Chapter Eleven. Rory
Rory
Wynne stayed for three weeks after reviving Daye—the longest she’d stayed in years—and Rory spent most of those weeks crouched over old books and scrawled diagrams with her.
That evening they were sitting at the dining table, dirty plates pushed to one side to clear a space for them to scribble on a piece of paper.
Daye circled the periphery of the room, sometimes straying to the living room or the kitchen, only to return again a few minutes later.
Her red hair looked rust-dark under the lamplight.
“So, what is the thing that animates a construct?” Rory asked, gesturing at the mess of lopsided, overlapping circles on the paper before them.
“It’s not one thing. It’s partly the incantation I taught you, partly your intention, partly the life of the things it’s constructed from, and partly the way you combine these things together during the transition.
” Wynne’s pen stabbed at the corresponding circles, leaving small blue slashes in its wake.
“Transition?”
“That’s what the shift from season to season is usually called. Though ‘revival’ or ‘renewal’ are also used sometimes.”
“ ‘Transition.’ ” Rory repeated the word quietly, testing it on his tongue. It fit. He shook his head and moved to the next question. “What did you mean by ‘the life of the things’?”
Wynne took a deep breath. “I mean it in the most intuitive way. Just, how much life they contain. Think of a butterfly next to a bird, or daisies next to a birch tree.”
“So, why don’t we just build Daye from oak trees? Or yew and pine? Why not make her from things that live longer?”
“We do, partially. The Blodeuwedd’s core structure is made out of branches, though it’s better to use ones from deciduous trees and shrubs.”
“Is … is this what makes Daye the same person every season? The core structure?”
Wynne’s lips tightened at the word person.
“Partially. There needs to be some continuation from season to season in the Blodeuwedd,” she said pointedly.
“Reusing the same core structure, repeating specific combinations of perennial plants. Like our bodies can replace skin and hair—and cells, for that matter—but remain the same body.”
Rory nodded, taking that in. “But in that case, why make only some of Daye from things that live longer? Why not make all of her from evergreens and perennials?”
“Because it’s not just a matter of longevity, it’s also a matter of vibrancy. Yew and pine live longer and react less to seasons, but part of it is that they react less. They hardly change.”
“Why does it matter?”
Wynne tapped her pen against the paper. A crumb stuck to its tip, leaving a blue stain every time it tap-tap-tapped. Rory reached out and flicked the crumb away mid-swing.
“Okay,” she said. “Think about how many different things you do every day. How many modes you cycle through. Like, you wake up, and you’re all sleepy and grumpy—”
“Am not.”
“Are too. But listen—you are sleepy first thing in the morning, but then you wake up. You’re hungry and thirsty, and then an hour passes and you’re not hungry anymore; instead, you want to play, or whatever it is that you and the Blodeuwedd do all day.
And at some point you’re tired of playing and you want to rest. Or read.
Or eat again. You get what I’m saying? The things you want, your intentions and actions, change all the time, minute to minute.
But an evergreen like a yew or a pine”—she made a wide gesture with her hand—“I’m not saying they don’t change, because of course they do, but they do it much slower and on a much larger scale.
And everything is continuous—there is no stop or switch between tasks. ”
Rory frowned, trying to puzzle it out. “So …”
“So, constructs made only from evergreens, or even mostly evergreens, would last a lot longer without transitions—years, probably even decades—but they would be bad at reacting to changing scenarios. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing.
Like, you want a construct to be constantly on guard and call whenever someone comes?
Evergreens, especially the trunk or branches, are a good choice.
They use evergreen constructs a lot to patrol large areas, or for assembly lines in factories, or even for stuff like checking tickets on the train.
These types of constructs are usually one of the first things you learn in the university when you study engineering. ”
“Is that what you study at the university? Engineering?” Rory asked, curious.
“More or less.” Wynne shrugged. “I started with engineering, but now I’m doing a joint program of engineering and languages, so it’s a bit … sideways.”
“And engineering and construction work are the same thing.” Rory’s voice wavered between a statement and a question.
“No. Or, well, sort of. Construction work is a type of engineering, though not all engineering is construction work. For example, my program focuses on time manipulation, adjacent temporalities, that sort of stuff. Which is a branch of engineering, but it’s grounded in linguistics, not in weaving or plant manipulation.
But we’re getting sidetracked.” Wynne tapped the paper before them again.
“Like I said, evergreen constructs are great for doing a single, constant activity. But you want a playmate or a pet—something that’ll be able to interact with you as you change and change right along with you, like a Blodeuwedd?
That’s much more tricky. You need to make it from things that rapidly change themselves.
Flowers that open in the morning and close at night.
Fruits that spoil a few days after they ripen.
The sort of things that start dying the moment you harvest them.
That’s what I mean by vibrancy. And things that come to life at the beginning of a season and die at its end, going through their whole life cycle in a matter of months? These are the most vibrant of all.”
“But that means that Daye would fall apart at the end of these things’ life cycle,” Rory concluded, the corners of his mouth twisting downward.
“Exactly. It’s a balancing act. Every construct is different, but in a Blodeuwedd’s case, the balance leans very heavily to vibrancy over longevity.”
“But how do you know how to make this balance happen? Like, how do you re-create, um, Daye’s balance?”
“It’ll be much easier to explain if we make a new Blodeuwedd to practice on,” his sister interjected, again.
“No,” Rory answered, again. “And Daye is not ‘a Blodeuwedd.’ Blodeuwedd is her name. It’s who she is, not what she is. Daye. The Daye.”
For once, his sister let the Daye issue rest. “Look, I can tell you to go forty percent seasonal flowers, thirty percent seasonal fruit and leaves, thirty percent branches, but that doesn’t mean anything.
It’s the how as much as the what. It’s a skill that you need to practice.
Do you still want to be the one doing the winter transition? ”
“You know I do,” Rory grumbled. “I need to know how to do it by myself.”
“If you want to know how to fix Daye by yourself when winter comes, you have to practice. There is no other way. Let’s …” She tapped a finger to her lips, “Okay, what do you say about making something else? Not a girl, but, let’s say … a rabbit or a bird?”
Rory considered it. Making something alive, only for practice? The thought made a shudder run through him. But … “Will it help?”
“It’s not as good as making a Blo—” Rory gave her a look, and she changed tack mid-word—“a flower girl, but making an animal construct would be close enough in concept to make for a good practice.”
“Okay.” Rory gave in, feeling heavy. “We can do that.”
A soft click marked the back door opening and closing. Through the corner of the window, Rory could just see Daye disappearing between the trees, autumn-red hair blazing between the autumn-red leaves.