Meri (2 page)

“But?”

The classroom was so silent, Meredydd was certain she could
hear the wind pass through the spider web. At last, she could have if the
breathing of the ten other Prentices was not so deafeningly loud.

“But,” she continued, “no effect is obtained.” There. It
didn’t sound so bad when you cloaked it in academic terms.

“Sum up.”

She turned the bluestick in her fingers and watched it go
round and round, then she pretended to study the group of figures on the wall. “The
Pilgrim attains his heart’s desire, but it has no effect upon him. He...enters
the Water of Life, but remains dry. I would read this as a fear dream. Perhaps
the dreamer is afraid he will not be able to...absorb the bounties of the Meri
or perhaps he believes he does not need to absorb them.”

Aelder Wyth’s face was whiter than his fine linen robe. That
he had not so interpreted the aislinn was obvious.

“Terrible,” he finally managed to say. “Prentice Meredydd,
you obviously need to improve your understanding of the aislinn symbology.
Therefore, you will read Aelfraed’s treatises on the Water Signs and present a
written summation of your findings to me for tomorrow’s lesson. Then, I’ll give
you another dream to Tell.”

Meredydd’s numb fingers nearly dropped the bluestick. Aelder
Wyth had always been difficult to please, but he had never shown such ego, nor
had she ever known him to be vindictive. She was about to protest his
out-of-hand rejection of her Tell, but his attention was already elsewhere. He
swiveled his head, his eyes leaping lightly over the class. They landed on
Brys-a-Lach, known, in chatter circles, as “Aelder’s Pet.” He was a big,
handsome boy—a man at sixteen—and he was almost as impressed with himself as
Wyth was.

The Aelder Prentice smiled at his favorite student and said,
“Now, Prentice Brys, will you kindly interpret this dream? I will allow that
Meredydd’s illustrations are correct; you needn’t repeat them.”

Brys stood, broad-shouldered and impressive, and Meredydd
sighed inwardly. It was so much easier for a comely young man to succeed in
second level classes at Halig-liath than it was for a homely or undersized
youth or—Heaven’s help!—a girl. It was the system, of course. The first level
classes were taught by the Divine Counselors themselves, the second level by
Aelders—Prentices like Wyth who had not yet been accepted to become Osraed, and
who most likely never would. The Osraed knew that good looks and physical charm
had naught to do with prowess in the Art, but the Aelders were so fresh from
the classroom themselves—

“It is clear,” said Brys-a-Lach in a voice that would ring
well from the gallery, “that the vision pertains to spiritual greatness. So
devoted is the Pilgrim that he spends his last dregs of energy on the Path to
the Quintessential Ocean and falls asleep, heedless of his own needs. Now, we
also know that it is in sleep that an Osraed often receives instruction from
the Meri, so this may also be interpreted as the Pilgrim opening himself to Her
will. So spiritual is this Pilgrim that a special envoy is sent to awaken him
to his destiny. So pure is he that he walks directly into the Ocean itself,
without even having seen the Meri. So transcendent is he that the waters fail to
discomfit him—even as the Book of Pilgrimages says: ‘a knower is he who is dry
in the sea.’ This Pilgrim overcomes even the Ocean.”

“But the whole point of Pilgrimage,” blurted Meredydd, “is
to
see
the Meri. Sleep does not symbolize
greatness in any other context, why should it be any different here?
Traditionally, it symbolizes lack of vigilance, lack of ardor, perhaps an
inability to face reality. The ardorous Pilgrim would be wakeful and vigilant
against the Meri’s appearance. This poor fellow would lose his chance—the Meri
could rise up and dance all about him while he snored in the sand.”

The class found this a humorous image and burst into
laughter. Red-faced, Aelder Wyth silenced them.

“A spurious interpretation—” he began.

“Nonsense,” said Meredydd, forgetting all but the problem of
interpretation. “A rational interpretation according to the texts. Furthermore,
the Pilgrim is presumptuous; he enters the Sea of the Meri without the Meri’s
permission. He immerses himself in the Waters of Life and doesn’t even allow
himself to be touched by them or absorb their influences. This can mean only
one thing: This Pilgrim misses the entire point of his own

Pilgrimage. Extrapolating on that, I would say that the
dream expresses the spirit’s fear that this Pilgrim is drawing no spiritual
benefit from his quest.”

“Sagacious!” exclaimed one of Wyth’s homely, undersized
students—a freckled red-head named Lealbhallain. He applauded lightly and
alone. Aelder Wyth and Brys-a-Lach both glared at him while the other boys
ogled.

“So this Pilgrim has missed the point, has he?” asked the
Aelder Prentice after a long, rending pause.

Meredydd shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other,
wishing Wyth hadn’t left her standing, exposed, at the front of the class. “That
is my Tell.”

“This pointless Pilgrim is considerably chastened. The dream
is mine.”

There were a few gasps from those who hadn’t already guessed
this.

Aelder Prentice Wyth narrowed his eyes. “Do you wish to
rethink your interpretation, Prentice Meredydd?”

If he sought to humiliate her, he did an admirable job,
notwithstanding he had caught himself in the backwash. She felt very small and
alone. She could take it all back, she supposed—wanted to with all those eyes
on her. She glanced at

Lealbhallain. His green eyes were enormous in his elfin face
and he had caught his lower lip between his teeth.

He’s probably holding his
breath, too
, she thought,
and if I wait too
much longer, he’ll faint
.

“No, Aelder Prentice Wyth,” she said finally, “I do not. I
stand by my Tell. To do otherwise would be cowardly and self-serving.”

He did not commend her for her integrity. She ended up with
a triple reading assignment and the onerous task of sorting organic medicinals
for the Apothecary. Poor Lealbhallain was commissioned to help her.

“You’re very brave,” he told her while they were up to their
wrists in lakeweed. “I would have cried to have Aelder Prentice Wyth so furious
at me.”

“I’m not brave, Leal, just stupid and querulous. I should
have....” She pulled lake weed from the pail silently for a moment, trying to
think of what she should have done. It would have been disobedient to refuse to
interpret the aislinn outright. It would have been lying to Tell the dream as
Brys had. Not that Brys was lying, of course. His Tell was different, that was
all. But if she had given
his
interpretation instead of her own....

She sighed volubly. “I don’t know what I should have done.
Apologized to Wyth, I suppose. My Tell wasn’t very flattering.”

Lealbhallain gave her an innocently penetrating glance. “Was
that the purpose of the Tell? To flatter Aelder Prentice Wyth?”

Meredydd chuckled. “No, Leal. It was not. But I suppose I
could have apologized all the same. I’ll have to ask Osraed Bevol what the
correct course would have been.”

Lealbhallain gave her a look of deep, admiring envy. “You
are so fortunate, Meredydd, to have your own Osraed to ask.”

She glanced down at the little piles of lakeweed that lay in
puddles on the white crystal counter. “I know, Leal. And I wonder why that is,
when I am so undeserving.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, Meredydd! I didn’t mean —
Why, you’re a prodigy! You have so much natural talent —”

“No, Leal,” she said, laughing a little at his zeal. “I have
Osraed Bevol. That is what I have.”

o0o

“And you said what, then?” asked Osraed Bevol, sipping his
broth.

Meredydd laid the baps out on the table and glanced back
toward the kitchen. “Bring the butter pot, won’t you, Skeet?

Then I said that there was only one thing it
could
mean and that — “What?” she asked, seeing that
the Osraed was shaking his head.

He set down his broth bowl. “How many times, Meredydd, must
I tell you: There is never but one interpretation for any aislinn. Hm?” His
crooked finger pointed at a spot in the air as if she might look there for the
exact number.

She reddened. “Many times, Master.”

“Correct. And this is a condition which also applies to
other realities—to all things—whether spoken or unspoken. Even Pov knows this.
Isn’t that so, Pov?”

Skeet responded slowly to the use of his given name under
most circumstances, but the Osraed Bevol was proof to his stubbornness. The boy
let his great Master use the homely name that meant simply, “Earth,” though
everyone else, Meredydd included, must acknowledge him as fleet Skeet if they
didn’t wish to be completely ignored. Now, he smiled sweetly and set out the
butter bowl.

“Aye, Maister. I do so know. Seventy times seventy meanings
do a’ things hae.”

Meredydd sat in her place at the table and stared at her
green-stained hands. “I let my horse rear up and carry me off, Master. I spoke
out of turn. I should have let Brys-a-Lach have the last say about Aelder Wyth’s
aislinn.”

The Osraed’s dappled brows fluttered up his forehead. “Oh?
Then did you think it the correct Tell?”

“Well, of course I didn’t or I wouldn’t have got so.... I
spoke out of turn,” she repeated and fell silent.

“You spoke up,” corrected Osraed Bevol. “You stood by your
interpretation, which, while not the
only
one, was at least spiritually appropriate. Prentice Brys was currying favor,
not searching for the truth.” He looked at her, eyes sharp, azure.

“Pardon, Master, but is it appropriate to judge Prentice
Brys’s motive?”

Bevol pointed at her. “No, it is not. But it is entirely
appropriate for you to question my judgment of him. And if it is appropriate to
question my interpretation of young Brys’s motives, then it is appropriate to
question his interpretation of a vision.”

“I wasn’t impertinent?”

“It was a classroom exercise, anwyl,” he told her, softening
his criticism with the endearment. “You were impertinent to cast your Tell as
the only one, but if Prentice Wyth had wanted to avoid embarrassment, he should
never have used his own aislinn as the subject for a reading.”

Meredydd glanced up from her soup. Skeet was already
half-way through his. “Perhaps he didn’t expect a negative Tell.”

“Eh? Well, perhaps he’s possessed of a superior detachment,
hm? A man of rare humility.” His eyes crinkled at the corners.

Skeet laughed, his own dark eyes glinting. “Aye, rare,” he
said.

After dinner, Meredydd helped Skeet clear the table. Sun
still slanted through the kitchen window, burnishing the pale cobbles, and she
felt the pull of a place to the east, almost in the fork of the Halig-tyne
where it gave birth to the dancing Bebhinn. She glanced about as she entered
the great hall, straining to keep her footsteps light on the flagstones. The
hall was empty and she thought she could hear the Osraed rustling in his
parlor. She drew a soft cloak from the pegs by the front door and reached for
the latch.

“Be back in time for your studies,” said Bevol’s voice
behind her.

“Yes, Master.” She opened the door and slipped out quickly,
knowing his eyes followed her down the path and up the lea. The solid oaken
door was no impediment to those eyes.

He never told her not to go, however much he wished to, and
it was beyond her to grant him that unspoken wish. So she fled eastward to the
Fork, to the place where one river became twain.

It was called Lagan— “the Little Hollow” —and there had been
a homestead there once. A fine homestead with an ample cottage and a big barn
and a great forge. There was only burnt rubble now, and tall grass and
wildflowers that waved sorrowfully in the wind.

Every spring the mounds of shattered brick and stone and
crumbled masonry were less apparent beneath the green carpet that encroached
and obscured. Every spring the charred beams were more overgrown with vine and
bramble. But the pain in Meredydd’s heart was never overgrown and her rage was
never obscured.

She picked wild roses from the tangle that embraced the
fallen chimney. She pricked her fingers on the thorns and bled in penance for
making Osraed Bevol so unhappy. What she could not do penance for, even by
coming here and bleeding upon the thorns every day of her life, was her absence
on a particular afternoon seven years past.

On that afternoon, a day of worship, Meredydd-a-Lagan had
left her parents at the Cirke in Nairne and gone home through the Bebhinn wood.
She had been told to go straight home and had promised to do just that, but the
wood had wooed and won her before she’d even left the Cirke-yard.

Along the Bebhinn—so named for the musicality of its
swift-moving waters—she had come across an amazing pool of the most beautiful,
clear, sparkling water and had stopped there, as she was told never to do.
After all, who knew what wolves or boar or wild dogs or other were folk
inhabited the woods late on Cirke-dag? So warned her elders, who little
understood that to a precocious little girl, such threats are promises.

She had taken off her shoes by the little pool and thrust
her feet into the icy water and let the most wonderful aislinn images flow
through her waking brain. She’d sat long, day-dreaming. How long, she never
knew. But in time and delight a tendril of mist had risen from the pool,
captivating her with its graceful, spiraling pirouettes. As she watched it,
imagining it to be all manner of wonderful things, it assumed, finally, the
form of a white-robed maiden.

This was a very wonderful and magical thing to a little
girl, and it became more wonderful, still, when the beautiful
mist-cailin spoke to her. Her voice was a musical whisper and it
told Meredydd she would seek the Meri. She would become a Prentice.