The Rose's Garden and the Sea Page 3
“Ben!” continued the miserable shouting as the dreamer’s soul rose back into the sky, “no, Ben!”
Seeing his sadness, the dreamer felt a pang of longing for her warm bed in the faraway hut. Like a sudden release of great tension, she was flung back through the dark night—over the sea, over the rocks, over the river, and back into her own body.
So it was that many miles inland, in a warm, safe bed, a girl woke up screaming.
“Ben!” she cried.
Beside her in the dark room, her twin brother woke up to the sound of his name. Their identical eyes met.
He was Benson and she was Rose.
*
Chapter 2:
The Twins
* * * * *
The Effects of Topography on Cultural Segregation
A Survey of Illiamnic Geography, Volume 1
Introduction
By Cyd Cynide
*
The Kingdom of Illiamna is an island continent made up of twelve distinct geographical regions, all separated to some degree by the harsh mountain ranges that radiate out from the interior. For untold years, these mountains made it almost impossible for the twelve provinces to do significant trading of goods and cultures (though neighboring lands were known to do some mingling). As a result, each province developed its own distinct traditions, taboos, leadership, and legends.
Each province of Illiamna has its own creation myths to describe the strange and mountainous terrain that defines their societies. Much of this lore makes reference to the god Arion, the giant bull who kicked up the mountains from his prison in the underworld. It is said that, no matter where you are in the kingdom, the mountains will always be in view—an indication of the relative direction “inland.” For the most part, this is true. Often, these peaks climb so high as to cause drastic differences in weather, terrain, and resources among the twelve united provinces.
With the growing ease of sea travel in the eleventh century, the twelve provinces began to interact readily, and maritime trade made rare and treasured resources commonplace. Eventually, a few enterprising souls thought the provinces ought to be made one. Thus, in 1195 (a.f.d) the provinces of Illiamna became a kingdom united by sailing ships.
(…)
The Province of Kentshore, having gained fame as the purported birthplace of the legendary Benson Rose, is a land of spectacular rock formations, lakes, and rivers unified under the Goat and Fish sigil. Due to the poisonous nature of salt-water fish in the coastal areas to the West, Kentshore’s rich mountain lakes and rivers constitute the largest source of edible fresh water fish in the Kingdom.
Rocky Kentshore has few cities and fewer trees. The short grass of the interior is grazed by herds of goats. River fish and the fruit of shout bushes comprise the diets of their nomadic shepherds. The rich meat of the goats is also a primary export. For those who choose to settle in these somewhat barren lands, it is upon the lakes or rivers that life is easiest. Most small villages appear in a line along Kentshore’s widest and most fertile waterway: the River Kent.
It is on a now-barren stretch of shoreline nearly thirty miles inland from the sea that historians believe the village of Benson Rose once stood. It is possible that it retains the same name to this day: Dell. A memorial marks this spot—that of an eagle grasping a stout mountain rose, about to take flight.
* * * * *
Rose stood on the pebbled riverbank of the River Kent in the early hours before morning trying to shake off the residue of her strange dream. She watched with a furrowed brow as the mid-summer sun turned the sky first purple and then red, igniting her river home into a blinding beacon of morning. Around her, insects whirred in celebration of the new day.
Rose had awoken every morning to this same scene. It was too familiar to separate herself from. Though she might pretend to be a king or pirate in far away, foreign places, for some reason these distant lands had always included a rocky, treeless stretch beside a stream. It chilled her tremendous confidence to have seen, even in a dream, a place beyond the river. It seemed a place beyond herself.
Had it been it real? Rose allowed herself to ask. Of course not. Who had ever heard of dream walking? It had been a vivid dream brought on, no doubt, by the questionable sugar leaves she and Benson had picked far too long ago to have eaten.
Without warning, Rose felt a sharp jab in her side. She turned, heart jumping out of her skin, and flung a punch at the person who had poked her.
Benson managed to avoid the worst of her closed fist, though the blow came to land painfully on his shoulder. He simultaneously laughed in self-congratulation and rubbed his throbbing muscles.
“You’re not supposed to do that to me,” Rose scolded, indignant. “I’m on your side!”
Benson’s mirth was short-lived. Rose was never indignant.
“What’s wrong?” he inquired. It felt astonishingly strange for him to ask this, and odder for Rose to then contemplate an answer.
Benson and Rose were identical to a fault, with only the smallest differences to betray them. Rose’s nose was slightly smaller, Benson’s shoulders were slightly broader, Rose’s height (so he claimed) was fractions of an inch shorter.
They had the same broad jaw, the same bright green eyes, and the same shoulder-length yellow hair. They also wore the same clothes—the short trousers and loose tunic of boy children, though they were well on their way to leaving childhood behind. The tunic easily masked Rose’s slightly narrower body and her small chest. To the casual observer, the twins were one and the same.
There were many ancient philosophies in which twins were powerful magical objects. This usually had to do with the exceptional ways in which the flow of magical energy was pulled from its natural path to circle and entwine around them. If asked about it, neither Benson nor Rose could explain any such connection, but they would have had no trouble recognizing that it was there.
Had Benson and Rose been raised in a city or even a larger town, it is likely they would have been separated early to be raised as boy and girl, respectively. The twins, however, being the middle of seven children and growing up in such a tiny village, had received little in the way of discipline and attention. They were both allowed to dress in the hand-me-downs of their three older brothers and were both given chores traditionally reserved for male children. While they certainly knew their separate names, it was equally true that they answered readily to either.
With Rose’s rapidly fading dream, however, a separation had been created. A fracture had formed in their shared consciousness. Where the rift had separated them, they could no longer touch.
Uncomfortable with this strange new feeling, Rose wasted no time launching into a horrifically detailed account of her dream. She expressed to him the sights, the sounds, and the smells—the ornate ship, the thundering cannons, and the smell of charred canvas. What her words failed to convey, she performed with relish.
Benson, hearing this bloody account without the benefit of a dreamer’s detached inquisitiveness, felt the proper horror. He could image few deaths worse than falling beneath the water, unable to breathe. He expressed his sympathies for her nightmare.
Rose halted her retelling abruptly.
“No, Benson,” she said slowly, forehead wrinkled in confusion, “it was wonderful.”
The twins stared at one another, dumbfounded. It was as though someone had ripped off a part of their own bodies and shown it to them. To Rose’s eyes, Benson’s shoulders had never seemed so broad—to his, her nose had never seemed so narrow.
“You aspire to be stabbed and then to drown?” Benson asked, incredulous.
“No, that wasn’t…” Rose’s confusion overwhelmed her. She had never needed to explain anything to him before—he had always just understood.
Benson had always hated the water. Rose knew this, but she had never considered it as a way in which they were different. Or rather, it hadn’t occurred to her that she didn’t hate the water also. But he does, Rose thought, he�
��s terrified of drowning. And I’m not.
As the moment stretched on, Rose saw that it was a stranger who stood across from her, as separate as a low bush or whirring insect. She couldn’t read the thoughts on his face. She couldn’t even tell if he was feeling this sickening separation also.
“Something happened,” said the stranger in a low-pitched voice.
Rose nodded. She felt tight in her own skin, trapped and alone. Her rapid heart raced, caged within her bones. Her mind flashed back to the sailor from her dream as he stood before the mirror pleading, “Who are you?”
Head spinning, Rose lowered herself to the ground. She couldn’t breathe. She heard rather than felt her brother move alongside her. His shoes ground loudly on the rough pebbles and stones. Had the world always been so loud?
Benson reached out slowly and touched her arm. With his touch, the connection of magical energy was re-established. In a flash of insight, he was her brother again.
Gasping for air like someone saved from drowning, Rose felt her sense of the world right itself once more. She leaned into his touch and felt her soul entwine with his. It frightened her slightly to sense that, though he had felt a disconnect between them, to him it had been less.
Rose wasn’t one to allow things to become too serious, however, and she dug deep within herself for a wink and a grin.
“That dream took a lot out of me,” she said through the mask of an exhausted chuckle. “Feel lucky you were spared.”
Following her example, Benson forced a chortle also. He felt very lucky, indeed.
Forcing a light heart is often the first step in a heart shedding its load. Both heard the absurd and unnatural sound of their forced laughter, and because it was genuinely funny, they were soon consumed with genuine giggles.
Offering a sturdy hand, Benson helped an exhausted Rose to stand beside him. “I haven’t decided whether we should use today to devise a new trap or two for Tad and Meson, or if a lazy summer day is best for reviving a couple of the classics.”
“It wouldn’t do for us to become predictable,” Rose contemplated aloud, “but then, classics are classics for a reason.”
“Like waiting until Tad is down in the cold cellar and then pulling the ladder out?” Benson offered with a broad grin.
“They nailed it down after the last time, remember?” Rose sighed. “What about switching the dinner stew with the—”
“Ugh, it was funny to watch their reactions, but we had to eat it too. I don’t think my stomach can handle that again.” Benson groaned. “What about tying the—”
“They keep a closer watch on the chickens now,” Rose jumped in. “What about switching—”
“They all wear the same size,” Benson offered. “What about—”
“Only if we can find enough seaweed.”
“Well, what about—”
“Meson only just grew back his chest hair.”
“Or—”
“Think about how long it takes to collect that much ear wax.”
“Maybe the—”
“We did that last week.”
Benson sighed, “I wonder if it is only the best of troublemakers that have this problem or if we’re just special.”
* * * * *
Benson and Rose were indeed known as troublemakers in their fishing village. Tad and Meson, two of their three older brothers, enjoyed the twin’s antics and were good sports about the mess and inconvenience. One frequent victim, however, remained wholly unamused: their younger sister Sara.
Where Rose was loud, Sara was quiet. Where Rose was crude, Sara was genteel. Where Rose cared not a lick about the opinions of those around her, Sara was obsessed.
As part of a painfully proper daily routine, Sara spent hours before a small shard of reflective glass, carefully fixing her hair and face as she believed was done by the most beautiful and poised of young ladies.
Sara’s high standards could never be met, however, because something prevented her from being normal. Beginning below her right eye and wrapping up into her hair was a discoloration of her skin—a birthmark—that made her feel inferior to all the world. That one eye was bright green and one sky blue was almost more than she could bear. Little did Sara know that birthmarks were powerful magical objects also, but we will come to that it time.
Sara’s hairdos became ever more elaborate as she sculpted her tresses to cascade gracefully over the offending mark. She worked at it, gnawing at her chapped and sweaty lips, as though her future depended on a tighter curl or more immaculate braid. Like the well-bred city girl she dreamed of being, Sara believed it was her duty to raise her family out of poverty by marrying a wealthy man.
Sara’s own family was not so very poor by the standards of their small fishing village. Their father was among the most skilled fishermen in the area and the family lived in a sturdy and spacious hut. There were also goods enough to trade for great luxuries—or so they were considered in the middle of nowhere—such as a shard of a looking glass and Sara’s many, if clashing, hair ribbons.
While Sara toiled inside at her mirror, the twins finished feeding the goats and rabbits—the only task that could be safely trusted to them—and had launched again into considering their next frivolous pursuit. Rose, however, was distracted.
By the time the sun shone high in the summer sky, Rose was almost certain that the events of her dream had been the result of an upset stomach. Grabbing strips of dried fish, she and Benson leaned against the mud and straw wall of their hut, pushing themselves into the shrinking shade of the eave. They gnawed at their breakfast, slowly inhaling the river air that hung limply with intense summer heat.
Out on the river, the haze of mid-day made a mirage of the scattered fishermen who, with skill passed down through untold generations, tossed hand-woven nets off their bobbing boats.
It seemed another tired and oppressive day to the twins, who could find neither the energy to move nor the conviction to complain. Despite the determination to make some trouble before the day’s end, their sluggish attentions remained unfocused.
Rose breathed in the smells of pollen and river fish, contemplating her existence as she never had before. She was a fisherman’s daughter. Her mother and father had both been born in Kentshore, as had their mothers and fathers. Her ancestors had all, as far as she knew, lived, worked, and died there. She would do the same, it was assumed. Rose had never thought about it before, and she couldn’t help feeling vexed at the finality of it all.
Moreover, as a woman, Rose would be expected to marry and have children, and soon. Sure, the twins regularly played with other fisherman’s sons, who she considered friends, but could she marry one of them? What would her husband look like? How would she feel about him? Rose couldn’t image, but the thought of living with anyone besides Benson seemed irrational. And what about Benson? Would he want to marry? Would he love his wife more than his sister? Would he want them to live apart?
With each new question Rose felt more and more tense. It was, perhaps, the moment when her blissfully unquestioned childhood came to an end. Rose felt undeniably older, but she also felt impossibly young.
Silently, she prayed to the cloudless summer sky that she might escape her destiny.
Unfortunately for the unsuspecting village, fate answered her plea.
* * * * *
The hazy shadow of a ship, the third from Rose’s dream, was named the Zentafor’s Docket. Despite Rose’s insistence that it did not exist outside her imagination, the Docket was cutting a very real path through the River Kent’s wide, placid path. It followed the same track as the slave girl did the night before. Sharp oars protruded from the ship’s painted sides and the raiders pushed them silently in time.
As they pressed up the well-fished waterway, the raiders shot flaming arrows at the small villages that dotted the rocky riverbanks. They waited at each town until the straw huts caught fire before taking up their oars once more. Every now and then, overcome with bloodlust, they would storm as
hore—burning, battling, and kidnapping. One man dug grooves into his oar to keep count as the fiery attacks mounted into the dozens.
It is tempting to write about what happens next with artistic license, romanticizing the seemingly necessary violence as the tool of a greater destiny. Without this raid, after all, there would be no Benson Rose. The truth is, however, that the day was tragic, and it left scars in that part of our world that will never fully heal.
* * * * *
Unaware of the shadows heading their way, Benson and Rose sought relief from the blistering sun. To Sara’s great displeasure, this meant that they had moved inside. Using the family’s looking glass put Sara in the middle of the twin’s schemes more often than she liked. If it was a choice between frizzy hair and peace of mind, however, this was a sacrifice she was willing to make.
Sara was struggling to match one braid to another when the twins burst through the front door, squealing in delight. They reeled around upon seeing her, making only the smallest effort to hide a suspiciously smelly bucket. For the most part Sara didn’t care what kind of trick the two of them were working on, so long as it had nothing to do with her. Being in their presence was a cruel trick in and of itself. When Rose asked with unusual geniality to borrow one of Sara’s ribbons, therefore, the younger sister replied with venom.
“You’re planning to hang fish guts above the door so that it falls on Tad or Meson when they come to get the net they patched last night,” Sara spat, snapping her crudely carved ribbon box protectively shut, “which was never funny to begin with and certainly not worth ruining a ribbon for.”
Most of this was perfectly true. The twins had stumbled upon a forgotten pail of fish remains and had been reminded of a “classic” so simple that it had almost been forgotten. It had been far too long, they agreed, since Tad or Meson had been given a proper wash.
“Of course it isn’t funny to a humorless old bat who wastes her time trying to hide her ugly bat face,” Rose shot back, temper shortened by the oppressive heat. “Give it here.”
“It’s mine. You can’t just take it!” Sara yelled, tying one such ribbon around a particularly complex series of braids. “Besides, I’m using them like ladies are supposed to, which you wouldn’t understand because you’re practically a boy. All the wives on the counsel think it’s scandalous that you walk around in breeches and—“