Her Name (An Epilogue Story to Mountain Flower)

The girl was gone.

Deamus knew it the moment he stepped away from her. He did not look back; he did not have to. He had felt the way the darkness came for her, swiftly and quietly. He knew she was not in pain. And the strange ache in his heart would only grow more painful the longer he stayed with her.

 She had asked one thing of him, in a way that only a person who knows they cannot carry out the task themselves would. She had asked him to take the flower to her mother. He had promised he would, to the girl, and to himself. That he would do this one thing for her.

So he turned his back, and, putting the tiny flower she had given him in his satchel, returned to the group of men. He had traveled with them for days now, on a job to find the flowers. A wealthy man whose son was sick had promised good pay for whatever they could bring back. Deamus had disliked them even before they had gotten to the mountain, but once he had seen how they treated the girl, he could hardly stand to be with them.

“Where are they?” Shouted one now as he began to scrounge in the dirt, looking for the flowers. Another turned to Deamus. “Did you find them?” he asked, as though they were merely hiding somewhere.

“No.”

“What about the girl? Did she take them? If she-”

But the man’s threat went unfinished. His eyes found the girl, lying motionless against a boulder, hands gently clasped together. “She’s dead.” He said, sounding shocked. But then his eyes turned away and he went to look with the others.

Deamus felt the ache in his heart sharpen into a hard, angry pain. Anger at the man’s indifference, at his selfishness. He decided then that he would return to the foot of the mountain on his own, without their help. He did not need them, he did not want their company. They would question him when he told them he was going to the valleylands. He could not risk them growing suspicious or preventing him from keeping his promise to the girl.

And yes, he despised them. That alone was a good enough reason.

He turned and walked away, wishing for only one person to come back down the mountain with him, so that she could take the flower to her mother herself. So that she could leave this terrible place and return home. So that she could tell him her name, at least.

But she did not move, and Deamus went on alone.

The first day was hard. The wind seemed all the colder than it had only a night before, when the girl had been following behind him. He was hungry, tired, and the ache in his heart did not leave him as he had, before, hoped it would. It was small, but persistent, and he could only try to ignore it. He trudged down the mountain, the cold and the wind making his skin go numb. When Deamus could no longer feel his feet or his hands, he would take the dry snow on the mountain and rub it into his skin until feeling returned to. 

He tried to do this quickly. Every time he stopped he felt a small, tugging temptation to look at the flower, to inspect it. He knew he could not do this, though. Magic was a powerful thing, and unpredictable. If he saw the flower, perhaps he would be tempted to use it, to relieve his own pains, or to sell it for money. Or even to simply keep it for himself because of its beauty. He did not know, and he did not wish to know. The girl’s love for her mother had kept her from using it for herself, but for Deamus there was no such tie to the woman he was bringing the flower to. He did not trust himself fully, and even with the flower tucked safely away in his satchel, there was a certain unease inside of him just knowing it was near and that he had to keep it safe. 

But it propelled him forward. It, and his promise concerning it. He had to keep going, for her. Again he wished he knew her name.

When I meet her mother, she will tell me the girl’s name. He thought. 

And then I will have to tell her that her daughter is dead.

All of his body was numb, but his heart ached strongly. He knew he would have to stop to rub snow into his skin, but he wouldn’t, not yet. The pain in his chest was already almost too much for him.

Down he climbed, dreading for the first time the moment that he would find the girl’s mother.

After seven more days he came to the bottom of the mountain, and the land turned damp and lush with plants the farther away from it he journeyed. The weather turned warmer and Deamus found small creeks running through the ground. So these are the Valleylands, he thought to himself more and more often, observing a field of wildflowers or trees with ornate leaves. He had grown up in the mountainlands, on cold and rocky plains. He loved his home, but he had always been curious as to what places away from the mountains were like. 

It had surprised him when the girl had told him that she had come from the Valleylands. She had seemed hardened and brave, like his people, not innocent or soft. He did not know what people from the valleys looked like, however, so he did not know if the girl had shown characteristics common in her people. His only hope was that her mother shared some resemblance to her, so that when he asked for Hilde, they would say “Ah, the girl’s mother?” and he would know it was the right woman. 

As he walked, he realized that it was not that he had known her well, and it was not even exactly that he had liked her or enjoyed her company. It was her bravery that inspired him, even when she was sick and dying. Her simple bluntness and the way she was so centered on saving the person she loved. He admired her for it, and it was that that made him miss her company now, not anything else.

Deamus traveled on, thinking of the girl whose name he did not know at every turn, wishing she was there with him.

Three more days of traveling and Deamus encountered his first Valleylands village. Deamus’s home was so different from this quaint one, in every way, from the people to the way they lived, the landscape. Deamus examined it all with curiosity. But he had a job to do and he had no time for idling. It was possible that the girl had passed through this place on her way to the mountain, perhaps that she had been looking for a place to stay for the night. 

There was an inn in the village, small, but neat, and what appeared to be a steady traffic of people going in and out. If anyone had seen the girl, they would be there, Deamus thought. The innkeeper, perhaps, would remember a girl who had stayed there, and, if he did not, there was surely some man who came there every night for his mead and would have seen her. 

The inn, on the inside, appeared to be more than just that - there was a trader’s stand, as well, and a woman with dark skin and pale white hair selling herbs and medicines. What she would do for the flower in my satchel, he thought to himself, imagining, with something akin to disgust, the obscene price for which she would sell it. 

Deamus approached the innkeeper, a man behind a polished wooden counter who was monotonously washing it with a torn rag. “Afternoon,” he said dully.

“Hello,” replied Deamus. “I am looking for a girl who passed through here, who was headed to the mountain. Did she stay here? Did you speak to her?”

“Oh, ay, a young lady stayed at my inn, didn’t say nothin’ about a mountain, but she looked like she might have been journeyin’.” He seemed unperturbed by the mention of the mountain, usually seen as such a terrible thing. Anyone who attempted to climb it was mad, and the mere prospect was lunacy. Most died - or, at least, they never returned. But perhaps with the mountain so near, the townsfolk were used to people passing through, claiming to be attempting the great feat. Most were probably lying.

“Has anyone spoken of seeing her or speaking to her?”

“Oh, ay, you might talk to the merchant o’er there; he sees everything, hears everything, knows everything. He’d know the girl yer talkin’ about.” He gestured to the trader, an elderly man who stood observing the people in the inn as if they were of great interest to him. His eyes turned suddenly to Deamus. They were pale blue eyes, full of sympathy, though Deamus was not sure why. Before Deamus could say anything, though, the trader was becoming him over, a strange, sad smile on his face.

“You’re looking for a girl who went to the mountain?” He asked, those eyes watching him in a way that made him uneasy.

“Yes. I wish to know where she came from.”

“Ah. yes. Well, she did not speak to me, but I had been to her home before. A lovely little place, just perfect for a little girl to grow up. There’s a big hill covered in wildflowers, with a beautiful mansion on it. I’m sure she saw it every day picking those wildflowers.”

“Do you know what it is called?” Deamus was very uneasy now. The man spoke as if he had known the girl when she was young. But his manner of saying it was not friendly of every wistful, but simply odd, a little disquieting. 

Something like disappointment clouded the man’s face. He had hoped that Deamus would want to hear his rambling stories, but he did not. “Ah, yes, it is called Maderdale. Look for the mansion on the hill.”

Deamus left with a curt nod. He did not like the merchant and the way he seemed to truly “Know everything.” He did not like his strange eyes. And there was a pricking familiarity tugging at him in the back of his mind - A mansion, or a rich man, living in a village in the Valleylands was a rare thing. And the name sounded so familiar, like he had heard it long ago.

Then he remembered.

Deamus had never actually met the man with the sick son, only heard of him. He had been hired by the men with whom he had gone searching for the flower. One of the men had told him about their employer. He was a man who had become wealthy in the Coastlands, then moved to the Valleylands after the birth of his son, for some peace. “It’s a tiny village called Maderdale, directly south of the Mountain. Big for the Valleylands, but small anywhere else.”

A mansion on a hill. Maderdale. Deamus looked for these things as he went on. He headed south, hoping that he would come across it soon, that it would be large enough to see from a distance. Diligently he went on, eventually leaving the road so that he could keep going south, a perfect, straight line running away from the mountain. 

Just as he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he was going the wrong way, that he should retrace his steps and start over, he saw it. Sitting majestically and poorly out of place was a glittering white mansion, windows red from reflecting the light of the setting sun. It wiped all questions from his mind. He traveled into the night, his eyes never leaving the house on the hill.

He arrived at the village little less than two hours after spotting the mansion. Besides this glistening beacon, the town was as quaint as the last one, if a little bigger. There was no water except for a small, dirty lake, but the hill seemed to make up for that. Covered in wildflowers, even this late in the season, and just tall enough to be impressive, it seemed to tower majestically over the rest of the village. 

Deamus felt tantalizingly close to the end of his journey, but everyone was asleep and therefore there was no way for him to find the girl’s mother. He did not know what she looked like, nothing, in fact, but her name, and he would have to ask one of the villagers if he wished to find the right woman. He set up camp next to the lake and waited for morning.

The sun rose, and everyone with it. Men and women alike were out working as soon as there was light enough for them to see where they put their feet. Deamus awoke to the sound of footsteps on the dock. A young man flicked his line out onto the water and waited there, whistling quietly. “Excuse me,” Deamus called to him, standing. 

“Ah, hello there,” the fellow looked undisturbed at there being a man sleeping by the lake. “Fine morning, isn’t it?”

Deamus thought it generous to call this early time of day ‘morning’. “Yes. I’m looking for a woman named Hilde. Do you know her?”

The man stopped whistling. Passerby stopped and looked at him with a queer, sad expression on all of their faces. “Well, yes.” He said slowly. “Ruth’s mother. She lives in that little place over there.” He pointed to a cottage barely ten steps away. “It’s an awfully sad thing, you know. Awfully sad.” He added.

So Ruth was the girl’s name. It was beautiful, strong, befitting to her. But now it seemed unimportant in the face of what Deamus was now so close to doing.

Deamus went into the small home. It was clear that it had once been a sweet, lovely little place, but now it was dark and lonely. The windows were dirty and the door was hanging slightly askew. Deamus opened it and walked into a dark, dusty room.

“Is someone there?” A hoarse, broken voice asked from the dark.

“Yes. I’ve come to see you.” Deamus replied, looking for the person who had spoken. He found her lying in bed, face twisted with sadness, looking at him. Hope was in her eyes, too, but not for herself, he knew.

“My daughter?” She seemed unable to utter anything but those two words, desperate words. 

He stood silently for a moment. What could he say? How could he tell this broken woman that she was gone, that nothing could bring her back. How could he make himself say those words?

“No,” was all he could say.

“No, what?” She demanded, rising in her bed slightly. “No, you don’t know her? No, she’s not with you?”

Deamus was silent. He did not think he could make the words form. He was not sure that they existed at all.

“Please” Hilde pleaded finally. “Please, I need to know. You know something. Please tell me.”

“She didn’t make it. She was sick, and she told me to take the flower to you. She didn’t want it.” Deamus let the words fall from his mouth. They crashed to the floor with deafening silence. 

Not knowing what else to do, Deamus took the flower from his satchel and pressed it into Hilde’s hand as Ruth had done to him. She unfurled her fingers and looked at it for a long moment.

“I can’t take this,” she said finally. Her voice was broken, devoid of anything but despair. Devoid of hope. “Take it. I can’t bear to live without her.” She held the flower out to him. “Let me die.”

She began to weep silent, terrible tears. But all Deamus could feel was anger. “No.” He said, his voice somehow too loud and not loud enough. “She died for you. How can you not do this for her? How can you let her die in vain?”

 Hilde said nothing. 

“She died for you. She loved you more than I have seen anyone love another person. The least you can do for her is this.”

“Love. If she had not loved me so much she would still be with me. Her love was selfish.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because there is nothing else to say.” She layed back in her bed. “Please, leave me. Let me be with my daughter again.”

“No. I will not. I made a promise and I will keep it. I will not let her have died for nothing.” Deamus spoke from the pain in his heart, the desperation to keep his promise, everything.

“You did not even know her. You can say these things easily. You can live without her. I cannot.”

“But you must. Even if it is hard. It is not impossible, and it is what Ruth would have wanted.”

Hilde looked at him, eyes wide, as if she had heard those very words spoken to her before. As if they meant more than what it seemed. She looked at the flower. 

“I only ever wanted her to be safe. To not lose her.” She whispered.

“And she wanted the same for you.”

“I know.” She paused. “But I wanted her to be happy, too. I wanted to fill her life with happiness.”

“She was happy,” Deamus spoke the words, suddenly sure that they were true, “Knowing that she had saved you.”

Hilde looked at him. Her eyes were full of pain, but also a firm knowledge that this was what she had to do. With love for her daughter.

Slowly, she raised the tiny red flower to her lips.