Helen II — a good day

The cap had been worn by her mother at her wedding, so many years ago. She’d considered it good luck, and so now did her daughter.

Helen adjusted the brim so that it lay just above her left eye. It was still soft, and the years had not matted its fur. When she was satisfied she shrugged on her coat and joined Dorian outside the inn.

“I don’t know why you bother,” he said. “You look fine as you are.”

He didn’t understand. That was only because of the immense effort she put into her dress. Boys always seemed to think a girl’s beauty comes naturally, but although she felt herself fair enough, there was always much work to be done. She had Father to thank for her fashion sense, but that was as far as the help extended. She did her makeup herself. Then there was the act of walking into the town without ruining it…

Dorian touched a hand to her forehead. “Are you okay?” he asked, tenderly.

Helen’s face grew hot but she did not move. “Yes, yes. Just a little faint is all.”

His kind eyes furrowed. “If you’re unwell I can return you home.”

“You will not,” Helen said curtly. “But perhaps we can find something to eat first. I’m sure I’m just hungry. Besides, even if my legs were to turn to mud, I would not miss the day for anything.”

Dorian hid his smile poorly and removed his hand from her head. “If you insist. Shall we visit Christos? Shouldn’t be too busy at this time.”

Helen bowed and thanked him. He was far too thoughtful. Oftentimes she wished he would be a little more selfish and not concern himself with her no matter how it made her feel. And she enjoyed it so.

The village streets were crowded and loud. Midday was the busiest time. When walking through the village around midday it was impossible to see more than three feet in front of you; the throng was alive, and one could hardly even hope to make headway in their desired destination. Instead, it was best to shift with the tides. Like a dance, stepping with the ebb and flow of the crowds. Dorian had never quite gotten the hang of this. He stepped clumsily around people, muttering apologies every few steps with each stamped foot and bludgeoned stomach. Helen took his hand in hers and pulled him before her.

“I told you to relax,” she spoke into his ear. His head jerked away, so she steadied it with a hand. “You’ll knock someone’s head in if you flail about like that. Follow me.”

She pulled back and looked at him for confirmation. His face was red, but he nodded all the same.

The poor boy had never liked crowds, not for as long as she had known him. He preferred to be alone though he would never admit it, no matter how much she insisted. She felt bad for bringing him here, but he would be angry with her if she only claimed to be hungry later and they had to return early.

She tightened her grip on his hand and pulled him through the mass of people until a break in the crowd spat them out in front of a familiar building. A squat cube sandwiched between a row of wood and stone houses, The Nelson Bakery was one of the largest buildings in the lower village. Christos believed it was also the prettiest, but Helen thought it looked rather ugly. Or if not ugly then at least offensive; it was painted white and reflected the light grossly: when there were no clouds it was almost blinding.

“D’you reckon he’s in?” Dorian asked her.

“I’d imagine so.” Helen hummed in thought. “Which reminds me, have you met our guest yet?”

Dorian shrugged. “Read about him.”

“He’s rather odd. I’d be careful if you see him, Christos thought it’d be clever to offer him lodgings.”

“Eh well… you know what he’s like.”

“Perhaps so, but don’t think that means you can just let him do what he wants,” Helen scolded. “If he ever thinks to do something silly, I expect you to stop him.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“He listens to you,” Helen said softly. But Dorian was not listening. He was half-way through the door, and his deep brown eyes gazed at her with something approaching defiance. “He does,” she insisted. “”

“Is that you Lady Carmine—?”

Helen turned and saw a familiar face emerging from the crowd. Its voice was loud and cheerful, and all at once she was grateful for the rabble.

“You know what to order, I’ll join you in a moment,” she said to Dorian.

She was cross, and she probably sounded it. “Lover’s tiff?” the man offered.

Helen gave him a stern look. “Don’t you start, uncle.”

Geoffrey Bellamy bowed deeply. “My sincere apologies, my lady. It’s not so strange to see you here, but such coincidences should be cherished nonetheless.”

“Ah yes, indeed,” Helen agreed. “So, care to explain the formality? Not after rumours, are you?”

Her uncle grinned bashfully. “Guilty as charged, my lady. Is it true the stranger arrived on a two-headed Roc?”

“I shouldn’t think so…”

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t see any Roc. But then, I only met him at the funeral… ahh, stop it, you’ll hurt my head!”

“Could have done,” he noted. Helen frowned but nodded all the same. “And is it true he’s got four arms?” her uncle continued.

Helen burst out laughing. “Alright, I surrender, you’re not here for rumours then. Desperate to see your dear niece, is it? You should call by the house, uncle, I’ll have Father—” she stopped abruptly, a sudden sourness to her tone.

Geoffery examined her. “You’re awfully tetchy today, do I need to speak to my brother?”

“No, it’s fine. School matters.” She looked back at the door to the bakery, and then back at her uncle. Helen was disappointed. She’d thought she was better at that. Happiness was the only excuse for little lies, so when one failed to be happy it was the time for truths. She spoke brazenly, and quickly. “As you well know Uncle I don’t quite believe in coincidences. Are you here to speak with Sakurai Shun?”

“Yes but, this is not official business. I am happy to see you.”

“And I you, but please, don’t let me interrupt you. I’ve kept Dorian waiting for too long.”

“Ahhh… yes, speaking of which.”

“Of which?” Helen frowned.

“The Three do not approve. Though you have many moons before they would dare to act.”

“There is nothing to approve of, uncle. Do you take him for my lover?”

He hesitated, though not for long. He was a statesman of the upper village, after all, and all at once he was transformed from her uncle into the Lay Bellamy. He straightened and his eyes hardened not unkindly. “I wouldn’t presume anything my lady. But you should know, I think. It is unfortunate that you are a Carmine, but nothing can be done about this fact, and I am sure you would much happier if you were perhaps a little more aware of it.”

“We are not like that,” Helen muttered. “He would not lower himself to that level.”

“Lower? I should hardly think—”

“Yes, now good day uncle,” she said, interrupting him. “You’ll find the house around the back.” She spun on her heel and pushed through into the bakery. It was mostly empty save for a few customers. The sweet smells from outside were magnified tenfold; they enveloped her in a warm haze as she stepped inside. Rows of pastries sweet and savoury ran across the counters against the far wall: pies, pasties, tarts, and breads of varying kinds and sizes. Dorian was nowhere to be seen, and the shop was unstaffed.

She found them in the kitchens convened around a plate of sweetrolls. Christos leant against a table with easy confidence. When he saw her he grinned and waved her over.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d been stolen,” said Christos. He thrust a basket towards her. “Dorian told me where you’re going, don’t worry about the payment.”

Helen blushed and uncovered its contents eagerly. Pasties! Her stomach growled noisily and she mocked a bow to her friend.

“Why thank you Lord Nelson,” she said. “Your generosity is much obliged.”

Then as he was bowing back she stepped in and hugged him firmly, but this time he pushed himself out of her grasp. He glanced towards Dorian as he laughed awkwardly.

“Just make sure to share, Dorian is a very important man these days.”

Dorian glowered at him. “Christos…”

Christos ignored him and whispered at Helen conspiratorially. “The first ranger has taken him as ward.”

Helen gasped. “That’s wonderful Dorian! Why didn’t you tell me?”

He bit into a pasty and glared at Christos. A small trickle of gravy dripped down his chin, and he wiped it away with a towel Christos offered him.

“I imagine that would mean less time here,” Christos mused. “But Copernicus isn’t so far.”

“You’re right,” Dorian said bluntly. “Now shall we go?”

“Yes, yes I’m rather tiring of the crowds myself,” said Helen. “Might we leave from the back dear?”

Christos nodded enthusiastically. “Aye use the windows if you like,” he laughed. He led them through several rooms and a corridor until they came across a weathered and gloomy door. He was much more grave then. He stared at both of them in turn. “Be careful would you?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Helen asked meekly.

“Always,” Dorian said instead. He smacked Christos firmly on the shoulder and then they were gone.

“Do you suppose he knows?” Helen asked Dorian once they had left the dingy backstreets of the lower village behind. Rolling plains spread out in front of them; far fiorns, Mount Stathul cut through the sky, a great green spire severed at the tip. Their destination, as it always was each year at the end of summer. Though it was strange to be walking in such light; the days were not darker and it was still warm. Helen had not seen a cloud in weeks.

“What if he does?” Dorian asked her. He cut a pace in front of her, too fast for her own liking, but she pushed herself to keep up.

“He will worry. As I worry for you. And as I’m sure you worry for us. That’s what friends do you know. So don’t think I’ve forgotten about you keeping news of your wardship from me. If you don’t answer me now, I’m afraid I’ll have to pester you for the rest of time, and although my presence is obviously a reward I can assure you that I’ve quite the mouth on me. So tell me, Dorian, what are you hiding?”

“I’m leaving.” He slowed to a standstill and his eyes were tight with pain. A pain he likely did not even knew he felt. “A year from now.”

“Is that so?” Helen said. Her heart fell. “The Vangeline will gobble you up.”

“Not by The Road. Gwent wants me to travel to Guyun.”

“Guyun?! Well I imagine no one has reacted well to this news. Friga’s been insisting the rangers, and even my lord Father, send expeditions into those woods for years now. Says the crows whisper all manner of omens, but I can’t begin to fathom why you would listen to him.” She eyed him carefully. He was always inexpressive, and at times like this Helen cursed that she was not better at reading people. “It’s not unheard of, to travel there.”

“No,” Dorian agreed.

“So what do you hope to find?” Helen asked. “Answers? Some clue as to why you are the way you are? And what will you do once you reach Guyun—walk around until you starve? Stone fruit do not sit so well in the stomach. No, don’t answer that. You’re afraid aren’t you? You’re afraid of staying here, of doing nothing. Of breeding horses and mapping fennswice until you’re too old to walk, or is it of finding a nice girl to settle down with and start a family. Or maybe of the family you already have? Tell me, when was the last time you spoke to your father?”

Dorian did not answer.

Helen continued. “Maybe you will find answers in Guyun. I can’t speak to any truth Gwent Masler may or may not know, but I can speak about you. Whatever gift you have does not change who you are. You are Dorian Kenelm of Seton. This is, and will always be, where you belong. Even if the ‘songs of the mire’ lead you to believe that you do not.”

“I don’t believe being born in a place is so important.”

“Neither do I,” Helen replied, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice. “It is the people that you come to love that bind you to a place, especially a place like Seton. How many of us do you think understand what it means to be from this little town? And I mean truly understand it. There’s a whole world out there, but how real can it be beyond strangers and stories? It’s not our world. This is our world, the Tree of Mabb, The Great Mire, and the people with whom we share this tiny rock. All that we do is to live for just one day more; to breathe one more breath, so we can remember those that couldn’t. Good people who don’t deserve to die. People like Master Allwright. People like your mother. And as your friend, I am telling you that it is your duty to do the same.”

“So, say I don’t leave. Say I stay here, say I take over the farm. Perhaps I am first ranger, as Aul seems to wish. The mire will still be there. Am I supposed to ignore it forever? I don’t have the strength for that. I’m not you. Perhaps I am wrong, though. Perhaps I’m just a fool. If I stayed, Helen, what would I have?”

The words Helen wished to speak did not come, because they could not come. She hated Dorian in that moment. He knew well they were not hers to say. Duty. That word alone made her sick.

“Then promise me you won’t die,” she said quietly.

“I’m leaving a year from now,” he replied. “I am not going tomorrow. I’ll promise you then.”

Helen watched him searchingly. “A lot can change in a year.” She paused. “You should know that the stranger, Sakurai Shun, has spoken with my father. I’ve no choice in the matter now, he is to teach me how to fight too. At least that’s what Wiston says.”

Dorian was bemused. “Really? But—”

“I don’t know,” Helen admitted. “What a pair we are, aye? ‘I don’t know’ ?is such an unpleasant phrase yet I can’t help but say it. I suppose that’s it though isn’t it Really, at the end of it all.” She smiled sadly. “You have to go, so that you can know.”

But her Father’s decision, which had otherwise filled her with dread now left her hopeful, in a distant and dim sort of way. She knew many things. She knew her father was a shrewd and clever man. She knew that her duties as his heir came before her very breath. There would be a point to it all. Helen was sure of that.

They continued their walk for hours until the village grew distant and Helen’s feet began to throb. The ground underneath was soft, but pleasantly so, and not at all like the boggy mud of the mire. The grass was thick and lush, but not so tall, grazed and beaten down by the herds of roaming cows. Helen did not like cows. They were twice her size with horns as sharp as razors; the only thing she feared more than the cow was the Roc, which was larger still, and its talons were strong enough to pluck a cow from the ground with ease. Dorian said that they did not fly on the weekends which sounded like nonsense, but the Roc did indeed live deeper in the Vangeline so she did not fear them now.

From the slopes, Mount Stathul was a glorious emerald; the grasses heaved and swayed like a great pond, and the light was thrown across it in waves. Its flat top loomed high above them, though not nearly as high as the peaks behind it; the narrow mountainous wall stretched for miles beyond until it reached the Vangeline, ever-rising towards the firmament.

Mount Stathul was not so violent. Much of the wood used in the lower village came from the forests hamth of the mountain, daedd of the King’s Wood but far enough fiorns that the rocky bed of the Vangeline prevented the spreading of the mire. The trees of the Stadtwood were enormous, almost three hundred feet tall and twenty feet wide. One tree supplied enough wood for an entire street of houses so it was not often that they were cut. The last had been five years ago, and the festivities had lasted for a week.

The River Dott half-encircled the mountain; it rose in the highland fenn fiorns and descended slowly, wrapping around its hamcyme side until it set off straight towards Seton and joined with the Calabrese.

Beside the oxbow at the base of the mountain was a small field upon which one could gaze back and see the whole world before them. Helen and Dorian sat on the grass and ate as they did this. Master Nelson’s pasties were delicious, as they always were. Helen bit into her hungrily, ignoring the occasional stray glance from her companion.

When they were finished. “I am sorry I made this decision without you,” Dorian said.

Helen laughed. She had already forgiven him. “Don’t be. Things tend to work out for me. You’ll see. I get what I want. Besides, this is your choice. You’d better train hard.”

“Of course. Though if I could carry half as much as our mule by the time the year is up I’ll be there and back in a week.”

“A likely story, Dorian Kenelm.” Helen sidled over closer to him until she could smell his sweat. A little acrid. They had walked hard, after all. “But you will be back, yes?” she asked. And before he could answer. “If you aren’t I’ll come and get you myself.”

Dorian smiled wryly. “If you insist. But I’m sure your father will have something to say about that.”

“Perhaps he will.” Helen fell back and splayed out across the grass. The wind was cool in her hair, and the ground was cooler beneath her head. She felt a sudden wave of giddiness wash over her. “Shall I tell you a story, River King? A good King must know his subjects.”

“The rivers?” Dorian asked. He twisted to look at the waters of the Dott. It was little more than a large stream, no more than four feet wide. “Sure.”

“At the birth of the Mabbastree the mire was ruled over by the Pale Kings. The Pale Kings were vast figures of unimaginable strength; they say some wielded the powers to change the skies, and others that to carve the earth. In their names a great civilisation rose, a fortress hundreds of times the size of Seton now; a grand construction of marble and jewels so elaborate it was said to have pulled birds straight from the sky, and that even the Kings who wandered its halls were sometimes lost, and never found again. Among the Kings was he who was called Dott; Dott was old, and frail, for he had not been gifted powers like his kin. Even so he was charged with a task, and he carried out his duty faithfully. He manned the great moats of the Fortress, the vast twin rivers that encircled their lands, ”

“At the coming of his death, he travelled here, to this place, and wished upon the mountain. He asked: oh mountain, what is my purpose? The mountain replied: you are but a stream, my child. A tiny stream that wanders down my side. Dott did not understand what the mountain meant so he asked again: what of this stream? Do I give life? Am I the birth of a great river, or the soul of the sea? The mountain laughed, and told him: you are but a stream, a small stream, and nothing more.”

“The Pale King cried, for there was nothing to his life. Behind him were the sounds of an age, of buildings grand and tall, the creaks and growns of the ingenium of the mind given life. Dott cried and cried, and as he cried he crawled, for his legs had failed him long ago. To see his people. To see, at least, what he had helped build. But when he reached the peak he found no peak at all, but a wide and flat plain. With a final wail, he died. The mountain was happy, for the tears from his climb and the weight of his limbs had carved a small stream up the mountain. The truth was, it had spared Dott from reality. The sounds of the Pale Kings had long since faded into history if they ever existed at all, and they retreated at once into their stone forests at the coming of the first men, of my ancestor, Eggor Carmine. Dott had died alone, the very last of his kind.”

For all of her words, Dorian’s eyes had not left hers even once. She stuttered briefly but continued. “Dott’s stream was not so mighty. But the moats of the Pale Kings had since dried and withered. And so in his honour the mountain made a vow that the waters of the River Dott would run until the end of time.”

“How depressing,” Dorian sighed. “You know, if you were my teacher at the college, I believe I might have graduated without Christos bothering me at every turn.”

Helen punched him lightly in the arm. “How cheeky, I am much too young to be a teacher.”

She dug around inside the basket for more food, but they were out. She felt sad at that. It would soon be time to return. “Have you ever actually climbed it?” she asked Dorian. He thought for a time.

“I don’t believe so.”

“You don’t know?”

Dorian shrugged. “I don’t remember, but how many times have we come here? I’d not be surprised if I did something so stupid as climbing it when we were younger.”

“Well, there’s another legend about Dott,” Helen said. “It says that not long before times of great and tragic loss his spirit would cry again, and the river and his tears would return to the mountain. Climbing and climbing until all his tears are gone. Then, it is said his will would be returned.”

“To where?”

“Not really sure,” Helen admitted. “To the mire perhaps? Or to the tree.”

Dorian looked over at the river. It was flowing normally. Downwards, into the mire. “Would be a shame, wouldn’t it? I don’t imagine the flowers would be so nice without it. Or rather, wouldn’t that be quite the tragic loss by itself?”

Helen murmured her approval and closed her eyes, indulging in one final moment of respite. Her feet hurt from the walk here, but it was always worth it. He hadn’t noticed the cap, but she had got to tell him a story. It was a good day when she could tell Dorian a story.