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In Bacco Valley, Bordenel, mornings were pink and evenings were grey.
The town was built into an indentation in the Upper Belt, a rocky land that covers most of the Bordenel coastline, far from any other civilisation. It was a surface-level wonderland. The place had winding cobblestone streets, markets with baker- and butcher-shops, smiths, jewellers, pubs, inns, and idyllic homes. Most of this lay on the bottom, cradled by the cliff walls, but the walls themselves were clad with walkways and houses. Tunnels, bridges, stairways and rope lifts served to connect it all.
Bacco Valley was its own little world. Its population of roughly seven-thousand inhabitants weren't cut off from the goings-on elsewhere, but they were compelled not to think much about it. The town had its own newspaper, its own flag and, while not official, its own dedicated branch of law enforcement. Many did business with the outside, but when in town, one could easily forget there was an 'outside' at all. Look far enough one way and you'd see the endless ocean. Look far enough the other way, and be high enough up, and you'd see flat rock, just as endless. Two horizons; one liquid, one solid. And the nearest neighbour was a two-day carriage ride away.
Of those aforementioned seven-thousand, it's said that less than five-hundred were human; straight-backed, two-armed, smooth-skinned. The rest were tol; hunched-over, noseless, fur-backed and four-armed.
The Mayor was human. His close associate, Gromel Vexolor, was tol. The latter was a lot of things, in fact: Owner of a successful mining company, generous patron behind the town's creation, son, father and grandfather. But none of those paint an honest picture of who Gromel really was. To do that, you'll need to know the definitive truth of Bacco Valley: That it was overflowing with plants.
For one, if the streets and houses and cliff formations made the place pretty, the gardens made it gorgeous. From green vines to orange tulips, red roses to blue sweet peas, every street corner had a brilliant display of nature's shapes and colours. Yet not a single strain of grass grew natural. Nothing had ever grown there before the town was built. Enormous amounts of soil had been transported from the mainland, and the carriages used for the job had also contained Third Legacy seeds.
Because Bacco Valley was not built on roses and tulips. It was built on pikestalks and tarcherries and lissie-dandie flowers; poisons, sedatives, hallucinogens, weapons. Illegal plants, corrupted and twisted in appearance, and the last remnant of the world-killing parasite Cregnolu (second of the four to perish, and thus third in their historical hierarchy). Wicked plants, most would say. But they were useful, and they were profitable, and that was enough for many to look past their origin. No other town in the world ever held so many specimens. They stood hidden in tunnels, private gardens, basements... anywhere they could grow away from the public eye, which was most places, for such plants are so resilient as to barely require daylight. They bloom with a violent temper.
And it was Gromel Vexolor who oversaw the operation. He was, for all intents and purposes, the real mayor. That, and so much more. A chairman. A judge. A king. With Bacco Valley as the front, he grew and transported Third Legacy plants to distributors throughout Bordenel, and it earned him the wealth of ten crown-appointed lords.
But not all he grew was worth selling. A lot of Third Legacy plants have no ill effects, and some have no discernable effects at all. One such plant is the rainbowhead, a flower shaped like a young dandelion, but softer and larger and with florets of two colours on one flower-head. Not only that, but the colours differ on each one and change over the course of days.
Rainbowheads were rare even in Bacco Valley. They served no purpose for Gromel's interests, so one of the few they'd bothered to grow was given to another family's daughter.
---
That grey evening, the rainbowhead's flowers all had a shade of red in them. In the same room sat a young tolenne, in her bed, trying to read a dense book.
Cariella's room was luxurious by many standards. It was spacey, and all furniture was quality. Even the windowsill, on which the flower stood, had a conch-like finish carved into each corner. She did not appreciate any of it. She didn't even want to think about it, but couldn't keep herself from doing so. A current of guilt often ran through her mind. It was there again, and she tried to silence it, tried to focus deep on the book. This was important to her. But she couldn't find the right flow, and struggled to do so, embarrassed with how often she had to reread a passage because her mind had jumped to the patterns on her oak dresser or the white, knitted rug, or that infuriating flower.
Sometimes Cariella would try to switch position. Her default was to hold the book in her upper hands and rest on her lowers. She tried to switch, and the more reclined position was comfortable enough, but it didn't help her eyes and mind work together. Sitting against the wall didn't help either. All that accomplished was to make her wonder what to do with whatever set of arms went unused. And using all arms felt ridiculous. She was trying to read the book, not strangle it.
The ensuing knocks on the door didn't help. It couldn't do much to hinder, either, she supposed, but she still clenched her teeth in frustration. A few more knocks followed.
"Feel free to come in," said Cariella, the tone as flat as she could make it.
It was her mother, as expected. He never bothered to knock, on the few occasions he'd even go up there.
"Hey," said her mother, Rexa, with whom Cariella shared a few key features. Their dark-brown, thick, unruly hair was a major one, though Cariella kept hers shorter. Small nostrils, pointed chins, orange eyes... Over the last few seasonal cycles, the similarities had gotten harder to ignore and easier to despise.
"Hello," said Cariella, pretending to be deeply immersed in her read.
Rexa put on a smile. "Just wanted to tell you that I was over at Mrs Finolor's place today. She bought this pretty thing as a gift for her niece, but it turned out to be the wrong size. She let me have it for you. What do you think?"
Cariella looked up from the book and saw her mother use all arms to hold up a bright yellow dress with red buttons and red sleeves. It was one of the most garish things she'd seen.
"That's kind of her," she said before resuming her horseshit impersonation of an avid reader.
Rexa's casual enthusiasm faded at that response. Her smile flattened.
"Yeah," she said. "It's, uh... she's a generous one. Personally, I would have been all over this at fifteen."
No response.
"Right," said Rexa. "I'll just put it in the drawer."
"Suit yourself."
Rexa had a well-practised technique for folding shirts. She did it in one quick motion, using all arms at once in perfect harmony. As with many things, her daughter had once admired this.
She walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer.
"Uh," Cariella heard, which made her lower the book to see her mother stand over the open top drawer, looking confused.
"Oh, right. It's the middle drawer now."
"You rearranged it again?" Rexa asked. "I don't think it's been three days since last time."
"I know. Something about the order keeps bothering me. Just put it in the middle. Oh, and close the door when you leave."
Rexa put the dress in the correct drawer, where it was fated stay until the next rearrangement.
"So," she said as she turned, trying another smile, "what are you reading?"
"The Ledibena," Cariella said.
Rexa blinked. "More legal material?"
Cariella nodded. "Mhm. Got it from Lozi. It's pretty interesting."
She could tell by the immediate silence that Rexa didn't share the enthusiasm for a book about notable ways in which country laws differed from each other, written primarily for the benefit of traders and merchants. Not that it was genuine interest in the subject that motivated Cariella.
"I was wondering something," Rexa said, in a sudden and almost desperate manner. "When was the last time you and I went rowing? Maybe we should–"
"Let me correct myself," interrupted Cariella as she wiggled the book. "This thing is very interesting. I hope to spend the rest of the evening on it."
Rexa sighed. "I see. Sorry, I... I'll leave."
Her steps were slow. Cariella, who just wanted her to get out, was irritated by that.
"By the way," said Rexa at the door. "You might have the house to yourself tomorrow afternoon. I'm having coffee with some friends, and your father's got a long meeting."
Cariella put the book down. A grim curiosity grew in her, and she knew it was a poor idea to ask, but could not help herself. "Woods?"
Rexa nodded. A meeting in the woods, their secret spot. These were the important ones. It provoked another question:
"Will Beanie be there?"
"Yes," said Rexa. "They all will."
She closed the door gently, and it was just Cariella again. Better that way. She found her mother's attempt at bonding to be embarrassing and excruciating, as if the whole exercise wasn't pointless. As if Rexa had not chosen for it to be this way.
Hoping to make progress, Cariella raised the book and kept reading. It wasn't that interesting, but she figured it could prove useful one day. There were some strange, very specific legal differences between Bordenel and larger nations such as Gasmodo and Nelkingdon. A couple of things were subtle yet intriguing, especially when it came to deportation of criminals.
But the read was disturbed by a memory – one that often flared up when a certain name was mentioned.
It took Cariella back to the age of six. The families were celebrating the shift of seasons at the big dining hall, a gathering of Nitzels, Vexolors, and various friends. She remembered every detail. The sweet pear juice they served for the children. The burnt, charcoal-grilled carrots. The stench of tobacco. The silver plates. The one human boy there, whom she befriended. The cheers. The wine stains. A stranger whispering into her father's ear. Father leaving the table because there's something he "has to do". The drunken, indifferent chatter.
Wondering where her father is going. Following him outside. The clear night stars. The path out back. The rows of trees. Father's quick walk, then run. Her struggle to keep up. The sudden scream. The empty stable. The voices from the other side. Peeking out from behind a bush.
Father there. Beniame "Beanie" Gajon there, his fur oil-slicked and his clothes fine. An older tol there; some groundskeeper. Him pleading for mercy. Father kicking him. Beanie kicking him. Father suggesting he's had enough. Beanie's smile, his disagreement. The pistol. The booming sound. The red cloud. The skull fragments. The stain on the wall. The remains of the groundkeeper's head, his brains. His body's limp collapse. Father's casual comment that Beanie "just gave them a clean-up job on a festive night". Noticing the tool shed behind them. Beanie's search for a shovel. The lingering shock at it all.
The long walk back, alone, with the sounds of digging at her back. The fear, a new kind, so deep and different it didn't make her cry, just made her silent. The many attempts to understand. The nightmares...
Gathering the courage to tell mother several days later. Mother's claim that she'd had imagined it all. The confusion. The loneliness. The gradual realisation over time.
Cariella clenched the book tight with her upper hands, trying now with gruelling effort to concentrate, to absorb its dry writing and close off all other thoughts.
She managed none of it.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
