Meri

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  Wyth’s mouth shriveled into a prunish-looking dent. “You’re lying,” he accused her. “You’re only trying to shirk your assigned task. This dream is mine and you will interpret it!”

  “Please, Aelder—”

  “Obedience, Prentice Meredydd, is an attribute of the godly.” He fixed her with the gimlet eyes of a ferret—so sharp, they prickled her face. She would interpret the dream, they said, or she would stand, forever, at the whitewall.

  Obedience. Even to a bully like Wyth Arundel. Meredydd wondered when he had become such a tyrant and why. She wiped the bluestick’s oily hue from her fingers and picked up one of the broken halves. Then she emptied her mind of all but the images in their dream.

  “The horse,” she began, “strong emotions, the passionate movement of life.” She finished the horse symbol.

  “Going to Cirke symbolizes the worshipful attitude, contemplation, devotion to God.” She drew that symbol next to the horse.

  “The horse sweeps the dreamer away from devotion, worship and contemplation to...to this House of Pleasure. This can only...I mean, this would seem to symbolize physical gratification, material distractions and the like. We see the horse—” She pointed to the first symbol. “—also in conjunction with Halig-liath—the Holy Fortress—which symbolizes education, learning, scholarship, spiritual advancement.” The symbol for Halig-liath appeared on the whitewall.

  “The final major symbol in the aislinn is Pilgrimage.” She drew the symbol beneath the one for Halig-liath.

  “Pilgrimage is the summit of our goals. It represents the best in us. Our highest aspiration. The horse keeps the Pilgrim from reaching this ultimate goal. I would interpret this dream as either a fear expressed by the spirit or a warning issued by it, that the passions of life may intrude between the dreamer and his devotion, his worship, his spiritual education and, ultimately, the attainment of his highest goal. That they may carry him to physical excess rather than spiritual fulfillment.”

  Meredydd stopped speaking and waited, but Wyth, his eyes intent on the blue-on-white images, was silent.

  Brys-a-Lach was not. “I think Meredydd is entirely off the path. Entirely. May I do a Tell, Aelder Prentice Wyth?”

  Wyth glanced at him momentarily, then nodded.

  Brys stood, thrusting himself upward into a shaft of sunlight which caught and held him as it fell from one of the many mullioned windows. In his fine, white tunic, he gleamed—a broad-shouldered, golden haired angel, an Eibhilin. The Sun worshipped him more beatifically than even Phelan could do.

  “I believe,” he said, voice deep and challenging, “the vision means practically the opposite of what Prentice Meredydd’s analysis indicates. Note, carefully, that no matter how many times the horse carries the dreamer away from devotion, education, aspiration—and I am willing to acknowledge the correct interpretation of these images—he returns to his quest.

  “If the horse takes him from Cirke, he returns to the higher path to Halig-liath. If it steals him from there, he takes yet a higher path—the one to the Meri, his ultimate goal.

  “It is clear, therefore, that what the spirit is communicating to the dreamer is a tale of his own spiritual indomitability and persistence. He is so strong, he overcomes his passions and the swift course of physical life and returns to his spiritual pursuits.”

  Aelder Wyth pinned Meredydd to the whitewall with his dirk-sharp eyes. “What do you think of this analysis, Prentice Meredydd?”

  She quailed, wishing she could make herself say, “Oh, it’s obviously correct, sir. How stupid of me, sir, to think otherwise. Forget everything I said!” Unfortunately, she could not make herself say that, and so what came out instead was, “I think there is a slight chance it could be correct, but...”

  “Yes?”

  “It is the spiritual pursuits that are being interrupted by the passions, not the other way around, as Prentice Brys suggests. The dreamer ends his course at...at Lin-liath, not at Halig-liath.”

  Aelder Wyth continued to study her, his eyes hooded. “You said you also had this dream. Is this true?”

  “I am not in the habit of lying, Aelder. I had this same dream last night, with one major difference.”

  “Yes. The place the horse delivered you. Where did the horse take you, Prentice Meredydd?”

  She had his full attention, Meredydd knew—eyes, ears, senses—all were trained on her. The other Prentices might not have existed. Something of importance was happening here, but she was at a loss to understand what it was. A tension had seized her, tickling the back of her neck, making the hair stand on her arms. She rubbed at them.

  “It took me to the ruins at Lagan.”

  Wyth nodded, pulling at his lower lip, staring at her, still. She realized that tiny lines radiated out from his eyes and creased the corners of his mouth and she wondered how they had come to be there when he was only eighteen.

  When she thought she would scream at him to say something, he moved, turning away from her. She thought he seemed...sad. Then he spoke and she decided she must have imagined it.

  “Your behavior is presumptuous; your interpretation spurious and...vicious. You may be seated.” He waved in the general direction of her bench.

  “Vicious!” she repeated, not moving from the whitewall. “How can it be vicious? You gave me a dream to Tell. I interpreted it as best I could. How is that vicious?”

  “You knew the dream was mine.”

  “The dream was mine.”

  “You use it to make personal attacks—”

  “You are being unfair! The object of the Tell is to gain wisdom and insight, not gratification. If you can’t be fair-minded and detached from your aislinn, then you shouldn’t give them up to be Told.”

  “I shouldn’t?” His eyes narrowed.

  “No,” Meredydd continued, recklessly, “you shouldn’t. It’s not fair to me—to any of us. Why have you done this? Twice, now, you’ve given me your own dreams to interpret. Why? Why have you given them to me?”

  Her voice rang shrilly in her ears, making her sound almost hysterical, making her cringe.

  Aelder Prentice Wyth retreated behind his workbench and took up his books. “I can no longer tolerate having you in my class, Prentice Meredydd. I shall seek to have you transferred to another class for Aislinn Interpretation.”

  He left without a backward glance, leaving Meredydd standing, white-faced and shaking, before her peers. They goggled at her for a moment, then rose silently in ones and twos and headed for the Refectory for the midday meal. Only Lealbhallain stayed, waiting for her to move or speak.

  Finally, she did. “Did I bring this on myself?”

  Leal blinked his springleaf eyes. “No, Meredydd. You only did what was asked of you. And you did it honestly. I don’t think your interpretation was at all spurious. And I didn’t think you were grinning, either—especially not mockingly.”

  “Then what is wrong with me? I seem to be constantly in trouble. This year has been so difficult. Everyone treats me...differently than they used to. Osraed Ealad-hach is impatient with me; Aelder Wyth acts like he hates me; the other Prentices look at me strangely and whisper like old fishermen.”

  “I don’t do that,” Lealbhallain assured her. “I don’t do any of those things.”

  Meredydd smiled at him. “No, you don’t. That’s because you see me as a friend—a person—not as a girl. They all see me as a girl now—inferior. A lot of people don’t think girls should be allowed to study the Divine Art.”

  Leal stood, seeming strangely unsteady. His chin came just to her shoulder, but he tried to lift himself a little at the heels so as to look at her more on a level. “It’s a hard thing to challenge tradition, Meredydd. You’re a rare person—a rare girl to have such talent.”

  She moved past him to her workbench, where she collected her satchel of books. There was cat-sparkle in her eyes when she turned back to look at him. “Am I? Am I that rare? Who’s to say there aren’t hundreds of girls hiding their
talents beneath their aprons? Look, Leal, if girls are so rarely talented in the Art, why do we hear so often of some woman being charged as Wicke?”

  Lealbhallain blanched. “Oh, but that’s not the same thing, surely!”

  “Isn’t it?” She grimaced and made a dismissive gesture. “Well, that’s as it may be. But why should it be such a strange thing for a female to be Osraed? The Meri is female.”

  “She’s not a human female,” remarked Leal.

  Meredydd hung her satchel over one shoulder and turned to face him, hands on hips. “And so?”

  Lealbhallain blinked and his mouth popped open. “It doesn’t seem strange to me,” he assured her after a moment of awkward silence. “I believe in you, Meredydd. I believe you will make the most wonderful Osraed ever.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder and let the fondness she felt for him show in her eyes. “How lucky I am to have such a loyal friend. Thank you, Leal.”

  He quivered strangely beneath her hand, like a fawn she had once petted. His eyes held the same innocent panic. She laughed and patted the shoulder.

  “You need to eat,” she told him and steered him toward the door.

  They left the classroom and went back up the long flagged corridor to the concourse. From there they wound down a flight of steps to the high, wall-hugging gallery from which the Osraed watched their morning exercises, and along it to the broad staircase that led down to Halig-liath’s courtyard. The courtyard was robed magnificently in sunlight. Each cobble gleamed warmly, welcoming the pliant feet of Prentices to their ageless, baked surfaces. As they descended, Meredydd let the warmth in through her eyes and tried to put aside the sense of helplessness that paced in tiny circles within her breast.

  After their meal, they would have Osraed Bevol for their lessons on the heart and soul of the Art—the laying on of inyx and the Weaving of Runes. It was Bevol who taught them the discipline of meditation and the spirit of prayer. Who taught them how to use the tools of their craft—crystals, herbs, vapors, aromatic incense—to focus their faculties. It was Bevol who would lay her helplessness and frustration to rest.

  The thought of her guardian made her feel immeasurably better and she was about to turn to Lealbhallain with a light comment, when she heard the whispers.

  “She...Wicke...something to Wyth.” A soft chuckle followed, oozing up from the hollow beneath the stone steps.

  She knew, somehow, that she was the Wicke of the discussion, knew, too, that she should hurry on, get to the Refectory where rumors that she had called the Osraed Ealad-hach “Scir-loc” and had enraged Aelder Wyth so much he had expelled her from his class would cause all heads to turn and all eyes to stare.

  She suddenly had no desire for food. She slowed and softened her steps and strayed toward the stone balustrade. Beside her, Lealbhallain glanced warily about.

  “...wager it’s not a House of Pleasure that subtle and crafty horse takes him to,” said Phelan’s voice, high and reedy. “I wager it’s her house.”

  “Tha’s where my horse’d take me,” mumbled someone else.

  “Mine would follow her to that blasted ruin of hers. The grass there is hip tall and the earth is soft and warm and sweet with the perfume of flowers.” It was Brys’s voice, low, musical, suggestive of things Meredydd understood only instinctively. It tickled her spine, but not pleasantly.

  “That’s not all at Lagan that’s soft and warm and sweet,” said Phelan, and she could here the sly grin in his voice. “Honey-suck-le.” He chuckled, but it cracked and turned to a squeaky giggle.

  “She goes there, you know,” said Brys.

  “Everyone knows tha’,” said the third boy. “She goes Cirke-dag in the month, ye know. The month they’re killed.”

  “On Cirke-dag,” repeated Brys. “I could follow her. I wonder if I did...”

  “You wonder what?” asked Phelan.

  “G’on,” urged the other. “Say it.”

  “I should be ashamed,” sighed Brys.

  “You should, but say it anyway.”

  “I just wondered if I could get her to lie down in that deep grass on that warm earth and...”

  “Aw, come on!”

  “And show me what makes her tunic—”

  There was silence, then a wild trio of giggles, gasps and guffaws.

  “She do billow mysterious!” wheezed the mumbler.

  Meredydd’s face blazed, hot and red. Not even daring to glance at Leal, she fled down the steps and across the square to the Refectory, knowing she would now find the prying gazes there a cooling comfort and wishing fervently that Brys would forget how to use his tongue.

  o0o

  “I will speak to Aelder Prentice Wyth, if you like.” The Osraed Bevol studied Meredydd’s troubled face with patient eyes.

  She shook her head and scuffed the toe of her sturdy leather shoe through the pathside grass. “If anyone speaks to him, it should be me.”

  “There are those who will say this is proof young women should not be given the Divine Education. Especially not along side young, impressionable men.”

  Meredydd glanced up at him, her eyes bright. “Is it my fault my body has billowed in this fashion that Brys and his cronies find so amusing? Is it my fault, when the First Being has written it into my physical nature?”

  The Osraed smiled. “No,” he said, “not your fault. But many would say it is your limitation, your weakness.”

  She opened her mouth to say she had no limitations, but blushed, realizing that was untrue. “How is it my weakness when it affects them?” She shook her head. “My limitations have nothing to do with the shape of my body.”

  “No? What have they to do with, then?”

  She had to think about that. She thought about the dream, about how she had translated it for Aelder Wyth. They had gone several yards along the ridge toward home before she answered his question.

  “Passions,” she said. “Attachments.”

  “Ah. And what are these passions of yours, Meredydd? Are you also curious about the shape of Brys’s garments?”

  She was appalled and then amused. Accordingly, she blushed, then laughed, then went silent. “You know, Osraed, better than anyone, what I am passionate about. It makes me wonder...”

  “Wonder what?”

  “If I interpreted the aislinn properly. Perhaps it doesn’t mean the same thing for Wyth that it does for me. After all, our spirits may not speak at all the same symbolic language.”

  Bevol’s brow wrinkled. “An Osraed cannot go about interpreting aislinn with attachment. Purity of heart and mind is necessary to the Art, but difficult to bring to it. This is why the Meri chooses so few to serve Her.”

  “She didn’t choose Wyth. Why did She not?”

  “Only She knows the answer to that... and perhaps, Wyth, himself. Perhaps this dream reveals much about him. But, it is really not your affair. Wyth fulfills his role at Halig-liath. He imparts his knowledge to the younger Prentices. He is eligible for Pilgrimage again this year at Solstice. He is already scheduled to go in the last week of the Season. And perhaps the Meri will choose him this time.”

  Meredydd nodded, feeling a sudden, almost fond pity for the Aelder Prentice. He had been a good teacher for the last two years, and she had to allow he’d taught her much about the forms and intricacies of the Dream Tell and the symbolic language of the human spirit. It must be only his own sense of inadequacy, she told herself, that made him occasionally surly. She could well imagine what it would feel like to be passed over for the station of Divine Counselor when you had spent your entire life in pursuit of that goal. And, a cold voice within told her, it is something you may come to know firsthand.

  “If Her servants won’t accept a female as Osraed,” she asked Bevol, “will the Meri?”

  “The Meri isn’t human, Meredydd. She is another order of creation altogether. She is as perfect a Being as can inhabit any form of flesh, even Eibhilin flesh.”

  Meredydd looked at him, eyes pleading. “Y
ou know the futures, Master. Will I see her?”

  “You know I cannot answer that. Let me answer something else instead. It is a glorious afternoon. Let us have our lesson here on the way home, eh?” He glanced at her aslant, his eyes robin’s-egg bright and sparkling. Come away from that path, they said.

  She sighed. “Yes. That would be nice. What are we studying today?”

  “What is most worthy of study?”

  “The First Being.”

  “Do you really believe this?”

  Meredydd stared at him, then glanced away, her eyes skittering ahead down the path. What a question! Did she believe—? She thought. It was a good question, especially in view of the lines her life had followed. She could have become bitter about her parents; bitter and angry with any God who could let them be extinguished while she was left behind alone. Well, not alone, certainly. She glanced at Bevol again. He was still watching her.

  “All my life I have been taught to believe there is a Spirit in the Universe,” she said.

  “That is no answer.”

  “No.” She walked on, letting her gaze ripple over land and sky, grass and tree, earth and cloud. “Yes. I believe. But I feel sometimes at a loss to understand exactly What it is I believe in. It is difficult to know Something so subtle. It’s not like knowing another person.”

  “Isn’t it? Do you fancy that you know all there is to know about me, anwyl? Do you know the essence of Bevol?”

  She blushed. “Of course not. But envisioning the invisible....”

  “Takes more than good eyesight. It takes all the physical senses, tuned to their purest pitch. And it takes more. It takes senses that are just as subtle as that which they must be trained to sense. Do you recall this verse? ‘When the conscious spirit commands the eye, the eye can see all forms. When the conscious spirit commands the ear, the ear can hear all sounds. When the conscious spirit commands the tongue, the tongue can savor all tastes. When the conscious spirit commands the mind-—”