Oh no, she thought with impending dread, the Witch of the Wreing! I’m done for! She tried to stand up, but her legs and arms were useless and her entire body felt like it had been drained of blood, leaving a sick, acidic feeling in her muscles. The woman rocked forward, and Jahrra desperately began crawling backwards, smearing black muck all over herself.
“Don’t worry, I’m no witch, and I’m no hag,” the haggard woman rasped. “Unless you think me a goblin or a troll, you have nothing to fear.”
Jahrra would have sworn the woman was smiling, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at her face. It was hard enough looking at any part of her at all. Jahrra decided to focus on her feet, which were actually hidden by a patched and worn skirt.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” the woman asked again, gesturing stiffly towards the mushrooms.
The pounding in Jahrra’s ears had subsided enough to allow her to take notice of her voice. It wasn’t gruff, but was worn and friendly, not at all threatening.
“It’s quite alright, I won’t harm you,” the woman insisted.
Jahrra didn’t know whether to be frightened or friendly. She breathed deeply and slowly like Viornen and Yaraa had taught her to do when faced with a potential enemy.
She then swallowed her fear and took a good, long look at the strange person in front of her. Jahrra blinked; the old woman wasn’t overly impressive or frightening after all. In fact, she looked like she had risen right out of the swamp itself and Jahrra, after traveling through this strange landscape, wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. She wasn’t tall, maybe just a few inches over five feet at the most, and had flaming red hair unlike any color Jahrra had ever seen before.
Reluctantly, Jahrra forced herself to look at the woman’s face, relief flooding through her when she didn’t find the expected sallow features with hollow eyes and rotten skin. The woman did look quite old, however, and very haggard, with crooked teeth and wrinkled skin, and her heavy clothes were filthy and patched. Jahrra wondered again if this was the witch everyone feared, and understood why they would think that. If anyone had seen her from a distance wandering these misty woods, they would’ve run away in fear. But up close, she didn’t seem frightening at all, and her voice, although scratchy and tired, was actually warm and welcoming.
Jahrra continued to stare as the woman took a few more steps forward, moving gracefully for someone who looked so fragile and weathered. As she drew closer, the woman’s face became more visible in the dim light of the swamp. It was an old and bent face, and the lines were deeper than Jahrra had noticed at first, easily putting Hroombra and his wrinkles to shame. The old woman smiled once again, revealing missing teeth, but her topaz eyes overflowed with strength, fire, and a deep wisdom.
“You’re a quiet one, not what I expected. Not what I expected at all.”
She cackled softly, looking not at all deterred by Jahrra’s rude staring.
Jahrra hadn’t realized just how frightened she still was until a wave of calm washed over her, pushing away the feeling of faintness. Miraculously, she heard her own voice, although the words she tried to speak got caught in her throat, “Wh-who, wha-what . . .?”
The old woman’s face cracked into another smile. Jahrra swallowed and tried again, doing a much better job this time.
“I, I’m so sorry,” she managed lamely, stammering slightly in embarrassment.
After gaping like a suffocating fish for a few seconds, she continued, “I was mesmerized by your collection of plants, they’re quite amazing.”
Jahrra tried to smile, but realized it was a weak effort. She bit her bottom lip instead and allowed her gaze to falter, watching her hand sink into the black soil beside her instead.
“Ah yes,” croaked the ancient woman, sounding not at all offended. “I’ve worked many hours keeping it happy.”
“I’m terribly sorry to intrude,” Jahrra repeated abashedly. She wondered why the woman hadn’t yet questioned why a young girl had been trespassing and poking around in her yard.
She continued on, her face growing hot, “My classmates challenged me to come to the Belloughs. I had no idea anyone really lived here or I wouldn’t have been so intrusive.”
The old woman looked at Jahrra with her head cocked slightly to the side, as if trying to read her mind.
Jahrra suddenly wished she was a turtle so she could retreat within her shell, but unfortunately she didn’t have that luxury.
After a few more moments of her scrutinizing stare, the woman spoke more quietly, “Most people avoid this part of Oescienne, so there was no way you could know anyone lived here. But I’m sure you’ve heard stories of a monster or a hag, and thus wished to see for yourself if such tales were true?”
The woman’s golden eyes twinkled, revealing a startling youthfulness, and Jahrra turned from pink to crimson. The old woman was exactly right, of course. Yes, Jahrra had ideas of a vile creature lurking in the caves, but she’d never stopped to think that there just might be someone living here trying to avoid the very outsiders who persecuted them.
Jahrra sat in uncomfortable silence, ignoring the dampness soaking through her clothes.
It was only a short while before the old woman spoke once again, “No worries lass,” she rasped. “I rarely receive company, and now you can tell your friends you’ve come face to face with the Witch of the Wreing. Come, you can’t sit in the mud forever.”
Jahrra looked up suddenly, forgetting her apprehension and before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Are you really a witch?”
The woman, who had her gnarled hand held out to give Jahrra a hand up, exploded in raucous laughter, lightening the atmosphere just a bit. Jahrra shrank farther into the mud.
“Well, the answer to that question really depends on who you ask,” the woman said when she had regained her breath. “To some I am a witch; to others I’m a hag. To most I’m just a crazy old woman.”
She gave a jagged smile, pulling up the timorous girl who’d finally taken her rough hand. Jahrra was surprised at how easily the woman yanked her up.
“My name is Archedenaeh, but you can call me Denaeh. I’m a Mystic and I’ve been awaiting your arrival for some time now.”
Jahrra gaped at her, pausing in the middle of her effort to wipe off as much of the mud clinging to her backside as she could.
Once she found her voice, she stammered, “How, how did you know I was coming?”
“Like I said, I’m a Mystic.”
Jahrra stood in the middle of the little clearing, her eyes wide with surprise. A million questions ran through her head, but this time she thought before speaking. In the calmest voice she could muster, she queried, “What exactly is a Mystic? Is it like a fortune teller?”
The woman laughed once again, clearly amused by these naïve questions. Normally, Jahrra would’ve been annoyed by all the laughter at her expense, but she could tell that the woman’s amusement wasn’t malicious in the least. Jahrra, slightly discomfited by her lack of knowledge, returned her focus to the ground, staring at a tiny golden mushroom that had strayed from the main crop.
The woman finished her fit of laughter and answered as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
“It is not.”
Jahrra braved a glance at the Mystic. She simply stood there grinning, the gleam of laughter lingering in her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, Jahrra pushed on. “What’s the difference, then, between a fortune teller and a Mystic?” And before she could allow the woman any more awkward pauses, quickly added, “And where do oracles come in? And if you are a Mystic, why do people say you’re a witch?”
The old woman looked pleased at these questions despite the urgency in which they were asked and simply answered serenely, “A fortune teller does mostly guess work, interpreting cards or signs they believe have significance. A fortune teller speaks in half-truths because they don’t have all of the facts and essentially don’t know the future. A fortune teller often only wishes to make a
profit and will find a way to tell the listener what they want to hear, usually something vague that could be applied to any fortunate or unfortunate event in a person’s life.”
The old woman, standing hunched over with the tips of her knobby fingers pressed together, paused and looked at Jahrra to make sure she was following. Jahrra rubbed her arm and smiled in encouragement.
“A Mystic is a step above that,” the woman continued, “interpreting the spiritual signals they receive from the world around them. A Mystic tells you the part of your future they can see, but emphasizes that they can only see a small portion. Most of it is up to that particular person and what they make of it. A Mystic will feed off of what spiritual essence a person possesses and will try and make an assessment of that information.
“An Oracle, on the other hand, is a being that actually knows the past, present and future. They speak in riddles because they know the absolute truth will drive any living being mad. An Oracle will tell you enough to help you through a rough patch, but will seldom give you more.”
The old woman drew her sleeve-draped arms behind her back and began to slowly pace in front of Jahrra before continuing, “There are many fortunetellers in this world, fewer Mystics, and unfortunately, only two of the five Oracles of Ethoes remain in existence.”
Jahrra was fascinated and completely enraptured with Denaeh’s explanation. Hroombra would never tell her this much if she ever asked him.
She took advantage of this woman’s willingness to answer her questions and asked a few more, “How does someone become a fortuneteller or a Mystic? And could you tell me more about the Oracles? Why are there only two left?”
Denaeh smiled again and released a small chuckle. “Fortunetellers are everyday people who require little training compared to Mystics. Mystics require extensive training and are changed significantly before they are qualified. Mystics also require a pre-existing gift toward the art of reading the future, and they must be magical.”
Jahrra moved her mouth to form a question, but the old woman held up a withered hand to stop her. “The Oracles were created by the goddess Ethoes and are considered highly sacred. Originally there were five, like I said, but two were killed during the rise and fall of the god Ciarrohn, and another was killed by the Crimson King, Cierryon. The Oracles are the supreme power when it comes to inquiries of the future, but Mystics have exceptional powers as well.”
Suddenly, a branch snapped in the distance and Jahrra instinctively glanced in the direction the sound came from. As soon as she returned her eyes to Archedenaeh, she gasped in shock and took a quick step back, almost tripping over a decaying log. Instead of the old, haggard elderly woman that had been telling her all about Mystics and Oracles, she was looking at a young, beautiful woman standing exactly in her spot.
When she grinned, Jahrra noticed she had the same smile (but with several more teeth), the same glittering topaz eyes, and the same vibrant red hair that the older woman had.
In a much younger and more melodic voice, she said, “We Mystics also have a special power. We have the ability to take on three stages of life; infancy, youth and old age, but I rarely find use for infancy.”
She said this as if instantaneously changing from an old woman to a young one were as natural as breathing. Her smile and eyes held laughter once again and before Jahrra’s very eyes she melted back into the old woman, once more taking on the hunched posture and weathered features of age.
“Will that do for now, Jahrra?”
Jahrra started, not at the rough change in Denaeh’s voice, but at the sound of her own name being spoken.
“You know my name.”
It was more a statement than a question.
“Oh, yes lass, I know much about you. You are twelve years of age, I believe, the tallest in your age group at school, and you are unlike all of the other children you know, in more ways than you think. But don’t bother to ask how or why I know these things, because now is not the time for you to know.”
Jahrra had a sudden image of Hroombra telling a portion of one of his stories, and she began to wonder why this Mystic, living in the middle of the Wreing Florenn isolated from all of civilization, could know so much about her. But if Denaeh was what she claimed, Jahrra guessed she could tell anything about anyone who wandered into her swamp.
This feels dangerous, said a small voice in her head. Jahrra twitched and pushed the voice aside as she tried to think. This is crazy! the voice insisted. You don’t know this woman! Make some excuse and get out of there! But an overwhelming blanket of calm and safety muffled her blaring conscience. She suddenly felt at ease and was able to get back to her own thoughts.
Jahrra gazed into the mysterious, golden eyes of the old woman as she tried to determine her intentions. She could definitely be an ally when it comes to the twins, she thought shrewdly, but is all this kindness just a façade? Could she really be evil and simply be waiting to gain my trust, like the witches in all the old stories?
Jahrra pondered these thoughts for a while, but in the end decided that the Mystic Archedenaeh wasn’t dangerous in the least. She’s probably just glad to be talking to someone else after all her years of isolation. Jahrra smiled once again, wondering if during all this time the woman had been reading her mind.
“Tell me about your garden,” Jahrra said cheerfully, trying to cover her conspiratorial thoughts.
“I thought you’d never ask!” Denaeh beamed, turning once again into her younger, more vibrant self and leading Jahrra through the patches of mushrooms and clumps of grasses and vines.
Once she’d completely done away with her lingering hesitance, Jahrra spoke freely and easily with Denaeh. She found it comforting to talk with the Mystic, and soon she was telling her own story about her life and her friends and school. Denaeh listened carefully, nodding in the right places and smiling when Jahrra’s story needed encouragement.
Although Denaeh seemed to be intrigued by Jahrra’s stories, the Mystic wasn’t paying particularly close attention to what the girl was saying. Not that she was insensitive to Jahrra’s troubles, however. Denaeh merely needed to assess the girl, to figure out what she was made of. Yes, the Mystic thought to herself as her eyes glittered, making Jahrra believe she was smiling in response to her description of Kiniahn Kroi, you are special indeed . . .
“. . . and then he pulled me down from the face of the waterfall, just like that, and I fell almost thirty feet!”
Jahrra’s enthusiastic tale broke past Denaeh’s thoughts, and the Mystic realized that she would have to think about the future later. Right now she needed to befriend this young girl, gain her undying trust and loyalty, and make sure she had some kind of influence on her life from this point on.
Jahrra paused, giving the Mystic an odd look. After a few moments, she continued on with her story, forgetting that her new friend had seemed to lose focus for awhile.
“Anyhow, we went back to their house, and Gieaun, Scede and I were able to spend the whole evening in the kitchens with all of the cooks and maids. It was the best Solstice Eve I’ve ever had. And can you believe it? I didn’t even want to go!”
Archedenaeh grinned broadly over the small fire she had kindled beside her garden and added, “Yes, Jahrra, you’ll learn in life that many of the things you wish against turn out to be the best things that ever happen to you.”
Jahrra smiled at this. She liked this strange woman and at the same time wondered if Hroombra was aware of her presence in the forest. But her mentor would have told her by now, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t stress how dangerous the Wreing Florenn was if he knew about Denaeh. Jahrra sighed wistfully. The Mystic was so much easier to talk to than the other adults she knew, and was so much more willing to answer her endless questions.
While Jahrra was reflecting on her sudden good fortune, a strange, crackling call cut through the thick air and a big, dark bird flew out of the mist, swooping down onto Denaeh’s shoulder.
“Whoa!” Jahrra exclaimed, falli
ng to the ground in surprise.
The strange bird grumbled and fluffed up his feathers while Denaeh laughed, absent-mindedly stroking its glossy wings. Jahrra quickly rolled back into a sitting position, gawking openly at the odd bird. It looked like a raven, but it was larger with shorter legs. She stood up slowly, brushing herself off for a second time and approached Denaeh cautiously. She let out a low sigh when she realized the bird wasn’t black but a deep, dark blue color with silky feathers all around its neck, legs and back. Its neck feathers were streaked with a creamy yellow color, and the feathers on its back and legs were the same.
The bird made another strange cawing noise and Jahrra noticed that it had some sort of seed or acorn lodged in its glossy beak.
“Very well, Milihn, plant it on the edge of the mushroom patch,” Denaeh said to the bird, smiling and smoothing its silky feathers.
The raven-like bird fluttered off of her shoulder and glided to the other side of the garden. It landed rather awkwardly, hopping to a stop, and quickly shoved the seed into the soil, using its beak to cover it back up with black soil.
“What on Ethoes was that?” Jahrra queried breathlessly.
“Ah,” Denaeh said, smiling broadly, “that is my bird, Milihn. He’s a korehv.”
“What’s a korehv?” Jahrra asked, still stunned, wondering if she could find it in any of Hroombra’s books.
“A korehv is a bird native to Felldreim similar to ravens and crows. They’re also highly intelligent and are prone to collecting seeds and other useful objects, so you can see why he and I are so compatible.”
Milihn croaked contentedly and flew back to his master’s shoulder. He fluffed up his feathers and shook, dropping one large wing feather as he did so. Denaeh reached out and plucked it from the air before it hit the ground. She turned the feather in her fingers, examining it. Then she held it out to Jahrra.
“A gift from the both of us, it will bring you luck.”
Jahrra took the feather speechlessly, as if she were being offered a rare gem. She looked at it for a while, the shimmering blue color none like she’d ever seen.
The Finding Page 34
