The Tower: Part 4: Yule
Post #33: In which plots and plans ...
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“It’s too bad,” said Rapunzel, shaking her head. She drained her tea cup and rose briskly to her feet to begin clearing the breakfast table. “I wonder where it will end. What we need these days is a hero who can discover how to heal the Yrtym and return Webbd to normal.”
“Where exactly is this Rowan Tree?” Seren asked. He made no move to help, but Clarissa stacked their plates and carried them to the kitchen.
“Oh, it’s quite a journey from here,” said Rapunzel airily. “Not an easy trip in the dead of winter. It’s a good-sized community now, but rough, of course. They’ve built everything themselves. It’s not at all sophisticated, like a proper town. Without the portal they’re pretty cut off. I don’t suppose anyone there has any idea how to cope.” Mentally, she apologized to the Rowan Tree people for this portrayal of their considerable talent, wisdom and resourcefulness.
“How did you hear about this?” Clarissa asked.
“I received a message,” said Rapunzel briefly. She didn’t know if Clarissa had told Seren about Ash and Beatrice, and wasn’t anxious to explain their collaboration if she hadn’t mentioned them.
“Well,” said Seren, inflating his chest and setting his empty cup down firmly, “perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Oh, would you?” asked Rapunzel. “That would be wonderful!”
Clarissa shot her a surprised look at this unctuous reply and Rapunzel, not wishing to overplay her hand, turned away from Seren and began washing dishes.
“I won’t be able to come with you,” Clarissa said to Seren.
“I don’t suppose you will. You need to stay close to water, don’t you? That’s an unfortunate limitation, but it doesn’t affect me. I’ll just have to do without your spoiling, won’t I? You must learn to share me, my dear.”
Clarissa picked up a dishtowel and began drying the dishes, eyes downcast, expression bleak.
Rapunzel, scowling, washed the rest of the dishes wearing her ugliest woman in the world face.
Nobody noticed.
***
“He’s going,” Rapunzel said to Ash and Beatrice that evening.
“Good,” said Ash. “We’ll go on to Rowan Tree and let Heks know. What about Clarissa?”
“She’s crushed, of course. I didn’t try to help her.”
Beatrice sighed.
***
The next morning, Seren left. He carried all the food they could do without, his lyre and his warmest clothes and a blanket. Rapunzel had provided him with directions to Rowan Tree. Rapunzel tried to hide her glee at his leaving and started to withdraw discretely so the young people could part privately, but Seren gave Clarissa a kiss on the cheek and a casual good-bye, turning away before Rapunzel could exit.
“I’ll miss you,” said Clarissa to his back as he went out the door.
“Me, too,” he said, waving without looking back.
“Want to come up to the light with me and watch him out of sight?” Rapunzel asked.
“No,” said Clarissa. “I think I’ll take a walk. Maybe swim for a while.”
“Good idea,” said Rapunzel, wincing at the hearty sound of her own voice. She hadn’t realized what delicate handling young people took. It was exhausting.
She wrapped herself in her wool cloak and stood for a long time on the platform at the top of the lighthouse. Seren, heavily laden, walked inland out of sight while Clarissa, looking as though her heart weighed as heavily as Seren’s burdens, made her way down the cliffs and along the exposed sea floor to the distant wall of water.
That night, after Clarissa and Rapunzel ate together, they settled by the wood stove. Clarissa lit candles and turned off the lamps. Rapunzel knew she loved the candlelight, but Seren preferred to be well-lit while performing, so they rarely sat by candlelight any more. It pleased Rapunzel to see this small act of rebellion. Clarissa had not, at least, forgotten her own preferences.
“It’s a long way to go alone in winter,” said Clarissa. “He won’t know anyone there.”
“He’ll know Heks and Eurydice,” said Rapunzel. “They were both at Yggdrasil.”
“Were they? I don’t remember him mentioning them.”
Naturally not, thought Rapunzel, but merely said, “Mmm.”
“I should be with him,” said Clarissa. “I know his ways now. I could look after him, make his life easier so he can concentrate on fixing the portal. He’s not used to living rough.”
“It’s too bad,” said Rapunzel sympathetically. “You could get there by portal if they functioned. There’s one from the Rusalka’s birch wood to the sea. You remember, I told you about the bathhouse?”
Clarissa nodded.
“The bathhouse portal used to be connected to the Rowan Tree portal, but with everything breaking down, I don’t suppose it still is.”
“Do you know the bathhouse portal is broken?”
“I don’t know for sure. Of course, the Rusalka and Baba Yaga are powerful. Perhaps they’ve found a way to keep that one open.” She heaved a sigh. “It’s the way of the world, Clarissa. Men go out and have adventures and explore and women stay at home and worry and wait for them to return.”
“That’s not what the merwomen do,” said Clarissa with some violence.
“No? What do your people do?”
“We go out and explore and have adventures, just like the men. We don’t have to stay at home and wait!”
“Well, as Seren’s gone, I suppose you could spend some time in the sea with your people …”
“But if Seren wants me, he’ll leave a message here, at the lighthouse. What if he needs me and can’t reach me? I told him I’d wait here.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that’s it, then.” Rapunzel stretched and yawned. “Do you want to tell stories?”
“No, not tonight. Do you mind if I sleep here by the stove?”
“Of course not, but wouldn’t you rather be in Seren’s bed? We can put clean sheets on it.”
“No,” said Clarissa. “I don’t want to sleep there.”
Rapunzel climbed the stairs as Clarissa spread out sheepskins and pillows near the stove, satisfied she’d try to find a way to follow Seren. She judged she’d said enough, but not too much, and now needed only hold her tongue and let Clarissa do the rest.
***
Sure enough, in the morning she found sheepskins and pillows shaken out, plumped and returned to their usual places, the candles set carefully aside, the stove burning and a note on the table.
I’ve gone to spend some time with the merfolk. Back in a couple of days, or I’ll send you a message. Love, Clarissa
SEREN
Seren thoroughly enjoyed his journey to Rowan Tree. He possessed plenty of money, as there was no need to spend as a guest at the lighthouse. His presence and nightly performances more than repaid the small amount of food he ate and his comfortable bed.
He had no intention of sleeping rough, especially during the winter, and timed his travels to coincide with a town large enough to support at least one good inn at the end of each day. Upon introducing himself, every innkeeper begged him to favor the evening patrons with a performance, which he did, though often chilled and worn out from traveling. However, ale and cider flowed freely, as well as the finest food available, and it felt good to be in company again, good to be appreciated and applauded and admired.
Clarissa was sweet, but young and rather limited. Her frank speaking about sexual energy and passion made him uncomfortable. Gods knew he was no prude, a fact proven by his enjoyment of women at every gathering who were attracted to his talent and good looks. Occasionally one was even delicious enough to take to his bed. He was a skilled and experienced lover, but Clarissa’s talk of passion and sacred connection had been a bit off-putting. He suspected her plain speaking covered innocence, inexperience and a certain embarrassed denial about the well-known sexual ambivalence of her people.
It had taxed his patience considerably to have to listen to Rapunzel and Clarissa tell stories. Really, these people! As though just anyone could tell a good story! Taking turns had been Rapunzel’s idea, of course. Clarissa wouldn’t try to steal his spotlight. Rapunzel had been unpleasant and difficult from the first, immune to his charm and sophistication, stubborn, spiteful and offensively ugly with her short hair. He’d never liked her, and felt certain she was jealous of his and Clarissa’s relationship. She possessed far too much influence over Clarissa.
He looked forward eagerly to Rowan Tree. He didn’t expect proper appreciation for his talent or intelligence, but he would give them some simple stories and songs -- something they could understand -- and fix their portal. Surely, in comparison to Yggdrasil, it would prove an easy task. The small, idyllic community, beseeching for help, and the sudden appearance of someone as powerful as himself would make a good story, or perhaps a set of stories if he found anyone there worth getting to know.
Speaking of a set of stories, maybe he should seek out other portals and travel to each in turn to repair them and rightfully earn the gratitude and adulation of those who depended upon them. That was a thought. How many portals were there, exactly?
Performing, musing, enjoying warm fires and good food and drink, as well as occasional willing female companionship, he made his way through the heart of winter. He kept to well-traveled main roads. The woods were inhospitable and recent high winds had laid down whole tracts of trees. He didn’t enjoy solitude, being a gregarious, outgoing, likeable man, and he preferred to travel in company.
SLATE
Slate heard rumors of a Dwarve visiting the underground kingdom of the Dvorgs weeks before he met Rumpelstiltskin. The idea of a Gob intruding into the caverns, quarries and mines of Slate’s home infuriated him. How dare this traitor of race and tradition, this unnatural aberration, this deformity, pollute Dvorgdom? It was outrageous.
He quickly silenced any curiosity, speculation or interest in the Dwarve and his purpose. He redoubled his efforts to spread whispers about outsiders stealing tools and secrets of working the stone.
Putting aside his preference for solitude and dislike of interacting with others, he began to engage every Dvorg he passed in the tunnels in at least a moment’s conversation, carefully testing his allegiance.
“Have yuh heard ‘bout the sals?”
“Nah. What’s up with ‘em?”
“They been stealin’ the best gems for years. Someone found a cavern stuffed full.”
“I thought the offerins’ went to Earth-Shaper Pele.”
“Pele? Oh, she’s nothin’ but a myth, havnah yuh heard? Where yuh from?”
“ ‘Round Larch Straydle.”
“Maybe yuh havnah heard the news there. Pele’s just an old superstition. We dunna recognize her anymore, and we dunna make offerings. I hear the sals been usin’ our offerins’ to pay Gobs to make us slaves, take away our tools and steal treasure.”
“They daren’t!”
“I don’t know.” Slate would shake his head dolefully, turn aside and spit sunflower shells on the tunnel floor. “We need to be prepared. We canna trust outsiders.”
Reaching into his pouch, he would toss a few seeds in his mouth and stride on, satisfied that another Dvorg would spread the word.
He’d begun to realize the taint of Dwarves spread even into the Dvorgs. A few continued to worship Pele with ritual fires and offerings, and it was impossible to adequately police all Dvorgdom’s tunnels and caverns and put a stop to this behavior. Others had friends or family who were Dwarves, and refused to condemn their deviance.
Still, Slate knew every stone could be cleaved, if one had the skill to find a flaw or weakness, and he took advantage of an increasing uneasiness among the Dvorgs. For some reason the straydles produced fewer children, and relations with the Gobs had never been so strained. There were shortages and other trade problems, and the Dvorgs depended on food and commodities from the Green World. A few carefully chosen words was all it took to ignite a flame of greed, suspicion and fear in most of his kinsmen.
Slate realized the power of fear. The more uneasy and frightened the Dvorgs were, the easier they were to manipulate. He heard a strange rumor that had not originated with him about a massive mine catastrophe killing many Dvorgs is some far-off reach of Dvorgdom. Some said the sals brought the news, and others the bats. No one could say exactly where it happened, or how, or how many were killed, but Slate recognized yet another chance to leverage fear and swiftly associated the rumored collapse with the Dwarves’ behavior. It was further proof that allowing such disgusting behavior threatened the Dvorgs’ very existence.
“Only the stone,” he muttered to himself as he plodded along, cracking seeds between his molars and deftly separating the meat from the shells with his tongue. “The stone above all.”
It occurred to him the greatest fear of all was the fear of death, not only one’s individual death, but the death of one’s people. The stone endured. Why should the Dvorgs not endure as long as the stone? It would not matter if fewer Dvorgs were born in the straydles if he could outplay Death himself. He had been sent to guide his people out of slavery, to help them regain their pride and purity, but perhaps his greatest gift would be to lead his people to eternal life.
As he stumped through the tunnels, chewing sunflower seeds, fingering his marbles, and ruminating; collecting, embellishing and passing on rumors, he considered Death. All beings were subject to it, but did they have to be? Perhaps no hero had yet come along to challenge Death. Perhaps it was not inevitable. Perhaps Death, like tul energy, was for lesser, weaker beings, and his people, lords of the stone, could rise above it. After all, the Dvorgs certainly had no need of tuls.
Thinking about Death naturally led him to Hades, a subject of long grievance. For decades Slate had dwelt on the insult of Gobs intruding and colonizing what was clearly part of Dvorgdom and turning it into a noxious pool of dead souls, not properly sorted and segregated but mixed up together. It was appalling. It was demeaning. It was insupportable.
Perhaps the time had come to lead his people to reclaim the kingdom of Hades for their own, to take back their rightful territory. With Hades disassembled, Death would be neutralized. The Dvorgs would rise above the petty weakness of the flesh.
Slate traveled toward the place where Dvorgdom and Hades lay close together, separated only by a few feet of rock. As he moved slowly through tunnels and caverns, he heard muttered rumors on every side of earthquakes, collapses and blocked tunnels. One day he himself encountered a tunnel collapse and had to retrace his steps until he found another tunnel going in the direction he wanted.
After traveling for many days, Slate came to the very edge of Dvorgdom. The tunnels began to seep with moisture and Slate found himself slogging through mud rather than striding on clean stone and earth. He saw fewer Dvorgs every day, always moving in the opposite direction to the one Slate traveled. The ground was not suitable for digging or mining, and the place smelled unsavory and damp. He stopped one of the last Dvorgs he saw and asked, “What is this place?”
The Dvorg, sullen, did not meet his eyes. “Pele’s navel,” he said shortly.
“Pele is nothin’ but a myth. Havna yuh heard?”
“Feneos is no myth,” the Dvorg said stubbornly. “It’s stinkin’ and wet, and the River Styx flows from it into the Underworld. They say the river makes yuh invulnerable.”
“It’s no place for a Dvorg,” said Slate, looking with distaste at the seeping tunnel walls.
“It’s a cursed place. I wish I never come. Go no further. Turn back.” He pushed by Slate and walked away without looking back.
After a few minutes of walking, Slate stepped from the tunnel into a large, flat plain, roofed with rock. The ground underfoot was uneven and wet, oozing and foul-smelling. Clusters of pale, rubbery looking things, cone-shaped, dotted the ground. He smeared several under his boot, his face a rictus of disgust. He moved away from the tunnel, keeping close to the stone wall stretching out of sight, enclosing the place. Feneos, the Dvorg had called it. A sinister name for a sinister place. Following the wall, he came to an oily black ribbon of water. Just watching it move so unnaturally made him feel sick. It quickly widened out into an ominous, muscular torrent, silent, dark, and with an icy breath.
This, then, must be the River Styx, gateway to Hades. Slate wondered if what the Dvorg had said was true. Did the river confer invulnerability, and, if so, how? Did one drink from it? Slate shuddered at the thought. Or bathe in it? An even worse thought. Still, if it was true, it would be worth the risk. Did the Underworld’s king and queen know about the river’s power? Was that part of their strength?
What would happen if the river was dammed and no longer flowed into and through Hades? Perhaps if it was dammed and tamed the Dvorgs could learn how to use it to their advantage. After all, it clearly belonged to Dvorgdom. Like the precious jewels the sals and Pele stole, this river and its secrets belonged by rights to the Dvorgs. If they reclaimed the River Styx, would the power of Hades weaken, or even be broken?
Slate wished he’d paid attention to the stories told in the straydles and around the fire pits when he was a young apprentice. All he could remember was that dead souls found their way to the River Styx and a boatman ferried them across it into Hades. Was that the only path into the Underworld?
He shook his head. He squatted against the stone wall, chewing seeds and spitting out hulls, watching the terrible dark water rush by. He stood, easing his popping knees. The first step was clear. He must send a team to this place to dam the river. Then they would see.