“It’s fine, so long as it is directly after supper.”
And when directly after supper came, Wynn had seen to it she would be alert by taking care not to overfill her overindulged stomach. After all, she would soon leave this man who had fed her so generously and it would not do to grow accustomed to eating all she pleased.
“Now, prophet… or whatever you are, I’ve had some time to think over all that transpired yesterday and I would like to know how you knew where to send Phillip to find me and just how you happened to have my name. I confess I don’t have a clue just who you are, nor even what your name might be. After you’ve answered those questions, I will be ready to learn for what purpose you had Phillip fetch me.”
The prophet sat back in his chair, arms laid neatly upon its wooden armrests. He looked her over slowly and seriously, a small gleam in his eyes that was perhaps only a trick of the firelight. “That is quite a list of questions, but I can see they are all valid. I will happily satisfy your queries if you will answer me this: Why did you come?”
Wynn redirected her gaze to the fire. She endured a moment’s impatience, for she owed him no explanation. But then… she had to ask herself, why had she come? Naturally, she had been curious about her future. She had wished to know if her life would ever amount to anything. Thus far, the girl had lived only to take care of others and then merely to survive, but as surviving grew easier with age and experience, what else did she have? She had no ambitions nor dreams—at least none she would consciously admit to herself.
However, upon timidly peeking behind the curtain beyond which the truth was concealed, Wynn realized, first and foremost, what she really yearned for was a home. Confronting just how much she longed for this—craved it—tears began to prick at her eyes… again.
Don’t you dare cry, she reprimanded. Clearing her throat, she said aloud, “I want you to tell my fortune.”
“Your fortune? Just what do you mean by that, my lass?”
“You know... like a fortuneteller. Phillip said that’s what you do.”
“Did he?” The prophet appeared entertained by the thought. “Well... I’ve never quite thought of myself like that, but if you imply that you wish to know your destiny, I can easily apprise you of it.”
“I just want to know what my future holds. I want to know if... if...” Wynn could not find words to describe the yearning in her heart. She had not even truly faced just what that longing was.
The silly man turned solemn sat forward in his chair and reached over to give her hand a little squeeze. “Do not fret, Wynn. I will tell you what it is you hunger to know.”
Wynn peered vulnerably into his face. Could he truly see what lay ahead? She faintly recalled the false fortunetellers she’d met with but pushed those memories aside. The young woman hungered so deeply for hope that she was nearly prepared to accept whatever this prophet planned to tell her.
“Are you familiar with the Great One?” he asked tentatively, sitting back in his chair.
“Not exactly. I have heard the name before and know he is meant to be a god, but that’s about as acquainted as I am. Why?”
The prophet hesitated and then nodded before taking on a reflective, faraway expression. When he continued, it was with a whole other countenance, as if a new man sat before her. His voice was an octave lower as he spoke, “He is a god, yes, but you must understand he is the one true god. He is creator and father. He is the beginning and the end—not only the stuff of legend, but the maker of it. He is all-powerful and all-encompassing. Both ferocious and tender…”
As he continued, the window-shutters suddenly burst and a bizarre, almost tangible gust roared through the room, frolicking through the fire and causing its cinders to spark and crackle wildly. As maddened embers were cast into frenzied flight, charts and winged contraptions fretted and sailed about while even a number of food-laden baskets were hurled over, their contents spewed across the floor.
Wynn’s own body surged with goosebumps as her heart pulsed violently in her chest. Clutching her left arm tightly, she bit her lower lip and sat as witness. Quite suddenly, she felt just as she had when trekking through the Enchanted Wood the evening before—as if hundreds of unseen eyes watched her within the cabin. Furthermore, it seemed to her they had really been there all the time, their presence only now exposed. But in glancing anxiously about, she ascertained no sign of them.
As all this transpired, the prophet did not stir. It was as if he did not observe what went on. But there was no question Wynn did and it made her attend his words almost fearfully.
“He is the air we breathe and all the breath we need,” he went on. “He can erect a mountain in moments and decimate it as swiftly as if it had never been. This is the power he holds as a light in his very hands and he made you and I with it, as well as our brothers and sisters over the face of this planet, past, present and future.”
Sitting forward in his chair, he added, “Wynn... that god is calling you to the very purpose for which I was once called so very, very long ago.”
Breathlessly, Wynn searched his face. She felt the room so distended with his words and with the phantoms unseen that she could not at first form a thought with which to respond, if a response was required.
“Wynn...?” he pronounced ardently. “What do you say to that?”
As the question was formed on his lips, a startling, almost frightening silence commenced, as if all present anticipated her reply. Her mind raced riotously. Uncertain she comprehended just what the prophet asked, she sensed her response carried great magnitude.
“What is it you want of me, prophet?” she asked in a timorous voice.
“Well, I... I want you to say yes. But to tell you the truth, it is not I to whom you need respond, for it is not I who asks.”
“Then who–" Wynn stopped short as understanding came to her.
He was referring to this all-powerful Great One whose name thought in her mind sent frenzied shivers up and down her body. Could she say no to this being? Was he truly all the prophet described? Had he been her creator? Did he hold power in his hands—the power she deduced was the same Phillip had claimed the Great One imparted to the prophet so he could do whatever it was he did? Could it be true he desired her to do what the prophet did? If this were so, she realized Phillip had brought the wrong girl and she wondered if the Great One knew it.
In the very midst of her meditation, she was abruptly seized with the words, “I will,” as they escaped her lips, as though some small part of herself, some layer of her being buried deep within her flesh, had clawed its way out from its prison and into her throat, crying the promise from her innermost soul.
Wynn immediately snapped her lips shut and even went so far as to cover them with her hands, as if it really had been some unknown entity who had drawn it from her. How could she make such a promise if she did not truly grasp what it meant? There were details she needed to be acquainted with, issues that must be discussed, before she could offer her genuine response.
But somehow, all this was inconsequential. So, she uttered her yes-cry again... and then again until she began to sob. She could not grasp the reason she did so, but it was utterly nourishing to release the emotions that had been repressed for so long. Crumbling to the floor, she doubled over onto her knees, hands clenched over her face, and wailed, not caring who heard.
The prophet remained in his chair and allowed her to weep, knowing it meant so many different things at once in so many realities and times. Eventually, he laid his hand upon her head, murmuring how proud he was of her, promising everything would be all right—that everything would only get better from that moment.
She heard his words but could not cease weeping long enough to inquire their meaning. Then, it seemed to her she felt other hands upon her head, back and arms. It was if so many beings were holding her together on the floor. She did not know who or what these “beings” were, but she was too engrossed to be troubled.
At long last, sh
e was guided by the invisible creatures to the bedroom of the evening before. But as her mental and emotional states were in an exhausted blur, she did not comprehend what transpired. Gently situated upon the soft bed, she was covered with both quilt and the supplications of the ones who placed her there.
- F O U R -
Home at Last
WHEN IN THE MORNING Wynn exited the bedroom, the old prophet was once again nowhere to be found. Even so, there was a sumptuous breakfast bidding her fair morning. It was clear the weather had turned, for the fireplace was left burning and the floor sent a chill through her feet as she raced to the meal, swiftly wrapping herself in the blue woolen blanket.
Sighing rapturously at the thick, spiced cakes drizzled in honey, Wynn cast a contented glance about the room. Everything was just as it had been, yet she felt it a golden, glowing dream. If she understood correctly, it was to be part hers now. They had not actually discussed this aspect outright, however, and she was beginning to be certain there was but the one bedroom. Recognizing this, she wondered where the prophet had been sleeping those last evenings and sincerely hoped she had not been the cause of that elderly man sleeping on his own cold, unforgiving floor. If it was so, she would put an end to it.
Though they had established no particulars, the mere thought Wynn might share all this with him was almost more than she could bear, for it would be the most she had had to share in all her life. She refrained from wolfing down her meal so ravenously, knowing it wasn’t likely she would go hungry again. Despite herself, she felt as the whole world was before her—that anything might now happen. She was free to dream.
Still, a small voice nagged. What if this prophet should turn out to be like everyone else? What if all he meant to do was use her? She had never stood for that and would not now, even if it meant giving up what she felt was her newfound home—a place in the world. But as these doubts plagued her, she felt certain they could not be true. This man was different from anyone she’d come in contact with and she was glad she had come, even if there was so much she did not yet know about her situation.
For instance, where was the prophet at present? Surely, he was not on the roof again. But if not there, where? And where had he gone the day before? There were a number of things she wished to ask, so many considerations that had flooded her mind as she’d awoken to birdsong.
Furthermore, as endearing as the prophet often was and though he had yet to speak anything nearing an unkind word to her, he was rather… batty. The way he talked much of the time left her feeling as if she was speaking with a child. But then there were other moments, namely the ones they’d shared the evening before. He’d been almost another man, his voice mighty and impressive, his words fluent and captivating. It was as if there was someone else inside him that did not often choose to come out. Sighing, Wynn knew she had only to let time take its course. She would learn just who this man was and she would learn her place in his home.
Abruptly, Wynn had that feeling again: there were eyes on her. Almost against her will, she glanced about the room. With no one in sight, she stood from her chair and searched further, under and around furniture, in case someone should be hiding from her. But the place was empty. Determined to discover the intruders once and for all, she moved into the hallway and checked the room where she’d slept to no avail.
Returning to the corridor, she grew intrigued by the sight of a staircase she had not noticed before. Curiosity taking the place of good sense, she slowly crept up the passage, fearing she would enter a room that was, perhaps, forbidden to her. What if the prophet was performing some supernatural ritual up there?
Slightly dissatisfying, it proved only a storage loft piled high with even more of the prophet’s things. It was something like a continuation of what could be found on the lower floor but even less organized. She had not had a chance to realize before coming to the cabin that she liked orderliness. This chaos was somewhat maddening to her—no matter how intriguing and beautiful some of it was.
However, what instantly and most naturally seized Wynn’s attention were the frothy feathers that blanketed everything. Even drifting weightlessly in the air as dust, each was made shining by the luminous rays that blazed through the paned windows against the slanted roof. Though it was an impressive sight, the sensation of watchers was no more comprehensible.
Upon returning to the main room, Wynn took her seat and worked to ignore the uncanny feeling. But after some minutes passed, she stole a furtive glance about the room only to discover a plethora of plumes strewn upon what could be seen of the floor beside her, with even a few floating gracefully about. These had not been present previously and she was certain they had not come down with her, for they possessed a unique quality the ones in the attic had not: They were flecked with an iridescent gold substance that enflamed as fire in the light.
After a few moments contemplation, she turned from the peculiar sight and finished her milk, determined to disregard anything that might frighten her from her new home. But soon, her eyes lifted involuntarily and for a moment she saw the outline of a body. This immediately startled her, but upon focusing on the space, it vanished. Laughing to herself, she lifted her dishes for cleaning. Clearly, her imagination was betraying her yet again.
It was nearing noon when a knock sounded at the door.
Here we go again, she thought.
Answering it, there stood a gentleman dressed so elaborately it was difficult to believe he was standing before the humble cabin. Surely, he must be of some wealth and nobility, so what possible business could he have there?
After a few moments in which the man stared blankly into her face as if anticipating a welcome, she spoke the first thing that entered her mind. “May I help you, sir?”
The well-dressed stranger blinked at her as if surprised she’d had to ask. “I am here for the box,” he said. When Wynn’s face did not alight with understanding, he added, “I’ve a bag of silver, if you’ll take it.”
She raised a brow in response to the austere manner in which he condescended to speak to her. “I haven’t a clue as to what it is you refer. You see, I only–”
He rolled his eyes. “I really haven’t the time for this. It is the box for Lord Valdren of Valdren Castle… adorned in gold and green. It should not be difficult to miss.” When Wynn made no move, he continued, “It really ought to be in there somewhere, if you’ll only trouble yourself to look.” He stepped forward as if he would enter and have a look himself.
For whatever reason, Wynn could not bear that he should see the chaotic state it was in. It was fine for the likes of Phillip and Terrance… but not for this haughty fellow from the castle. Swiftly, she agreed to look, closing the door behind her. Once more looking upon the state of things, she put her hands on her hips and blew a stray curl from her face. It could take the remainder of the day to find a single item in all that mess. No, she had to use her head. This was a special box meant for the castle. The prophet would not have left it in this heap of things. Or would he? After all, he was something of a baffling fellow. For all she knew, he’d given it to someone else for safekeeping or stored it up in his attic. However, he had proven he had some semblance of a sound mind the night before. Therefore, precisely where would he keep something so important?
“Aha!” The desk.
And there it was, snugged safely away in the third drawer down. It was smaller than she had anticipated and she dearly longed to open it—to see what could be within that the batty old prophet could possibly have for the lord of the land. But it would not be right, especially as it was meant for Lord Valdren.
“Here,” she huffed, passing it to the gentleman.
“I thank you, young woman,” he said with a small bow. “And I apologize if I was discourteous, but I’ve a schedule to keep, you know.” He looked her over then and seemed to form an opinion before offering the bag of silver.
But when she moved to take it, he said, “You know the prophet never actually accepts it.
It is merely a matter of form.”
Working to keep her temper under control (she had to make a good impression now she had agreed to live under the prophet’s roof), she bit her lip and nodded.
“Atta girl,” he said with a wink. “I may call again sometime soon now you are here.” With that, he bowed and went on his way.
Wynn’s hands curling into fists, her greatest desire was to throw him a good solid punch and let him bow to her then. Instead, she did something she had not allowed herself to do since she was seven. She stuck her tongue out at his retreating back.
Just as she was closing the door, a couple with four giddy children could be heard making their way toward the cabin. Not far behind, an elderly man followed.
For heavens!
As it happened, she found it simple enough to assist the family with what they had come for, as well as the man that followed, but this sort of thing went on sporadically for hours: visitors arriving for some odd reason or another. As the hours dragged on, those who came to the door had poorer excuses than the last for visiting. There were a few who had some real business, but others strived for a reason to be there, while still others made no excuse whatever. Vexingly, all who beat their fists upon the door proceeded to ask prying questions. Needless to say, it was puzzling as well as unsettling to one who had led a decisively private life for so long.
After a time, Wynn began to feel weary of running about answering the door, aiding people with their odd tasks. Could it be this was to be her life for the remainder of her time there? But she refused to believe the prophet had lured her there merely to answer his door for him. For that matter, how did such an old man keep up with it on his own day after day? Why, she was almost glad she was there to answer it for him. He would surely be in need of rest. Perhaps the pouring in of callers was the reason he had not been at home either that day or the day before. She never had learned where he went.
The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen) Page 6
