England, 1854
The water made dazzling patterns beneath the ice, and Helen could not take her eyes off of it. It seemed a contradiction, the water moving swiftly while the surface remained completely still. Years from now Helen would look back and realize how similar this winter river and herself really were. But for now, she was a young girl of four who looked odd alone on the bridge, leaning over and peering into the depths below.
It was December, and London was muted in snow save for the occasional carriage passing. If she hadn't been concentrating so hard on the river, Helen would have heard the chase approaching the bridge. A boy carrying a sack was fleeing a pair of policemen. It seemed hard for him, running in the snow, but his youth gave him an edge over the clumsier men behind.
"Oi, you! Stop!"
The boy paid no attention. He merely kept running, full out, toward the bridge.
As he began crossing the bridge, his footing became worse. Helen finally looked up as the boy came within feet of her. But it was too late to act. The boy slipped and began to fall. With great force he crashed into the young girl, sending her over the side and to the water below.
Helen's small body fell easily through the thin layer of ice. As she became submerged in the frigid water her senses screamed out. The current tossed her downstream. When her head came into contact with a rock she attempted to gasp, inhaling ice water.
Helen's world tumbled more and more quickly, and she inched closer to unconsciousness. Finally, she broke the icy surface. Right before her world went completely black a firm hand grabbed her shoulder. Mercifully, she allowed herself to surrender to oblivion.
Helen came to coughing and frozen through and through. Her damp clothes were surrounded by a jacket much too large for the young girl. And she was being carried. She looked up at her rescuer, a woman, probably in her late 20's, 30 at the oldest. She wore her hair in a very peculiar manner, unlike anything Helen had seen before. Short, save for the front, and many colors, brown, blonde, black, and sticking out at all sorts of angles. The arm cradling Helen had a tattoo on it, but more vibrant than any tattoo Helen had ever seen. For that matter, the jacket in which she was wrapped was also peculiar.
The woman looked down and noticed Helen was awake. She stopped walking, sitting Helen on the side of the path and squatting so she could meet her eye to eye.
"Close call, love. How are you feeling?" The woman asked.
Helen, a very erudite young girl, mustered all the propriety that her fragile body would allow. "Much better. Thank you for saving me. May I ask your name?"
"Ah, but that would spoil the surprise," the woman said, grinning kindly. She began looking Helen over, making sure that she had not missed any injuries. She got to Helen's head before the girl winced.
"Yeah, sorry. That's probably going to sting for a while," the woman paused, letting Helen rest for a moment. "You ready to go home?"
Helen nodded. "I live at -"
"I know where you live, Helen Magnus. I know much about you."
"How?"
The woman smiled warmly. "As I said before, that would spoil the surprise." The woman rose from her crouched position and extended a hand to Helen, who took it. The woman helped her to her feet. Helen suddenly felt strange about this woman.
"Let's get you home," the woman said.
"Actually," Helen said as polite as possible, "I can get home by myself. Thanks for helping me."
"Suit yourself, Helen." Helen turned to leave, but the woman's last comment caused her to stop in her tracks.
All she said was, "thank you for saving me, Helen."
Helen turned, but the woman was gone. As if she had just vanished.
That day in December would haunt and confuse Helen Magnus for 153 years.