The Sterkarm Handshake (21 page)

The knife remained steady, pointing up from the lad's fist, but the lad raised his right hand and knocked his cap back, to get a clearer view of Joe. The face under the cap was so disconcertingly pretty that, for a moment, Joe wondered if it was a tall, strong girl he was facing, not a boy at all. That bulky body warmer and baggy shirt hid a lot—there was a nasty stain on the shirt.

The kid yelled, making Joe jump, rocked back on his heels by a bellow like a sergeant-major's. The voice was certainly male, but it was hard to understand what it said. Something that sounded like “Stairrick-arram!”

“Eh?” Joe said. Maybe he should have been running, but the girl was still standing there—and besides, after the first shock of seeing the knife drawn, the sense of threat lessened. The lad seemed more wary and concerned with holding Joe off than with attacking him. Joe kept his hands raised to assure the kid that he wasn't going to mess with him. To the girl, he said, “You all right, love?”

“Oh, I'm all right, I'm fine,” she said, in perfectly clear English, not at all like she'd been speaking earlier.

“I'd get out of here, if I was you,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she said. “It's all right; he won't hurt me. But thank you. For your help. Pair,” she said to the lad, and added something that Joe didn't catch.

Joe began to back off toward his sign and his money, thinking that he might as well collect them before leaving the girl to the thumping he was pretty sure she'd get as soon as he was out of sight. He'd heard that one about “he won't hurt me” before. But it was none of his business. He should have known better than to get involved in the first place.

The lad came after him, and for a moment Joe's heart skipped. But though the lad kept the knife steady, he was pointing at Joe's chest with his other hand. “Stairrk-arram,” he repeated, at a shout.

Joe looked down at himself. His oversize T-shirt had been given him by the landlord of a big city-center pub, The Sterkarm Arms. It was printed, in black on white, with a picture of the pub's sign: an upraised arm brandishing a dagger. All the bar staff had worn them. “That's my coat of arms,” Joe had said. “I never said you could use it.” The landlord had laughed and given him a spare shirt from behind the bar.

It dawned on Joe that the kid was trying to say “Sterkarm,”­ but had got the pronunciation a bit off, and was rolling all the Rs.

“That's me,” Joe yelled, as a bus passed overhead. He pointed at himself. “That's me name. I'm Sterkarm.”

“Thu air Sterkarm?”
Per looked again at what he'd taken for an Elf. Certainly, the man wore Elf-Clothes, but Per himself was wearing Elf-Clothes. And all the Elf-Men he'd seen had been clean-shaven, with short hair, but this man had a thick beard and long hair falling to his shoulders. And on his chest he wore the Sterkarms' badge. “Art thee Sterkarm? Did they bring thee here, into Elf-Land? How long hast been here? Didst come through Elf-Gate? Dost ken where it be?”

“Per,” Andrea said, “he's no one of thine. Come away.” He ignored her, and she didn't quite dare to drag at his arm again. He'd been gentle about putting her on the floor the last time; he might not be the next.

Joe could feel his own face knotting into a frown as he listened to them. They were speaking in foreign again, and yet he kept catching at meaning in the words.
Thu air Sterkarm? Kommer thu av Erlf-Yett?
Listening to the kid was like tuning a radio through the different frequencies. Among incomprehensible foreign speech there were sudden bursts of words you could understand. Not all of them made much sense though. Elf-Gate?

Per saw the expression of puzzlement on Joe's face and realized that he'd been too eager to believe this stranger was one of his own.
“Vem ridder thu meth?”
Who ride you with?
“Vem air thine yarl?”
Who is your lord?
“Fra vilken tur air thu?”
From which tower are you?

Joe shook his head. He couldn't understand, but had the troublesome feeling that if, somehow, he could adjust his hearing slightly, he would. There was something about the kid's speech that, weirdly, reminded him of his Granddad Sterkarm. It was the sound of it, the throatiness, the rolled Rs, the rhythms. “Where do you come from?” Joe asked.

The girl interrupted. “We should be going,” she said, and added something to the lad, in words that sounded like a slightly twisted version of what she'd just said in English. The lad continued to stare at Joe, with something of Joe's puzzlement.

Joe had an idea. Instead of trying to speak clearly, he spoke as much like his granddad as he could. “Whor thee come fro'?”

Per leaned toward him, his whole face brightening. He understood! The words were a little strange, but—
“Yi?”
He pointed to himself.
“Fra vor kommer yi?”

“Aye.” Joe leaned forward too, even took a small step closer, just as the kid lowered the knife slightly. “Fra whor come-a thee?” He pointed at the kid.

Per was filled with relief and happiness that warmed him all through and made him dizzy, like mulled festival ale. Holding the knife so that Joe could see it clearly, Per shoved it back into its sheath and then jumped at Joe, crashing into him and throwing his arms round him in a tight hug.
“Day glayder migh a finner thu!”
It gladdens me to find thee!

The girl cried out, and Joe squawked and staggered back, grabbing at Per and trying to shove him away, afraid he was being attacked. Per only clung to him the tighter. The man could be no Elf—he wore the badge, he was bearded and longhaired, and he spoke English! True, he was a little hard to understand, but the more distant Sterkarms often spoke oddly.

“Hey, all right, okay,” Joe said, still trying to push the kid away, even when he'd realized he wasn't being mugged. “Steady on. What the hell's this you're wearing?” What he'd taken for a body warmer, instead of being soft, seemed to be full of bits of old scrap. As he pushed the kid away, he could feel the hardness and hear the metallic scratching and clinking.

The kid let him go but still kept close as Joe backed away. The kid's pretty, girlish face had turned pink and was bright with a huge, delighted smile. Joe was surprised to see that the blue eyes were shimmering with tears. The girl had come close to them, and was saying something urgently, but the lad had the more carrying voice, and he spoke intensely, excitedly.

“Vor kommer yi? Fra Bed-des-dahla, fra tur.
” From Bedesdale, from the tower.
“Yi air Sterkarm, yi hite Per.”
I'm called Per.
“Min far air Stoor Toorkild, oh min fars-bror air Gobby Per.”
My father is Big Toorkild and my uncle is Gobby Per. Per searched his new friend's face for any sign of recognition.
“Yi air Stoor Toorkilds Per—Per Toorkildsson, av tur, av Bed-des-dahla. Yunker Per. Lilla Per. Per May.”

Still Joe showed no sign of recognizing the names or places. But maybe he'd been in Elf-Land a hundred years or more. Maybe he'd forgotten his own speech. Per turned to Andrea, who was pulling at his sleeve and telling him that they should go. “Ask him how long he's been here—ask him! Has he eaten Elf-Meat?” If he had, he would be trapped here forever. Tears pricked behind Per's eyes at the terrible sadness of it. “Ask him!”

Joe's face was screwed up in bafflement. Again, he'd caught odd words. “Stoor” … was that “big”? It sounded like the local word for “big.” And “yunker”—his granddad had called him “yunker.” It meant “young,” “a youth.”

And “Pair,” which seemed to be the kid's name. It sounded a bit like “Peter,” said with a local accent, with the T swallowed. “Lilla Per”? “Little Peter?” Joe asked, signing “little” with his fingers and pointing at the kid.

“Ya, ya.”
The kid turned from the girl and went all serious, looking at Joe with something like concern.
“Vah air thu namma?”

“What's my name?” Joe pointed at himself. “Joe. I'm Joe Sterkarm. Joe.”

“Chyo.”

“No. Joe.”

Per nodded, and tried harder. “Shyo. How long hast been in Elf-Land, Shyo? Hast eaten Elf-Meat?”

“Elf?” Joe said. “Elf-Meat?”

Andrea had refused to believe it at first, but the longer she listened, the more obvious it was that this Joe Sterkarm
understood
Per—at least to some extent. To a greater extent than she liked. This could be trouble.

“Didst come by Elf-Gate?” Per raised both his hands and made a circle with his fingers.

“Elf-Gate?” Joe said. His granddad had called a gate a “yett,” but he still wasn't sure about this “Elf” business. He made one hand into a gatepost, and the other into the gate, and opened and closed it. “Yett?”

“Aye! Came thee by Elf-Gate? Dost ken where it be? Tilsmid Oll!”

Andrea gasped. She took hold of Per's upper arm and pulled at him. “Per, I'm going to take thee through Elf-Gate. I told thee I would—come on!”

“Deelssmeed Holl,” Per said to Joe, and then turned on her, shaking her off. “Stop it! I'll no gan with thee! Th'art an Elf.”

“Per! He's an Elf!”

“I'm an Elf?” Joe said.

“Oh, shut up! Keep out of this. Per, I promise—”

“He be one of my own,” Per said.

“He be no, Per, he be—”

“Dealsmaid Hole,” Per said to Joe.

“Dilsmead Hall?” Joe said.

“Ya!”
The kid tried to hug him again, and Joe had to fend him off.
“Kenna thu vor day air?”

“Aye. I ken whor it are.”

Andrea put a hand to her head and turned away from them.

Joe said, “Be that whor thee come from? Near there?” Dilsmead Hall itself was a big building on the outskirts of the town, a big stately-home sort of place that had been built by some rich bloke years ago. Now it was owned by some firm from down south, who'd turned it into offices. They were supposed to be developing all sorts of technological wonders, and there'd been articles in the local papers about how many jobs they were creating. There hadn't been one for Joe.

The kid grabbed two fistfuls of Joe's waterproof and stared at him so hard Joe couldn't see anything but blue eyes.
“Tar migh der, Chyo!”

“Take you there?” Joe said. He didn't fancy the idea much. Dilsmead Hall wasn't on his beat.

Then the girl grabbed at his arm. Joe felt things were getting out of hand. “Joe, don't. Don't take him, don't.”

Joe immediately liked the idea more—but still, it was out of his way.

“Kommer hyemma, Chyo
—
kommer hyemma meth migh oh yi skal giffer thee ayn hus oh lant.
”

“What?” Joe said, stooping his head toward those blue eyes. He knew he'd heard, knew he'd understood, but couldn't believe it.

“Don't listen, Joe,” the girl said, and pulled hard at the lad's arm. “Per, come with me! I'll take thee. Joe, he's talking rubbish, don't listen.”

Joe would have thought so too, except he was struck by the girl's anxiety to convince him that the lad was talking rubbish. The lad turned on the girl, gripped her arms with both his hands, shook her and said something angrily that Joe couldn't catch. Then he turned back to Joe and repeated what he'd said before.

“If I go home with him,” Joe said, glancing at the girl, “he'll give me a house and land?” And home was Dilsmead Hall? “Yeah, right, sure.”

Andrea had retreated a little from Per after the shaking. She said, “He can no gan with thee. He's eaten Elf-Meat—he can no gan back through Gate. Come with me—if I meant to trick thee, I'd have brought men with me—oh!” Per wasn't listening to her at all. He was staring at Joe.

“Kom, kom,”
he said to Joe.
“Sitta.”
Leaning against the wall of the tunnel, he slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. It would be only a few minutes, but it would be a chance to rest his hurt leg, which, though he ignored it, was steadily aching. Curious, Joe crouched beside him, watching as Per pulled his pouch to the front of his belt and opened it.

The only food left inside it was a small plum that was getting overripe, and about a quarter of an apple, going dry and brown. Looking at them made Per's own belly tighten in a knot, and he couldn't resist taking a small bite of the apple. The rest he held out to Joe. “Have it. Eat it.”

Was there a loony bin near Dilsmead Hall? Joe wondered. The kid was as daft as a brush. The bit of apple was fit for nothing but throwing away. He looked over at the girl, who stood with her hands on her hips. Her hair was falling down and her tattered stockings were in frills about her ankles. The pair of 'em must have escaped from somewhere.

“It be no Elf-Meat,” Per said, when Joe was hesitant about taking the apple. “It be from home, last I have. It'll break spell. Maybe.” In all the stories Per knew, it was said that eating Elf-Food trapped you in Elf-Land, but none of the people in the stories had ever been able to get their hands on food from home. Maybe eating men's-food would break the spell and let Joe go home. It was worth trying.

The kid was looking at him so earnestly, and plainly wanted him so much to take the apple, that Joe couldn't find a way to refuse it. You never knew how Looney Tunes the kid was anyway. He might turn nasty, and he had that yard and a half of knife. So Joe sat down beside him, leaning against the wall, took the bit of apple and put it in his mouth, grinning at the lass as he did so. The apple was tart, and he could taste the brownness, but his eating it seemed to please the kid no end. He watched Joe closely as he chewed, with a smile and shining eyes.

Per took a bite at the plum in his hand and bit half of it away, letting a dribble of plum pulp run down his chin. He handed the other half of the plum, the stone exposed, to Joe. Taking the soft, oozing bit of fruit, wet with the kid's spit, Joe said, “Oh, thanks.” He put it into his mouth, chewed, and spat the stone as far as he could across the underpass. It rattled on the tiles, and the kid laughed.