Chapter Text
Boredom seemed to be the prevailing force in Samuel's life. Every single person on the island was absolutely brimming with tedium, and wasted no time in inflicting it right onto him.
All of them were all old, at least four or five times his meagre fifteen years, and that was half of the problem. However interesting they might have been for all the rest of their lives, the tides of Ashdale would quickly wash that away; all they had left was gossip and chores, or idling away whatever time they had left.
Not every old person was like that, of course. He knew that all too well. Dot was old -- she'd blown his mind when she said she was three centuries old -- and still managed to be the most interesting person he knew. It was probably because she rarely came Ashdale, he rationalised. Each day and night she spent on the island would barely even dent her own life, and she no doubt got back to adventure just as soon as she left.
Each one of her visits would be a bright, beautiful flare in the monotony of his life. It was only thanks to her that he knew what an interesting life even was.
One day in particular had proven that to him. They'd been taking a short break from the day's adventures, a long morning of exploration behind them. The island seemed so much bigger when Dot was around. One tree had been transformed into their own castle: they sat overlooking the market, the lush canopy hiding them from from the sun and from the sun. Even in this mild darkness, their faces were lit by a comforting glow: Doktin's vibrant green cloak blanketed them both in soft light.
"Look!" A short, cheeky whisper -- Dot reserved that tone of voice for things the islanders wouldn't like. It certainly worked to snap Sam out of his daydreams; his eyes came back into focus, and there was Dot pointing out an old woman running a stall. "There! That's Charlotte Marshall. You know her, right?"
"Not really," Samuel replied. Feeling the waxy texture of the leaves kept his hands busy as they talked. "We visit her stall, and Mum always buys some of her cheese. Sounds like you know her, though."
Dot grinned wide and toothily. "Oh yeah. She'd do a lot more than make cheese back in the day." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Charlotte's the name she goes by now, but it ain't the one I knew her by. Last leader of the Kinshra, back in the day. Did I tell you 'bout them?"
"You did," Sam said, hushed and awed. He shuffled forward onto a closer branch, gripping it beneath him to keep from falling.
"Yeah," was Doktin's only reply as she looked down on the woman. Charlotte was grey-haired, not frail but not strong either. She looked fairly young for her age, in fact. Contently manning her stall, she was passing out wedges of cheese, each one accompanied by a thankful, peaceful smile. "Was a hell of a mage, that woman. I fought with her -- fought against her, too -- was just as impressed either way. Fierce, beautiful force to behold." She switched her grip to a different, higher branch, leaning just a little further out above the market. "They locked her up, of course, but she broke the teleblocks in her cell -- and to this day, no one knows how. She ran off, got her appearance changed, and just... settled down. There she is, right there, living out the rest of her life."
Samuel's eyes had been widening all the way through Dot's little story, his pupils constantly fixed on the woman below them.
"Her?!" He took a moment to try and reconcile the image of a fearsome battlemage with that of a harmless milkmaid... only to realise he'd need far more than just a moment for that. "Is that why her cheese is so good?"
Dot laughed at that, hearty and true. Even though he wasn't sure why, Sam loved to hear it anyway.
"You like her cheese too, huh?" she asked, half grinning, looking right back down at the woman. "Well, now I've got to try some. Don't think the Kinshra were ever known for their cheese, but if she's been hard at work fixing that, I'd be a fool not to have a go. Shall we?"
Doktin was tall and strong, unwithered by her vast age; she wove her way through dense branches that barely made room for her. Her green cloak swam fluidly behind her, the light-spun surface seemingly moving of its own accord.
Sam followed more nimbly, thoughts clouded by a slight trepidation -- mitigated by the reassuring fact of Doktin's presence. With her around, things could never get too bad.
They landed on the ground, both as lightly as each other; Dot took the lead, strolling right into the marketplace with Samuel tottering behind.
In an instant, the atmosphere seemed to flip. Conversations being held publicly soon became very private, backs turned to shut Doktin off. This always happened, Samuel noticed, and never more so than with his own mother: she vocally disapproved of their adventures together, of course, but confronting Dot about it would mean acknowledging her existence. Instead, the gossip remained firmly behind Dot's back.
It wasn't far to Charlotte's stall, where the alleged Kinshra lord looked distinctly uncomfortable to have Doktin right in front of her. Not bitter, not angry, but there was a closedness about her: her arms were folded tightly, her shoulders hunched together.
"Why are you here?" she said, cold and quiet.
Doktin played it casual, folding her own arms right back at her with a loose, off-centre stance. "Just thought I'd try this famous cheese of yours. Surely that ain't a crime."
Something had Charlotte disquieted in a way Samuel had never seen before. "Be quick about it, please. Which one?"
Scanning the contents of the stall, Dot nodded at a nice soft-looking brie. "I could go for one of those. Thin little slice, just to try it."
Charlotte cut a slice in total silence, then handed it over wrapped in paper.
"Thanks!" Dot reached for her belt, unbuttoning the leather pouch. "How much will --"
"Take it and go."
An abrupt thing to say... and yet there was something else, a slight catch in the breath that made Samuel stop and look.
He couldn't read the look that passed between them, but he could tell it came from volumes of history. Something was softening in Charlotte's weathered face -- whatever it was, it couldn't be spoken aloud. To both of them, it was as if they were the only two people in the world, the marketplace around them be damned.
Questions bubbled up in Sam's brain. He was used to them not being answered, but that rarely lessened the frustration.
"See you round?" Dot said, with just a trace of that familiar cheeky tone.
"Don't push your luck," replied Charlotte, giving the faintest hint of a smile. Then louder, so that the marketplace could hear: "Get out of here. Go!"
Doktin's face fell unreadably blank as she whirled around to leave her alone. Her green cloak billowed out behind, shimmering vibrant in the sun. Back she went to the shaded safety of the forest, well out of the sun's glare; Samuel was more than happy to get back.
"You know the drill, Sam," Doktin said as soon as the market left earshot. "Not a word of that to anyone, least of all Charlotte herself. For all you know, she's just the dairy seller at the market."
Samuel nodded frantically, still far too bewildered to speak.
Opening up the little bundle of paper, Dot took a bite from Charlotte's gift. "Damn," she mumbled, mouth full. "She really does make a good cheese."
[Music]
Happily tired after the mischief of the day, their last port of call was the beach: they sat among the crags of the cliffside, feeling the spray of the sea. There was a comfortable silence between them, accompanied only by the wind and the waves.
Sam knew his mum would be mad at him for messing up his baggy hand-me-downs, but... it was worth it. It was always worth it for this.
The sun was setting. He focused as hard as he could on the moment, hoping that somehow he might etch this indelibly on his memory. He fixed the whole scene in his mind: the sight of the wind-stirred waves, the smell of the salt in them, each little pinpoint sensation of the splashing drops of water...
And Dot next to him. Her green cloak was a soft glow against their surroundings as they reddened in the sunset. That cloak always drew his eye -- he'd seen her do all kinds of magic with it, reshaping and reforming it as the vibrant strands of light that ran within realigned themselves into new structures. He'd never seen anything like it before, and he desperately wanted to know more... but he didn't want to intrude on the silence, on her peacefulness.
She seemed to be thinking, in fact. Her hands followed her thoughts to the little string he'd often seen around her neck -- there was a glint of crystal he'd glimpsed but never asked about. Now, though, she was pulling it out from under the neckline of her tunic, tugging free... two slender tubes of crystal? Like the windchimes he'd seen at Ruth Onwochei's house down the street, only shining some unworldly blue.
He was itching to ask, but if she was showing him in the first place... he trusted she'd tell him.
Dot let the thing free against her chest, resting her palms in her lap again and looking to him with what he could only assume was... appreciation? She loved their adventures as much as he did -- or at least, he hoped so.
"Got some gifts for you today," she said. That was new, too.
She popped open the button that fastened the little pouch on her belt, bringing out two items -- tiny things, but they made his heart race on seeing them. One was a tiny scrap of cloth, but with those same telltale lines running through it: the thing almost seemed alive with the glow it gave out. It was paler than Dot's cloak, but the bluish-purple colour felt just as calming as the green of the cloak.
The other, wrapped in the cloth, was a chime identical to the one she wore around her neck.
Dot handed them over, and he took them, the pale glow illuminating his wide open eyes. His hands were trembling, and he had to grip the gifts tight to ensure they didn't drop into the ocean.
The cloth was a lovely, warm buzz against his hands, and that in itself helped to calm them down.
Dot was talking, and he jolted his head up to receive whatever she was saying.
"Your mum would be livid if she knew I'd given you these."
"Good," said Sam.
There wasn't much he had of his own: almost everything in the house was his mother's, or simply his mother's idea of what he'd like. There was a globe he'd discovered in the attic one day, and he'd learnt to leave no trace whenever he'd creep upstairs to look at it: he'd cover it up again, as if undisturbed, every time. Apart from that, though... a few wood carvings he'd made in the forest with Dot, a few smooth pebbles collected from the beach, and that was all.
Well, now he had these.
"I'll teach you what to do with 'em," Dot said, gathering some of the fabric of her cloak into her hands. Sam shuffled along the rocks closer to her, happily squeezing the cloth in his hands and feeling the hard, smooth surface of the chime within. "Leave the chime for now. Keep it round your neck at all times, just don't let mum see. You ever need to use that, I'll teach you how."
He followed her instructions, every word. The chime felt cool and tingly against the skin at his chest.
"Now, the cloth?" She folded a portion of the cloak in her hands. "All kinds of things you can do with it. You've seen me sleeping on the grass outside at night, right?"
"Getting yelled at by the Mayor," he giggled. He'd learnt well that anything that got you yelled at was probably worth doing.
"Exactly," Dot grinned. "Now, what you got there ain't quite enough for a sleeping bag. But it'll do you well enough for, say, a regular bag, in case there's ever anything you need carryin'. This type's the easiest to make things with: try sticking a finger in one of them strands of light..."
Sam noticed that the network of brightness running through it was far more visible than on Dot's cloak -- and far more spaced apart. That made it a simple task to hook a finger underneath one of them: he felt a strange pulse through it, almost like a heartbeat.
"And... lift!"
He did so, drawing it gently upwards: not pulling, not tugging, terrified to disrupt the precious fibres of his new gift. He watched, awed, as the deeper purple surrounding it moved too, rising upward like yarn following a knitting needle.
"Can do just about anything with that," said Dot. "You have to sort of dip it under and back into the strands if you want it to rejoin, but once you do that, you'll have a little loop that comes off it -- could be a handle, could fasten it onto something else, could do just about anything you imagine. I warn ya, it might fall apart early on, but you keep using this and I guarantee you'll figure out how to make it work."
Sam clung onto her words, staring bright-eyed at his work, surrounded by comfort in a way he'd never felt quite so intensely before -- her soothing voice, the gentle light, the continued happy buzz of the cloth against him. He slipped the strand he was holding back into the nexus of the fabric, ensuring it rooted itself well within the tangle of strands.
Dot leaned over. "Mind if I..." Sam opened up his hands a little to allow her access, and she tugged just a tiny bit at the newly-formed loop he'd made: "Oh! Oh, that's nicely done, that is. You've made quite a structure there, well done!"
"I love this," Sam uttered quietly, glowing with even more warmth than the fabric. He looked up to her, almost teary-eyed: "Thank you."
"Hey." She threw an arm around his shoulders, hugging him tight. "You're welcome. Figured you could use something like this. Give you something worthwhile to do, eh?"
It tugged at his heart, how well she knew him. Sam always had something to do, but none of it was ever worthwhile -- the housework his mum made him do seemed pointless when it was only ever going to pile up all the more. He dealt with it, and she made more exhausting busywork for him, while never actually helping him herself: that was the way it always worked.
There was something else he longed for. Something that would've been the best gift of all.
He felt bad about even considering it, but the sight of the docks in the distance made it hard not to think about. After every visit, Dot would leave him on Hartman's boat, and not once had she taken him with her. All he knew about the world beyond was what he'd heard from her stories; people on the island avoided discussing it at all. But he'd dreamed, by day and by night, of what there might be out there... and someday, he longed to see it.
Doktin seemed to sense that mood in him -- she'd always been far better at that than he was, it was only ever guesswork for him -- and hugged him all the tighter. "Let me tell you a little more about Charlotte Marshall," she said. "Wasn't a Kinshra Lord by choice, you know. She got born into it, and the Kinshra were all she ever knew. Her running off to Ashdale like she did? First time she ever got to live a peaceful life. This place probably means a lot more to her than you realise."
Something in him was burning against her words, as much as he hated to admit it. "She got to make that choice," he said, monotone disguising his bitterness.
"She did," Dot said, a little sadly. "She knew all about both options she had. She knew that Ashdale would let her live out a nice and peaceful life. And she knew the world outside it was dangerous, especially for someone like her. Times like these... not a happy time for anyone to be growing up."
"I guess," was all he could say.
He leaned into her hug, his fingers still playing with the pale bright strands in front of him.
"Someday," Dot told him. "Things will be better."
Samuel held the cloth tight, trying his hardest to believe her.
It had been a month since then. Samuel knew to expect her around now, and he had a routine for it: he'd sneak out via the tree branch near the window, rush down to the docks, and wait on Hartman's boat to bring her home to him.
He saw Hartman disembark, and waited for Dot to follow. He kept waiting, as Hartman walked back and forth to unload the day's cargo.
Hartman noticed him staring, and stated the obvious. "No Dot."
Perhaps she'd been a day late. Hartman's ship would make its next daily return from Taverthorpe, just as reliable as everything else on this changeless island, and Dot would arrive. As always. As he had constantly trusted her to, for as far back as he could remember...
He waited again the next day. No luck.
"It's a busy life that lady leads," Hartman told him, in the tone of half-hidden frustration that everyone used about Dot. "Perhaps that's what's keeping her. Who knows what she gets up to, out in the big wide world?"
Samuel had nothing to say.
Seeing the look on his face, Hartman leaned down to meet the boy's eye level. "Tell you what, boy. When I'm in Taverthorpe tomorrow, I'll ask around. See if anyone's heard where your Dot's at. That good?"
He nodded a little too quickly.
"Good boy." Hartman patted him on the head and stood back up. It was patronising, of course, but it was a promise. Even if just to make him leave him alone.
Tomorrow came. A third and final time, Hartman stepped off his ship.
"She stays with a druid named Helix whenever she's in town," he said. "I asked the usual sorts about him, and word has it he's had nothing. No letters, no rumours, nothing." A sympathetic smile briefly flashed across his face. "Sorry, boy. Last thing you've got is hope. But just remember -- hope's a powerful thing."
Over the next few months, Samuel clung on to hope.
Samuel would often sit on the cliffside, taking in the roll of the tide. It reminded him of those days with Dot, and even if she herself wasn't there, the act itself still did something to soothe him.
"You're sitting on the rocks again, aren't you?" his mother shouted out. "Come here, the dishes need cleaning for the party!"
He intended not to be at the party at all. His birthdays were always a nightmarish affair: prodded and poked and coddled and cuddled by seemingly thousands of old ladies, all commenting on how tall he'd grown or how thick his hair was or how big his hands were nowadays. Like he was some prized specimen of an animal, set to fetch a high price at market. His mother's cakes were barely edible, sugary enough to shut down his brain... and she'd accept nothing less than him eating his entire slice.
No, he knew his plans for tomorrow. All this only increased his conviction.
The rocks turned to thin grass, to a slightly sloping hillside; it was a short walk up here to his mother's house. It seemed far too large for just the two of them, and the size of the place made him all the more lonely. Regardless, this was where he spent most of his time, dusting and scrubbing and sweeping and tidying on his mother's command. She alleged it would turn him into a "big, strong man", all the while lounging on a balcony out in the sun.
She was on that balcony when he entered, chatting with Agatha Langton from a few doors down. He couldn't quite hear the conversation -- something about Agatha's husband? None of his concern, especially not now.
He made sure to make eye contact so she'd know he was here. There -- a sickly from her in return. Now he could get to work.
A daunting tower of dishes awaited him, and he found that he couldn't care less. What a liberating feeling that was! What would she do -- clean up on her own? Get somebody else to do it for her, more likely. There was a brief pang of guilt in considering that, and yet... nothing could stop him now.
Sixteen years old tomorrow. Hypothetically, he'd be allowed to move out. More likely, he'd be expected to care for his mother up till the end of her days. Stuck for decades as a glorified cleaner? Whatever the world had in store for him... it had to be better than that.
It was about time he did something for himself.
He'd taken to fidgeting with the cloth whenever he had the chance, and through doing so had managed to learn some rather complex shapes. Nothing complex was needed now, though. He could've done this on his very first day: one loop, drawn out to form a strap that would reach over his shoulder.
The rest, he folded and joined into a bag, and slipped his supplies inside: a bunch of bananas, still ripening; a half-loaf of bread, sliced in its paper bag; a spare set of clothing from the drying rack, ones that fit at least decently well. That would last him a few days -- surely enough to find Helix, at least.
Upstairs, now. He was used to sneaking around. There were times when his mother would demand not to be disturbed; learning how not to disturb her had been a matter of basic survival. He knew where she kept her purse: there was a tiny alcove by her bed where she habitually left it. He'd often been sent to fetch money for trips to the market, but he'd always been careful to never take any more than she allowed him. He remembered making a mistake one time... and he'd never forget the punishment she'd given him for "thieving from your own mother". It hadn't even been intentional.
This time, it would be. A small pocket on the bag's front would hold a stash of gold coins, and he sealed it up to keep them safe.
That should be enough. He'd have to sneak out the back and hope nobody saw him. Staying in the ship overnight might be tough, but it was that or wait until tomorrow -- at which point, all eyes would be on him.
The forest stretched across a good deal of the island. In the growing darkness, that would shield him well enough from view. From there, it wasn't much distance to the docks, where Hartman left his ship unlocked overnight...
... and where Sam could set off towards freedom.