The boy's spirit was dead, dead as a deflated balloon at a porcupine’s birthday party.
He had reluctantly shelved his plans for playing hooky and left for school the next morning, walking, or rather dragging himself, along behind Sith, so that his “half-brother” could confirm he attended. The boy's foolproof scheme to get out of work was still intact. Yet he decided he should attend school at least for today, lest the job list waiting for him at home multiply like Gremlins after being watered. It might even reach three or, El forbid, four chores.
The school was rather similar to an elf house, with first-year students on the first floor, second-year students on the second, and so forth. The most obvious difference was that the student desks and chairs had all been carved out of the tree, resembling church pews. The boy was allowed to pick any class he wanted, so he chose the class on the fifth, or highest, floor where Ronthiel was. Here, he usually found himself more involved with the window view than the curriculum.
Of course, he had to pass the other teachers along the way. There was Miss Morgadra, probably the only elf woman he ever compared to an ogress, who seemed to think he belonged in her class. But the boy could already read elfish, so he continued up the stairs. The other students were from the four villages of Eagle’s House, Wind Walker, Linthiel, and Tree Claw. The only ones he knew were from Linthiel, and now Ronthiel from Eagle’s House and Draugo from, well, wherever—probably Tree Claw by the look of him. At the end of the year, the teachers held a student contest, and the community whose elf students performed the best won a trophy, making the competition among the students keen, except for Ronthiel. He later told the boy that winning it wouldn’t mean much to his family anyway, as all of his older brothers had already won it and the house trophy cabinet was bulging already.
By selecting Ronthiel’s class, the boy, though, had the misfortune of having picked Blackthorn as his classroom teacher, who didn’t like him at all. But it was the only way he could be in Ronthiel’s class. Blackthorn had greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and pale skin. He was an unwelcome shadow in the boy’s classroom life, a storm cloud of disapproval hanging over him.
“I see,” he noted regarding the boy, “that you have decided to bless us with your presence today. Does this mean that we will see you tomorrow or will you be off playing hooky again?” Blackthorn’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“That depends,” the boy said.
“On what?” he asked.
“On whether you can teach me anything or not.”
A murmur of giggles passed through the class as Blackthorn’s lips tightened into a thin line.
“Well! We shall have to see if that’s possible,” Blackthorn replied flatly. “Today,” he told the class. “We are discussing medicinal herbs. I have here before me a collection of plants. They range from flowers and leaves to mushrooms. Some are good for medicinal use, but some are quite poisonous. Let’s begin with the goat boy. Boy, which of these plants do you know to be dangerous?” Blackthorn pointed to a table with various plants displayed on it.
The boy studied them, his finger hovering over the plant of his choice, and made his decision. “The ones with the orange and white berries.”
“Why did you pick them?”
“Because they don’t look good to eat,” he answered.
“Because they don’t look good to eat?” repeated Blackthorn with a curious turn of his head. “Interesting!” he noted. “Anyone else care to try?”
“The poison oak, sir,” a new girl offered.
“And which one would that be?”
“The one with the barbed leaves,” she said.
“Ah! Yes! That’s very good,” Blackthorn agreed, nodding. “The barbs are used to insert the poison. But there are still more poisons on the table.”
“The mushrooms?” asked Ronthiel.
“Yes, the mushrooms,” Blackthorn said with a nod. “Can you tell me which ones?”
“No, sir,” said the elf.
“What about the plants? Are any of these others poisonous?”
“Poison ivy, sir?” the new girl asked.
“Which is the poison ivy?”
“I don’t know.”
“This,” their teacher raised a potted plant, “innocent-looking thing is poison ivy. Notice there are no thorns? It provides no warning of its danger, which causes burns to the skin or even death if eaten. How do we identify it? By a simple rhyme: ’Leaves of three, let it be; berries white, danger in sight’.”
“Assassins can also use it as a weapon,” he continued. “Because if burned and inhaled, death will probably follow. It’s also useful for maintaining the shine and glitter of gold. However, it has no practical medicinal curing uses.”
“What about the white and orange berries?” the girl asked.
“They too are poisonous,” Blackthorn confirmed.
“Then the goat boy was right?” Ronthiel asked.
Blackthorn nodded slowly, conceding the point. “He was, but ‘not looking good to eat’ is hardly the explanation I was looking for. The orange berries have black marks on them to enable us to identify them, and some poisonous berries are sweet tasting in the mouth, such as nightshade. So while the boy’s answer may be correct, his reasoning is mistaken.”
“I wouldn’t have eaten them,” the boy reminded him.
“Which I’m sure we can attribute to your natural instincts as a satyr. Do I have your permission to continue?” Blackthorn waited on him.
The boy blushed and fell silent.
“So who can tell us which of these mushrooms are poisonous?” Blackthorn’s gaze swept across the class.
“Let the boy tell us,” Ronthiel offered.
“Very well! Boy! Can you tell us which of these mushrooms are dangerous?”
The boy squirmed like a worm caught on the hook of Blackthorn’s nose. He never had much care for mushrooms, but every elf has a craving for them and generally has his favorites. To be able to properly hunt mushrooms was to have everyone’s respect and a well-prepared table. Fortunately, three he recognized from Athiel’s table.
“Those three on the left are okay,” he said, his finger indicating those mushrooms. “The two on the right, the little brown ones and the ones with the flat tops? They don’t look right.”
“What about these in the middle?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t eat them.”
“Does anyone disagree with the boy?” Blackthorn’s gaze moved to the rest of the class, waiting for responses.
No one did.
“The boy is quite right,” Blackthorn conceded. “The three on the left are all edible, while the two on the right are not. However, these in the middle are edible, but they have mind-altering effects.”
“You mean they’re mind-seers?” Draugo asked.
“Yes.”
“Mind-seers?” repeated Ronthiel, his eyes widening with curiosity. “Have you ever tried them?”
“That’s unimportant,” Blackthorn said, changing the subject. “What is important is that you can use the power of these mushrooms during a time of need – some as food, some as poison, and some to mind-see. Therefore, I have included them for our herb study today. Study and learn to recognize them all and their uses. And remember, even a poisonous plant to our enemies is often medicine to us.”
Ronthiel looked at the boy. “So how did you know the two on the right were poisonous?”
The boy shifted uncomfortably. “Because they didn’t look good to eat to me.”
After school, Ronthiel hunted the boy down on his way home.
“Old Blackthorn sure doesn’t like you,” he laughed, catching up. “He looked like he’d swallowed a toad when all your answers were right.”
The boy though was less than enthusiastic. His brow deepened and he frowned as shrugged it off.
“He made me look stupid.”
“That’s his job. If you were already smart, you wouldn’t have to go to school.”
“Yes. But he seems to hate me.”
“He hates everybody, but I imagine sticking a satyr in his class probably sticks him like a festering thorn. You’re never going to be his favorite.”
The boy nodded.
“There’s no school tomorrow,” Ronthiel noted. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“I can’t,” the boy remembered. “I’ve got chores to do.”
“Are you being punished for fighting Draugo?” Ronthiel guessed. “Because I thought it was great when you kicked him! He wasn’t expecting that! He was still limping this morning on the way to class like a wounded griffon, courtesy of you. I thought all those flights of stairs were going to kill him!”
The boy smiled pleasantly. He liked Ronthiel. “No. I’m not being punished. I’ve just put them off too long.”
The boy arrived home late, just in time for supper but too late to do his chores. However, when his auntie met him at the door, she said nothing about it.
“No chores for you tomorrow,” she told him to his amazed, open mouthed, response. “Someone’s coming here just to see you. Someone very important.”
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