Viola the Great

The kingdom of Dampenia was a small, persistently soggy country wedged between two enormous realms that enjoyed smashing things. Honestly, it was remarkable that Dampenia existed at all.

Mostly, it survived through a fortunate combination of bad weather and worse maps. Marching armies sank into puddles that showed no sign of ending. Mapmakers simply left a damp smudge and labeled it Here Be Moisture.

Within that smudge, the Dampenian people lived as happily as mildew allows—making umbrellas, weaving towels, and pretending this was perfectly ordinary. Which, for them, it was.

The citizens of Dampenia did not mind the rain; they scheduled around it. Each morning the town crier climbed the public stairs—slowly, to avoid slipping—and announced the weather:

“Good citizens! Merwin, the royal weather wizard, predicts light rain followed by an easterly drizzle. Tonight: heavy showers, or sleet if we are unlucky.”

The crowd would nod politely beneath their umbrellas. They always nodded, even though Merwin was almost always wrong.

In fairness, weather magic is difficult work. And, in the end, whether it rained before or after it drizzled, the result was much the same: wet.

At the center of this well-moistened realm stood the capital, Dropminster. It was a charming city. Stone buildings wore tin roofs that rattled like polite applause. Little flags fluttered gamely in the wind, scattering water across the cobbled streets. A wall circled the city, and beyond that a moat—more out of habit than defense. In its heart stood the royal castle, built of white stone—a choice that, in hindsight, proved ambitious. White shows water stains. But Queen Drizzila had always dreamed of a bright castle. King Darius obliged, and the result was a structure now best described as white-ish.

The royal gardener worked tirelessly to hide the stains beneath vines, so that in summer the palace bloomed until it resembled an enormous floral bouquet dropped in the middle of the city.

Dampenians were the sort of folk who accepted what life provided and didn’t complain. Acceptance was considered a virtue. Pretending to be better than one’s neighbours was not. For this reason, the most popular umbrella colour was grey—followed by black, brown, and, among the truly daring, blue-grey.

And into this wet, shining city came Viola—our hero, though no one had nominated her yet.

Viola was, by general agreement, an unusual child. She was persistently optimistic, a condition that resisted treatment. In the gloom of Dampenia, she shone like a small, unlicensed ray of sunshine. Most people carried umbrellas. Viola carried none. She preferred to skip through puddles, letting her shoes squelch like small cheerful frogs. They were not rain boots. She had owned several pairs, all lost to causes never fully explained. Her mother refused to buy more, and Viola claimed she liked the sound her feet made anyway.

Here she comes now, tripping along the cobblestones, singing a tune known only to herself. It changed shape as she went—sometimes sprightly, sometimes mournful—but always confident that it existed. When the music ran out, she tilted her head, listened to the drizzle, and found more of it.

Viola also worked. This was unusual, as she was only thirteen and technically not supposed to. But Dampenia had never been a kingdom to let technicalities interfere with employment. Through a series of misunderstandings (all perfectly ordinary), she had found herself at Brennick’s Mop Emporium, which claimed to have “a mop for every occasion, including most emergencies.”

The position opened when the previous cleaner announced that she could no longer mop the mop aisle. “There are just too many mops,” the girl had said, which was factually correct but unhelpful. Mr. Brennick, the owner, was attempting to reason with her when Viola happened to pass by, dripping slightly.

“Maybe I could help,” she said.

That was that. The other girl left. Viola stayed.

It was a long day of mops. Turns out, there’s a lot to learn about mops—according to Mr. Brennick, who had devoted his life to them. But at last it was done, and Mr. Brennick seemed pleased that she hadn’t complained about mops being in a mop store, so she felt pretty good.

She was on her way home when she paused to splash through a particularly deep puddle, and something floated past her foot.

Something woolly.

There was a sheep swimming upstream. But it wasn’t what captured her attention. No, it was the large lumpy creature pursuing the sheep that drew her attention. It had wide shoulders, long muddy arms, and was roughly the size of a very hungry wardrobe. It pursued the sheep, giving a delighted howl, tripped over a cabbage cart, and kept splashing forward. It didn’t notice Viola and nearly ran her over.

“That’s a boggart,” muttered Baorick, the baker, from under his awning. “Third one today.”

Viola blinked. “What’s it doing in town?”

“Causing a nuisance,” the man sighed. “And eating out our sheep.”

The boggart caught the sheep and devoured it in three gulps, then let out a belch of triumph, vaulted a hedge, and disappeared into the mist. There was distant splash.

“That’s not good,” said Viola, looking after it.

“Can’t say it is,” said Baorick. “He didn’t even pay for it.”