Chapter Text
One
Right, settle down everyone, time for a history lesson.
No, no, please save the questions for the end of the class.
At the beginning of the seventeenth century, English settlers - note the terminology there, English, not British, the Act of Union doesn’t happen for another hundred years. Anyway, English settlers started to cross the Atlantic in earnest to colonise what we now call the eastern seaboard of the United States. While Englishmen liked to claim they weren’t motivated by the same ‘base’ desires as the Spaniards in Central and South America, generally speaking, colonists were motivated by the same three things as the conquistadors.
There’s our key words - glory, God and gold.
Not literally gold - the hopes of gold nuggets on shores of Virginia didn’t bear fruit - but commodities. Beaver pelts and tobacco, things you couldn’t get in Europe at the time. The trade in rare goods and eventually humanity would enrich both colonists and their backers for the next two hundred years. They also served as breeding grounds for religious dissent.
Ah, dissenters. We’ll come back to them, because they’re much more interesting than they sound.
By the 1630s, the colonies in Virginia and Massachusetts are fairly well established, and people are spreading out in search of more land. If you’re a settler in Massachusetts and you want to find a new patch of land away from everyone else, well, Connecticut’s right there.
There’s a lot of debate over which town is the oldest in Connecticut - traditionally, it’s Wethersfield. But a few academics have argued that that laurel belongs to a different township - the one in which we are gathered today.
Which brings us to 1635, and the establishment of Gravesfield by ten men who had wandered over from the Colony of Massachusetts Bay. Perhaps no town in the state has as much weird colonial lore as us.
And how much of it is true?
Well, that’s for historians to work out…
It all began on a dark and grey autumn day.
When something happens in a small town like Gravesfield, it gets everyone’s attention. About two weeks ago, for example, the curator of the local historical society had been arrested, fined and fired for trespassing, and it was still the talk of the town. They whispered about it in the cafes, shared articles in the offices, and presented wild, unsubstantiated theories about it on local talk radio.
“So you’re saying that we can’t trust historians?”
A few drops of rain rapped against the window - it was one of those days where it doesn’t rain, but it gusts heavily, and droplets are caught in the wind. The kitchen was dark; light shadows danced on the wall, and the illuminated numbers on the microwave seemed almost brilliant in the gloom. It very much matched the mood.
“Look, Kerry, I’m not sayin’ all historians are bad, but you gotta listen to some o’ these people; the things they say about Jefferson n’ Washington n’ all them folks. They get their kicks on bein’ right and tearin’ people down, this Hopkins fella probably wanted to prove something, and…”
Over the dim sound of the radio, one could hear the clock; tick, tick, tick, tick. Occasionally it was drowned out as a gust rattled the windows and doors, but the sound always returned, constant and ever present - tick, tick, tick, tick.
Time. Ever ticking, ever moment. Every moment, a moment stolen.
“And that was Marvin from Bridge Street. We’ll come back to that, but first the news on the hour. Brad?”
On the bench, next to the phone, stood a small picture frame, the glass slightly illuminated in the stormy afternoon light. To all the world, it showed a typical family - a man, a woman and a little girl. The man’s face was obscured by the light, but one could see the clear similarities in the faces of the mother and daughter.
Those that were here. Those that were now gone.
“The Los Angeles Police Department has announced an amber alert that was put into place several months ago has been withdrawn. In defiance of all expectations, a teenager, whose family has asked for anonymity, returned home over the weekend; two other missing girls, whose cases were connected to the teenager, remain missing at this-”
Camila Noceda turned off the radio.
She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the clock. It had been a long day. It had been a long few weeks.
Unlike those engaging in baseless speculation about the case of Jacob Hopkins, Camila knew exactly what had happened to the previously respected amateur historian. She could even tell you who the mysterious assailant who had beaten him up and left him for the police was; it was her.
She was quite happy to remain anonymous, too. She didn’t want any laurels, any radio interviews, anything like that. She didn’t want to be reminded of that day.
Not while Luz remained separated from her.
Everything about the situation boggled her mind. The Boiling Isles, the Owl House, Emperor Belos - they sounded like fantasy; even she’d thought they were fantasy to begin with. But the idea that they were real, and that her daughter was in such a dangerous world - willingly, no less - was absolutely terrifying.
The same words ran through her head, day in and day out.
“Staying here was the best decision I ever made…”
Had she really been that bad of a mother?
There was a strange thumping noise outside. For a moment, Camila ignored it, but then it came again, louder this time.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
It was like something was trying to break through a door.
Camila shot up - was it Vee? No, she was at school (where everyone still believed she was Luz - Camila swallowed the thought.) Was an animal trapped under the house - or had Hopkins started trapping them again? If he was, she was going to make their last encounter feel positively…
BANG!
Camila jumped. It was definitely coming from the front yard - this time it sounded a bit like a car backfiring, but much louder and much closer. The thumps were getting more frequent too, almost like a heartbeat - thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump!
She looked out the window.
There was… something swirling and morphing on the front lawn, trying and failing to manifest into a single unified shape. She could just about see the frame of a door, and a swirling landscape of… nothing behind. It almost hurt her eyes to look at. Yet she could just about swear she could see a silhouette through the shifting, swirling frame.
Luz!
She raced to the front door and threw it open, just in time for the door frame to settle - only a little, as the edges still twirled and twitched like a heart in cardiac arrest. The figure stepped forward, and Camila realised there was another held in her arms.
She stepped into the light, and Camila’s heart skipped a beat.
The figure was about Luz’ age, she reckoned - her hair was a bright purple, with edges of brown, and she wore what looked almost like a robe with purple sleeves and pants. Her eyes were a hazel brown, and her skin was pale - but more remarkable were her pointed ears.
And yet Camilia’s eyes focused on the limp form in her arms, her brown hair messy, her tan skin covered in cuts and bruises, and her breathing heavy and laboured.
The other girl spoke, her voice shaking.
“Are you Luz’s mom?”
Camila’s hands covered her mouth.
“Luz,” she whispered.
She was running before she knew it, sprinting over to the limp form of her daughter. She barely heard the other girl; she seemed to be babbling.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Emperor Belos, the golden guard, they-they came without warning a-a-and this was the only thing I could think of! Sh-she needs help but I don’t know…”
Camila took her from the girl’s arms, swiftly placing a finger on Luz’s wrist - a pulse, even and regular, if a bit shallow. Good sign, but she needed to get inside. She could go to pieces later; right now Luz needed her.
“It’s okay, mija, mami’s here,” she whispered. “We need to get you inside, come on…”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know how to…”
Camila looked back at the girl as she turned to run inside.
“You can tell me about it later,” she said. “We need to lie her down.”
She raced inside - she thought she heard the girl sprinting after her - and ran into the living room, laying Luz down on the couch. Quickly she checked her temperature - seemed okay, but her skin was a little clammy. More important were the cuts and bruises. She needed bandages, and probably a hospital. She needed to call an ambulance, now, and…
“M-Ms. Noceda?”
The girl had arrived behind her - she took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down.
“Can… can I try something?”
Camila opened her mouth to reply - what could she do? Luz needed a doctor! She needed a hospital, she needed…
Slowly, the girl stepped forward, standing over Luz’s unconscious form.
“Lilith said I wasn’t supposed to use this unless it was an emergency,” she said, “but I think this is an emergency, so…”
She touched her forehead to Luz’.
“With this spell declared… let the pain be shared.”
Camila stepped back, eyes wide, as both Luz and the girl glowed blue. The light intensified, and for a moment, she had to shield her eyes.
When she regained her vision, the girl was slumped next to the couch, sweating and breathing a little heavily; but Luz looked noticeably healthier, and many of the worst cuts and bruises were gone.
“What…”
“I shared the pain,” the girl said woosily.
“I… you could’ve hurt yourself!” exclaimed Camila. “Y-you have hurt yourself! I…”
“Yeah?” The girl chuckled humourlessly. “It’s worth it… as long as Luz is okay.”
CRASH! BANG! THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD!
Camila jumped and turned around. Outside the door, she could just about see the magical doorway violently twitch and swirl, thrashing like a trapped, wounded animal. For a moment, it seemed almost to be in a state of rage, as if it would lunge at Camila in a last, desperate effort; for help or to main, she could not say.
Then there was a loud pop, and it was gone. It was as if it had never been there.
“Your… portal?” Camila said, her throat dry. “It’s gone.”
“I…” The girl had hobbled to her feet and was gazing outside to where the door had been. She swayed on her feet.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, Titan.”
Like a puppet with its strings cut, she swayed and dropped to the floor.
Camila looked down at the two unconscious girls; she mopped her brow, forcing herself not to panic or cry. She needed to keep herself together, to make sure Luz and her - friend, maybe? - were okay. Then she could cry all she liked.
There was a knock, and Camila turned back to the door. There was another girl, one eerily similar to Luz, standing there - she looked deeply confused.
“Camila?” she asked. “I-is everything okay?”
Camila swallowed, wondering how she was going to explain any of this.