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In the beginning…
In the beginning is a tricky phrase. It’s tricky cause beginnings are difficult. Difficult to tell, and even more difficult to experience.
Beginnings are nothing like endings. Sure, an ending may be sad, the real tragic ones can leave you sobbing into a bucket of Choco-Deluxe Marshmallow Walnut Delight for days on end, but even the saddest ending conveys a sense of closure. After all, endings are designed to sate the most ravenous readers’ hungers, whereas beginnings…
Beginnings are a lot like advertisements. They make you want things. Things like justice and happy endings and for the boy to kiss the girl. Things you can’t always get, things you might never afford, things that aren’t even real.
Yes, beginnings leave you longing. Longing for love, longing for freedom, longing for someone you can’t even remember…
***
Our story begins on a rainy day in Oxford. Our protagonist—a very strange girl, I can assure you—was seated under the awning of a café, the sort that always happen to be tucked away on some side street in any urban locale larger than a village.
It was the sort of place that people run into when a downpour catches them by surprise. The sort of place where, upon entering, one remarks to the other that their conveniently placed refuge was “charming” or “delightful” (but they never really meant it). That’s because this café—and all the others like it—is not twee enough to be charming. This café was a tad too real to be described as “charming” or “delightful” or any other term that people use to describe a place that has been carefully cultivated to be better than reality.
Polly—that’s the name of the very strange girl, by the way—didn’t mind that. She didn’t mind that she felt the grit of unfiltered grains with every sip of slightly burnt coffee. She didn’t mind that that her cup, once white, was now stained a boring shade of beige. She didn’t mind that its rim was chipped; in fact, she ran her tongue over the rough spot as she pondered the rough spots her own life contained. Rough spots such as her boyfriend, Sebastian.
Polly sighed as she rested the cup on its saucer. The saucer had once enjoyed a glamorous life in the Netherlands, playing a small but important role in a middle-of-the-range Delftware collection. Its star had fallen upon immigrating to England, however, and now the blue-and-white saucer made ends meet in this hum-and-drum, dead-end café.
Polly didn’t mind the mismatched cup and saucer either. She prided herself on not minding things.
Polly prided herself on not minding things because Polly was a hero.
Although she could not remember being a hero, Polly was one nevertheless. Like many heroes before her, Polly had made a dreadful mistake and was suffering the consequences (which included the blanked out bland spots in her memories). Despite her memory troubles, Polly was still a hero, for being a hero is more than skin deep. In fact, being a hero is more than mind deep. Being a hero goes down to the bones and cannot be lost with the same ease as the vapours of memory.
Polly prided herself on not minding things. She felt it made her tough, and for some inexplicable reason, she felt that being tough was an important thing to be. Heroes were tough. Not that it mattered; Polly knew she was no hero. She thought of herself as a rather average girl who had lived a rather boring life. Sure, she had her tragedies (who didn’t?), but even those were pedestrian. A lackluster childhood marred by a messy divorce, a neglectful mother, and a thoughtless abandonment on her father’s part. She might as well be a stock figure in one those dubiously cheerful self-help books so popular with Christian housewives.
Here, however, she was wrong. Polly was far from average.
What made her so strange, I hear you ask. Well, for starters, she was nursing a cup of coffee out of doors in the sort of weather that drives even the English indoors. It rains all the time in England. We know this because the English take a perverse delight in telling others—presumably from more sunny climes (such as the state of Oregon)—that it rains all the time in England. And the downpour that day in Oxford was so nasty and so chilling that it had driven every Englishman (and Englishwoman) indoors with a curse and a dour frown at the skies.
Every Englishman (and Englishwoman) except for Polly, that is.
And as for the rain, well. The rain was a problem. No, more than a problem. The rain was a real troublemaker. And not a Lucy-with-the-football gag type troublemaker, either. No, if the rain that day was to come down with a nasty case of anthropomorphism, then it would be a little blond boy with an active imagination and a penchant for cruelty. (To put it in plain terms, the sort of boy whose best friend was a tiger and whose namesake was a significant Protestant figure.)
For you see, the college had planned to play a charity rugby game against the Welsh team later that day. Sebastian was playing for his college, and he had invited Polly. She wondered if the rain would cause them to cancel. She almost hoped that they would. She liked Sebastian well enough, but…
Well, let’s just say that he could be clingy.
This was an understatement. The fact was, Sebastian clung to Polly the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. Sebastian clung to Polly the way a voyeuristic amateur detective clings to a parapet after the man who murdered his wife tosses him out the window. He clung to her like he knew certain death was awaiting him if he so much as entertained the thought of relaxing his grip.
She tried not to mind it. She was tough.
A shout stole her from her reverie.
A couple was walking down the narrow flagstone street. A man and a woman—sans umbrella. The woman scowled, while the man was obviously suppressing a smirk.
The man was smirking because he was a wizard. And not a respectable wizard like Gandalf or Dumbledore, either. Why, standing next to this man, even a total buffoon like Rincewind would appear respectable. No, the man was the kind of wizard that made Saruman of Many Colours look subtle. Of course, Polly didn’t know any of this. Polly only knew what she saw.
She could see that his hair was sleek and full-bodied and the envy of every runway model. It was also purple.
The head beneath the hair was nice enough, she thought, if you were into the pretty-boy look. (In truth, the man had skin so clear that KPop stars would gag with jealousy if they happened to catch a glimpse of him.)
He wasn’t wearing a rain jacket.
No, rain jackets were not this man's style. His style could be best described as flamboyant Chris Fleming. He favoured checkerboard suits and platform boots with four inch heels. And glitter. More glitter than could be found in a fairy godmother's wand. And then there was the cape...
There were suns and moons embroidered on the back with thread as fine as gossamer. The collar was three inches high, and the fine stitchwork was done with golden thread. It fluttered faintly in the nonexistent breeze. My god, Polly thought, the lining looks like silk.
Polly was surprised to see that he wasn’t soaking wet. The rain seemed to fall around him instead of on him. In contrast, the young woman standing next to him was drenched (which went a long way in explaining her dour demeanour).
The young woman had a face that seemed like it would look very sweet when she smiled (instead of her present expression, which is best described as “trying to kindle spontaneous combustion via glare”). Her long brown hair was the colour of gingerbread and hot cocoa (or it would be, when it wasn’t plastered against her face; right now, her hair was giving drowned rat). She wore a grass green dress of an archaic style. Polly was reminded of her childhood friend, Fiona Shaw, who had (last she heard) joined an amateur medieval enthusiast club that involved speaking in “thees” and “thous” and wearing funny outfits while pretending not to know what a television set was. (She had invited Polly to join, but Sebastian hadn’t approved, so Polly had decided to politely decline.)
In short, the young woman looked like a cinnamon roll—albeit a burnt one—which just goes to show that appearances can be deceiving. The woman was no cinnamon roll. She was, in fact, one tough cookie (the kind that makes dwarf bread seem soft).
The woman sat down beneath the shelter of the awning, while the man inspected the seating arrangements.
“This place seems…charming,” the man remarked as he wiped down the seat of his chair with a handkerchief.
The woman ignored this inane remark. She busied herself with considering her dripping wet dress.
“Oh, cheer up. I’m sure you’ll dry up quick,” she muttered to her dress.
And, Polly was surprised to see, the dress did seem drier after the strange woman's speech.
The man sat down and surveyed the cafe. He waved at Polly. She replied with a shy smile.
The woman glanced over at Polly, then back at the man.
“Flirting with girls already, are we?”
The man grinned.
“Not jealous, are you?”
The woman snorted.
“Jealous of what, exactly?”
The man’s already smug grin took on a condescending air.
“Try to turn that frown upside down, my dear. If anyone should be mad, it’s me.”
“What?” She replied in a deadpan tone.
“As if you don’t already know! That on our wedding night, you tied me up and threatened to dust my spiders and me out of house and home!”
The young woman huffed.
“That again? It was a joke, Howl!”
The man with the lavender hair—Howl?—pointed an accusing finger at her.
“You said, and I quote, ‘Ha Ha! All according to plan! I’ve bamboozled you, you utter fool—’”
“I didn’t say anything like that,” the young woman muttered, “And anyways, it was a joke!”
Howl continued to talk over her.
‘“—And I only married you so I could have a crack at cleaning your bedroom!’”
She scowled at him. He met her glare head on, but Polly noticed that his accusing finger was looking rather limp. The staring match dragged on. The tension stretched thinner and thinner, until it assumed the character of a funeral dirge (one plodding beat after the other without any sight of the longed-for end).
Suddenly, the strange man cracked. Breaking eye contact, he drew his hand up and ran it through his (admittedly gorgeous) hair, affecting a nonchalant air that said, “I meant to do all that…And I’m simply exhausted with these silly games of yours anyways, so let’s not spare one more word on the matter. Plus, we all know that, if it really came down to it, I would win, so there.” (It was an especially verbose air. Polly was impressed—all of Sebastian’s airs seemed to end before they began.)
Although subdued, Howl managed to muster a second wind.
“Not to mention that you’ve (once again!) sabotaged my hair!”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
“Honestly, Howl! It was an accident. I’ve apologized twenty times over by now.”
“No, Sophie. Be honest. You’re trying to subvert me. Next thing I know, I’ll be out on the streets begging my brother to spare a dime, while you’ll be the tyrant Witch-Queen of Ingray, beautiful and terrible as the gleam of a freshly mopped floor.”
Sophie peered at him.
“Are you alright? Perhaps you should skip the game and have a lie-down. You’ve clearly overexerted yourself.”
She punctuated the word “overexerted” with a pointed look.
Howl didn’t break a sweat. Instead, he grinned a showman’s grin. It was the sort of grin that promises many amusing antics to come and professes a total lack of shame and self-awareness on its bearer’s part.
“Me? No, no. I’m as fit as a fiddle. No, you’re the one overexerting yourself in your mad quest to overthrow me and tidy up the world! You may think that they’ll love you for it, but behind closed doors the people will shudder as they whisper the dreaded name of…Mrs. Clean.”
Sophie peered at him in baffled disgust, like she was watching a roach perform an acrobatic act cum tap dance. The more the roach jigged and jived while soaring through the air, the more her face drew up into a decent parody of a lemon (although any respectable lemon would be appalled by the comparison).
“Don’t look at me like that,” chided Howl, “And don’t deny it either. Need I ask why my hair is currently a stunning shade of lilac?”
He looked meaningfully at her. Sophie rolled her eyes again (with such strength that Polly feared they’d roll out of her head).
“Because, Ms. Nose, you decided to reorganize our washroom!”
He braced one hand against his heavy-burdened brow, like some wilting lily of a heroine.
“Oh, if only my sister hadn’t insisted on lending you those housekeeping books! Perhaps then,” he sighed, “Perhaps then, I would still possess hair the colour of blazing gold, the selfsame colour of the rising sun, the warm buttery sun that smiles down on us all, granting us succour—“
“Are you quite done?”
He discreetly glanced over at her. He observed her put-upon expression. Evidently, something there (quite unseen to Polly, who thought Sophie appeared rather miffed) revealed to him that he could afford to wind her up a smidgen more as he launched back into his soliloquy.
“Alas! It was not to be. Ms. Nose strikes again!”
Howl faked a sob. Sophie growled. He jumped back, rocking the chair.
“Eep!”
They both looked surprised. Sophie blushed as she looked away, while Howl rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.
“Ahem, I mean—“
He resumed his dramatic pose.
“Now, I have traded my crown of gold for a crown of lilac, lilac like the colour of, uh, lilacs.”
Polly took pity on the bizarre man. She was rather enjoying his absurd antics.
“How about, lilac like the colour of cabbage?”
Howl and Sophie both turned to stare at her. Polly could feel her face heat up.
“You know, because some varieties of cabbage are purple.”
The silence stretched on and on, like horrible saltwater taffy, the sort that children in awe and the elderly in dread call “the Destroyer of Dentures,” the sort of taffy that can induce jaw aches in the weak-minded with one misbegotten glimpse upon its eldritch form. The silence stretched on and on and on, refusing to break, refusing to yield, like that sort of taffy, the sort that your grandmother gives you when you visit her, presumably as an improvised gag so that she can drone on about her petunias and her marigolds and her precious Mittens without any rude complaints from you, you nasty little child.
Not one to be over-awed, Polly broke the horrible silence with a sheepish grin.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just couldn’t help but notice—“
Sophie snorted.
“Ha! You noticed my husband’s one-man show, huh? I am shocked. I, for one, thought that his silliness were exceedingly subtle.”
Howl grimaced.
“Now, Sophie, you know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”
“Now, Howl, you know that I won’t hesitate to bin your fancy face ointments.”
A charming grin slithered onto his face.
“And I know that you’ll love me no matter how I look.”
He winked at her. Sophie blushed. Nonetheless, she drew herself up and forged ahead, preparing to deliver the death blow with swift grace and without mercy.
“Well, I think purple hair is perfect for you. Purple like a peacock.”
Howl pressed a hand against his heart. His pained expression exclaimed, “Woe! Agony! Horror!”
“My love,” he cried, “You dare slander my name with the sinister stain of pride? Oh, disgrace! Dismay! Dissipation! How sharp is thy sting!”
He glanced at Polly in a conspiratorial manner.
“And do you know who is responsible for my present purple predicament?”
He pointed an accusing finger at Sophie.
“It was you! You who decided that my specially imported hair dye (all the way from Japan!) didn’t ‘spark joy.’”
A sudden change came over Sophie. The red-hot glow of her eyes were like the first embers of a wild fire, a fire so hot, steam seemed to be seeping from her ears. Her bright pink blush was the canary in the coal mine, a desperate warning (in a lovely shade of rose) of the horrors to come.
Sophie screamed. She screamed a scream so shrill that every dog in the county launched into a simultaneous frenzy of barks and whines. “Must have been a banshee,” witnesses would later report to the confused policeman who had been called in to silence that “dreadful racket.” In fact, that “dreadful racket” was so shrill that several species of birds would descend on Oxford later that day (once the rain cleared up), each having confused Sophie’s scream for the mating call of his species. Equally embarrassed when they realized their mistake, the hawk and the dove would both elect to studiously ignore the other. If birds could blush, then these birds would’ve done so. Fortunately for birds, they are not a silly order like primates and lack the proper vascular configuration to bare their embarrassment to the wide watching world.
Speaking of the silly order primates, one of its members was starting to suspect that he may have gone a smidge too far. Howl lowered his finger and slowly scooted back, preparing to duck and cover upon the first sign of enemy fire.
Sophie exploded, “I said I’m sorry! I thought it was the wrinkle cream you got me for Christmas last year. The labels are all in a foreign language! Who puts wrinkle cream in their hair, anyways?”
Howl mustered the courage to don an offended look.
“I thought it was hair dye! The labels are all in a foreign language!”
Polly couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Oh, please don’t fight,” she exclaimed.
Stunned, husband and wife both turned to stare at her.
She stared back at them as she felt her face grow hot.
Howl broke the silence.
“I’m sorry. I may have gotten a tad carried away back there. I’ve been told that I can be a bit of a drama queen.”
“A bit?” Sophie muttered.
Howl smiled at his wife.
“What was that, dear?”
Sophie smiled back.
“I was just saying that maybe you can go order something for us—”
She paused.
“Dear.”
Husband and wife smiled intensely at each other. Polly sensed that some private, unspoken conversation was going on.
“Alright then. Three piping hot cocoas coming right up,” Howl said.
He turned toward the shop with a graceful spin, winking at Polly as he passed.
Sophie walked over to Polly’s table.
“Mind if I sit?”
Polly nodded.
“I’m sorry if our argument bothered you,” she said as she slid into the offered seat, “My husband and I can be—”
She searched for the right word.
“Intense.”
“Have you been married long?”
A soft smile settled onto Sophie's face.
“We were just married, actually.”
Polly considered this and, for some unknown reason, thought of Sebastian.
“Pardon me if this is a rude question, but…”
She trailed off.
“Yes?”
“When did you realize that you were in love?”
Sophie laughed.
“I was the last to find out.”
Sophie stopped laughing when she saw Polly's expression.
“I guess I realized it when I was halfway into saving his life from some horrid witch. At least, that's when I realized that he was in love with me.”
“Some horrid witch?”
“His ex.”
Polly nodded in a knowing manner (although, if she had thought about it, she couldn't explain how she knew).
“And since I answered you, I hope you don’t mind me asking why you wanted to know…”
Polly sighed.
“It’s my boyfriend Sebastian—No, that’s not fair. It’s not him, it’s me. There’s something wrong with me. Some ghost lurking in my life, unseen but felt in everything I do. Something I can’t seem to remember.”
“Well,” Sophie began with a knowing smile, “You seem like the sort of person that has a fantastic memory. Sharp as whip! I bet that you can remember anything you put your mind to remember.”
“But I have put my mind to it!” Polly exclaimed. “I’m sorry, but it seems like I’ve been trying to catch it for years. But it keeps giving me the slip. I can’t find a place to grasp on.”
Sophie considered the other girl's words.
“Well then,” she said slowly, “Maybe you should try letting go.”
Polly’s reply was interrupted by Howl.
“Ladies! I come bearing gifts!”
Howl bowed with a flourish as he presented the platter. Sophie and Polly each gave their thanks as they took their cups. Howl dragged over a chair and collapsed into it with a sigh. Then, grinning like a snake, he addressed his wife.
“Your hard-working waiter deserves a tip.”
He tapped his cheek. Sophie scoffed.
“Hard working? More like hardly working!”
“Oh, dear, don’t start this again.” He gestured at Polly. “We have company, remember.”
“Oh, very well.”
Sophie kissed him on the cheek. Howl sipped at his hot cocoa and then checked his watch.
“Look at the time! We’ve got a rugby game to get to, my darling.”
“But it’s raining,” said Polly.
Howl’s serene smile conveyed that this was a problem for mere mortals, which he, of course, was not.
“Oh, that’s not a problem. In fact, I think it’ll be clearing up—”
He paused.
“—right about now.”
They waited. It continued to pour.
Sophie laughed at a scowling Howl. He glared at his wife.
“A little help, dear.”
Sophie smiled expectantly at him. Howl rolled his eyes, but Polly could just make out a muttered “please.”
Still laughing, Sophie replied, “Oh, alright.”
She glared at the sky.
“Now, that’s enough of that. You’re far too gloomy, and I’m not getting my dress wet again. It’s about time you cleared up.”
And remarkably, it did.
“I’m magic!” Howl exclaimed, his scowl exchanged for a cat’s grin (assumed after consuming the proverbial canary, one supposes).
Sophie slapped his arm.
“Ow!”
Polly laughed, her memory problems forgotten.
***
That day, Polly didn’t worry much about the strange couple. Sure, they were funny, but also, they were funny. They seemed decent enough to her.
During the game, Polly joined Sophie in the stands to cheer on Sebastian and Howl (the Welsh team won, albeit by one goal). Then, not wanting to say goodbye so soon, she invited the couple over to her flat. They agreed, and Polly improvised a dinner of Welsh rarebit and cheap wine. Sophie was amazed by Polly’s ancient, beat-up record player, gushing to Howl about Polly’s “magic portable orchestra.” Polly listened in rapt fascination as Howl discussed his doctoral studies, and Sophie related the finer points of hatmaking. Following a pleasant evening of Chet Baker and Chopin, Polly bid the couple farewell and regretfully returned to the wearisome world of tutorials and examinations.
It was only later, after all the songs came true and Tom and her had found the way to Nowhere, that she wondered exactly who she had met that day. She had done battle with the Faerie Queen by giving up what wasn’t hers to own. If Laurel was the Faerie Queen, then who was Sophie and her strange husband? Little did Polly know that she had befriended the Witch-Queen of Ingary (a woman as beautiful and terrible as the gleam of a freshly mopped floor!) who speaks truth into being and tames fire demons for breakfast.
***
How does one find a beginning? In the great thread of time, when the present is always going past and the future is always becoming present, who can say when a moment begins? For that matter, who can say when a moment ends?
Well, for one, unlike beginnings, endings are easy. If a story’s any good, it’ll end with a kiss. A tragedy will end with the kiss of death— the kind of kiss that promises a bloodbath to come. And comedy? A comedy ends with the fresh-faced kiss of newly-wedded bliss.
Polly’s story here doesn’t end with a kiss, but that doesn’t it mean it isn’t any good. After all, Polly was a hero, and her story was only beginning…