CHAPTER 1.07 - THE STORIES WE KEEP TO OURSELVES: I
Anuk continues to struggle through the forest. She’s frustrated by her inability to follow Rian’s foot-sure lead, even despite his obvious exhaustion. Not to mention the fucking rope. She stares into the back of Wiln’s head, tempted to blast a hole through it. Rian isn’t a gifted speaker, but there wasn’t a hint of a lie she can detect in his story. Hugo, on the other hand, is a practiced liar and raconteur. His story begged a hundred more questions than it answered, all dressed in the costume of truth. Or maybe half-truth; with Thae, open-faced Thae, earnestly playing straight man. Anuk reckons that at least the basic threads Hugo spun were accurate. Not entirely whole cloth.
Still, it made the trudge – and the absences from herself, those fucking “blips” – more tolerable, hearing the accounts of these new acquaintances. She contemplates telling them about her business in Caladria the previous day, rolls it over in her mind. No. Anything she could tell would beg as many questions as Hugo’s spiel. Questions she is not willing to answer.
-x-
THE PREVIOUS DAY
She steps out into the pale Autumn sun. Not the worst inn in which she has stayed, but far from the best. She double-checks that the journal is in her backpack before swinging a strap over her shoulder. She’s fairly certain she can locate the place, even from oblique references left by a young girl caught up in the tumults of adolescence. And, of course, from a nice man who was SO happy to help, pointing her to the Collars, with a portion of “that’s not where the best places are, MY DEAR, a lady of your quality blahblahblah”. Pathetic. He was practically drooling at her.
-x-
It’s still morning, maybe half-past ten, when she finds the place. The Collars is (or are?) nice, but filled with clearly smaller, less successful businesses than the main drag. Exactly the kind of place Anuk would have spent some time if she weren’t on a mission. Never know what you might find in amongst the hodge-podge of little stores, after all.
She stands in front of the shop. It MUST be the place, but still Anuk’s heart drops. Most of the businesses in the Collars are a little down at heel - worn but still proud. Like so many households she’s seen: barely scraping by, but by the Gods the doorstep will be so clean you could eat your dinner from the stone. This fletchery is not that. Even the hedges at the borders of the property, she can see, are well-tended and cropped on its neighbours’ sides. She imagines a passive-aggressive line down the centre of the hedges, pristine on their sides but never crossing to tame the wild growth for this neighbour.
It looks abandoned, but Anuk strides up to the door and knocks sharply. She’s deploying the ‘official business’ rap but receives no immediate response. She tries again, hard enough to hurt her knuckles. Even amidst the teenage swooning in the journal, it was obvious that this father – barely mentioned at all – is a drinker. Another clue is the detritus of bottles and broken glass scattered among the weeds and clutter around the low wooden hovel. She doubles down on the knocking. This time she detects movement from inside, a shambling shuffle. Sounds like he’s bouncing off every surface on his way to the door.
Anuk hears the shuffling stop, but the door doesn’t open. From the other side comes a bleary, zero-energy but aggressive “What?” This guy is already pissing her off, so she issues a sharp “Is this still a fletcher’s?” She is rewarded with the sound of a clumsy working of the lock; good, an appeal to his greed worked. The door opens a crack, revealing a ruined face framed with messy brown hair and stubble. Anuk’s nose wrinkles as the scent of stale drink and…yep, the tang of urine hits her. She steps forward nevertheless, pushing the door and surprised man as she crosses the threshold. The man reels back unsteadily as she takes in the ‘shop space’. There is some evidence of the man’s trade, although the bundles of completed arrows and crossbow bolts are few and poorly made. She shakes her head. This is pathetic.
“Your daughter.” She spits it, more a statement than a question, as the man’s bleary brown eyes roll towards her face. She sees a spark of anger; if he weren’t so slumped, Anuk reckons he would be just taller than her, maybe 5’4”, and sees the standard ‘she’s-just-a-slip-of-a-girl’ assessment occur to him as his anger is building momentum at her intrusion. Decides to cut right through that. Anuk slaps the man in his face, a swift, clipped movement designed to shock rather than harm, repeats “Your daughter?”
The man loses all fight, looks cowed and broken in his shocked reaction. He slumps further, raises a hand to his reddening cheek, mutters “She’s gone…” As he says it, Anuk sees his eyes moisten, dreads that her hunt is over before it’s properly begun. But then the man mutters “She’s gone mad.” Anuk presses on: “Is she here?” The man is already losing focus, retreating into morose self-pity; his gaze is away from her, scanning the darkened shop space. Anuk guesses he’s doing the alcoholic’s morning hunt for something to take the edge off, but he is shaking his head.
Anuk struggles to control her anger, says evenly but through gritted teeth “Where is she?” It’s not the right move, it’s like he’s forgotten she’s there. “WHERE IS SHE?” she bellows. He starts at that but offers only a shrug in response. “…took her away…” Anuk stands for a moment, a little lost. Then her anger spikes again as, beyond hope, he locates a bottle of grain spirit somehow still a quarter full. As he uncorks it he is already raising the container to his lips.
That’s it.
She feels her power surge as she raises her fingers and mutters the word. The bottle detonates in the man’s hand. Suddenly, she is the only thing in his room, his eyes wide with horror. He’s still holding the bottle neck in his shaking hand as Anuk’s voice is a hiss. “You are telling me that your daughter, your only child, is sick and you don’t even know where she IS?” The man starts sobbing, breath coming in gulps, as he mutters something about “…her mother…dead…alone…” Well, this was a fucking waste. The man fully slumps to the floor, fat tears dropping onto the dusty boards, as Anuk turns to stride out of the door.
Then she stops. Turns on her heel, then in a sequence of gestures and muttered words, she lights every candle stub and lamp she can see from her position in the doorway. With each small spark of flame, the man is pulled out of his wreckage, wet eyes fixing on each ignition of light in turn. Then finally, he looks, terrified, at the tip of Anuk’s finger now pointing at his face.
“Sort this place out. Sort YOURSELF out. And go visit your daughter, you pathetic bastard.” She sweeps out, careless of any possible response.
-x-
At least she has another point of reference. As the object of the adolescent desire, there was plenty of context for finding this place. And a name. She is standing in front of an old but clean bakery. In the style of the area, it’s obviously a small business at the front, family living space at the back and on the first storey. She would know it was the right place even without the neat “Wilton’s Bakery” sign, as on her approach she could spy the small area of flat roof at the back. Anuk stands for a moment, letting her residual anger subside. She pushes through the door into the baker’s, immediately wreathed in the smell of warm bread, and is greeted by a plump man. “Good morning, Miss”, he beams, “’Ow can oi help you today?”
Anuk smiles, no effort required in the face of the man’s warmth, responds “I’m sorry to bother you…sir…” The man beams, effusive “Sir? Oi’m Wilton, Wilton Baker!” Anuk dips her head, partly to suppress a chuckle, clears her throat. “I’m sorry to bother you Wilton, but I was looking for…Elena?” She looks up at him through her eyelashes, sees the man’s already wide smile broaden to a beam. This is a different type of father. “Moi ‘Lena?” He pronounces it “Lay-na”, Anuk squares that away. “Oh, she’s not here.” Anuk would be more disappointed if she didn’t feel the waves of pride rolling off the man. “Collars was too small to contain moi girl, that’s for sure!”
The man looks around Anuk, sees no rush of customers, surprises her as he calls out “Teya? Teya m’dear!” He raises a finger in the air as he looks to the ceiling. Within moments, Anuk hears feet on steps behind the shop space, then a trim blonde woman bustles through the narrow door over his left shoulder. She sweeps in, still tying an apron strap behind her back. She looks a little askance, as though expecting the shop to be full, but still offers Anuk a warm smile.
Wilton looks round at the woman, still beaming “There she is! This young lady is looking for our Lena.” He rubs the base of his back with his hand, stretching his spine. “Oi was going to show her if you could…” The woman grins, cuts him off. “Of course, of course. On you go.” She looks around the well-stocked, tidy space, taking it in. Turns and nods to Anuk. “Nice to meet you, miss.” The smile remains on her face as her Wilton bustles past the counter, offers an arm to Anuk. As she accepts the man’s arm, she marvels at how easy that was. Notes the look of fond amusement on Teya’s face. This seems like a nice life.
-x-
It's only a 3-minute walk, Wilton directing them through the Collars and up a narrow alley towards the city’s prestigious, bougie shopping street. The baker has an easy, paternal charm, and even Anuk finds herself disarmed. She even shared where she had been before visiting him, and this had struck gold. Wilton tut-tutted, opining it was a shame what happened to Martan Fletcher. He was apparently a gifted arrow-maker but fallen on “dark days” when he lost his wife Ansa. Tougher still that this loss was during the birth of their daughter. Dark days from which he has never emerged. “And of course, it’s such a shame about poor Mirry” he tails off, granting Anuk her favourite author’s name.
Wilton’s sad silence lasts only a moment, however, as they emerge onto a neat boulevard. Trim patches of grass and pretty trees dot the verge between the cobbled pavement and street. Anuk is still marvelling how easily this information has come when Wilton stops dead. The man strokes the stubble at the back of his balding head, gesturing grandly towards one of the beautiful shops. Anuk chuckles as she takes in ‘Elena’s Treats’ across the way. It must be this father’s dream, she guesses. She doesn’t detect any hint of jealousy as the man breathes deeply, seeming to swell with pride at a business so much more prestigious than his humble bakery.
The front of the building is mostly clear, clean glass, framed in dusty pink marble, showcasing the treats inside. Wilton stretches his back again, beams at Anuk as he announces: “Oi’ll be getting back, now. You pass on moi love to Lena, miss.” He pauses for a second, seeming to drink in the front of his daughter’s store again. Even so, Anuk wants to offer something to this kind man. “Thank you Wilton.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, pointing to herself “I’m Anuk; it’s been a pleasure, sir.” Wilton beams again, gives a shallow bow. “The pleasure is all mine, Anuk.” He gives another proud glance towards Elena’s Treats, then turns back down the alley, a casual wave over his shoulder in Anuk’s direction as he moves away.
