Mystic (4 page)

She trembled beneath his anger. Despite the fear, she forced herself forward, reckless. “What's so terrible about the Myst? Grandmhathir said it's something we all can feel and learn to use!”

“And it chaps me that she did!” he flared.

Silence drifted in the air like the motes of dust.

“Your grandmhathir did more than just talk about it, Pomella,” he said at last. “She dabbled in it. I don't know how she got exposed to it. She never explained. But I know she meddled without supervision, and it … it killed your grandfathir.”

Pomella's nails bit into her skin. “What do you mean? I thought Grandfathir died from—”

“No!” he snapped. “She killed him.”

Pomella shook her head. “No. No, you're lying!”

“Don't call me a liar under my roof, girl!” he snarled. “You don't know a clip's worth about your grandmhathir like you think you do. It was an accident. I'm not calling her a murderer. But by my unsainted life, I saw my fathir die because of her meddling. The Myst is for those better than us, Pomella. You and me? We're barely good enough for this shite village. We don't own this land. We live here at the whim of the baron. I know you don't like to hear it, but, like you said, you're old enough to know how it is in the world.”

Pomella narrowed her eyes. Her nails dug deeper as she tried to balance the pain inside with something she could control. “Then why did the High Mystic invite me? Did it have something to do with Grandmhathir? Was she a Mystic?”

Fathir scoffed. “No, she was definitely
not
a Mystic. She fancied herself something like one, but it was just blather in her mind. She was a foreigner, as obvious as her black skin. She brought foreign ideas to Moth along with fanciful dreams.” He looked into the cold fireplace. “I once believed all her stories. I even went to find a Mystic once. I left home, just like you're thinking of doing. I traveled all through the barony, following the rumor of a wandering Mystic. I found him. I groveled at the hem of his torn robes and begged him to take me as his apprentice.”

She blinked, not believing what she heard. Could he be lying? She'd learned long ago to weigh his words carefully. But these had a note of honesty about them. “Wh-what did he say?”

“He kicked me as I knelt in the dirt. He spit snot on me and told me to lick the ground. Said that if I ever spoke to him again, he would strip me of my name and brand me Unclaimed.”

Pomella's breath froze in her chest.

Fathir turned to her and held her gaze. “
That
is how Mystics think, Pomella. That is their world. The happy love and Mystical power your grandmhathir spoke of is a dream. It's time to wake up.”

He left her and she sat in silence until midnight passed, bringing Springrise at last.

*   *   *

Hours later, in the deep silence of the night when even shadows sleep, Pomella sat awake on the floor of her small room, staring at the wall. A trail of old tears stained her cheeks. They'd come at first when she barred herself in her room, but she refused to let them dominate her tonight, or any night.

A thick tome rested in her lap. It had belonged to Grandmhathir, who quietly passed it to Pomella in her final days.
The Book of Songs,
she'd called it.

A symbol of a tree, woven like a Mothic knot, decorated its leather cover. Running her fingers over it, Pomella traced the embossed shape. Unfamiliar letter-runes were stamped into the leather. The shapes were from the script reserved only for the merchant-scholar caste and above.

She opened the book to a random page in the middle. The leather spine creaked, and her grandmhathir's scent danced around the room. The first time she'd opened it, Pomella had been surprised to see the book wasn't a collection of songs. She didn't know
what
it was. Grandmhathir had only managed to indicate it related to the Myst and therefore Pomella had to keep it hidden.

Pomella flipped through the pages, trying again to understand their contents. A hundred illustrations accompanied the book's hand-printed text, creating a mesmerizing collection of pages. Colorful star diagrams, cross sections of plants, strange letter charts, a trail map of an unknown mountain, and depictions of hand gestures fought for room against the hand-printed letter-runes.

In the center of the book an elaborate drawing sprawled across two facing pages. The runes above it read, in the common script,
The Mystical Hierarchy,
and showed stylized rankings of water, flesh, stone, iron, blood, fire, and other essences Pomella did not recognize.

Most wondrous of all, though, was her grandmhathir's familiar thin handwriting, scrawled throughout every page in rose-colored ink. Most of Grandmhathir's notes related to music. Bars and musical notation, along with lyrics and poems, filled the open spaces of each page. Pomella didn't understand what the original text was meant for, but could plainly see her grandmhathir was leaving behind songs.

“I wish you were here,” Pomella said aloud.

She studied page after page as the night deepened. The notes bewildered her, but she recognized many of the songs scribbled inside, including “A Sail to Pull the Moon” and “Into Mystic Skies.” She hummed some of them aloud, tasting their familiar sounds. Clearing her throat, she tried again, this time with her whispered voice rather than a hum.

“Turn my heart to rain

And I will illuminate

I will illuminate

The sky”

As far back as she could remember, Grandmhathir had always encouraged Pomella to sing. She recalled games they'd played together, where Grandmhathir taught her how to run scales and find melody. In recent years, singing had become her safe place. Nobody could take that from her, not even her fathir.

A gentle tap sounded at her window, startling her. She froze, wondering if she'd imagined it.

The tapping came again.

“Pomella?” came the barest hint of a whisper.

Pomella closed the book and stashed it under her mattress. She cracked open the window and peered out. “Bethy? What are you doing?”

“Let me in! It's freezing out here!”

Pomella opened the window all the way and stood back as Bethy climbed through, her green Brigid cloak covering her nightdress. Bethy landed on her feet as Pomella closed the window behind her. “Were you asleep?” Bethy asked.

“Yah,” Pomella lied.

“You've been crying.”

“It's been a long night.”

Bethy frowned and moved to hug her, but Pomella shied away.

“What did he say?” Bethy asked.

Pomella's face hardened. She sank down to her knees, and stared back into the darkness.

Bethy settled beside her and draped her cloak over Pomella's shoulders. Pomella wished Bethy would just go away, but she found herself unable to say that. They remained on the floor for what felt like the life of the stars.

“Tell me, Pom. What did he say?”

Anger and despair flooded Pomella's veins. “That I would be foolish to go. That the Mystics don't care about me. That
nobody
cares about me. That I'll be Unclaimed, and—”

Bethy reached out tentatively to find Pomella's hand. “Pom. Hush. Your fathir doesn't know anything. The Green Man came for you! Pomella! The
Green Man
came for
you
!”

Pomella snatched her hand back. “He should've come for Elona. At least she already knows how to use the Myst. I can't go. I'll just fail. There'll be others who want to be the apprentice. They're all noble and better than me.”

“Shite and blather on them,” Bethy said. “I don't care if every firstborn from Moth and the Continent show up. The High Mystic invited you, and she sits above anyone. You have a chance to rise beyond our caste, Pom! You're special; I just know it. And look, so do others.”

She unwound a long, emerald string from her wrist and handed it to Pomella. Pomella recognized it immediately. It was a Common Cord, filled with intricate knots. At least twenty families had woven their unique style of knot into the rope in a show of solidarity.

Pomella accepted the Cord. She imagined each Goodness lovingly tying her family's knot into it and passing it to the next woman.

“Don't you see?” Bethy said. “You represent something to us. You're not just a commoner. You're a commoner
with a chance
.”

“I wish I hadn't been invited. I should just stay home.”

Bethy sighed. “And what would happen if you did?”

Pomella fingered each family's knot in the Common Cord. Not everyone from Oakspring had tied one, but many had. She traced the AnClure knot from Bethy's family. The AnKellys'. AnGents'. Others. None of these families had bad lives. Pomella's own might be a blathering mess, but what would really happen if she declined the invitation?

“Nothing,” she said, and realized what that meant. If she stayed, she would not only be rejecting the High Mystic; she'd also be dismissing an opportunity the families of Oakspring would never have. She'd be letting down her village and her grandmhathir. And Pomella would be denying herself the one deep desire she'd always had.

To learn to use the Myst.

If she turned away from this opportunity, the thin strand holding her otherwise dull life together would break, and so would she. She would wilt as surely as a flower without rain.

“I know nothing of the Myst,” she said.

“Yah, neither do I, but I suspect it is far more than waving hands and glowing flowers. They say Mystics are always surrounded by light and music, and there's music in your heart like I've never seen. Think about how you lift people up with your singing! If you hold on to that, then the Myst will flow on its own.”

Pomella thought of her garden. She tended to it each day, and made smart choices when it came to planting, pruning, and harvesting. But in her heart, she knew it thrived from more than her careful attention. She'd never told anybody else, but she sang to the plants. And when she did, she sometimes saw silvery fog wafting through the leaves, or across the ground. It was always in the corner of her vision, and when she turned to face it, it vanished like mist on a sunny day. Just last week she saw a silvery bumblebee floating between flowers before vanishing after a few heartbeats.

“I want to go,” Pomella said, “but I'm afraid, Bethy. I'm afraid of going and being made into a fool. And I'm also afraid of staying and being a bigger one.”

Bethy smiled, as gentle as a mhathir with a wee tyke. “I'll support whatever you decide. But I know you'll regret it if you don't try. You're strong and brave, Pom.”

Pomella scoffed a laugh at that, but quickly silenced herself. “I'm none of those things, and you know it.”

“Buggerish!” said Bethy. “You've always been strong! We were, what, four years old when your mhathir passed away? Just knee-high tykes! Sim and I also lost Dane to the Coughing Plague at the same time. I cried every day for a year. But not you. You helped your grandmhathir, who I think should be a Saint by the way, and helped with wee Gabor. Not a day goes by where I don't admire your strength! I'd wager everything I have against the luckiest gambler on Moth that the High Mystic recognizes those traits in you somehow.”

“How would she know?”

Bethy smiled. “Go ask her yourself.”

Pomella's heart swelled with emotion.
Thank you,
she mouthed, unable to make sound come out.

Bethy hugged her, and this time Pomella let her.

As Pomella wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, Bethy opened a rough canvas sack Pomella hadn't noticed. “I packed some rations and a waterskin for you,” Bethy said. “The Green Man said it would take two days to get to Sentry, so watch how much you gobble.”

“You …
packed
for me?”

“You're on your way to become a Mystic,” Bethy said with a wink. “I'm just a lowly commoner. I suppose it's my duty.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“‘Thank you' is sufficient. Oh, and, keep the cloak. That's my real parting gift. You're going on a real adventure, just like Saint Brigid. You might not have her red hair, but I think the cloak looks beautiful on you regardless.”

With a mischievous smile, Bethy opened the window and began to climb out. Pomella stopped her. “Thank you,” Pomella said, as sincerely as she could manage.

Bethy smiled. “Make us proud. You'll find the Myst. I just know it!”

“Will you take care of Gabor? Ask your mhathir and fathir to give him … affection?” Pomella choked on the last word.

Bethy nodded and squeezed Pomella's hand before slipping out the window and ducking her way through the night toward her house. Pomella closed the window, her hands shaking. She took a deep breath. Dark fears of becoming Unclaimed threatened to invade once more.

“No,” she said aloud to them. “Leave me be. I'm doing this.”

Quick as a skivering luck'n, she emptied her drawers of clothing. She hastened out of her nightdress, and threw on her best work dress. She packed two others into the canvas bag holding her food. After only a moment of consideration, she packed her Springrise dress, too.

She counted out her meager nugs and clips, tossing the small pouch she had into the larger canvas one. She fetched
The Book of Songs,
and tucked it away, too. With nothing else of value, she slipped out of her bedroom.

She considered waiting until morning, but sunrise was surely only a few hours away at this point, and she didn't want to deal with her fathir. She peeked into Gabor's room. He lay sprawled across his bed, mouth open and hand stuffed in his too-short pants. A lump formed in her throat. “Good-bye, twerper.”

She tiptoed into the main room of the house and slipped toward the door. She paused at the threshold and glanced across the room, fearful that her fathir lurked there, ready to trap her. But the room was empty and she breathed a sigh of relief.