by Rue
He dutifully took a seat and held the old hat in both hands.
“Clear your mind, Daval. Think of nothing. Think of the shining flat surface of Lake Cassialata—”
“I saw the lake on the way to Moa Bend for the solstice ceremony. A bunch of dead fish were frozen in the layers of ice along the shoreline and my ma said it could be a bad omen.” Daval interrupted.
“Fine, fine, dear. Now close your eyes and clear your mind. Let an image of the hat float into view.” Mistress Windemere smiled in anticipation. “Tell us about the hat, Daval.”
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and whispered, “It’s very rough and old.”
“Good, good. What else do you see?”
Daval hesitated and continued, “It’s black and has some trim on the edges.”
The snickering started in the back corner and crept forward.
“It’s a hat—” he added.
Peals of laughter rolled through the crowd. Flynn thought she could control herself, but when she looked at Hazel and saw her pantomiming putting the hat on her head with a look of awe, she burst with giggles.
“Flynn, perhaps you would like to show us your skills?” Mistress Windemere’s tone remained friendly, but had an edge like a chill winter wind.
Po looked up from the small moa-like creature he carved into his own leather belt—oblivious to recent events.
Flynn shuffled up to the front of the room and stared at the objects carefully placed on the table. She noticed no two were touching. She wondered if that kept their energy more pure, for the readings. Her eyes landed on a small but knotted oak branch. She picked it up and walked to the chair vacated by Daval, whose face now flushed as red as his hair.
“Quiet, please,” Mistress Windemere reminded.
The oak branch felt heavy in Flynn’s hands. She adjusted her grip and cleared her mind, like Mistress Windemere had instructed. She saw nothing. Her mind remained blank.
A fresh wave of whispering drifted through the initiates.
“Remember your manners, younglings.” Windemere came closer to Flynn and spoke in hushed tones, “Focus all of your senses on the branch, be the branch. What does it want you to know?”
It started as a tickle, like butterflies in her stomach, “I think this is a branch from this oak tree—blown off in a storm. It is very old—two hundred, no four hundred years old.” The tingle grew into a pounding drum in her chest, and Flynn heard exactly what the branch wanted her to know and repeated it. “The High Priestess Temarama is calling to me.”
Mistress Windemere gasped and had to cast a balance spell to keep from falling onto the table of special items.
The whispers in the room turned into a dull roar as the wiser children shared their knowledge of the legend of Temarama.
Hazel jumped to her feet, ready to rush to Flynn’s aid, if necessary.
Po ceased his carving and stood up beside Hazel, but looked around without a clue.
Windemere regained her composure, removed the branch from Flynn’s grasp, and returned it to the table. She pivoted to address the class. “That will be all for today. I want everyone to practice at home, and ask your parents for permission before you handle any family treasures. Be sure to hold the handrail as you descend, this tree is full of surprises.”
The group straggled out.
“Flynn and Hazel, please delay.” Windemere made the request sound casual.
A short scream interrupted the students’ exit. Windemere rushed to the balcony. “Everyone all right?”
“I’m fine,” Daval shouted. “That branch came out of nowhere.”
“Please, hold the handrails, younglings.” She returned to the main room with a look of exasperation on her smooth, pale skin. She turned to Po. “Please wait for your friends down below. Thank you, Po.”
He glanced at the girls, but they were exceedingly busy picking invisible lint and grass off of their cloaks.
Once Po’s footsteps had echoed away, Windemere faced Hazel and Flynn; her crystal clear eyes sparkled—fire trapped in ice. “I understand you girls have the ear of the High Priestess, but I’ll not tolerate any of your nonsense in my training room. Divination is a precious gift, not a toy or a game. This tree house is the gateway to the sight, astral travel, and the rarely perfected art of bi-location, the dream of every witch—to fly. If you will not respect this space I’ll have you removed from this course and you will never rise to Level Two.” She gave a long, passionate speech and upon completion, Windemere collapsed into her chair.
Flynn knelt before the Mistress of the Ether and blinked back tears. “I would never make a mockery of Divination, Mistress. When Pounamu taught us scrying, we saw a ghostly vision of Temarama—alive—trapped in the kauri tree in Dreamwood Forest.” She wiped a rogue tear from her cheek and waited for a response.
Windemere brushed Flynn aside and jumped up from the chair. She paced back and forth on the mat, filled with newfound energy. “Who else knows of this meeting with Pounamu?”
A strange need to protect her mother kept Flynn from answering truthfully, “No one. Hazel and I were lost in the forest and Pounamu helped us get home safely. Nothing more.” She felt Hazel’s hand on her shoulder and knew they were both thinking about the gifts they had received—and never discussed.
“This act, with the branch, this was real?”
“I felt the message in my chest like the pounding of a drum.” Flynn had never sounded so earnest in all her life. “It was real.”
A strange smile swept across Windemere’s face and vanished. “I must consult the Ancestors, and my pendulum.” She offered her hand to Flynn and helped her to her feet. “I hope I can trust you girls to keep this quiet while I do my research?”
“Of course,” Flynn replied.
Hazel nodded vigorously and bowed several times. “Thank you, Mistress. We better get to our next session. We’ll see you tomorrow, right?”
Mistress Windemere waved them out and nodded absently.
Hazel and Flynn hurried down the staircase before some new punishment could be added to their lives.
Po stood patiently at the bottom of the stairs feeding rough white stones to each of the moas.
“Hey, what are you feeding Mr. Mango?”
“Oh, my ma calls them moa stones, eh? I feed them these rough chunks and eventually when they come back out, they’re smooth and glittering. She uses them in her carvings.”
“So, you have to retrieve them from their—you know?” Hazel asked, scrunching up her nose and shaking her head.
“Yup.” Po jumped onto the back of his moa without the use of a platform. “You ready for Grounding with Master Sorrel?”
“You go on ahead. I have to talk to Flynn about some girl stuff. We’ll catch up.” Hazel gave Po a wide smile that didn’t touch her eyes and waved rapidly.
As soon as he rounded the curve in the road and fell out of sight Hazel grabbed Flynn’s arm and pulled her down toward the wide river, close enough to see the ice still clinging to the banks. “Do you think anyone can hear us?”
“Over that?” Flynn gestured to the racing water. “Besides, who would want to hear us?” she asked.
“Mistress Windemere, for starters,” Hazel retorted.
“She wants to help us.”
“Did you see what happened when you told her the message was real?” Hazel asked.
“She smiled, probably because she’s happy to think that Temarama could be alive.”
“Did you see that bit of her hair that turned back to it’s original red for a second?”
“No. Why would her hair turn red?” Flynn wondered if Hazel imagined the color shift.
“Maybe her hair isn’t really white. Maybe she cast an elaborate glamour spell to get the coven to trust her.” Hazel’s mind whirred at top speed. “Her ancestors are from The Hagathorn and those folks have always been a little separate from the rest of us. Living in trees and what not.” She tapped her fingertips together fiendishly.
“If she’s working against the coven why would she be happy to discover that the most powerful witch in history is still alive?” Flynn could not follow Hazel’s insane theory.
“So she can kill her.” Hazel spoke the last words with an ominous whisper.
They were incredibly late to Master Sorrel’s class on Grounding and he made them sit in the back of the room, which meant they had absolutely no chance of hearing a single word from his ancient whispery mouth.
Hazel and Flynn trudged to their last training session of the day, History of Herbal Identification taught by their least favorite witch, Tamsin, Mistress of Herbs.
Po made sure they all arrived early and he forced the girls to agree to sit at the very front of the mat. He even left his whittling knife in his pocket while he took them on a tour.
The Herb Hut was divided into four sections. The training room made up the largest section with big shuttered windows to let in light and a thick woven flax mat on the ground. The prep room came next in size and had several long tables for sorting, cleaning, and cutting herbs. The drying room smelled wonderful, or awful, depending on whether you were standing near a bundle of frangipani flowers or a stinky bunch of valerian. Wooden slats lined the ceiling so that twine could easily be looped over to secure bundles for drying.
Po attempted to take the girls into the final and smallest room but Mistress Tamsin intercepted the three and forbid them from entering the extraction room without her express permission. “One drop of the wrong extract could kill you,” she said. She waved her hands and shooed them back toward the training room. “Take your places, the session will begin shortly.”
Hazel pulled Flynn down on the mat and whispered, “Extracts that can kill, huh? Maybe she’s working with Windemere.”
Flynn chuckled and received a pinched stare from the frog-eyed Mistress of Herbs.
“You are both scheduled to work in the Herb Hut,” Tamsin heavily pronounced the ‘h’ in Herb, “every day after training. Would you like to come in on your days off, as well?”
“No, Mistress,” they replied, together.
Po studied the girls and shook his head.
Tamsin walked a circuitous path in and around the students handing each one a flower, root, or leaf. She returned to the front of the class and made an announcement. “I will ask you to identify the plant that you are holding. If you do not know the name of what you hold, you must eat it.”
Giggles and whispers filled the room.
“Do not assist others in your Hapu. You must each learn your own lessons.” Tamsin gestured toward Flynn. “Let us begin here.”
Flynn stood and held her leaf toward the rest of the initiates. “Mine is mugwort.”
The Mistress of Herbs looked annoyed by the correct answer. Tamsin replied hastily, “Yes, fine. Next.”
Hazel stood and showed her sample to the others. “I think mine is the bitter ginger plant.”
“Do you think or do you know, initiate?”
“It is, yes, I’m sure,” Hazel stumbled over her words.
“Hesitation can be the difference between life and death.” Tamsin exhaled loudly. “Next.”
Po jumped up and confidently announced, “Mine is an elderberry leaf.”
The corner of Tamsin’s mouth curled. “Are you quite sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Po replied.
“Incorrect. Eat your leaf.” Tamsin waited.
“No!” Hazel leapt to her feet and slapped the leaf from Po’s hand.
Tamsin’s eyes struggled to narrow. “I specifically said that no assistance is to be given.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress Tamsin, but I won’t stand by and watch Po eat a poisonous tutu leaf.” Hazel looked away from the elder witch’s angry glare.
“I have a heap of stinging tree nettle in the prep room that needs sorting and bundling. You can add that to your reparations.” Tamsin roughly grabbed Hazel’s shoulder and steered her toward the next room. “Perhaps your father would’ve benefited from your keen eye when he misidentified the tutu in the Mountains of Tarakina.”
The cruel jab at her crippled father, the former Master of Herbs, brought huge tears to Hazel’s eyes. She ran to the preparation room and sobbed into the sleeve of her tunic.
Flynn stood up and took a step to follow after Hazel.
“You can’t afford any more mistakes, youngling. I would sit back down, if I were you.”
Her face flushed with anger, Flynn turned to face Mistress Tamsin. What she wanted to say was, “Thank the Goddess you are not me,” but instead she sat back down on the flax mat like a completely average coward.
The identification exercise continued for what seemed like weeks. Flynn could hear Hazel’s sobs lessen and eventually she only noticed an occasional sniffle. She didn’t pay much attention to the herbs, roots, and bark being identified or eaten in the training room. The moment when Tamsin dismissed the initiates and Flynn could finally rejoin her friend couldn’t come fast enough.
Hazel had created an ingenious method for working with the nettle.
Flynn stood and admired the handiwork before speaking. “Can you set me up with whatever’s on your hands?”
Her eyes were rimmed with red and her cheek still held the streak of a recent tear, but Hazel proudly modeled her ingenuity and moved to outfit Flynn. “Mistress Tamsin has all the pterodactyl skin gloves under a security spell, so I invented my own protection.”
“Does it work?”
Hazel held up her welt-free hands and smiled. “You tell me.”
“Wow. Do me, do me.” Flynn held out her hands.
Her friend wrapped several thin layers of gauzy loose-weave wool over each of Flynn’s fingers and reached for a candle.
“Careful, don’t burn me,” Flynn said.
“Oh, nonsense. The wax will drip down and seal the cloth onto your fingers, it’s only sort of warm—not boiling.” Hazel tipped the candle so the wax would drip onto Flynn’s fingertips and coat the fabric. “See? It’s perfect. Now remember to watch your wrist when you pick up a stalk, and don’t squeeze too hard, and you’ll be fine.”
“What happens if I have my usual grace and one of the stingers pokes into me? How many stings before I die?” Flynn asked.
“If it’s only one, you should be all right,” Hazel replied.
“It depends on how deep the stinger gets into your flesh,” Po interjected.
Both girls jumped at the sound of an unexpected voice.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you could use some help, eh?” he said.
“Why would you volunteer to sort tree nettle, Po?” Hazel moved to put her hand on her hip, but stopped short when she felt her finger wrappings.
He looked at Hazel for a moment before his gaze darted to the floor. “You saved my life. I’m your servant.” Po dropped to one knee and touched his forehead.
Hazel exhaled loudly and pushed him onto his backside. “Stop fooling around and get your hands over here for the Hazel Special.”
Po protested the shove, but presented his hands immediately.
As they worked through the heap of nettle, Flynn carefully pulled the story of Hazel’s father, Delcourt, into their conversation. “Po, what does your father do in the village?” she asked.
“I don’t know my father. My ma conceived me during the Spring Rite and she didn’t want the burden of a partner, so they never had a ceremony to bond them. Only me and Ma.”
“Hmmm, just like me,” Flynn added. “My mom doesn’t even know who wore the mask of the Sky Father the year she conceived me. When I ask her about it she always says I’m ‘a gift from the Goddess’ and not to ‘question the threads of destiny’ and other non-answers.”
“My father taught me everything I know about herbs,” Hazel said, softly.
“Mistress Tamsin doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Flynn added.
“No, she’s right about the tutu berries, but that’s not the whole story.”
Po and Flynn exchanged a glance, but said nothing.
“He went to the Mountains of Tarakina to harvest elderberries, but he got lost. He had enough food and he knows how to find water.” Hazel continued to pull the nettle leaves off the stalk for several minutes before she continued. “He’s a little absentminded, always looking at leaves and stems and not paying attention to other things. He slipped on some loose rocks and he hit his head when he fell.”
“Did he pass out?” Po asked.
Hazel looked up from her work and stared out the window. “He did. When he came to he had lost a lot of blood and he couldn’t find his waterskin. He knew he needed fluids, so he crawled to a nearby stand of brush and ate a handful of what he thought were elderberries…” Hazel’s voice caught in her throat and she swallowed hard. “But he wasn’t in his right mind, he would never—”
“I know, I know,” Flynn said as she rubbed Hazel’s back. “How did he survive?”
“He realized his mistake and immediately chewed a bit of mandrake root from his pouch—”
“That made him throw up!” Flynn interrupted.
“Yes, but some of the tutu seeds must’ve remained. Two days passed before some men from Nanea Port found him and brought him to their Priestess.”
“But he lived, eh?” Po asked.
“I think he wishes he would’ve died,” Hazel whispered before her tears spilled onto the nettle in her hand. “He can’t speak, his left leg has shriveled up, and he forgets things—people—it breaks my heart.”
Mistress Tamsin swept into the room with a smirk on her face and a broom in her hand. She observed the clever finger gloves on each of the initiate’s hands and her face rapidly melted into a frown. She thrust the broom at Flynn. “Did you not hear the supper gong?” She did not wait for a reply. “Sweep this floor and be gone. I must prepare tomorrow’s lesson, and none of you should be out after dark.”
Hazel and Po carefully hung the bundles in the drying room while Flynn swept the floor. They tossed their finger wrappings into the fire beneath the cauldron in the corner of the prep room and ran out of the Herb Hut.
