DION KINGSTON ● BARKEEP / OWNER OF DEE’S ● INFLEXIBLE ● WE MUST NOT LOOK ● OPEN ● LETITIA WRIGHT
i dream we’ll go / somewhere that’s green — somewhere that’s green, ellen greene
personality
You’d be hard-pressed to find a harder worker, or someone with as much pride in her work, as Dion. Relying on others for happiness, for wealth, for anything, is not her style. What she wants, she gets and she gets on her own. Her bar and inn is an extension of her personality and ethos; what she makes with her own hands, she loves dearly. Levelheaded and thoughtful, Dion sits at the center of the town. People flock to her with their problems because they know that she’s practical, smart with her money and with her friends. Be careful though that your secrets don’t passed around with Dion—she’s known to be a gossip, and has most of the village’s scandals tucked into her pocket. Dion can be a pill sometimes, and her low tolerance and sharp wit can be unnerving for some. The problem is never with what she says —it’s only how she says it!
Dion’s got the confidence of a lion and a bite just as deadly. Dion’s one of those strong-willed people that forgets that there is a world around her. Hungry for attention and constant praise, Dion doesn’t do well with being out of the limelight for even a second. She’s quite popular in town, but not all of her “friends” were won with honesty. Loose lips sink ships, and Dion’s ocean is overrun with twisted metal. Her love of gossip borders on blackmail, and she uses the secrets of others as bartering tokens. She won’t hesitate to step on someone’s shoulders to boost herself up. The problem with Dion is that she thinks she’s untouchable. Her old money, her ancestral house are just reasons for her sit real high and look real low. It’s almost as if she thinks she’s too good to let anyone in, even with the people she claims for. What will happen when the secrets of the secret-keeper are set free?
about dion
one. She is less than a goddess, but much more than a mortal. Through the thick swirls of smoke and wafts of cheap, stale beer, you hear her laugh, smell her cloying perfume. Her hand and red nails on your forearm, her eyes and red lips close to your ear. Mystery, enigma as Dion pours out drinks, as she laughs at bawdy tales and tells a few of her own. Dionysus, Bacchus —fat, drunken jolly gods to whom she devotes her pub to. Music rings from all four walls. Bodies thrown across the tables and bodies thrown across the bar, guzzling spiced wine and dancing and singing. Dion commands them all, arms raised, head tossed back into movement, into untamed passions. She pours a glass for a weeping man, and the whole town flows into the cup.
two. Speak its name and render it powerless. Gag order straight from damnation, gag order straight from the ends of the forest where the dirt path leads into the city and the city becomes another woods, a red-cheeked woman with shark’s teeth. She knows the look of her, it. Its spires and leathery skin, its sheen and gloss and talons. A red and glowing hell complete with demons and devils, but not hot like how she’s been taught. Come morning, when dream melts into memory (or memory into dream, she is never sure), she speaks aloud what she can remember. Mouth moving, hands moving. Remember, remember. Speak, speak it even if all the words sound like complete and utter madness. Speak it or it’s not true. Under her tongue, Dion holds the secrets of this universe and the next. In her throat, she nurses the horrors. In time, in its time, she’ll scream.
three. Sister comes back with vines and rope strung around her neck. Sister comes back gasping, stumbling, mossy hands thrust out in front of her. Sightless eyes see, sense, her presence. Come to the only place that is safe enough to call home. Sister crawls up the walls and calls out in a voice too guttural to be human. Sister shrieks for wolves and bats and beetles, spins her head in circles and gnashes her blunt, yellowed teeth. Her wooden eyes hold termites and wood beetles. The cellar’s too shallow, floods when it rains. The bedrooms are too fragile, easy to get out of. The attic sags and moans and covers all sound. Hard to leave, hard to flood, hard to hear for all the settling. Sister slams her dew-wet hands to the boarded up windows, cries out for animals and fought violently against invisibles. And downstairs, Dion listens, weeps.
lore
one. She used to be such friends with Yvonne. The two were inseparable, but, supposedly, Yvonne stole something that used to belong to her sister. They haven’t spoken since, and whatever words they share are barbed.
two. She keeps her sister in the attic, too afraid to let the woman out and too attached to put her into the Healing House. The whole town, save for Yvonne and Dion, think that her sister is dead.
three. Occasionally, when people are too nervous or when people are full of anger, she adds draughts to her beer. Something to make the sad man stop crying. Something to put everyone in a good mood. Something to loosen the lips of a secret keeper.
