Chapter 6
The end of the journey was far smellier than the beginning.
Pamela wrinkled her nose as they passed through the final tree line into the swamp. The clearing ended at the shore of a body of water; it was muggy, dirty, life-filled green water that stretched outward, before it met a tall cliff that marked its border. Right where the grass ended and gave way to swamp, a wooden pier was constructed. It ran until it reach a taller wooden platform, on which a building stood. Small and wooden, like the pier and platform, the only way to reach the shack was to cross the wooden path above the water, and then climb a ladder to the top.
The little girl looked behind her, to see that the forest had finally come to an end. They'd only seen one other wolfos along their journey, but it had kept its distance, allowing the girl and her friend to pass. In front of her and across the grass, the swamp was rather large; the water branched off to the east and curved out of sight. Her eyes became fixated on the wooden building on the platform. It looks like a house, Pamela thought. Or a hut. A witch's hut.
"Is that it?" she asked, pointing and turning to the man beside her. He was tall and cloaked. The brown robes hadn't been removed their entire journey, with the hood still obscuring his face. She wondered if he got hot under there. The sky was bright and sunny, as it had been all day. Probably not, she thought. He was undead, after all.
"I think so," he replied. "Though, we can't be sure until we check."
"Should we go ahead and climb the ladder?" She waited for a response, looking at him searchingly. Pamela tried her best to hide her excitement; their long, perilous journey was about to prove worth it. True, they'd hardly had any dangerous encounters, but it'd still lasted a whole day. The little girl had started so exhausted, especially given everything that happened the night before. Their breaks had been limited, and her feet hurt tremendously. Her stomach was growling and she felt dirtier than she had in a very long time, but all of that was forgotten. Now, she had eyes only for the house, where hopefully she would find her friend's path home.
The man nodded his head. She could tell he was stifling excitement, too. "We might as well."
Pamela nodded her head, smiling as she turned to cross the small bit of grass. She found herself tempted to plug her nose as she approached the swamp water, but she decided that would make her look childish. You just have to deal with it, she told herself. Swamps are supposed to smell like that. Besides, how would a witch react, if the little girl who asked for a favor was revolted by her home? She crossed over the wooden planks, and listened to them creak under her shoes. Her reflection was blotched in the murky water.
The cloaked man followed behind her, with the sunlight continuing to warm his brown robes. It was approaching sundown, as the final hours in the day came to a close. She thought of her father. No. Don't think about him yet. She was about to help her friend; her father could take care of himself. She had to do this – for both of them. I'll be home soon, she thought.
Pamela reached the ladder and grasped its firm, brown, deeply tinted wood. She thought it looked out of place compared to the rest of the structure's wood; the ladder must be relatively new. The pier, the house, and the platform had grown faded from the years of fumes curling up from Woodfall's surface. The little girl climbed the ladder, with her friend just behind. In no time at all, the two of them stood before the wooden front door. It read Swamp Tourist Center, above an advertisement for a cheap cruise. Now that she thought about it, she'd seen a small, wooden boat tethered underneath the porch. Pamela paused before opening the door.
She turned to her friend. "Do you think they're still open?"
"Let's go in and find out."
Pamela nodded her head. The little girl turned the handle and pushed the door open. Waiting on the other side was a decently-sized room made mostly of wood. There was an unattended counter on her left and an open window on the back wall. A small, closet-sized room was behind the window, with a person leaning on its ledge. Her nose was long and pointed, and her eyes were wide and large. She seemed very old, with tall, thick white hair sticking straight out of her head. Even from the other side of the window, Pamela could tell she was small and frail. A shawl was around her thin clothing, and she sat with a book spread open before her.
The witch looked up at the visitors. The little girl stopped just after stepping into the room, but the robed man took a few steps past her. "I don't take it you two are interested in a cruise?" The voice befit the lady. It sounded like it belonged to an old, hermit-like witch, aged and shaky. Her eyes examined them curiously from either side of her nose, as they stood at the door.
How does she know we aren't customers already? she wondered. Then, she thought how odd they must look. She – a little girl in a dirty, stained shirt and skirt, with matted, filthy hair and a wound across her forehead, and he – a tall, slender, robed man who refused to show his face. He kept his hood up, and Pamela stayed just behind his legs, with the door open and pouring in light from the late afternoon sun.
"No, we're not," her friend replied.
"What was that?" the witch asked, closing her book and scooting forward against the ledge. "I couldn't hear you. You shouldn't mumble." Pamela noticed the strangest thing about her – her gem. A crimson ruby was encrusted into her head, flaring with an interesting light that seemed to pulsate. Is that where she gets her magic power?
The robed man responded by taking steps closer. Pamela started to follow uncertainly; she realized for the first time there was tension in the air. The girl looked to see the witch tense behind the ledge, grasping it firmly and threatening to push herself up. "Now, I'm not what I used to be, but get any closer and I'll fry the both of you before..."
"We're not here to hurt you!" Pamela interrupted, stepping in between the man and the witch. The witch cast her eyes down to the girl. "He just can't talk very loudly, so he had to come closer to speak."
The witch thought about that for a moment, looking back and forth between the young girl and her friend. "Is she your keeper, then... strange, robed man who refuses to show me his face?"
"We've met before," he said in his whisper, only taking a few steps closer. The witch strained to hear him, but still appeared alert. "But you probably don't remember me."
"How am I supposed to recognize a man who hides his face? What's your name?"
"You wouldn't recognize me by my name," he responded. "I didn't have it last time we met." His name, Pamela thought. I still haven't asked him for it again.
"And I wouldn't recognize you by your face, either?" the witch said, a sarcastic smile flashing across her face. "Did you get a new one of those, too?"
"Yes, actually," he said. "I think it's best if I keep it hidden, for now."
"My name's Pamela, and we're here to borrow your broomstick." Both the man and the woman turned down to her again. The girl swallowed. He's not getting anywhere. At this rate, they would leave enemies and never get what they came here for. "We're not here to hurt you, and we don't mean to be rude. We just... need your broomstick, so we can fly."
"My name's Koume, and I offer boat cruises, not flying lessons," she spat quickly.
"Pamela, let me handle this," the robed man stated, turning back to the witch. "Where is Kotake? Is there anyway I could speak with..."
"My sister is dead," Koume interrupted. "And my broomstick was destroyed. It's hers I have. And I'm not lending it out to a strange man, that I don't remember, who won't tell me his name or show me his face. Especially since you're whispering so creepily and have a little girl here who looks like she's been beaten half-to-death."
"He didn't beat me!" Pamela corrected.
"If you'll just let me talk to you for a few minutes..."
"No, I won't," the witch interrupted yet again. The red gem appeared to be flaring with her anger. "The tourist center was just about to be closing, and I'm not going to let some robed weirdo bully me into taking one of the last things I have of my sister!"
"I'm not going to bully you."
"Do you intend to leave without it?"
"If you'll just listen..."
Pamela shook her head, turning away from the two as the bickering began. She felt all of the excitement within her quickly slip away. It can't be, she thought. We've come all this way, and now we're not going to win because of the witch. She looked around the room, searching, trying to think of some explanation or solution...
Then, her eyes caught the sky, just barely visible from through the doorway. The rainbow lights, though not as visible in the day, still shone. The little girl smiled. It always has the answer, doesn't it? Pamela turned back around. "What does the light spirit mean to you?"
For the third time, they were interrupted by her. Both adults turned to find her. "What are you talking about?" Koume quipped first.
"The light spirit outside," Pamela said, pointing to the sky as she stepped closer to the window. She stopped just underneath, looking up. "Those rainbow lights that came from the moon, once it blew up. What do they mean to you?"
Koume was speechless, at first. Her eyes went back to the robed man, before looking back at her. "You think it's a light spirit?"
"I know it is," she responded resolutely.
"Little girl, I'm not sure what you think you mean by 'light spirit,' but either way, I don't know what this has to do with..."
"It's a chance for people to move on," Pamela interrupted again. "It's proof that the darkness in this world has left, and that we can work together to make things better."
Koume's eyes widened. They looked off for a moment, as if she was in a trance. "A chance to heal," she mouthed to herself.
"Exactly," Pamela said, regaining the witch's attention. "A chance to heal. And if he doesn't have a broomstick to fly to the light spirit, then he's going to miss his chance to heal. We all have to make sure that everyone has a chance, and this is his chance."
Koume took a few moments to respond. "He's going to touch it? He wants to fly into the sky... into it?"
"Yes, and I know it will take him home," she answered. Pamela turned away as she thought of something else, before meeting the witch's eyes again. "I know it must have been hard losing your sister. I've never had one, but I know if I did, I would love her with all my heart. Maybe, letting go of her broomstick, is the last thing you need to do to heal. Maybe... once you give this up, you can finally let her go. And you could give him a chance to heal, too."
Koume looked at her for a long time after that. Then, she smiled, before looking back at the two of them. "I haven't seen such innocence in a long time." Her eyes turned to the robed man. "You ran into the perfect person to help you... you know that?"
Pamela turned to her friend, and knew the smile was there without seeing it. "I know."
They stood outside on the porch, and her friend held the broomstick in his hand. However, Pamela realized that flying might be a bigger problem than she'd anticipated. "How exactly does it work?" she asked, peering at it worriedly.
"The witch said you have to manipulate the light magic in it," he explained, holding the stick in his bony fingers. The broom was long and thick, with a mass tangle of bristles at the end. The wood was much darker than the platform in the swamp, and the undead man held it tentatively before them. "Which, as I mentioned earlier, is something I'm quite good at."
"You don't need your magic piano to do it this time?"
"Not with the broom. The witch said it was special. Anyone can manipulate the magic in it, if they know how to." Still, they stood there. Pamela swallowed nervously. She imagined them climbing the broomstick, going a few feet in the air, and then crashing down into the swamp and sinking in mucky water. The terrible feeling of drowning returned to her in a flash.
"Should you practice a few times?"
"No," he said, turning to face her. "Do you trust me?"
Pamela couldn't help but return the smile. "Of course I trust you." The undead man in the brown robe stepped over the broom to hold the stick between his legs. He made sure the bristled end pointed out behind him, and there was plenty of room on the broom for her. She took a deep breath. This is the last step of your adventure, she thought. How many people get to fly? Usually only witches. This is a once in a lifetime chance.
Pamela, uncertainly, got onto the broom behind him.
For a moment, they stood there together. The little girl gripped the wood tightly with her hands, and her backside was just barely touching the bristled ends. She'd made sure to put a little bit of space between herself and him. Pamela looked up at the brightening sky. The colors of the setting sun were stark now, glowing underneath the light spirit. The whole world was alive and breathing above them, it seemed, with oranges, yellows, blues, and reds.
Then, it started growing closer. Pamela gasped, instantly looking down when her feet left the wood. Her mangled shoes were suspended just above the planks, but they grew further and further away. Her stomach was quick to feel empty, and she shot out her arms to wrap around the robed man in control. The reaction was instinctive, and her friend jumped only slightly. Her fingers were shocked to find the hard texture of bones underneath the cloth, instead of skin, but she clung all the same.
Woodfall continued falling further and further below, until the hut became a speck in a small pool of water. She watched the swamp continue – a thin snake slithering through a vast sea of tree tops. Small and large ponds alike dotted the sides of the snake as it went along. Pamela tried to look at the shapes and structures that differed, but she was rising too fast. Eventually, Pamela looked up.
The little girl smiled. They were inside of the sky. The lights of the late afternoon enveloped them, as the fading rays of the setting sun seeped below the horizon. The light spirit was still far, far above their heads, twirling and glowing and funneled through the sky. Pamela laughed, clinging to the man in front of her as they flew higher. I'm flying, she thought. I'm flying.
She turned to the magician leading them forward, and the hood had long ago blown off of his head. The back of his head was very similar to the front: faded, bony, and missing patches of flesh. Decay was clearly visible from there, but Pamela didn't find herself scared that time. It was framed by the beautiful afternoon sky. He turned his head, and she met his small, black eyes. A smile spread across his dead lips. The little girl returned it, clinging to him tightly as he turned back around to fly them forward.
The wind whipped through her tangled, dirty hair the best it could, ruffling her filthy dress as well. It felt good. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the loud, overwhelming sound of the air in her ears. She could feel the sun on her face, and her knuckles grew cold and white from clinging to her friend. Her legs were cold, too, wrapped around the thin piece of wood keeping them in the air. Pamela opened her eyes to look down, over her friend's shoulder. The landscape below them continued to change. The forest seemed to go on for a very long time, but even from there, she could see the far off walled city, with the clock tower protruding from the middle. There was a brown patch of a land on the horizon; the trees below them continued falling away, as they left the fumes of Woodfall behind.
It was breathtaking; it was the most beautiful thing she had ever experienced. And so, Pamela flew home, clinging to the mask salesman returned to life. From Woodfall Swamp to Ikana Canyon, the light spirit was their guide.
When the broomstick started to descend, Pamela found herself waking from a dream she never wanted to leave. Up in the skies, there was nothing to worry about; there was only beauty. The sky was a canvas that she journeyed through, plunging through the sunlight like a fish swimming in a colorful river. The wind filled her face and chilled her skin, but she didn't care. Up there, there was no need to talk. Up there, she was with her mother and her father at the same time. Up there, she could never feel sad. Let me fly, she thought. Forever.
Instead, the brown, canyon floor entered her vision. At first, the ridges, valleys, and cliffs were just as pretty, cutting through the twilight as spears would. The jutting rocks formed a magnificent ocean of clay that they descended into. The wind lessened, however, as did the bright bruise that was the darkening sky. Certain, solid rock leapt at them, becoming bigger, vaster, and firmer. The freedom of the skies slipped away and was left above her; the broomstick landed. It wasn't until they were only several feet from the ground that she recognized her front yard.
Pamela's feet landed on the blank space of clay lightly. Then, they came to a stop. At first she could only sit there. The little girl was slow to let go of the stick, and then step away from the broom. The cool, clammy chill over her entire body slowly came to her, and her ears rang with the sound of the wind. She looked up, to see her friend step away from the broomstick as well, holding it vertically beside him.
Pamela slowly took in her surroundings, but she was still in a daze. I flew, she thought. I flew across all of Termina. "Pamela?" She turned at the sound of her father's voice.
He was sitting on the front porch to their house. She'd hardly noticed the sound of the music playing from the brass horns, and the nearby stream trickling with life. The wheel turned slowly and methodically. Her father, however, stared with wide, mystified eyes. He wore a heavy, gray coat over dark, long pants, with his red hair brightly resting on top of his head. He looked dirty, as if he'd been out and traveling through the canyon all day. Looking for me.
"Father?" She stood there, but still felt as if she was in a dream. Pamela walked over to him half-dazedly, and her father responded by standing to walk down the stairs and join her in the dirt.
"Is it you?" her father asked, looking behind her and then up into the sky. "You flew... you flew from the sky, back to me." He turned back to his daughter, as if he was afraid to hope this wasn't dream.
Pamela found the tears already filling her eyes. "Yes," she said. "It's me, Papa." She ran into his arms, and he could only hug her in return.
"Oh Pamela...," he stammered. "Pamela, you're back to me." He wrapped his arms around her tightly, squeezing her close to him. "Let's go back to being a family again. Please. I don't ever want to lose you."
"I promise, Papa," Pamela said, through the tears. "I promise, I won't anything like that happen ever again." They remained together, with Pamela on her feet and her father bent down to hug her. They stood in front of their house, finally reunited. For how long they stood there hugging, she could not say. Then, she felt her father tense, let go of her, and stand tall.
Pamela turned to find her friend. He stood there, by himself and only a few feet away. Neither one of them had noticed, but he must have quietly slipped back to the well and returned. To get the only possession he has left, she realized. The hero's shield was secured to his back, its gray, metal edges filled with the symbols of a land called Hyrule. His hood was down, and his small, black eyes stared at the father and daughter strangely. His face and skull were just as grotesque as they'd always been, but there was something different in his eyes. Something human. He stood with the broomstick in his hands, uncertainly waiting for something to happen.
The little girl in the dirty clothes took a few steps forward, smiling at her friend. He returned the smile. Pamela looked to see if her father was watching, and gestured towards the tall, robed man with her palm up. "Father," she started, clearing her throat. "This is my friend. I promise, he never tried to hurt me."
"He brought you home," her father said. He walked forward to join his daughter, putting an arm around her shoulder to stand before the undead man. "You brought her back safely."
"I did," he responded, in that whisper-like voice. "She saved my life." He averted his eyes, as if realizing he'd made a mistake, before looking back to them. "What little remnant of a life I have left."
How? Pamela thought confusedly. How did I save his life? "Thank you," her father said, though he still seemed unsure about the whole thing. "And I'm sorry. I..."
"I understand," the undead man finished.
"He's going to go home now," Pamela stated happily, turning to her dad, and then back to him. She nodded her head, before looking up into the sky. There was still sunlight left, even though the sun itself had slipped away minutes ago. She pointed to the light spirit far above them. "By flying up there."
Her father craned his head back, before bringing it down to look at his daughter's friend. The rainbow seemed to glow off his cheek. "Pamela," the man in the robe said, taking a step forward. He turned to her father to make sure it was okay, who nodded his head. The little girl left her father to stand just in front of the mask salesman for a final time.
"Yes?"
"The adventure I had with you was the grandest adventure I've had in a while." He said it all with a smile on his face. "You taught me that I'm still myself, no matter what else I have lost. I still have that."
"You have more than that," Pamela said, reaching out to take his skeletal fingers into her own. The man was surprised, looking down at the small, child's hand holding his own. "You have a friend."
He smiled, as they held hands underneath the waning sky. The rest of Ikana Canyon was silent, save for the music, the turning wheel, and the water. The stillness was almost like death, but Pamela felt her own heart beating in her chest, and could feel his eyes on her own. And his fingers in her own. There's life in these bones. Somehow.
The robed man stepped away, holding the broom by his side. He looked up to see the ribbon arced far above. "I guess it's time for me to go."
Pamela looked away, trying to think of something else to say. I have to say something, she thought urgently. Before he leaves. It might be the last thing you ever say to him. She didn't think good-bye would cut it, but she couldn't find the right words...
Then, she remembered something. "Wait!" The man stopped, already mounting the broomstick. He looked over as she ran to his side. "You never told me your name." She paused, waiting and out of breath for an answer. Pamela watched the dark eyes flicker back to her, and watched the ancient face show her a smile once more.
"My name is Majora," he said.
Pamela returned the smile. "That's what I'll call the light spirit's flares – whenever it's reaching to touch the ground. Majoras."
The undead man kept his smile as he turned to the sky. "I can think of no better way to save that word. Let people forget the demon, when they hear Majora. Instead, I want them to remember the light." Then, he flew.
Pamela watched, as he spiraled up and up into the air. Her arms fell by her sides as she leaned her head back, eyes widening in awe. The man in the dark robes cut upward like an arrow, zipping into the cool, waning nighttime air. The stars were just beginning to glow as the last of daylight faded. As always, that made the light spirit glow.
Her father stood beside her, and held her closely. The two only had eyes for the sky, however, as they watched the undead man climb higher. He shrank as he rose, with the sleeves and legs of his garments bellowing in the wind, empty hood flapping behind him. She couldn't see, from so far below, but she knew he was smiling. Pamela kept her eyes on him, even when he was a mere dot on the darkening landscape. Of course, he was nothing compared to his destination.
Red, blue, green, yellow, orange, purple; the colors were one, melded together in a musical staff singing radiantly – with light as its only instrument. The great, wide arms swayed gently in the dark abyss above them, glowing and filling an empty world with the beautiful reminder that it was possible to heal. It was an eagle, a lion, and a god. The vortex of light spiraled, danced, and sang, pulsating and widening its arms to accept the single, broken man who flew to accept its embrace. The dot climbed and climbed...
Until Majora vanished. In his wake, the spirit remained swaying in the young night. Pamela and her father stood underneath it together.
"I can see it! I can see it!" Pamela pointed to the distant building, jumping happily. The outpost was small, but she was always the first to spot it when they rounded the corner.
"We're finally there," her father said, smiling. He had a large, heavy backpack securely strapped to his shoulders, carrying the food, water, and clothing for their journey. Except it's more than we usually bring, she thought excitedly. They would be staying in Clock Town for over a week, because her father had come to find a house. They wouldn't be moved in for months yet, but this was their first trip to find the home that was meant for them.
"It wasn't that long of a walk," Pamela eventually said, turning back to the house. She was well-rested and well-fed, with shoes that comfortably fit and clothes that were in good shape. Her hair was clean and brushed, flowing much longer than it ever had before, down her back. An ugly scar cut across her forehead, but the little girl had decided she liked the wound. It's a battle scar, she thought. From my adventure. Her adventure had only been a couple of months ago, yet it felt like so much longer.
"You aren't the one carrying the backpack," her father said, slightly out of breath as they rounded the canyon wall. The blank, flat, clay ground continued passed an overturned column to reach the small shack. It was sturdily built, with thick, wooden beams to support the roof, door, and windows. Just behind it was the black, metal fence marking the close proximity of Termina Field. But we're taking a break at the outpost first, she knew, as she ran to the door.
Her father had let her carry the key, so Pamela removed it from her pocket and pulled open the front door. She stopped to pick up the pile of letters waiting on the other side, turning to wait for her father. As he stepped on the small porch, Pamela handed them to him. Then, she slipped inside. The outpost was composed of two rooms, though the main one – the entrance – was rather large. Desks, cabinets, chairs, and papers filled its corners and walls, proving how busy and well-kept it all was. Underground, there was a secret vault where their money was kept, and through the doorway in the back, there was a small space for a bedroll by a nightstand.
Pamela breathed in the musky scent of the wood, as her father laid the pack down on the floor. It was midday, and they would continue the rest of the journey after a short break. The young girl sat in the back corner of the room, plopping down to stretch out her legs and lean against the wall. She was trying her best to reach her toes when her father caught her attention. "Pamela?"
"Yes?"
"There's... a reason I wanted to bring you here. Aside from just taking a break."
She looked up interestedly. Her father's eyes were as loving as always, though his expression showed hints of sadness as he turned to a nearby desk. Pamela got to her feet slowly, walking over in his direction. "Yes?" she asked. "What is it?"
"When I had this outpost built, I sent some things out here to keep them safe," he stated, as he opened a panel in the back of the desk. He removed a box, setting the heavy, closed container in the middle of the floor between them. He sat on one side, while Pamela sat uncertainly on the other. He smiled as he continued. "I knew you were getting older, and would eventually find this stuff on your own. So I hid it here. At the time, I didn't want you to find it, but now..." He sighed, opening the lid and gesturing her to peer inside.
Pamela looked at the papers, books, scrolls, and random objects uncertainly, lifting a dusty quill and turning it over in her hands. "I don't understand," she said. "It's..." She stopped, when she realized what the next thing she'd gotten her hands on was. Pamela silently brought the pieces of paper in front of her. The pages were old and yellowed, but the words were still legible. Her hands trembled, and she pressed the writing against her chest to keep it steady. And to hold my mother close to me.
"I'm ready to talk, Pamela," he said. Her father smiled, and there were no tears in his eyes. "Whatever you want to know. All you have to do is ask."
Pamela blurted out her response immediately. "Everything," she said, clutching the pieces of paper tightly. "Tell me everything. I want to hear my mother's story."