He opened the door and stepped out. At first, his eyes could make nothing out. Then the old man swallowed uneasily.
Two tiny figures stood in the rain, holding a kind of platform between them. Once, they might have been gaily dressed in bright garments, but now their clothes hung limp and sodden, dripping in the rain. They glanced half-heartedly at Shadrach. Water streaked their tiny faces, great drops of water. Their robes blew about them with the wind, lashing and swirling.
On the platform, something stirred. A small head turned wearily, peering at Shadrach. In the dim light, a rain-streaked helmet glinted dully.
“Who are you?” Shadrach said.
The figure on the platform raised itself up. “I’m the King of the Elves and I’m wet.”
Shadrach stared in astonishment.
“That’s right,” one of the bearers said. “We’re all wet.”
A small group of Elves came straggling up, gathering around their king. They huddled together forlornly, silently.
“The King of the Elves,” Shadrach repeated. “Well, I’ll be darned.”
Could it be true? They were very small, all right, and their dripping clothes were strange and oddly colored.
But Elves?
“I’ll be darned. Well, whatever you are, you shouldn’t be out on a night like this.”
“Of course not,” the king murmured. “No fault of our own. No fault…” His voice trailed off into a choking cough. The Elf soldiers peered anxiously at the platform.
“Maybe you better bring him inside,” Shadrach said. “My place is up the road. He shouldn’t be out in the rain.”
“Do you think we like being out on a night like this?” one of the bearers muttered. “Which way is it? Direct us.”
Shadrach pointed up the road. “Over there. Just follow me. I’ll get a fire going.”
He went down the road, feeling his way onto the first of the flat stone steps that he and Phineas Judd had laid during the summer. At the top of the steps, he looked back. The platform was coming slowly along, swaying a little from side to side. Behind it, the Elf soldiers picked their way, a tiny column of silent dripping creatures, unhappy and cold.
“I’ll get the fire started,” Shadrach said. He hurried them into the house.
Wearily, the Elf King lay back against the pillow. After sipping hot chocolate, he had relaxed and his heavy breathing sounded suspiciously like a snore.
Shadrach shifted in discomfort.
“I’m sorry,” the Elf King said suddenly, opening his eyes. He rubbed his forehead. “I must have drifted off. Where was I?”
“You should retire, Your Majesty,” one of the soldiers said sleepily. “It is late and these are hard times.”
“True,” the Elf King said, nodding. “Very true.” He looked up at the towering figure of Shadrach, standing before the fireplace, a glass of beer in his hand. “Mortal, we thank you for your hospitality. Normally, we do not impose on human beings.”
“It’s those Trolls,” another of the soldiers said, curled up on a cushion of the couch.
“Right,” another soldier agreed. He sat up, groping for his sword. “Those reeking Trolls, digging and croaking—”
“You see,” the Elf King went on,”as our party was crossing from the Great Low Steps toward the Castle, where it lies in the hollow of the Towering Mountains—”
“You mean Sugar Ridge,” Shadrach supplied helpfully.
“The Towering Mountains. Slowly we made our way. A rain storm came up. We became confused. All at once a group of Trolls appeared, crashing through the underbrush. We left the woods and sought safety on the Endless Path—”
“The highway. Route Twenty.”
“So that is why we’re here.” The Elf King paused a moment. “Harder and harder it rained. The wind blew around us, cold and bitter. For an endless time we toiled along. We had no idea where we were going or what would become of us.”
The Elf King looked up at Shadrach. “We knew only this: Behind us, the Trolls were coming, creeping through the woods, marching through the rain, crushing everything before them.”
He put his hand to his mouth and coughed, bending forward. All the Elves waited anxiously until he was done. He straightened up.
“It was kind of you to allow us to come inside. We will not trouble you for long. It is not the custom of the Elves—”
Again he coughed, covering his face with his hand. The Elves drew toward him apprehensively. At last the king stirred. He sighed.
“What’s the matter?” Shadrach asked. He went over and took the cup of chocolate from the fragile hand. The Elf King lay back, his eyes shut.
“He has to rest,” one of the soldiers said. “Where’s your room? The sleeping room?”
“Upstairs,” Shadrach said. “I’ll show you where.”
Late that night, Shadrach sat by himself in the dark, deserted living room, deep in meditation. The Elves were asleep above him, upstairs in the bedroom, the Elf King in the bed, the others curled up together on the rug.
The house was silent. Outside, the rain poured down endlessly, blowing against the house. Shadrach could hear the tree branches slapping in the wind. He clasped and unclasped his hands. What a strange business it was—all these Elves, with their old, sick king, their piping voices. How anxious and peevish they were!
But pathetic, too; so small and wet, with water dripping down from them, and all their gay robes limp and soggy.
The Trolls—what were they like? Unpleasant and not very clean. Something about digging, breaking and pushing through the woods…
Suddenly, Shadrach laughed in embarrassment. What was the matter with him, believing all this? He put his cigar out angrily, his ears red. What was going on? What kind of joke was this?
Elves? Shadrach grunted in indignation. Elves in Derryville? In the middle of Colorado? Maybe there were Elves in Europe. Maybe in Ireland. He had heard of that. But here? Upstairs in his own house, sleeping in his own bed?
“I’ve heard just about enough of this,” he said. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”
He turned toward the stairs, feeling for the banister in the gloom. He began to climb.
Above him, a light went on abruptly. A door opened.
Two Elves came slowly out onto the landing. They looked down at him. Shadrach halted halfway up the stairs. Something on their faces made him stop.
“What’s the matter?” he asked hesitantly.
They did not answer. The house was turning cold, cold and dark, with the chill of the rain outside and the chill of the unknown inside.
“What is it?” he said again. “What’s the matter?”
“The King is dead,” one of the Elves said. “He died a few moments ago.”
Shadrach stared up, wide-eyed. “He did? But—”
“He was very cold and very tired.” The Elves turned away, going back into the room, slowly and quietly shutting the door.
Shadrach stood, his fingers on the banister, hard, lean fingers, strong and thin.
He nodded his head blankly.
“I see,” he said to the closed door. “He’s dead.”
The Elf soldiers stood around him in a solemn circle. The living room was bright with sunlight, the cold white glare of early morning.
“But wait,” Shadrach said. He plucked at his necktie. “I have to get to the filling station. Can’t you talk to me when I come home?”
The faces of the Elf soldiers were serious and concerned.
“Listen,” one of them said. “Please hear us out. It is very important to us.”
Shadrach looked past them. Through the window he saw the highway, steaming in the heat of day, and down a little way was the gas station, glittering brightly. And even as he watched, a car came up to it and honked thinly, impatiently. When nobody came out of the station, the car drove off again down the road.
“We beg you,” a soldier said.
Shadrach looked down at the ring around him, the anxious faces, scored with concern and trouble. Strangely, he had always thought of Elves as carefree beings, flitting without worry or sense—