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*****

What do you say to a feral member of your own species?

This matter of etiquette came up the morning after the somewhat abortive party held by Lord Twelveoaks. Lt. Rutter had taken me out of a formal classroom setting, and we were walking, quietly, through a patch of woods.

I should say at this juncture that trees, for the most part, do not actually "talk." To my mind, it's more of a running, murmured commentary on conditions. A lot of it, as you can imagine, has to do with weather conditions (trees have their own priorities), but you will hear comments about "two-legged ones." When my teacher and I were walking, we heard ourselves referred to more. As we slowed down, or even stopped, the references likewise slowed and even ceased.

Even though I've been able to listen to what the trees have said, ever since Uncle laid his paws upon my head and opened me to their conversations, it had never really struck me before that the intelligence one could gather would be of great use in a patrolling or a combat situation. If an opponent were constantly moving, you would hear about it, and if an opponent was lying in ambush, even then, one might be able to pick up subtle cues from what was almost literally in the air as to what might be watching you.

I was so engrossed in my thoughts that I almost stumbled upon a feral roebuck, which had been crouched in the bushes. For that matter, he almost stumbled upon me. For a long pause and a distance of a few yards, we stared at each other, while he sniffed the air. I think the sight of a two-legged, upright deer greatly confused him. He ducked his head, swiveled his ears, shuffled his front two hooves, and barked a challenge.

He didn't get a response from me, even after two more barks, whereupon he turned and bounded deeper into the woods, his white rump-flash soon being the most visible part, and even that vanished in a few seconds.

Later, sitting on a fallen tree-trunk by a stream, Lt. Rutter pointed out another resident, a long stick insect, that was carefully picking its way along the log. It was hard to spot it at first, and it was only when I gently caught it, and held it in my open paw, that I could really make out how clever its colouration was. It was something that I had seen any number of times growing up and playing in the woods, but I had never given it any kind of in-depth thought, especially any kind of thought that would be relevant to the Army.

After releasing the bug on a nearby log, I returned to find that the boar had placed a trotter on the log. It was very hard to pick out, even up close, and at his invitation I stepped back a number of paces. It melded into the surface of the log. While I watched, my teacher began to turn parts of his uniform into different colours, as well as his face. I would not have expected tusks to look like sticks or branches, but he did make it quite convincing, especially from a distance. I knew that he was crouched by the log, but it was very difficult to pick up on the trotter-signals he was making.

I rather expected him to be annoyed at me, when I tried (successfully) to dispel the glamer and reveal his position. To the contrary: he merely gave a grunt of acknowledgement, and then had me start to trace tree, rock and ground-cover patterns on my fur and uniform. It was very difficult and time-consuming, especially since I kept moving and shifting. For obvious reasons, I was not nearly as proficient as he was. He suggested, rather archly, that I strip and dapple myself as a feral fawn. It did, at that, sound like a good idea, at some level.

"Wouldn't this be difficult to use against elves, sir? I mean, supposing you ran up against a whole platoon of them that could read the signs."

The boar walked along without answering for a few minutes, his paws behind his back. At length, he gave out something that was a mixture of a sigh and a grunt.

"It's easier than it used to be. I sometimes wish it wasn't like that."

He paused, and leaned against a tree, staring off into the distance. "My great-grandfather had four kids. My grandfather and father, two each. I've got just one. Lovely little sow, the image of her mother. I sometimes wonder if she'll find a boar of her own. Took me ages, and I got lucky."

"What do you think of Lowfolk, sir?"

He raised a thick eyebrow at me. "In general, or as in-laws?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I've dealt with them off and on. Hard to pin down, Private. I've seen 'em run the whole gamut, from the holy down to furs that'll steal the pennies from a corpse's tongue. I mean, Fuma all-knowledgeable, we're not all the image of each other, but the Lowfolk seem to have a bit more, whatchacallit, variation. Don't know about their vigour, though. You'd have to ask that idiot Twelveoaks." Here, he gave me a sidelong glance. "Don't fancy Lowfolk, yourself?"

"Not the way a few think I do."

He scratched a tusk against the side of the tree, just for variety. "You hear stories in the old days about young elves who would go on wild sprees in the Lowfolk country, more or less treating 'em as toys. There's folk as says that's why the Lowfolk aren't as stupid as they used to be. Could be that one of these days, they'll be more elf than the Fair Folk."

"Well, maybe something will happen, sir."

A finger was gently poked on my shoulder. "Don't leave it too late, lad. The way things are going..." He paused, and stared off into the distance again. "I don't know what they've got in mind, with all these schemes to keep Elkind from dying out. If you ask me, the folks up high ought to leave us alone, and things will sort out naturally. If Fuma wishes to extinguish us with her musk, that's her right."

He sighed again. "But on the other paw, I don't want to see what's fair and beautiful in this world die out. The Lowfolk will never match what we did of old. Fuma knows, we can't match what the elves of old did. And I'm not talking about the mass battle-ant charges, or the bloody feuds, or all the other stuff you hear in the ballads. I'm talking about some of those other ballads, the ones that talk about the stuff the Fair Folk can see or hear."

The tree he was leaning on was tapped gently. "I'm sure the trees will still be talking, long after we're gone, but will the Lowfolk listen? Will the Lowfolk even care about the trees?"

After a long silence, we resumed our walk back to Albric Tor, and he dismissed me near the FAFI, which was the only thing he said after the long way back. He was still brooding, head down, when I went in for a cuppa.

Certainly, there was some sign that the old spirit toward the Lowfolk was alive and well. The FAFI, smelling as it always did of sausages and spilled tea, was surprisingly empty, at least near the counter. And, thankfully, near the shove-copper board. No, tonight, the squaddies were crowded along the far wall, giving vent to numerous variations on "cor!"

On the night I'd gone into the Albric Tor FAFI for the first time, the squaddies had been admiring the latest installment of "Jane," which as I said involved a Lowfolk femmefur of spectacular formation, if not spectacular intellect. Usually, the plot (such as it was) revolved around elves tricking her into removing her clothes. There was usually something preserving modesty, if only a bit of strategically placed scenery.

Today's episode was unusual, in that not only did it have a far greater number of panels than was usual, but they were in colour. Moreover, Jane had two friends. To be exact, two roe deer does. In what was familiar (to me) national Lowfolk costume. The gist of the story involved how the does lost their costumes. The final result did not involve anything left to the imagination. Hence, the cries of "cor!"

These cries were not universal. There were a few brave furs that were objecting to the display, and who earned taunts of "Seelie" in response. "Seelie" being, in general, a term used to describe those in the popular imagination who subscribed to the (fictional?) Royal Society for the Protection of Lowfolk. Pronounced "Rtttttthpl," with the emphasis on the spit. The chief spokesfur for the Seelie faction, at least in the FAFI tonight, was a very handsome tod, who was arguing that using Lowfolk femmes as livestock degraded both Lowfolk and Fairfolk alike.

He wasn't getting the best of the argument, even if most of the counter-arguments centered around how much time his mother had spent around a farmyard, what was it to him if an Elf couldn't have a bit on the side, and the silent but potent argument of spoonfuls of beans being flicked in his general direction. The discussion concluded with a snarl of "Unseelie" from him, directed at the crowd, and the crowd responding with that age-old intellectually crushing rejoinder of "Bollocks!"

I'd rather lost my appetite, and decided to head back to the bungalow, to see what Bagoum might have left me. As I left the FAFI, another fur moderated his pace to walk along side me.

"Not a very edifying sight, is it? Drooling over scrawlings of Lowfolk sluts."

I kept my muzzle firmly shut.

"It's no wonder that things are going to hell, and that the glories of Faerie of old are being ignored."

I risked a discreet eye-flicker to see who my "companion" was. It was a fur I had seen once before, the rather nattily dressed wolf that had spoken to me after Private Flood had been arrested.

I was going to comment about how Gramerye being dangerous didn't mix with the comments he was making now, but there was something that told me I had better not get engaged with him. The pace quickened just a bit.

"Consorting with two Lowfolk femmes at once. Who could ever believe such a thing would happen? Surely, it would take a fur of backbone to turn that done, am I right?"

Eyes front, 80 paces to the minute.

He kept pace with me, with a running undertone about duty to one's self, and Elfkind. At the point where we reached BOQ Row, he peeled off.

But not before a comment about finding "appropriate companions." Whether he acknowledged the irony or not, I don't know. He certainly didn't acknowledge the two-fingered gesture I made to his back.

There were sounds of cheering and banging of assorted paws on surfaces coming from the backyard of Lt. Wicker's bungalow. Investigating it from the safety of the other side of the fence, I beheld Bagoum engaged in a contest as to whether he could drain a gigantic stein of wine within a set period of time. He won, easily, and was rewarded with a refill.

Schweink, observing my puzzled look, winked. "Getting rid of th' evidence, lad."

"I don't wish to know that."

An amused chuckle from behind a pipe stem. "What the quartermaster doesn't know won't 'urt 'im, eh?"

This occasioned much banging of steins upon surfaces in agreement, and almost immediately, gave way to song:

Forward, Elfkind Army!

Marching without fear!

While the Quarter-Master's

Sitting on his rear!

_ _

He burps and farts from morn 'till night

And thinks he's very bold!

While the squaddies marching to the front

Have rations hard and cold!

_ _

Forward, Elfkind Arrrrrrrrr-my!

Marching at a plod!

While the Q.M's skiving

Greedy, ___________ sod!

_ _

Aaaaaaaaaamen!

Bagoum mounted a footstool. "Eeeeee, lads, 'ow about a bit of old One 'undred?"

This proposal was met with cheers.

We are King Adler's Army!

The Elven In-fan-try!

We cannot fight, we cannot scout

What __________ use are we?

_ _

And when we march in Alllll-bric

King Adler, 'ee will say

Fuma's snot, Fuma's snot

What a _________ rotten lot

are King Adler's In-fan-try!

_ _

We are King Adler's Army!

The Elven In-fan-try!

A Madam is our chaplain

the Bartender, our O.C.

_ _

Our mon-u-ments in stooooone

and MAR-ble in the Halls

Say: "Fuma's __, Fuma's ____"

What a 'orrible lot of balls

are King Adler's In-fan-try!"

As I went to do my nightly chores for Lt. Chitterleigh, I pondered. These were lyrics that were probably unchanged since the days when the Elf-Lords marched "on Faerie's Mountains Green." Well, unchanged except for the ruler's name. In some ways, Elf-kind really hadn't changed all that much.

_ _