The Wonder Tales

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

In which Dorothea Winthrope goes into Faerie, and Receives an Unpleasant surprise.

Three bottles of honeywine was more than enough, Dorothea knew. And yet, here she was venturing upon her fourth. She was merry and expansive and distantly aware that she was laughing too much, but had stopped caring about halfway down bottle number three.

‘Drowning your sorrows, Dot?’ said Verity Wilkin, who was sitting to her left and sipping far more decorously from a glass. Dorothea had progressed to drinking from the bottle some time ago.

‘I am!’ she agreed. ‘Only—’ and here she dissolved into laughter and took some time to recall herself from her mirth. ‘Only I cannot remember what they are.’

‘Then you have drowned them successfully,’ said Verity with an indulgent smile.

Dorothea shook her head several times. ‘I can never remember what they are.’ She took a long drink, and another, wondering vaguely how the bottle had come to empty so fast. ‘But it doesn’t matter so much, when I am looking at the world from the bottom of a bottle.’

‘That is trying,’ agreed Verity, looking more sceptical and confused than concerned. ‘Though if all you have forgotten is your sorrows, you have gone the right way about it. We should all be so lucky.’

The woman did not understand, Dorothea reflected as she looked at her companion through the prism of her sadly empty bottle. The glass distorted Verity’s pleasant round face in intriguing ways, and Dorothea felt well entertained.

‘Perhaps you ought to go home,’ Verity suggested. ‘Shall I accompany you?’

And that was another point the woman did not understand, Dorothea thought with some sourness. None of them did. When had she, Dorothea, ever had a home? If she had, then that, too, was long forgotten.

That was another odd thing about herself, she decided. The good people of Berrie freely assumed that she had a home, because they all did. It did not appear to occur to any of them that they had never seen it, and did not even know where it was.

Furthermore, she had the vague and disturbing sense that she had been wandering the streets of Berrie for far longer than ought to have been reasonable or even possible. Her neighbours had aged and died around her and Dorothea lingered still; elderly, somewhat infirm, but undeniably alive. None of them appeared to take note of that, either.

She had all the drawbacks of immortality without any of the benefits. Other than the simple advantage of not dying, which admittedly had its merits, for nobody much appeared to enjoy that part.

Home or not, it was certainly time to leave. Dorothea declined Verity’s offer of company, for she had no notion what she would be expected to do with it, and stood up. The room swayed, and she closed her eyes.

‘She is here, I know it!’ cried an unfamiliar female voice. A young voice, thought Dorothea with a vague, incomprehensible flicker of interest. But her head drooped and somehow she was face down upon the table and for a while afterwards she knew little and cared significantly less.

She awakened an unknowable time later to the unwelcome sight of John Quartermane’s face not far from her own. He was being so intolerably rude as to tap repeatedly upon her forehead with his thick, blunt fingers, and when she swam vaguely back to consciousness she was just in time to hear him saying ‘… Winthrope? Mistress Winthrope! If you are going to sleep I must ask you to do it off these premises.’

Dorothea splendidly ignored this, for her attention was arrested by a scene of total uproar across the taproom. A woman Dorothea had never seen before was actually sitting atop the bar, cross-legged and thoroughly comfortable. She was singing something odd and fey in some fluid, burbling language and it made Dorothea’s head hurt. A woman almost as old as Dorothea stood nearby, clearly importuning the girl to get down off the bar please, to no effect, and on the singing girl’s other side stood a riotously colourful man in mulberry trousers, surveying everybody at the Moss and Mist through narrowed eyes.

Some question had been asked, perhaps, or maybe it was the music, but the good people of Berrie responded to this incursion with considerably more than the mild interest it might be expected to occasion. Half of them were talking at once; the rest were listening with rapt, spellbound attention to the singer.

Dorothea refocused her attention on John Quartermane. ‘You may wish to reclaim your bar,’ she told him, slurring her words in a manner that ought to have embarrassed her.

Quartermane blinked, turned about, and uttered a few curses under his breath. To Dorothea’s satisfaction he went at once after the singing woman, leaving Dorothea in peace.

Her immediate intention was to withdraw to the street, loath though she was to follow any suggestion of John Quartermane’s. But the tumult in the tavern was doing deplorable violence to her poor head and she really did want to sleep. Verity Wilkin had disappeared sometime during Dorothea’s nap, her neighbourly goodwill not up to the task of hauling a magnificently drunk Mistress Winthrope out into the night. Thus, nobody stood between her and delicious escape.

Except, perhaps, for the music, for she had ventured but halfway across the tavern when something about the melody arrested her steps. She could not say why, for the words made no sense to her and there could be no reason why an incomprehensible song should interest her in the slightest.

Nonetheless, it did. The words might not resolve themselves into sentences she could understand, but she felt a nagging sense that they ought to, and might still, if she waited a few moments longer.

So she halted and waited, but that proved to be a mistake for soon afterwards there came a great rush for the door. Dorothea was almost knocked from her feet as virtually every patron of the Moss and Mist left the building at once, dashing out into the street as though somebody were giving free money away.

Perhaps somebody was, for all Dorothea knew or cared, except that some of them were shouting something about a bridge. Well, no matter. At least the tavern was quiet again, save for that dratted singing.

The mulberry man appeared at her side. ‘Mistress Winthrope?’ he said, and reached out a steadying hand to her elbow as she swayed.

‘That is what they call me,’ she agreed, grimly fighting down a wave of nausea.

‘Have they always called you that?’

‘I cannot remember.’ Dorothea closed her eyes. ‘If you will excuse me, I believe I am shortly in danger of embarrassing myself.’

‘Allow me.’ Mulberry trousers escorted her outside, where Dorothea was free to empty the contents of her stomach to her heart’s content. Not that it made her feel particularly contented to make a mess of the street like that, but at least the nausea eased.

She was pleased to note that she managed to avoid making a similar mess of the young man’s colourful clothing.

The singing had stopped, she noted vaguely. Then the door of the tavern flew open and out came the singer, followed by the older woman. She was in a fine temper, or perhaps it was a fit of dismay. Either way, she was vociferous about it.

‘How can it not work?’ she was saying stridently. ‘The self-same song she sung to me a thousand times, as I grew and brightened in her own arms! She must know it! And I ought instantly to know her, no matter what has become of her in this abominable place. I—’

Dorothea felt an urgent impulse to decorate the street a little more, and did so at that moment with vigorous energy. The woman’s head whipped around and she stared at Dorothea in disgust, followed momentarily by horror and something resembling dawning recognition.

‘Mother?’ she whispered.

Dorothea shook her head. ‘I was never married, dear girl, and should you not prefer a different mother at that?’ Nobody could suppose Dorothea well suited to the condition. The poor woman must be desperate indeed to fix upon so poor a candidate for the post.

The woman only stared, and shook her head. ‘I cannot believe it,’ she decided.

That seemed reasonable enough to Dorothea. ‘If you will excuse me,’ she said. ‘I have an appointment with the river.’ And she began, slowly, to shuffle away.

‘The river!’ cried the same, pesky female. ‘Pippin! Do you hear that! You must recall it at once.’

‘I must what?’ said the mulberry man.

‘The river! If you can drag the southern half of Berrie Wynweald back into Faerie I do not see why you could not bring the river with it. And then—’

‘Mallinerla,’ said mulberry trousers, or Pippin. ‘It is not the simple matter you imagine. It took a vast deal to recall any part of Berrie Wynweald and it is but temporary; soon enough it must go its own way, as it has always done. And the rivers I may not touch at all.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because the wild waters of Faerie answer to no one. Not even me.’

The woman called Mallinerla made a noise of disgust. By now Dorothea had trudged some distance away and the rest of their conversation faded to a remote babble of sound behind her, and then into silence altogether. Dorothea breathed in the peace like air, a tension in her soul relaxing.

That song. That dratted song. It echoed in her mind, every word distinct even if she could not remember what any of them meant.

Somebody came after her. It was not the mulberry man, nor (to her relief) the noisy girl they called Mallinerla. It was the other one, the woman as old as herself. A woman she knew, she dimly realised, for the face was familiar now that it approached up close.

‘Dale, isn’t it?’ she said, after a moment’s mental fumblings.

‘Helewise Dale. How are you, Mistress Winthrope?’

‘You might as well call me Dot,’ said Dorothea. ‘Most of the rest of them do, and it is an easier mouthful to spit out.’

‘Very well, Dot. You are away to the river, are you?’

Dorothea nodded once. ‘A quick swim, before I fade into sleep. It is good for my ancient withers, though you would not think it in this weather.’ It was raining a little, a desultory grey drizzle, cold and miserable and most unwelcome.

‘Have you been visiting the river a long time?’ said Helewise. She was nice enough to take Dorothea’s arm and help her along, without being so conspicuous about it as Pippin of Mulberry had been.

‘Since before you were born, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Mistress Dale might look of an age with Dorothea, or near enough, but she could not be more than seventy years or so. A mere nothing.

Helewise made no objection to this extraordinary pronouncement but continued to walk quietly beside Dorothea, helping her along with endearing solicitude. ‘Did you hear that the bridge is restored?’ she asked. ‘The Wynspan. Southtown is once again upon the other side, as it ought to be.’

‘That is why you are here, I suppose.’ Dorothea felt less inspired by this news than her fellow drinkers had apparently been.

‘Yes, I came this way over the span. I shall be going back that way soon.’ She paused, and appeared to be studying Dorothea in some thought.

‘You had better say it,’ said Dorothea wearily. ‘Whatever subject it is that you are trying to find some delicate way of broaching.’

‘Where will you go, after your swim?’

Dorothea had a cosy enough nook inside a little earth-walled cavern on the edge of the Lynwood. It was chilly this time of year but it sufficed well enough, and she thought of it as her own. It was difficult to call it home, though, for she had never felt that it performed that role at all.

‘To bed,’ she said evasively, and hoped Mistress Dale with her gentle questions would be satisfied.

Mistress Dale, it seemed, was not so oblivious as the majority of the people of Berrie, and not easily deterred either. ‘May I invite you to my home?’ said she. ‘I live at Sevenleaf Farm in Southtown. I have a bed for you there, if you will accept it.’

Unlike Dorothea, when Helewise spoke of a bed she meant a real one. The kind with a wooden frame and a mattress and blankets and all the good things. It had been long indeed since Dorothea had slept in one.

But her natural habit of suspicion was not so easily quieted. She squinted at Mistress Dale, searching for some ulterior motive, some hidden purpose behind her guileless eyes. ‘Why should you offer me that?’

‘I think you are in need, though I do not at all blame you for being unwilling to acknowledge it.’ Helewise smiled. ‘And my husband is much away at present. I would welcome the companionship myself.’

Clever. Take a dash of charity, add a splash of ostensible self-interest, and mix. Dorothea would drink it down.

‘Yes, please,’ she said, and hoped that Helewise would not hear the tremor in her voice as she spoke.

So they went, and Dorothea decided as they passed above the Wyn that perhaps she would bathe tomorrow night, instead. The darkened sky was hidden behind a heavy bank of clouds, and through the obscuring mass she could not glimpse so much as a single star. The rain chilled her skin and a creeping, dank wind set her shivering. Nonetheless, she could not help gazing longingly at the dark, cold waters as she crossed the bridge.

Southtown was on the other side, or so Helewise had promised. There was no sign of it. Dorothea ought to be able to see the top of Harebell Street from the bridge, and Toadmoor curving away east. Instead she saw a wall of mist, which cloaked the far end of the bridge so completely that she could see nothing beyond.

‘Are you certain that the bridge is mended?’ said she, and when the moment came to set foot into the fog she hesitated.

‘Perfectly,’ said Helewise stoutly. ‘I shall go first, and show the way.’ Which she did, with admirable resolution considering the absolute impossibility of seeing where she stepped.

She vanished into the fog, leaving Dorothea standing alone on the other side of it.

‘It is quite safe!’ called Helewise, naught now but a disembodied voice.

Dorothea mustered her courage. Why should she shrink from stepping into the unknown? She, who swam the waters of the Wyn at all seasons, and had proved herself unkillable in the process.

On she went. Her skin shrank from the touch of cold, clammy mist as she walked through, though why it should be so leery of it Dorothea did not know, since it had already received a thorough wetting by way of the rain. She half expected the bridge to fall away at any moment, for her foot to come down upon empty air and send her toppling into the river — or somewhere worse, for if Helewise was to be believed she was venturing into Faerie now.

But the bridge held, and on she went, and the clouds cleared away to reveal Harebell Street as she knew it. More or less. She did not remember its being so liberally grown over, come to think of it, though that was certainly Goldwyne’s Bakery just over the way there.

‘Sevenleaf is not far,’ said Helewise, who waited for her at the top of the bridge.

Dorothea was tired of talking, and vouchsafed no response. Her limbs were tired of walking, too, her stomach was tired of heaving, and in general she was simply tired. She hoped Sevenleaf was not far indeed, or she might crown her embarrassments of the evening by dropping in the street and lying limply wherever she fell, too feeble to move.

So much for the burst of renewing vigour she had felt by way of the bluegages. Lame she might no longer be, but she was still old.

Mallinerla and Pippin mulberry-trousers chose that moment to rejoin them, the former attracting Dorothea’s attention with a flurry of those burbling words she was so fond of. Dorothea turned back, surprised, and wished she had not, for her back crimped painfully.

The dratted girl looked all delighted about something, who could tell what.

‘Mother!’ she said again. ‘I knew you were not lost forever!’

Dorothea drew a breath, preparing to deliver herself of a speech which would put an end to the girl’s deplorably misguided enthusiasm once and for all. All Dorothea wanted was to be left in peace; to go to Sevenleaf Farm with nice Helewise Dale, fall into the welcoming blankets of a delicious, real bed, and sleep for seven or eight years.

But it occurred to her that something had changed about the view. The bridge she could no longer see, for the clouds hid it, but scattered down the centre of Harebell Street was a flurry of white flowers.

Dorothea frowned, for she had thought the street empty when she had walked that way moments before. Either she was drunk enough to imagine the flowers now, or she had been drunk enough to overlook them earlier.

But no, for the trail of flowers grew thicker nearer to Dorothea, and when she looked down she found that they were visibly sprouting around her feet. Pale as starlight were those graceful leaves, and the flowers paler still.

‘Moonflowers,’ cried Mallinerla, her hands clasped in rapturous, overblown ecstasy.

Dorothea felt an almost overwhelming urge to push her into the river.

‘Someone,’ she said with a long, long sigh, ‘needs to bring me a cup of tea.’