last time they played tricks on a sheriff, it was back in their Loxley days when they teased friars and messed around with King Edward ‘Longshanks’ men—stirring up Hurn the Hunter for a bunch of bandits. It had been a fun game. Back then, someone called him Robin of the Hood…. But he passed that title off to a guy named Robert of Loxley. That story had since been rewritten and retold in an awful way by some jerk who did not think their mischief belonged in ‘Longshanks’s era, but in Richard the ‘Lionheart’s. Damn, he hated how humans rewrote history to suit their fancy.

Puck ran after her.

Yet Rowan did not get far. Her eyes took in soon enough that they were not in Loxley, or Sherwood, or even back in those days—and she staggered back into her apartment, where she stumbled up the stairs and into her bed. Puck could see the remains of the battle with the three witches in the room—and Daniel’s scent. He could hear Rowan calling out, “Sir Haris? Are you there? I can smell you.”

Puck had never met this Sir Haris. Rowan had been associated with that knight in a time long before Merlin and longer before she teased Taliesin with stories to tell his master. But he was her greatest heartache. Elves were not supposed to fall in love with mortals, but she had fallen in love with him. Yet even then she had done the noble thing and encouraged that mortal to marry another mortal—leaving him to a mortal life.

Stepping into her room, Puck saw Heather again. She was sobbing into her pillow. Her mind was present once more.

He walked over to her. “Heather—”

“Brigidt,” she murmured. Her eyes trailed to him, back to her original green. She even looked more like her original self, yet in Heather’s clothes. Then again, Heather just looked like a human rendition of Brigidt. “My name was once Brigidt, and I remember you. I remember you before you were Puck. Your name was Obedel.”

Puck shuddered, nodding with a sob. “Yeah. I haven’t gone by that in ages, though.”

“Maeve called you Puck to diminish you,” she said. “But I called you my Robin.”

Grinning wider, tears rolling down his face, Puck nodded, coming closer to her, grasping her hands. “Yes. Your faithful Robin. Your faithful little bird.”

She smiled sadly, but then sobbed. “I lost everything, my faithful Robin… you good fellow. Except you’re still here.”

Puck lowered his head. “Only because Daniel brought me back.”

She shuddered, stiffening. “Daniel… that man whom I could not burn. With Peter—the man who caught my fire. Two of the Seven.”

Puck nodded, hopeful. “Yes.”

She clenched her teeth. “He… reminds me of Sir Harris.”

Staring, Puck nodded. “He is a complicated person. Brigidt, he came here to find you.”

“And do what exactly with me?” she said with some bite, stiffening, her anger with the Seven not gone.

Shrugging, Puck replied, “They want to talk with you. He says you are their patron elf—or they think you are. Is that true? Are you really the patron Elf to the Holy Seven?”

Shaking, angry, she nodded with clenched teeth. “I once was. But then they banished me.”

“What?” Puck stared, too surprised for words.

Nodding, she said again, “They banished me. Their leader said they would no more take advice from the damned, and he banished me.”

Frowning, Puck slowly shook his head. “This… this Seven are different.”

“Ha!” she laughed angrily. “That’s what they say!”

But Puck shrugged. “Daniel feels different.”

Something rippled through her. She softened. “He smells like Sir Harris. He… sounds like him. His arms are like his. My Sir Harris.”

That… was weird. Puck could not shake off that uncanny feeling. Was it magic? Had Daniel done something to make her think that? He did have a witch sister. That had always unnerved him about the guy. Of course, Daniel also felt older than he was physically. He felt like someone who had lived another lifetime. And though reincarnation was not a real thing in their world, possession and influence of the dead was. What if Sir. Harris was making Brigidt think this? What if this Sir Harris was helping Daniel and the Seven?

Brigidt lay back down her bed and sobbed. Snuggling up next to her, Puck hugged his old dear friend and let her cry.

The council of the town of Wells went into session to debate what to do about the Elf. The witches’ plan had failed. The Elf had come back and destroyed all their hard work. Under this excruciating frustration, they had to come up with another plan, yet they had none—until a police car rode into town and in it were two Americans, one of which they had already seen before. As the pair were checking into the White Hart Inn, they were beckoned to the council meeting. And the one who had been there before quickly agreed.

“She says you had come here to deal with the Elf,” a council member declared to them, pointing to the waitress from the White Hart Inn. “And yet you left!”

Daniel moaned with glance at Peter as he said, “I came here to speak with the Elf. I left because you fools made a deal with witches, and I had to hunt down where she was going. I told her you should never anger an elf.”

But they glared at him as if the Elf’s destruction was all his fault.

“We’ve come to talk with the Elf now,” Daniel said.

“Will you take her away?” the council member demanded.

“Not against her will,” Daniel looked to him. The council member looked like he ate too many sausages and loaded his tea with sugar. His belt was straining to keep his middle up under his vest and tie.

Some of the council members groaned at Daniel’s words, finding Daniel insufferable. However, others were getting Peter’s autograph and taking selfies with him near the doors. Daniel shot him a side look then said, “Pete!”

“What?” Peter raised up his hands. “We’ll get there. You said Puck should be with her. Besides, I think this town will cooperate anyway. They’re too scared of her.”

“Damn right,” one of them said, eyeing the football star up and down. They had all been surprised that Peter was involved, yet not too surprised.

“But they won’t take her away!” another snapped back—wary of Peter and Daniel both.

“You can’t push around elves,” Peter said, signing another autograph. “You