» 07 – The Squire «
MARCHLANDS. WÙDĂO VILLAGE.
As Ewan and Meilin sit atop the shrine steps, they can see the village sprawl out before them, its road winding like a serpent all the way down the plateau and into the fields of wildflowers and thick grass that cover the moorlands. Here above it all, Ewan feels like he's atop a cloud, the mist a rolling blanket that could conceivably encompass this entire world, the distant horizon broken only by the shadowed hint of a great mountain range.
The sun is weak, but the air has a crispness that's fresh to the point of being overwhelming. The scents of life and cooking float up from the village too, the smell of cooked meat and spice riding the breeze, hundreds or perhaps even thousands of people beneath them living out their ordinary lives in an extraordinary world.
For a long moment, Ewan can only drink in the sights, only eventually becoming aware that Meilin is watching him with a bemused expression on her face.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean to space out. The view is just really beautiful."
"You don't have sights like this on your world?" she asks.
“Not where I'm from. My day is just city in every direction."
Meilin considers that, replying, "I'm sure I'd feel the same though, to stare down on your world."
"Perhaps one day I could show you?" Ewan ventures.
She laughs. "That's sweet of you. But it would be a long journey to make just for sightseeing. Besides... I have duties here."
Her eyes drift back up the shrine steps.
“Tough mum, huh?”
"She has a lot of responsibility on her shoulders," Meilin replies diplomatically. “It means she has little time for children. You would understand I’m sure, having a wise woman as a mother yourself.”
“Well…” Ewan hesitates, decides to shift the subject slightly. "No father?"
Meilin shakes her head. "He died when I was a child."
"I'm sorry," Ewan replies. "I didn't grow up with a dad either."
"Another thing we have in common then." Meilin gives him a reassuring smile. "And it's okay. It was a long time ago, and I never met him. All I have to prove he existed at all is a photograph. And myself, I suppose."
"You have photos here?" Ewan asks, a little surprised.
"They're not common, but yes. Finding an alchemist to develop the film is the tricky part—"
The doors behind them click open, June and Kyra descending the steps of the shrine. Ewan and Meilin stand to greet them.
"How'd it go?" Ewan asks.
"Meilin's mother is going to help us reach the nearest gateway," June says, "In exchange for looking into who or what woke up the barrow geists."
"We're leaving now?"
"Tomorrow morning. I’d rather not be travelling when night falls, and Lin offered us her hospitality until we leave."
"Did she say how she was going to help you, exactly?" Meilin asks.
"Ah, she offered your services as a guide," June answers apologetically. "You don't have to though, we can find some other way if need be."
Meilin sighs, but replies, "I'll take you."
"Thank you," Kyra says, offering a small smile. "We really do appreciate it."
"That's why I'm helping you." Meilin glances up towards the open doors. "Let me take you to the guest quarters. Then I'll go speak with my Mother."
#
The three of their party from Earth sit in Wùdăo’s inn, a small building with guest rooms that back onto an even smaller garden, a bubbling pond and tiny birds adorning it. Kyra and Ewan have agreed to share the larger room and give June her own space, though they're all together for now as they finish off the soup the innkeeper brought them. The sliding door to the outside is open, letting in the sounds of evening bird cries and running water.
Enough time has passed for the blue sky to turn a brilliant swirl of scarlet and violet, but Meilin still hasn't returned. Ewan is a little concerned but has resigned himself to not seeing her until the following morning.
Dressed now in soft cotton robes, the three of them are quiet in a mutual appreciation of having washed the grit and dirt of the moors from their bodies.
"I don't think I've ever been so glad to have a bath," Ewan comments, stretching out on the canvas ground.
"No kidding. But, ah..." Kyra bites her lip. "I think I lost my phone somewhere out on the moor."
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
"Not quite," June says with a chuckle. "It disappeared when you came here, so you'll get it back when you return."
"You can't bring phones here?" Ewan asks.
"Most high-tech things, actually; so no laptops or assault rifles either. Anything that doesn't have an equivalent in the Marchlands really. Not that the people here mind, of course; magic makes a lot of our technology redundant anyway."
As if they were listening, the ghost lights trapped in lanterns that adorn the walls flicker, shifting the shadows the setting sun is casting across the room.
“Dumb question, numero dos then,” Kyra says, raising two fingers. “Is everyone here speaking English, or is this some sort-of magic Star Trek universal translator situation?”
June raises an eyebrow at the reference. “The latter. The magic that affects people who pass over means the Marchland’s lingua franca is translated into your own native tongue, and vice versa. If it doesn’t translate something, it’s because the name is a loanword from some other language, like Medrauti.”
”Huh." Ewan frowns. "And 'magic' can just do all that?”
"It's an almost-intelligent force," June explains, "Bound into service a long time ago—Charter magic, they call it. On Earth, we only have a little wild magic, enough for us to travel here and for magical creatures not to die if they pass over mostly.”
"And we're supposed to keep it that way?" Kyra interjects.
June nods. "It was decided a long time ago that Earth and the Marchlands would remain separate. It doesn't help that most monsters that make it to our side become cloaked in a glamour, concealed in such a way that makes ordinary people easy prey."
Someone just... decided that magic would be hidden? When it can do all this?
Ewan can scarcely believe it. How different would history be if not for that?
"Who decided we should be separate?" he asks.
"It's a long story." June shifts on the spot. "I could only tell you what I was told—no guarantees it’s the full truth, or true at all."
"Warning acknowledged," Kyra pushes, leaning forward. "Get on with it!"
"As you wish, your majesty.” June rolls her eyes. “Actually, I’m about to tell you your spiritual ancestor was a King, so perhaps we should be calling you that."
"Obviously," Kyra interjects with a cheeky grin, which June ignores.
"In any case, what's important to keep in mind is that the Marchlands isn't exactly a distinct world like our own. It's a nexus, the place where many different worlds intersect, letting someone move from one world to another. And while Earth's access point to the Marchlands might be New Albion now, that's only been the case for a couple of centuries.
“Millennia ago, Great Britain was actually where the wall between the Marchlands and Earth was thinnest. Back then, one could simply take the wrong turn in the wrong forest and slip between worlds. Magic and monsters roamed into our world freely, as well as armies from other worlds beyond the Marchlands. Legend would tell us they were all held back by an Earth army led by one man."
"King Arthur," Ewan breathes.
"Bingo," June answers. "He held back the wolves at the gate, and in the wreckage of those wars he entered into humanity's original compact with the elemental forces—Gods, some call them—that governed the Marchlands. In return for tightening passage between worlds, he and his descendants would forever guard the border from threats to both Earth and the Marchlands. To assist him, the Gods granted him and his closest allies supernatural powers, and a kind of reincarnation, in exchange for such a deal to echo throughout time."
"Wait," Kyra interrupts. "Are you trying to tell me I'm a reincarnation of King Arthur?"
"Ah," June hesitates. "Good question. The time frame doesn't make sense, given that the last Hero died five years ago. But the ancient sources call it reincarnation, so... Yeah."
"Huh." Kyra leans back, clearly in thought.
"So when Meilin's mother called me the Squire...? " Ewan asks.
"You're Arthur's best man, the one who's supposed to help Kyra here fulfil her heroic duties. Not the capital-H Hero, but just as important."
Ewan wonders if she's trying not to hurt his feelings, putting it that way. Unsure how to ask that without sounding like a nob, however, he instead goes with, "Did you know the last Hero or Squire?"
It's a question he immediately regrets, as June takes a second too long to answer: "Yes."
“Can you tell us about them?" Kyra asks.
"Another time, perhaps." June stands, smoothes out the creases of her robes. "We'll have a long trek in the morning, so you two should get some sleep. You're going to need it, especially when you wake up tomorrow and this isn't a dream."
“Promise?” Kyra asks.
June offers a rueful smile. “This is all real. For better or worse.”
They say their goodnights, and June disappears out to her own room, the sliding door slipping shut behind her.
“The last Hero and Squire must be a sore spot,” Ewan comments quietly.
“Hmm,” is Kyra’s only reply.
Out over the village, paper lanterns have floated into the sky, gentle amber stars against the night sky. The ghost lights on the wall begin to quiet, the flames inside their glass cages slowly going out. In minutes, the only light left is a soft glow from outside. A chill settles into the room, and Ewan pulls his blanket tighter around him. As much as his mind is still racing, his body is definitely ready for sleep.
He glances over to Kyra, still watching the lanterns outside.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah…” She turns towards him. “It’s just a lot, you know?”
“I would have liked to be eased a bit into this, yeah.” He shrugs uncertainly. “But, at least we’re in this together, right? Since I'm supposed to be the Lancelot to your King Arthur?"
"Are you threatening to sleep with my wife?" Kyra asks, mock-accusatorially.
"I wouldn't dare!" Ewan raises his hands in submission. "Scout's honour!"
They both laugh, a gentle chiming that echoes out into the night.
“This shit is pretty crazy, aye?" Kyra says.
"Well, I definitely didn't expect to be chased by monsters when I got dressed this morning," Ewan replies, leaning back and raking a hand through his hair. "But it was more exciting than my Art History class would have been, so I suppose I can't complain."
Kyra laughs again. "That's one way to look at it."
"If it helps, I've read a lot of Fantasy books over the years, so I'm feeling pretty prepared."
“What a relief,” Kyra teases. “I’ve watched five seasons of Merlin and all of Supernatural; does that count?”
“Well, it at least means the universe probably made you the Hero 'cause you clearly had too much time on your hands.”
Laughing, Ewan narrowly dodges the wooden cup aimed at his head.
~***~