19. Then Princess
THEN: PRINCESS
It was naught but two or three pages into that old book that I realized it was nothing to do with Rodwin.
It was the published journal of a bygone Tintarian woman who had been wed to a Helmsman prince.
The Helmsmen, according to everything I had ever been told, were tribal and abstruse barbarians who dwelled in the Hintercliff mountains above Tintar, forever warring with them over the northern Tintarian border.
In some ways, they were even more mythical than Tintarians.
The Helmsmen claimed they had once ruled the sea and called themselves as such, though now the only countries with ships were Tintar and the occupants of The Flavored Three, three island countries off the Tintar coast. The Helmsmen lived inside the highest mountains, worshipped a death god, and painted themselves in dark blue.
This Una had been wed to a prince of theirs in an act of peace because, it seemed, despite Tintar’s legendary dominion and warrior’s way, several thousand winters past they had been occupied by the Helmsmen.
Of course, the church had instructed that both territories and their inhabitants were worshippers of false gods and therefore, heathen.
Una had fallen in love with her barbarian prince but wanted to document the history of her people, of their magic and their four beloved gods.
She was an adventurous woman, full of vim, and deeply passionate about her commitment to her deities.
She had survived an attack of a sea beast with massive teeth that had taken her left leg, and she used a peg to walk.
She said her prince was a fine lover, and she had adopted his people’s custom of tattooing themselves in the dark blue.
And though her man was a prince, she said all kings were monsters and she would fight for her people’s freedom even if it meant death.
I fell in love with her by the end of the first passage.
“I think you should take some texts home with you,” the priest had exclaimed that day, enthused by my being enraptured by Una.
I snapped the book shut. “Yes. Yes, Brother Tibolt. What do you recommend?” I was terrified he would discover my new treasure.
“Well, whatever you are currently reading and—” He broke off to rummage amongst his shelves, bustling about in his messy office, shuffling volumes into a stack. “I will see you in a few days. Tell me what you have learned then!”
I walked home, The Life of Una wedged between a dusty treatise about wayward girls, the old copy of The Book of Rodwin, and a book of essays on Rodwin’s selfless self-immolation—his setting himself on fire for the sake of all humanity, a sacrifice to ease the afterlife’s demons’ craving for our souls.
I was desperate for more Una and, as soon as my after-dinner chores were complete, I continued to read.
I devoured her journal in two nights. It was how I learned of four gods, the Tintarian pantheon—Mother Earth, Father Fire, Sister Sea, and Brother Air.
Mother Earth gave birth to all the minerals and plants, and to all the animals that were not fish or fowl.
Father Fire was the god of the forge, in particular, and of fire, sun, and heat in general.
Sister Sea ruled the ocean and all waterways, feeding her people bevies of fish.
Brother Air was a cryptic god whose powers were more obscure, either manifesting in prophetic visions or physical prowess like soundless steps.
I was too young to find interest in Una’s romantic explanations of her arranged husband, a man she at first hated but then loved.
I did not care for her ramblings about just systems of government or the colonization of her people.
I did not understand these things. But the lore of her gods was the best bedtime story I had ever heard.
I knew Ecclestonians were obsessed with schooling and mining and had no gods.
I knew other settlements nearby now had their own little Rodwin churches.
I knew that each island of The Flavored Three—Vyggia, Ruskar, and Sibbereen—held their own superstitions and faith.
I now knew Helmsmen worshipped death. I had always known Tintarians were heathens who worshipped idols, but not what those idols represented.
This was the first time in my life that prayer and worship made sense to me.
Rodwin was so demanding, but the Tintarian gods seemed to want nothing from their people but to do no harm to others and to try and think broadly.
In The Life of Una, the ancient princess waxed on about the Farthest Four, in particular about Brother Air, one of the gods who blessed her.
I was fascinated at her insistence that this god’s name was but a default term and not a true title.
He was not a he, and neither was he a she.
Brother Air was called as such because the old Tintarian word for “brother” meant sibling as well as fellow, friend, and kindred.
Sibling Air would have been a better name for the sexless god, but for too many winters Brother Air had been called “he.” Una claimed that the god had spoken to her and that their allocation as male meant less to them than their people’s prayers and faith, that they would rather their children concern themselves with their own lives before their god.
Herein though, she wrote, I will refer to that god as they have expressed themselves to me and will not use “he” or “she” to explain their glory.
This was mystifying to me, but I did not question it.
The most arcane portion of Una’s journal was of a vision she had about the shaping of the known world.
Though it was relayed in the journal as an epic saga and entirely unbelievable, I found it was no more unreal than Rodwin setting himself on fire for the good of mankind or being seen in the sky by the faithful.
It was a passage I read many times, finding it an easier explanation of life than that I, born a girl, was evil and that boys were sent to rescue me from myself.
When I told Rowena all of this, huddled in our little bed, and of my newly found prize, she was equally upset and entranced.
“Explain the mermaids again,” she said.
I explained that it was the form Sister Sea took in her corporeal expression and that it was a half woman, half fish, according to Una. “Let me read the part about the gods to you, and then you’ll see.”
“Alright, but be quiet. This is blasphemous, you know.”
I shrugged off her concerns and began the tale of the gods.
It is impossible to measure a winterless time.
We know that four seasons equal one winter.
But this was before the annual snowfall and chill that marks our time.
It cannot be marked or measured. This was before.
This was when four stars gathered in the sunless, moonless sky and made a family.
They did not know what they did, and they did not know who they were.
Their love for each other created children, and the four stars delighted in these children.
It was through this love that the stars became individual in their manifestations.
A man made of flames kept the children warm in the cold, dark sky.
A woman made of stone gave them a small spot to stand on.
A second woman made of water kept their frail bodies from drying out due to the fire and arid rock of the first two stars.
A fourth star, unseen and unheard, without gender, gave the children hearts and minds and swiftness.
The four did not know what they had done by loving this way. They had defied the powers that rule all, the fates.
I cannot tell you that it happened “one day,” as this was before the measurement of days.
But you can imagine that “one day,” the four stars were visited by the fates.
They were white, skeletal, tall, and stooped.
Their skin was pale, stretched thinly over creaking bones, and they were swathed in gray.
Their number was countless. They claimed to be neither good nor evil, and the largest and tallest of the skeleton men explained they had come to right what the four stars had done wrong.
His smile was a leer as he peered down at the four who stood in front of their children. His long, red tongue flicked out from a lipless mouth to taste the air of the world they had made. “I confess, brethren. I do love the taste of new fear.”
“As do I,” said a second skeleton man, peering over the first one’s shoulder, and his long tongue also tasted the air.
The fourth star, the one we know now as Brother Air, made a painful keening noise at their essence being licked.
“Who are you?” demanded the flame man, the god we call Father Fire. “Why do you loom so? Why do you threaten my children?”
The second skeleton smiled like the first one, but it was not a smile. It was ugly and hungry. “I loom because I am the fate called Fear. It is the only way I can stand, you see.”
“Speak later, Fear,” said the first and largest of the fates. “I will explain to them why we must rewrite their stories.” He turned his skull towards the little gods. “I am called Power, and you have wielded power you do not have.”
“What is this word, ‘power’?” asked Father Fire.
“Ha!” scoffed one of the shorter skeletons, flapping his gray robes. “He does not even know he is powerful! He is a fool. All four must be!”
The fate called Power scowled. “Hush. You are beneath me and beneath many of us. You are not in charge here.”
“You are certainly beneath me,” said another fate, one with broad bones where his shoulders were. “I am called War,” he said to the stars. “I am your end and your beginning. I will begin and end and begin again. Too long you have been without division. Your children will never be rid of me.”
“Or me,” said Fear.