Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction ❯ Contemplations on Condescension ❯ The Return of the Green-hat Boy (Part 2) ( Chapter 4 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Kacfrog711 
Ah, house guests. Kafei (or more correctly, Anju) entertains her friends the Ranch sisters... and a certain Green-hat.
Non Anime: Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 08.07.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.3K | Visits: 356 | Status: Completed
Ah, house guests. Kafei (or more correctly, Anju) entertains her friends the Ranch sisters... and a certain Green-hat.
Non Anime: Legend Of Zelda Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Psychological / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 08.07.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.3K | Visits: 356 | Status: Completed
Chapter 4: The Return of the Green-hat Boy (Part 2)
The older girl grabbed a few crates of milk and managed to open the door with half a hand and her hip alone. Before entering, she called to the children to stay with the cart, and they chirped the affirmative. Wasting no time, I stormed over to Green-hat and asked what I hoped would be the first in a series of revealing questions that, after a little piecing together, would irrevocably prove my point. ...Whatever it happened to be that moment. “How old are you?” I demanded. It was a simple matter, yes, but I was sure it would lead somewhere productive: a fine place to start. ...And, yes, I was a little curious, and the question had been bothering me. I’m horrible at telling how old little kids are from their appearance.
The small ranch girl looked over at the Green-hat boy, then back to me and told me with pride, “I’m eleven now. I’ll be twelve in the fall.”
Ignoring this response, I asked my real target, “And you?”
He met my eyes from under his blonde bangs and replied frankly, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” I parroted.
And he replied flippantly, “Eleven, I guess. Or twelve. I don’t...”
“You’re eleven, too?” The redheaded girl gaped at him. “Wow,” she exclaimed, “We’re the same age!”
“Yeah!” He said, smiling at her. I opened my mouth to make a dry comment, but the boy’s blue-grey eyes suddenly shot up and locked with mine, and he demanded, “What about you?”
“Uh, I...“ I stuttered despite myself, caught off-guard by his sudden intensity. Who was supposed to be interrogating whom? The nerve.
But the girl chimed in with glee, “Yeah, how old are you? I bet you’re fifteen. My sister’s fifteen.”
I broke my impromptu staring contest with the brat to glance at the little girl curiously. “No, she isn’t,” I said.
“She is!” The child insisted. “I know because she’s three years older than me, and eleven plus three is fourteen, but she had a birthday and I haven’t caught up yet, so I’m still eleven even though she’s fifteen.”
“She’s older than that.” I crossed my arms. Obviously the girl didn’t know her own sister’s age, which was pathetic. But was she really expected to? She was only eleven, after all. I knew, though, that the older ranch girl (Cremia was her name; she had always been a close friend of my wife and more than a bit of a nuisance.) was much closer to my age than that. She had to be at least eighteen, if not older. After all, the ranch girls had been on their own for some time, as I recalled. They couldn’t be that young. Children couldn’t handle that sort of responsibility. “When,” I asked the little girl after a moment, “Did your parents die?”
The girl became very still, her tiny pink lips parting just a bit. She said nothing, and I began to think she wouldn’t respond at all... but the next moment, her red-haired head fell forward, and she said in a quiet voice,”When I was six... they left.”
“Left?” I frowned and began, “I heard th–” but Green-hat was quick to interrupt.
“Romani,” he pulled the little girl’s arm into his own, practically pouting at her as he made eye-contact, their two little noses almost touching from the closeness. “Let’s go to the shooting gallery. I can never get a perfect score, and the ‘keep keeps laughing at me for it.” He tugged her arm a bit, “He needs someone to teach him a lesson, don’t you think? And who better than my sensei?”(1)
The girl giggled at the title, “You have a lot to learn, Grasshopper! We’ll show him, together!” And the two began half-skipping, half-running toward the opposite end of town, mindless of how ridiculous they looked, still hooking their arms. I glared at their backs. Not once did either look back, to wave goodbye, to excuse themselves. Manner-less, inconsiderate, disrespectful... Not to mention evasive. He’d done it on purpose, the brat. To get away from me. And it had worked. How infuriating.
I considered following them, then thought better of it. They’d ignore me while they were busy with they kiddie games anyway. Besides, they would stay at the inn tonight - the only inn - the very inn I happened to own, by marriage. The green-hatted boy couldn’t run from me forever. I still had a lot to ask, and he wasn’t leaving again before I’d gotten the answers I wanted. Or at least more than one. ...That hadn’t worked out as I’d planned at all. I’d learned next-to-nothing. Turning slightly, my eyes met with the bar’s solid wooden door. ...Well, if I couldn’t find out directly, there was always the secondary approach. I strode through the entrance and down the steep stairs, once again ignoring the owner’s call of “We’re not open yet.”
Both the ranch girl and the bartender were looking at me openly when I stepped to the floor, and I walked to them unabashedly. “You. Milk-wench.” I called to the girl as I walked toward her. “What was your name again?” Yes, I knew it, but we had a bit of a strained relationship, to say the least, and how could I resist every possible insult that came to my mind when Cremia was the target? After all, I only saw her so often without Anju around; I had to make use of what opportunities arose. But, really, our insults were always just harmless fun... At least, so we assured my wife.
Cremia replied with a flip of her red hair and the tossed words, “Well, if it isn’t Anju’s pet poodle.” She half-turned to the bartender and asked in my direction, “Do you have any scraps? The poor thing looks all mangy and half-starved.” Then to me, “Doesn’t she feed you?”
“As if anyone could eat what she calls cooking,” I replied, falling onto the stool next to her. “Two stray cats have died already from my left-overs - relatives of yours, I’d guess, from the look of them, the filthy, wild tabbies.” Deciding that any type of subtlety would be lost on dear Cremia, I asked what I wanted rather directly. “I hear you’re taking in strays yourself. Adopted Green-hat, have you?”
“You mean Link?” She laughed. “Couldn’t collar that puppy if I wanted to. He’s not a poofy little house-cat like you.” She meowed at me, smiling as she leaned back on the counter-top.
I snorted, “Yes, he’s more of a mutt. No pedigree at all. And no taste in company.” In a vain attempt to steer the conversation back where I wanted it, I asked, “So what’d he do to you?”
“Do?” She replied, mimicking my tone of voice.
“You missed a delivery.”
That seemed to hit her harder than any insult I had, and she visibly flinched before replying. “Romani got spooked.” I... reined in the horse analogy her term had brought to my mind. Who said I was tactless? Cremia sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her skirt-covered knees. “She refused to leave the ranch again, and I couldn’t leave her alone. So we stayed a while. ...Until Link showed up.”
“And calmed her down?” I tried. Gave her a carrot, my mind tacked on. Patted her nose?
“Something like that.”
“Kids,” I lamented with a barely-restrained chuckle.
She sat up, as if with a second wind, and glanced at me. “So what do you care about us? You don’t even drink milk. You’re bad for our business.”
Ignoring the point, I asked, “What do you know about him?”
“Who, Link?” I nodded. After a moment, she laughed a little, “What’s to know? He and Romani are friends. They’re about the same age, so they get along. He believes...”
I couldn’t help but cut her off at that, “How old are you?” Cremia looked at me as if to say, “ha-ha,” so I added, “Really. She said you were fifteen.”
It was almost imperceptible, but I knew I saw a blush behind those proud blue eyes. “Well... I am! So what?”
“Really.”
“Stop looking at me like that!” She clenched her hands into her skirts, and I wondered distantly if the motion was to keep her from strangling or punching me for whatever ‘look’ she felt I was giving her. “It’s not that young.”
“So,” I did some mental math, straining to place this age onto the strong, stubborn, independent girl whom I knew and had a bit of a shady history with. “Last year, you were fourteen.”
Flatly, she replied, “Seems likely, doesn’t it.”
I continued, “And the year before, at the carnival, with the moon...”
“I was thirteen.” She insisted, raising her chin, “But still way older than you were, Mr. Ten-Again!”
“Thirteen!” I accentuated, letting my head fall back and speaking to the ceiling. “How did I not know this?” I snapped my neck forward again to stare at her. She was fifteen! She looked... She acted... “And I trusted you! Like an adult!”
“Oh, please!” She hopped off her perch, waving her finger at me. “Don’t bring age into this, Kafei Dotour, I was more mature at ten than you’ll be ten years from now.” With that, she walked around me and called to the bartender her goodbye.
He replied his own farewell over my indignant, “That’s just ridiculous!” I followed the flowing red hair and dirty pink skirts up the clanking metal stairs. “I can’t believe you’re treated like an adult at your age. No wonder you’ve never told anyone! What would Anju say?”
“Of course Anju knows how old I am!” She forced her way through the door with me still at her heels. “And she– Anju!”
I followed her look and saw Anju stepping away from The Stockpot’s painted door. Hearing her name, my wife looked up. Even at the small distance, I could see Anju’s face break into a smile as she waved largely and called back to Cremia. She was beside us in a moment, then hugging us in turn. “Cremia!” She put her hands to her mouth to cover her shocked laughter. “I haven’t seen you in so long! I was worried about you, and Romani.” Cremia reassured her, they hugged again and clasped hands, and I was suddenly quite sickened by their girlish display. I was not looking forward to finding myself in a closed room with those two.
“I’m getting some air.” I muttered before heading out the East Gate.
Behind me, I heard the soft trill of my wife’s voice, followed by the much more boisterous reply of the ranch girl, “Oh, he’s fine. Just let him sulk. Now, how are you? Here, help me with this crate, will you?”
I didn’t go much beyond the outer wall, but just sat on the large stone steps outside. It was breezy and bright out, a perfect spring day, and there was a sudden urge in me to stand up again that second and run, beyond the official bounds of Clock Town, out across the feathery green fields, down to the sea-chewed black walls until I could feel cold, wet sand under my thinly-clad soles. I’d keep running, I imagined, scaling the slippery rock if I had to, out beyond the shore and into the ocean until my feet couldn’t touch the sea floor, and I had to struggle to keep my head up. I didn’t know what I’d do after that point... but the urge to get that far was strong enough to stop my worrying about consequence. I just wanted to run, and end up splashing, soaked, and salty. Maybe punch and kick the waves, because I could. It’d be freezing, I was sure. And when I got back (I knew I’d get tired of it and return eventually), someone would call me insane for it. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to do it, and not think about why.
But, in the end, I didn’t. I just sat there instead and stared at the perfectly bright blue-and-green scenery until I felt like I would fall asleep. I don’t know how long it was, but the sun barely moved in its blinding white arch. Then, I walked back into Clock Town and straight to the inn, like a pigeon or a house-cat. Or a poodle.
End Notes
(1) "Sensei" is the Japanese word for a respected instructor. It’s usually translated as "master," and is often left untranslated in English pop culture, especially when dealing with karate and similar martial instruction.
The older girl grabbed a few crates of milk and managed to open the door with half a hand and her hip alone. Before entering, she called to the children to stay with the cart, and they chirped the affirmative. Wasting no time, I stormed over to Green-hat and asked what I hoped would be the first in a series of revealing questions that, after a little piecing together, would irrevocably prove my point. ...Whatever it happened to be that moment. “How old are you?” I demanded. It was a simple matter, yes, but I was sure it would lead somewhere productive: a fine place to start. ...And, yes, I was a little curious, and the question had been bothering me. I’m horrible at telling how old little kids are from their appearance.
The small ranch girl looked over at the Green-hat boy, then back to me and told me with pride, “I’m eleven now. I’ll be twelve in the fall.”
Ignoring this response, I asked my real target, “And you?”
He met my eyes from under his blonde bangs and replied frankly, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” I parroted.
And he replied flippantly, “Eleven, I guess. Or twelve. I don’t...”
“You’re eleven, too?” The redheaded girl gaped at him. “Wow,” she exclaimed, “We’re the same age!”
“Yeah!” He said, smiling at her. I opened my mouth to make a dry comment, but the boy’s blue-grey eyes suddenly shot up and locked with mine, and he demanded, “What about you?”
“Uh, I...“ I stuttered despite myself, caught off-guard by his sudden intensity. Who was supposed to be interrogating whom? The nerve.
But the girl chimed in with glee, “Yeah, how old are you? I bet you’re fifteen. My sister’s fifteen.”
I broke my impromptu staring contest with the brat to glance at the little girl curiously. “No, she isn’t,” I said.
“She is!” The child insisted. “I know because she’s three years older than me, and eleven plus three is fourteen, but she had a birthday and I haven’t caught up yet, so I’m still eleven even though she’s fifteen.”
“She’s older than that.” I crossed my arms. Obviously the girl didn’t know her own sister’s age, which was pathetic. But was she really expected to? She was only eleven, after all. I knew, though, that the older ranch girl (Cremia was her name; she had always been a close friend of my wife and more than a bit of a nuisance.) was much closer to my age than that. She had to be at least eighteen, if not older. After all, the ranch girls had been on their own for some time, as I recalled. They couldn’t be that young. Children couldn’t handle that sort of responsibility. “When,” I asked the little girl after a moment, “Did your parents die?”
The girl became very still, her tiny pink lips parting just a bit. She said nothing, and I began to think she wouldn’t respond at all... but the next moment, her red-haired head fell forward, and she said in a quiet voice,”When I was six... they left.”
“Left?” I frowned and began, “I heard th–” but Green-hat was quick to interrupt.
“Romani,” he pulled the little girl’s arm into his own, practically pouting at her as he made eye-contact, their two little noses almost touching from the closeness. “Let’s go to the shooting gallery. I can never get a perfect score, and the ‘keep keeps laughing at me for it.” He tugged her arm a bit, “He needs someone to teach him a lesson, don’t you think? And who better than my sensei?”(1)
The girl giggled at the title, “You have a lot to learn, Grasshopper! We’ll show him, together!” And the two began half-skipping, half-running toward the opposite end of town, mindless of how ridiculous they looked, still hooking their arms. I glared at their backs. Not once did either look back, to wave goodbye, to excuse themselves. Manner-less, inconsiderate, disrespectful... Not to mention evasive. He’d done it on purpose, the brat. To get away from me. And it had worked. How infuriating.
I considered following them, then thought better of it. They’d ignore me while they were busy with they kiddie games anyway. Besides, they would stay at the inn tonight - the only inn - the very inn I happened to own, by marriage. The green-hatted boy couldn’t run from me forever. I still had a lot to ask, and he wasn’t leaving again before I’d gotten the answers I wanted. Or at least more than one. ...That hadn’t worked out as I’d planned at all. I’d learned next-to-nothing. Turning slightly, my eyes met with the bar’s solid wooden door. ...Well, if I couldn’t find out directly, there was always the secondary approach. I strode through the entrance and down the steep stairs, once again ignoring the owner’s call of “We’re not open yet.”
Both the ranch girl and the bartender were looking at me openly when I stepped to the floor, and I walked to them unabashedly. “You. Milk-wench.” I called to the girl as I walked toward her. “What was your name again?” Yes, I knew it, but we had a bit of a strained relationship, to say the least, and how could I resist every possible insult that came to my mind when Cremia was the target? After all, I only saw her so often without Anju around; I had to make use of what opportunities arose. But, really, our insults were always just harmless fun... At least, so we assured my wife.
Cremia replied with a flip of her red hair and the tossed words, “Well, if it isn’t Anju’s pet poodle.” She half-turned to the bartender and asked in my direction, “Do you have any scraps? The poor thing looks all mangy and half-starved.” Then to me, “Doesn’t she feed you?”
“As if anyone could eat what she calls cooking,” I replied, falling onto the stool next to her. “Two stray cats have died already from my left-overs - relatives of yours, I’d guess, from the look of them, the filthy, wild tabbies.” Deciding that any type of subtlety would be lost on dear Cremia, I asked what I wanted rather directly. “I hear you’re taking in strays yourself. Adopted Green-hat, have you?”
“You mean Link?” She laughed. “Couldn’t collar that puppy if I wanted to. He’s not a poofy little house-cat like you.” She meowed at me, smiling as she leaned back on the counter-top.
I snorted, “Yes, he’s more of a mutt. No pedigree at all. And no taste in company.” In a vain attempt to steer the conversation back where I wanted it, I asked, “So what’d he do to you?”
“Do?” She replied, mimicking my tone of voice.
“You missed a delivery.”
That seemed to hit her harder than any insult I had, and she visibly flinched before replying. “Romani got spooked.” I... reined in the horse analogy her term had brought to my mind. Who said I was tactless? Cremia sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her skirt-covered knees. “She refused to leave the ranch again, and I couldn’t leave her alone. So we stayed a while. ...Until Link showed up.”
“And calmed her down?” I tried. Gave her a carrot, my mind tacked on. Patted her nose?
“Something like that.”
“Kids,” I lamented with a barely-restrained chuckle.
She sat up, as if with a second wind, and glanced at me. “So what do you care about us? You don’t even drink milk. You’re bad for our business.”
Ignoring the point, I asked, “What do you know about him?”
“Who, Link?” I nodded. After a moment, she laughed a little, “What’s to know? He and Romani are friends. They’re about the same age, so they get along. He believes...”
I couldn’t help but cut her off at that, “How old are you?” Cremia looked at me as if to say, “ha-ha,” so I added, “Really. She said you were fifteen.”
It was almost imperceptible, but I knew I saw a blush behind those proud blue eyes. “Well... I am! So what?”
“Really.”
“Stop looking at me like that!” She clenched her hands into her skirts, and I wondered distantly if the motion was to keep her from strangling or punching me for whatever ‘look’ she felt I was giving her. “It’s not that young.”
“So,” I did some mental math, straining to place this age onto the strong, stubborn, independent girl whom I knew and had a bit of a shady history with. “Last year, you were fourteen.”
Flatly, she replied, “Seems likely, doesn’t it.”
I continued, “And the year before, at the carnival, with the moon...”
“I was thirteen.” She insisted, raising her chin, “But still way older than you were, Mr. Ten-Again!”
“Thirteen!” I accentuated, letting my head fall back and speaking to the ceiling. “How did I not know this?” I snapped my neck forward again to stare at her. She was fifteen! She looked... She acted... “And I trusted you! Like an adult!”
“Oh, please!” She hopped off her perch, waving her finger at me. “Don’t bring age into this, Kafei Dotour, I was more mature at ten than you’ll be ten years from now.” With that, she walked around me and called to the bartender her goodbye.
He replied his own farewell over my indignant, “That’s just ridiculous!” I followed the flowing red hair and dirty pink skirts up the clanking metal stairs. “I can’t believe you’re treated like an adult at your age. No wonder you’ve never told anyone! What would Anju say?”
“Of course Anju knows how old I am!” She forced her way through the door with me still at her heels. “And she– Anju!”
I followed her look and saw Anju stepping away from The Stockpot’s painted door. Hearing her name, my wife looked up. Even at the small distance, I could see Anju’s face break into a smile as she waved largely and called back to Cremia. She was beside us in a moment, then hugging us in turn. “Cremia!” She put her hands to her mouth to cover her shocked laughter. “I haven’t seen you in so long! I was worried about you, and Romani.” Cremia reassured her, they hugged again and clasped hands, and I was suddenly quite sickened by their girlish display. I was not looking forward to finding myself in a closed room with those two.
“I’m getting some air.” I muttered before heading out the East Gate.
Behind me, I heard the soft trill of my wife’s voice, followed by the much more boisterous reply of the ranch girl, “Oh, he’s fine. Just let him sulk. Now, how are you? Here, help me with this crate, will you?”
I didn’t go much beyond the outer wall, but just sat on the large stone steps outside. It was breezy and bright out, a perfect spring day, and there was a sudden urge in me to stand up again that second and run, beyond the official bounds of Clock Town, out across the feathery green fields, down to the sea-chewed black walls until I could feel cold, wet sand under my thinly-clad soles. I’d keep running, I imagined, scaling the slippery rock if I had to, out beyond the shore and into the ocean until my feet couldn’t touch the sea floor, and I had to struggle to keep my head up. I didn’t know what I’d do after that point... but the urge to get that far was strong enough to stop my worrying about consequence. I just wanted to run, and end up splashing, soaked, and salty. Maybe punch and kick the waves, because I could. It’d be freezing, I was sure. And when I got back (I knew I’d get tired of it and return eventually), someone would call me insane for it. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to do it, and not think about why.
But, in the end, I didn’t. I just sat there instead and stared at the perfectly bright blue-and-green scenery until I felt like I would fall asleep. I don’t know how long it was, but the sun barely moved in its blinding white arch. Then, I walked back into Clock Town and straight to the inn, like a pigeon or a house-cat. Or a poodle.
End Notes
(1) "Sensei" is the Japanese word for a respected instructor. It’s usually translated as "master," and is often left untranslated in English pop culture, especially when dealing with karate and similar martial instruction.