CHAPTER 2.06 – THORNWOOD: II
The curiosity’s killing him. Hugo eyes Thae as Rian finishes up with the guard leader, the woman all warmth and smiles now that she’s certain she didn’t offend the woodsman. But the half-elf seems distracted by the bustle of the town, now resumed since they’ve been deemed welcome. He wonders if any visitors would be allowed their weapons, guesses that without a known quantity like Rian they’d be scrutinised more closely. At the very least.
And there! Thae’s eyes briefly set on him, darting away as Hugo returns the look. He smiles to himself. He’s not the only one desperate to discover this ‘Polly’ to whom Rian was expected to bequeath his homestead. Bequeath or possibly share? Thae, the very spirit of discretion, is suddenly avoiding eye contact but can’t conceal a rising blush. In his book, these speculations are harmless fun, but he can see the priest struggling against the possibility of offending their colleague. Then a sickly thought hits him: Rian’s walking away from his life here, hasn’t made any mention of a love. Of anyone he’d wish to have brought along.
He decides he should follow Thae’s example, even as the big man leads them through the town. Tries to strangle the speculation that Rian might, in fact, be leading them to Polly. Or, come to think of it, Paulie? Paul E.? Instead, he takes in the sights, tries to get his bearings in this overdesigned township. The largest buildings cluster towards the centre, of course. Close to the dome’s periphery, buildings are single storey by necessity, peppered in amongst vegetable plots that’ll benefit from proximity to the bubble’s bright glow. Somehow, there’s no feeling of claustrophobia here; at no point does the dome reach high enough to feel comparable to sky, but it’s less restricted than forest canopy.
Hugo’s reminded of Rian’s stockade as they skirt around a ring of fruit trees separating the sparse edges of the settlement from the densely populated centre. He feels certain the man took this as inspiration, his needs a tiny fraction of what must add up to a hearty harvest for Thornwood. Multiples of the supply they could need, but a town of merchants will always favour saleable stock. Besides, Rian had mentioned a distillery hugging the southern tunnel out of town.
As they circle northwards, he realises even Anuk has abandoned her usual, arch aura of boredom. Willingly or not, the woman is paying too much attention to the town’s impeccable layout. A place for everything and everything in its place translated into a home for hundreds. And, as he watches a wagon setting off towards the forest, an impregnable base for tradesfolk.
-x-
He tries to suppress his prurience as they approach the town’s northern exit, concern rising in him that the road to Polly is increasingly scented with piss. Neither Rian nor Thae seem overly concerned with the strengthening odour, but Anuk’s pulled her cloak up over her nose and mouth. He suspects her stomach hasn’t completely settled from their transition into the town but worries that any concern he could voice might be taken as an accusation of weakness.
He can’t help but notice that their target, a solid but unshowy cottage surrounded by vats and racks, has been granted considerable space in a community where that’s at a premium. At the same time, he realises that it hasn’t taken long for the unwholesome fug to become markedly less affecting. Maybe, he reckons, something to do with the unpleasant smell being, at its base, natural. He recalls staking out a mark who worked as an alchemist in Caladria, of the feeling for ages afterwards that his senses had been destroyed by an endless barrage of caustic, inorganic stenches. A non-alchemist could have found the man in a crowd by scent alone.
As they approach the cottage, they spy a narrow woman hunched over one of the vats, using a forked wooden implement to manipulate what must (given the racks around her) be an animal hide. They watch for a moment, the woman plunging the skin into the thigh-deep vat from which the stink emanates. She appears wiry, in her 50s by Hugo’s initial guess, dark brunette hair matching well to her tanned leather garments. He suspects she could have been outfitted by Rian, although his armour bears slight stylistic differences in decoration and stitching to her own.
He ponders how easily he’s become accustomed to the stench as the figure notices their approach. She gives the vat a final stir, then leans on her stick to watch them, no warmth whatsoever in her gaze. Hugo wonders if this hard-bitten woman could be Polly as Rian holds a hand aloft in greeting, smiling broadly enough to register through his dense facial hair. She seems unmoved as she calls to the big man, voice ringing with annoyance more than any sort of affection.
“Wasn’t expecting to see ya fer a month or more, Rian…” Her vowels stretch towards a farmer’s ‘oo-arr’ but more formal, possibly polished by the influence of her community. Or their customers. She eyes the rest of the group, practically sneering as she adds “…you collecting strays this weather?” Rian’s smile remains through this rough handling, addressing the woman warmly as Helen. Hugo feels some relief that this isn’t the big man’s supposed love match.
He amends his estimate of Helen Tanner, plunking instead for her being in her 40s but registering as older by dint of crankiness. She gives the slightest nod to acknowledge that they’ve spoken, sighs heavily as she eyes the brimming vat, then says with resignation: “You’d best come in, then.” They’re under no illusion that their appearance has interrupted her plans of…well, bathing animal skins in piss, he supposes. Rian seems in his element, following the silent woman while informing them that the urine helps separate muscle and fat from a hide, and aids in removal of fur or hair from the same. Vital, really.
The interior of Tanner’s home is surprisingly comfortable, decorated with a warmth at odds with the woman’s mood. Hugo’s happy to note the posies of sweet-smelling herbs and flowers around the door and hanging from the cottage’s exposed beams. The furniture’s comfortable, quality of construction shining through simplicity of style. The woman leaves them to settle, Rian gesturing that they should make themselves at home while their purported hostess busies herself. She strips off her leather jerkin and begins washing her arms in warm water delivered by the turn of a tap at her large sink.
Hugo’s gaze is drawn to an oil painting above the cottage’s fireplace. He took the subject to be Helen but notes facial differences. Reckons the subject instead to be a relation, possibly her mother. A handsome woman in whose face Hugo reads a strength and pride which in the daughter has hardened into something sharper. And yet, as their surly host returns in her heavy leather trousers and a simple fabric shift, Rian looks truly comfortable as though warmly welcomed by a treasured friend.
He wonders if he judged too hastily. The woman has pulled a mug of aromatic beer for each of them unasked, plunking herself into an empty seat to complete their circle. And her small home is set up to allow everyone in the group their comfort and space should they wish. Certainly, Rian’s admiration must be based on something. She returns the man’s look steadily, eyebrows raised in silent…well, maybe ‘invitation’ is too warm a word. But, certainly, interest in what the wild man might have to say.
-x-
Hugo’s somewhat stunned. Turns out, Helen’s silence and attentiveness seem to have given the buried Rian permission to come out of himself. He’s given a reasonable account of the bandits’ murder of the stranger in the forest and their subsequent travels to date. And yet, he’s done so without betraying Thaesurala’s identity or location. He seems ill at ease discussing magic, yet to Hugo’s read the man has utilised that as a tool to leave notes dangling. Without leaving any doubt that they resolved the uproar affecting the forest.
Tanner, for her part, gives muted but positive support to Rian’s narrative. And he begins to understand the camaraderie between these two odd fish. It’s company without the busy (some might say frantic) need to impress, to play to the audience that Hugo knows he channels. And the man’s honourable. Other than the gift of some truly excellent beer, their host hasn’t paid any real heed to the three strangers on her property. But Rian gives each of them their piece of the glory. Hugo tries not to preen as the big lad lauds him as the source of their information about the Rams’ fall from power.
And then, without any fanfare, Rian offers the woman his home. He even makes it sound like a bad lot. It’s already seen some attack from vestiges of the Rams. It needs thatched and repaired. He at least details the traps and safeguards around the place. Helen stares into the floor for what seems an endless span, certainly more silence than Hugo could tolerate, before clearing her throat. She looks Rian deep in the eye as if trying to read his soul, gives a shallow nod.
“Great huntin’ around your place, Rian.” And then her face twists as though realising the stockade’s afloat in a poison lake. “S’pose the neighbours’ll be delighted to lose the tannery from next door.” The woman’s look of fury doesn’t shift as Rian bellows with laughter, highly amused by this shaft of wit. But she’s all business. “Can’t take it from ye for nothing, Rian, you’ve worked bastard hard…”, she begins, but the man’s having none of it. “And it did me well, Hel. Now I’m done with it, I want someone who’ll care for it. That’s you.”
The pair stare at one another in silence and it seems everything’s been said on the subject. Bar Rian’s estimation of what she’ll need and what’s already in place. Hugo’s impressed that the survivalist has obviously placed himself in the woman’s shoes. His plans extend past the refurb to include security, scheduling support from the township’s patrols. For Helen’s part, she meets him with a similarly level head.
Hugo’s mind wanders as the pair haltingly discuss minutiae, their chat slowing and stifling as each of their fuel for society seems to run dry. Thae and Anuk seem quite comfortable to sit in silence, but his mind spins with speculation as though to fend off a manic outburst. Scanning back, he can’t for the life of him identify any direct thanks that Hel paid Rian for such a generous gift. He wonders, were he in a similar position, whether that would drive him insane. Even as he believes that the woman possesses quiet care, maybe even affection for his friend. That her thanks is intended but baffled by gruffness. Hugo’s certain he would feel the need, though. The need to hear it said.
-x-
The mood’s subdued as they skirt further around the edge of town. Hugo can’t guess Anuk’s thoughts, feels guilty wondering if she saw herself in Hel, some premonition of what her future could hold. Barring the urine, of course. He hopes. He opts to leave that thought well alone.
Thae, he’s certain, is allowing the big man space after such a momentous gesture. And possibly wondering about this breastplate. Certainly, the half-elf’s eyes are on Rian as he leads them along. Hugo’s best guess is that, were the woodsman to be confronted with his generosity, it would be perfect torture. And, in that, maybe the reserved Ms. Tanner was a perfect friend for him.
Or rather, he hopes, maybe she had been a perfect template for friend. For a life spent alone, without others to share in his thoughts. Without others to heed his words? Hugo thinks about the Highbarrow farmers, their hunters, their smith. All souls who heeded and valued the quiet man and who profited from his solidity, his capability. He runs back over the times where Rian has seemed to thaw, where he’s felt permission just to be himself, and how surprising his quiet intellect has been in those moments.
Hugo knows they couldn’t have survived this long without the man’s instincts. That he, personally, treasures the gifts given him so freely. Many of them handmade, and of superlative quality. He then cringes inwardly at how many times he’s jumped in, taken over when the man’s speech felt too tortuous.
He promises silently to allow Rian the space Hel provided. Silence and invitation for the man to thrive. And as his psyche recoils from the thought, he aims to at least try.
