Crataegus

From: Prudence Carvalho <p-rudence@taraxacum.net>

To: Penelope Rose <pennyforyourthoughts@taraxacum.net>

Subject: At least there is marmalade

Dear Penelope,

How inconsiderate of me. I have been so extremely busy from the moment I have arrived, I had barely a moment to consider what it is that has happened, or how my coming here might have impacted others. Now that you mention it, none of it makes any sense at all. It just...is. And as long as I have to be here, I’d rather not focus on trying to understand it too much. I hope you understand, but if I start thinking about it, I might not be able to cope anymore. Instead, please believe me when I tell you that, within the obvious constraints, I am doing well and you should not worry too much. Not for now, at least.

In that spirit, I have much to tell you regarding the Llodos plague investigation with which I finished my last letter to you. Right after I was done writing you, Aerona summoned me downstairs to start our daily enquiries. Her mood seemed to have slightly improved since we had met yesterday. I only prayed I could meet her hopes for me. I couldn’t help but regret not having managed her expectations better… after all, I knew nothing about Selkamora, or the Selk, as it is known amongst the locals, and I am ill prepared to deal with viral transmissions (pun not intended). Casting these doubts aside for the sake of getting the tasks of the day accomplished, I followed Aerona and carried my body over to the across the Hlan house, where we meet Bili. And what an appropriate name, I thought, quite inappropriately, for, just as we arrived, Bili was in the throes of a violent vomiting fit. Mirroring the owner, the place itself was in complete disarray.

Talking to Bili, we got no closer to knowing where Dethisam might have gone, only that he had been there. Good old Dethisam, who, unlike the Tribunal, had never made the villagers feel invisible. For years now, complained Bili, the working poor had felt overlooked, their issues and struggles condemned to fizzle out with no satisfying conclusion. We also learned that for days she had been waiting for Nostrum Breva, a Maulborn, to bring her some more curative.

It was before we left that I saw, amidst the mess of household appliances and shattered porcelain, a piece of folded paper that called my attention for its pristine condition. Unfolding it, I read the following:

“TO DO WHAT IS NEEDED

Would you stand by while your village or town burned? Then why do you do nothing while Morrowind suffers? The Tribunal may be too busy to do the right thing, but we're not. The Maulborn, a society of like-minded Dark Elves who want to help the poor and protect the weak, was formed to take care of the problems that are too mundane, too inconsequential, or too difficult to attract the attention of the Tribunal and its agents.

We have a plan for the Llodos plague ravaging our population. We have a plan for the plague husks terrorizing our towns. We have a plan, and that's more than the Great Houses or the Tribunal can say. But we can't accomplish our plans without your help. Join the Maulborn and become part of the solution. Our volunteers are already making a difference in such diverse locations as the Serk, the Obsidian Gorge, and the Narsis wilderness. We'd be happy to allow you to help us in our important work.

Who are the Maulborn? We're your friends and neighbors. Your cousins. Your sons and daughters. We're the gathering storm and the strong arm of judgment. We're the cleansing wind that will soon blow across the entirety of Morrowind. We are healers and wizards, warriors and caregivers. We are the Maulborn, and we are you.

Come make a difference. Come join the Maulborn.

Our recruitment liaisons are anxious to meet you.”

Immediately, I was bombarded with a lot of internal questions which I will go over at length further on, but now, just as then, the matters at hand loomed large in our list of priorities (although now, it must be said, this is just for the sake of narrative continuity). Folding the letter back up and storing it on my purse for more careful perusing at a more adequate time, I was ready to continue. On we went, and many houses we visited without gathering any relevant information until we came to the Flan house. The scene that met us inside took me back to the immediate overload experienced while roaming the infinite rows of a flea market, only with more broken furniture and shattered tchotchkes. Similarly to the Hlan house, all was not well.

While Aerona called for Grell to no avail, I went about the house frantically, trying to determine the source of the foul scent incensing the otherwise cosy (albeit messy) abode. And then, just as the pungent aroma spiked in intensity, a sudden blow to the back of my head made me second guess my given name… Petunia? Luckily able to recover my balance quickly, I turned around just in time to see my attacker, a middle-aged man who wouldn’t have been unpleasant to look at had it not been for his mint green complexion. He inched in, ready to attack again, and as I ducked, avoiding him, the unfortunate soul lost his balance, fell off the balustrade and ended up impaled in some broken furniture downstairs.

- Grell? - harked Aerona, in shock.

It might have been that what just happened hadn’t quite dawned on me yet, but all I could muster at that point was a very inappropriate, and accidentally puny “Ah, so that’s Grell, uh? Not looking very sharp, is he?”, at which I was myself impaled by Aerona’s piercing look.

- I apologize. Evidently, what just happened is absolutely horrifying and I am greatly sorry for your loss.

- Grell was not himself anymore. The Grell I knew, the Grell we all knew, in fact, was a peaceful man, a storyteller, a weaver of words unlike the Selk has ever seen. Many times have I delighted in his company, where he would twist a mundane affair like going to the market to get your daily basics into an epic worthy of passing down from generation to generation.

- Do you think this means that the rumours are true?

- It certainly seems that way.

As there were more houses on our roster and the matters driving us were of utmost importance for the well-being of the village, we could not afford to spend any more time properly mourning the dead.

I will not overstay my inky welcome by detailing to you all that occurred while stepping in and out of Serkamoran dwellings. For the most part, it was a dispiriting repetition of the events at the Hlan and Flan houses: either Aerona and I would come across bile vomiting villagers awaiting for their curative to the point of despair, angry at one more slight from the Tribunal Gods, or we would be faced with half-dead, half-mad, fully violent shells of beings displaying myriad shades of the colour green.

That night, unable to sleep as I was finally able to process and fully comprehend the events of the day, I launched myself into the reading of the piece of parchment I had meticulously saved in my purse in what seemed to have been weeks ago.

At first glance, it seemed like the Maulborn had people’s best interests in mind, positioning themselves in opposition to the Tribunal’s carelessness. All the ominous tales and bad things I’d heard about them to this date didn’t necessarily have to mean anything: this sort of stuff tended to circulate about any movement posing a challenge to the status quo. However, examining the letter a second time with more care I could discern what exactly had rung my alarm bells the first time: First, the way they referred to the people in the more advanced stages of the plague in a completely dehumanizing manner: “We have a plan for the plague husks terrorizing our towns.” What kind of plan? Their use of language did not offer any comfort. Second, the sentence “We're the cleansing wind that will soon blow across the entirety of Morrowind.” froze me to my very core with how reminiscent it was to extreme far-right, xenophobic, racist speech. I did not dare think more about the implications, as I knew I would be venturing into speculation and carrying my own assumptions.

Needless to say, it was a sleepless night. The morning next, unkempt and undone, I went down for breakfast. I was greeted by an energetic Aerona, who seemed to be in a vindictive good mood:

- Prudence! My lovely Prudence, veil of the glorious aurora, star of the deepest blue night! Prudence, whose name is silver bells rung in the auspices of Spring! Pru-

- Less. Way less. What’s with all this poetry? What are you about to ask me?

- Enough of dilly dallying! We shall go directly into the wolf’s lair and enter the Maulborn quarantine.

- And how do you propose you do that?

- That’s exactly what we will figure out over the next couple days. Will you help me devise a plan?

- I guess… But not without having some of your grandmother’s quince marmalade first.

Just as I said that, the venerable lady entered the kitchen area. She is now 98. She has two sisters, all widows. One is 100, the other a mere 93. When the three of them sit together, they discuss which clothes they will take to their grave. They are practical like that. Three years ago, their younger brother wanted to buy some cows. "Are you forgetting that you will die soon?" asked Aerona’s grandmother. He died the next year.

Yours truly,
Prudence