Mistress of Helena

Chapter 7

The road to Helena’s town center was straightforward, winding down the hill from the fort and toward the distant glimmer of the port. But the weather had made the path treacherous, turning the solid ground into a muddy, shifting mess. Carrack led the group—Foeham, and two soldiers named Adcock and Harper—down the hill. Both Adcock and Harper were younger soldiers, and they silently cursed their luck for being in the wrong place when Carrack had called for volunteers. Their murmurs about the improbability of their mission reached Carrack’s ears, but Foeham was quick to silence them.

“It’s just that the chances of finding those impostors in this weather seem slim,” Adcock tried to reason with Foeham, who simply gave a disapproving shake of his head. “And if things take a turn for the worse in town—”

“Your training will guide us through any unexpected complications,” Carrack interjected. “There’s only one road between the fort and everything else on this island. Someone must’ve seen a cart today. We’ll inquire at the first residence we come across to see what’s what.”

The journey continued as the group moved from one hut to another, seeking any information regarding their elusive targets. Despite the persistence of their questions, the answers remained frustratingly elusive. Each unanswered inquiry seemed to strengthen Adcock and Harper’s hopes of abandoning the quest, and even Foeham was beginning to question the wisdom of advancing with such a small contingent. Carrack, though weighed down by his sodden clothes and the growing discomfort of each step, remained undeterred.

They continued from one building to the next until they reached a hut, its walls sagging like it was succumbing to the rain-soaked earth. Adcock’s knocks on the spongy door produced a dull, soft thud. After a moment, a burst of cold air greeted them as the door slowly swung open to reveal a frail old man. His white, scraggly beard flowed down to clothes that seemed a few sizes too large. He held a melting candle directly by the wax, the liquid warmth dripping onto his fingers, which he bore with no sign of discomfort. He looked over the group, his gaze lingering.

“Well,” the man’s voice was scraggly and harsh, “a few birds have flown from the nest. To what purpose are you blessing me with your visit? Have I committed a crime?”

“Ah, no, sir.” Adcock shook his head.

“We’re on the search for a couple of women that may have come by this way. An older woman and younger, middle-aged to be exact. They were pulling a cart with them.” Carrack said.

The old man stroked his beard. “Fugitives?”

“That’s one way to put it,” Carrack agreed. “Seen or heard anything?”

“See? No,” the old man shook his head. “Don’t really like peeping outside, nothing much to see these days that interests me. Plus, my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. Hearing, though, that’s another matter.”

“You heard something?” Adcock questioned, a hint of skepticism in this tone.

“Indeed,” the old man sniffed through his clogged sinuses, “I gots the good ears still, always had—that’s what made me a good hunter back in the day, when the rest of my body was up to snuff. But, yessir, I heard a few hours ago the swashing pounds of footsteps, along with the noticeable grind of a rickety wagon.”

“Doubtful, all that detail? Nonsense,” Foeham dismissed.

“Well, they were also talking, more like cursing about the cart getting stuck in the mud. And how far it was to home.”

“They happen to mention where home was?” Carrack asked.

“Maybe, I’m not sure, all I heard them going on about in between the cursing was something about a ‘washroom’. Not sure what they were referencing.”

“That’s helpful, but tell me, we’re they heading to the city?” Carrack asked.

The old man nodded. “Oh yeah, no doubt that they headed that direction. Gods knows where else they’d go, especially for a ‘washroom’.”

Carrack’s heart sank at the realization that the culprits had made their way into the heart of the city. He gave his thanks to the old man and then turned back to the road. Outside the old man’s hut, the team paused, each silently wrestling with the implications of their next course of action.

“Perhaps we should double back for reinforcements. Bit of a delay, but I’d feel far more at ease venturing into town with a few more rifles,” Foeham proposed.

Carrack sighed heavily. “Time isn’t on our side. We can’t afford the round trip.” He looked into the distance, the lights of the town twinkling faintly. “We’ll proceed to the market square and glean what we can.”

As they ventured into the city, the haphazard sprawl of its outer structures gave way to a more organized core. The irregular outskirts, marked by tightly packed buildings separated by narrow lanes, gradually transitioned into a more structured, grid-like arrangement reminiscent of traditional Orenian design. Red-bricked buildings stood proud and uniform, flanking cobblestoned streets where onlookers, drawn by curiosity, eyed Carrack’s group with a mixture of intrigue and suspicion. Their probing stares added a layer of tension to the air, making Carrack question the wisdom of his decision. With each step deeper into the city, his concerns grew, yet turning back was not an option he was ready to consider.

Upon arriving at the square, Carrack felt an inkling of solace. The once-vibrant market of the city now bore a desolate look with only a handful of stands hawking modest wares. The grandeur that once defined this space was a shadow of its former self, but Carrack’s memories of the area remained pristine. His gaze fell upon a familiar storefront, a bookstore where he had once purchased a small booklet. This booklet, now his journal, had become a sanctum for his thoughts, providing him solace during turbulent times.

The bookstore was the enterprise of Dr. Mortier, a scholar of distinction. On the mainland, he had been an esteemed history professor, specializing in the intricate tapestry of religious history. He often argued that understanding humanity’s past required peeling back layers of ancestral dogma to reveal hidden truths. His brilliance was renowned, with celebrated treatises unveiling insights into ancient civilizations that left only whispers in the archaeological realm. But his unflinching and unbiased approach to even the most contemporary of religious beliefs had brought him into conflict with powerful religious factions. Seeking sanctuary and a fresh purpose, he’d settled in Helena, intent on disseminating knowledge in a more tranquil environment.

A bell tinkled overhead as they entered the dimly lit store, where a musty scent seemed to have set a permanent residence. Carrack observed that the shelves, once teeming with books, now looked barren. It was no secret that books were being used as fuel in these hard times, although Carrack had hoped this desperate act would remain rare.

Dr. Mortier emerged from behind the counter. His usually robust frame had slimmed down, evidence of the strain the island’s food scarcity had placed on him. Fatigue lay heavy in his gaze behind his signature thick glasses.

“Ah,” Dr. Mortier rasped, then cleared his throat, “the tides have brought in a familiar face, my last regular patron.”

The emptiness around them was unmistakable. Carrack remarked, “Your last good customer? I’m inclined to believe that now.”

Mortier gave a resigned sigh. “In dire times, one would assume books offer an escape. Yet, they’re reduced to mere kindling. Such a waste.”

Adcock, with genuine curiosity, asked, “People aren’t actually consuming the books, right?” His question earned some derisive glances.

Mortier raised an eyebrow. “In fact, just yesterday, a man wanted to return a book. Claimed it didn’t taste the shade of its cover. Said he knew what green tasted like and was disappointed with his purchase. I suspect he was a merchant marine. Not the sharpest bunch. It would be worth a laugh if it wasn’t so unfortunate.”

Stepping forward, Carrack placed his hand on the counter with gentle authority, capturing Mortier’s attention. “Mortier,” he began, his voice weighted with seriousness, “we’re in pursuit of individuals who have stolen a body—one meant to be returned to grieving family members.” Carrack locked eyes with Mortier, ensuring the older man understood the urgency of their mission.

Mortier slowly nodded. “I see. And you believe they brought it here?”

Carrack sighed. “We’re not entirely sure. Our only lead is a vague mention of a ‘washroom’ from a local.”

“The washroom,” Mortier mused, adjusting his glasses, and sinking into deep thought, “could it be a term used by the teamsters?”

“Unlikely,” Carrack replied dismissively.

“You certain? Perhaps I’m confusing it with the gossip I’ve heard about their hidden food cache?” Mortier probed.

“Hidden food cache?” Foeham’s interest was piqued.

“Yes, there’s a rumor circulating that a warehouse down by the docks holds a stash of food. As to the specifics or the quantity, I can’t be sure, but the whispers persist.”

“What else have you heard?” Foeham leaned in, keen to extract more information.

Carrack interjected, “We aren’t here to chase down hearsay.”

Mortier, caught in the tension between the two, continued, “The chatter is that this stash is used to placate and exert control over certain groups in the—”

“Enough!” Carrack snapped, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. “We didn’t come for baseless rumors.”

“But, sir,” Foeham tried to reason.

“Enough,” Carrack’s voice was firm, quashing any further debate. He refocused on Mortier. “About the washroom, I’m confident it’s not connected to any teamster scheme.”

“I hear countless rumors day in and day out. Given all I’ve heard, I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire cemetery has been emptied and every urn shattered for its ashes.” Mortier sighed, a troubled look crossing his face. After a pause, his fingers snapped as a thought struck him. “You haven’t, by chance, consulted Lady Matilda, have you?”

Carrack’s face twisted in distaste at the mention of her name. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to that.”

“Sir, with all due respect, if Mortier has no more information, she could very well be our best lead,” Foeham argued with an undertone of urgency, clearly attempting to quell Carrack’s reluctance.

“I’m aware,” Carrack conceded, the weight of the decision evident in his voice. “Thank you, doctor, for your assistance. Do try to keep your nose clean.”

Mortier offered a half-smile. “I always do.”