Meri

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  “And you found it.” Bevol said. “Ultimately, you valued it more than what your physical senses told you was the jewel. Value the jewels, Meredydd. Wherever you find them.”

  Gwynet, looking like one waking from sleep, glanced from Bevol to Meredydd, then held out her hand toward the pool.

  “Won’t ye come up and be dry, Meredydd? It must be raw cold in tha’ pool.”

  Meredydd realized, suddenly, that she was still standing, hip-deep, in the water. Chill flooded her limbs and she climbed out as fast as they could carry her. Skeet was beside her in an instant, wrapping her in a blanket and leading her to where her Master stood waiting.

  Teeth chattering, she blinked up at him. “What now, Master Bevol?”

  “You will continue your Pilgrimage, of course. You will tread the path to the Sea.”

  “And Gwynet?” She turned her eyes to the younger girl, who was listening, now, with every ounce of herself.

  Bevol put a hand on Gwynet’s shoulder. “Why, I will take this jewel home and set her in a place where she will be warm and safe and happy. And we will wait for you together.”

  Gwynet’s eyes grew as big and round as coins. “You mean I’ll not go back to Blaec-del?”

  “No, Gwynet. You will have a new home. The home where Meredydd was raised. And you will go to the school where Meredydd was schooled. And you will become one of the bright jewels of Halig-liath.”

  “A home?... A school?” Gwynet turned her glorious smile and moist eyes to Meredydd. “Oh, ye were so right when ye said I should love him, for he’s tha’ kind. I’ll work hard for ye, Master,” she said to Bevol. “I’ll cook and clean and—”

  Bevol was shaking his head. “No, child. You will not. At least, you will do no more than your share. The hard work I will ask of you will be in the classroom. You will not be my servant, you will be my daughter—just as Meredydd is my daughter. And you will not cook the meals, you will learn the Art.” He looked to Meredydd, his eyes a dark, unreadable bit of night sky. “Does this make you happy, anwyl?”

  Shivering, Meredydd could only nod and smile so broadly she thought her cheeks would crack. Exhaustion staked its claim on her, then, and began to pull her suddenly heavy body toward the ground. She felt supporting hands gently ministering to her needs, but she hadn’t the will or the strength to thank their efforts.

  A last moment of consciousness brought her to an awareness that the pool of the Gwenwyvar was now dark and empty. The White Wave was gone, her waters silent beneath the scattering of light from Skeet’s fire.

  Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I will tread the path of Taminy.

  Chapter 10

  To enjoy the benefits of the Divine is Wisdom; to bring others to that enjoyment is virtue. One cannot be uncaring of the welfare of others and deserve to be called human. The best worship is in the easing of another’s distress and the improvement of their condition. This is true religion.

  — The Corah, Book II, Verse 41

  The pool looked different with the light of dawn falling across it through the encroaching forest. Different, but no less magical. The greenery still wore its emeralds and the water its sapphires and diamonds, with a few topazes thrown about for good measure.

  Meredydd found she had developed an attachment to the place. It was hard for her to turn her back on it and walk away. She wanted to see the Gwenwyvar’s face again and hear her sweet whisper. But only the birds called to her this morning.

  A deep, honest part of her envied Gwynet, who would go home with Osraed Bevol. She wanted him to complete her Pilgrimage with her; she wanted to go home with him. But good-byes had to be said and Meredydd managed not to cry except for Gwynet, who would be happy—Gwynet, who would take her place at the Osraed’s side.

  “I think I am jealous of Gwynet, Master,” she said to him privately. “I’m ashamed, but it’s true. She’s taking my place—”

  Bevol’s arms were around her in a breath. “No one, anwyl, will take your place. Not in my house. Not in my heart. No one can. Gwynet will make her own place there, most certainly. And I know you would not begrudge her that.”

  Meredydd shook her head. “No. I would begrudge her nothing in the world, Master. She is a jewel.” She glanced to where Gwynet, fresh and vibrant and sparkling, helped Skeet pack up their goods.

  The Osraed Bevol held her at arm’s length then, and placed a finger on the tip of her nose and said, “Remember what I told you about jewels, anwyl. Value them, wherever they are found. And remember, too, to let nothing distract you from your goal.”

  He kissed her forehead and moved away.

  A second later, she was netted in Gwynet’s eager embrace.

  “Thank ye, Meredydd. And I thank the First Being It saw fit t’send ye t’Blaec-del. I am indeed blessed. My ma were wise t’give me tha’ name.”

  Meredydd returned the embrace, any last vestiges of jealousy melting. “Be happy, Gwynet. I know you will be happy. And pray for me. I know the Meri will hear your prayers.”

  Gwynet stood back and favored her with a bemused look. “Why the Meri hears all prayers, Meredydd. She’s just peculiar in the way She answers them.” She smiled brightly and gave Meredydd a last, swift hug. “Be home soon, then. I’ll be waitin’ to hear your Tell.” She skittered back three steps, hugging her own frail body and giggling. “Ah, home! What a grand word that is! I’m going t’say it ’til the Master tells me to be silent.”

  Meredydd followed Gwynet with her eyes—followed her to Bevol’s side and waved them on their way east. Then she looked to Skeet. “Time for leave-taking.”

  He nodded, grinning, holding out her pack. “Aye. Off then.”

  And they were on their way, their backs to the rising ball of flame, while Meredydd tried to calculate when they might reach the Western Sea.

  “Skeet,” she said finally, “I make the Sea two day’s journey. Is that right, do you think?”

  “Aye,” he agreed, “that seems right. Two days. We should see it tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be short of food by tonight.”

  “Aye.”

  “I wonder if there are any other villages along here. Maybe a homestead.”

  He glanced at her. “Maybe.”

  She was silent for a time, rubbing her amulet between thumb and forefinger. Then she said, “I wish Osraed Bevol could be with us. I know that’s selfish of me, but...I’ve never been away from him before.” Skeet knew that better than anyone.

  “Nor me. Not since I come to him, I mean.”

  “How did you come to him?” Meredydd asked, for Skeet, though younger than she, had been with Osraed Bevol longer. He was a mystery of whom the Osraed would only say when asked, “He’s such a fixture, I can scarcely recall.” And, when pushed, might be persuaded to add, “He was a gift, you might say.”

  “From whom, Master?” Meredydd had asked once, aghast at the idea that anyone would give their child away.

  “Well, from the Meri, I can only suppose.”

  Meredydd had accepted that. Certainly no one else seemed to know where Skeet had come from, although one Prentice concocted the theory that he was a golem, fashioned by Osraed Bevol out of clay and animated by runeweave and duan—after all, his given name did mean “earth.” Meredydd had credited that only for the two hours it had taken for her to be done at Halig-liath and ask the Osraed what a golem was, and could an Osraed make one.

  He’d laughed so hard, that she gratefully relegated the theory to the dustbin and developed, in its place, the simpler theory that Skeet had been abandoned in Bevol’s precincts and that the Osraed had simply not wanted his young Prentice to know the cruel truth.

  Skeet’s next words confirmed that long-held theory. “Well,” he said, “Maister tells me I was left to him by someone.”

  “I thought that must be it. Would you answer something else, then?”

  Skeet eyed her almost suspiciously. “Aye, if I can.”

  “You’ve been with Osraed Bevol longer than I have. He’s tut
ored you in all aspects of runelore and plain learning and you’ve lived down-country since you were a babe. Why, then, do you talk like an up-country urchin?”

  Skeet doubled over and cackled until he was red in the face. “Mercy!” he cried, at last. “Mercy, mistress Meredydd. You’re after my secrets and mysteries now.”

  “Well, why do you then? You’re as well educated as I am. And you’re not slow. Scandy-a-Caol has reason for such a manner—being raised up in Eada—but not you.”

  “I do because it suits me and serves me. People say what fronts their minds before an urchin. They speak what they think, because they don’t expect to be understood. I learn more that way.”

  “What do you learn?”

  “I learn that Aelder Prentice Wyth is all over mad-heart for you.”

  Meredydd flamed. “Where did you learn that?”

  Skeet tapped his ear. “Open ears, closed mouth, silent feet—that’s Skeet.” He paused. “I know that Leal is likewise smitten.”

  “Leal?” She stared at him.

  “Some Osraed-to-be you are, not even to have read that open book. It’s all in his eyes.”

  “So you think Leal is only my friend because I’m a girl.”

  “Ha! I think he is your friend in spite of it. Think on it, Meredydd, how it must feel to a fellow to have his best friend suddenly up and turn into a girl—someone he might think to marry, to set up family with—no more to play or jolly about with. Ah, pure agony.” He looked completely disgusted.

  “But I’ve always been a girl!” Meredydd protested.

  “Not to Leal. You’ve been his friend—that’s different. And as to the poor Aelder—well, you’ve been his student all along, right?—and all at once—poof!—a cailin. That’s singularly difficult.”

  “Not for me. I don’t understand this, Skeet. Leal being a boy doesn’t make anything different. And why couldn’t Aelder Wyth just keep treating me the way he’s always treated me? I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She glared at him, ready to blast him for his all-knowing attitude.

  He raised a hand in defense, dark eyes demon-shine. “Now think. How did you feel when Aelder Wyth suddenly became a suitor when all along he’d been a teacher?”

  Meredydd boggled at that. How had she felt? Disoriented, stunned and insecure because Wyth’s cool antagonism, for all its unpleasantness, had at least been something she could rely on—like the ancient stones of Halig-liath, like the tides.

  “I thought he was my enemy,” she admitted. “How could he even think I’d be his wife? We weren’t even friends.”

  Skeet laughed. “I suppose our Maister would say, ‘That’s one of life’s great mysteries.’” He imitated Bevol’s voice so well and yet so comically, that Meredydd laughed with him.

  They sang for a time after that and told each other stories intended to keep the nerves on edge. They took a rest stop for mid-day meal, then went on again, the Sun now arching over to blind them. They were silent again, that afternoon, and in that silence, Meredydd began to turn the words of the Gwenwyvar over and over in her head.

  She was on the Path Taminy had followed, moving toward her destiny—step after step, to her goal. It was a goal she must not be distracted from. Now she began to contemplate that goal in earnest, to hold it up before her as a Weaver would hold a rune crystal, searching it with an Osraed’s eyes for aspects and signs. And as she held up this metaphoric crystal, she realized that the path to her goal seemed to have forked.

  If someone asked her just this moment what was that goal, she would have said, “The Sea.” But, of course, that wasn’t really true—it wasn’t the Sea she was seeking, but the Inhabitant of the Sea, the Meri. Yet, beyond even the Meri, there was the Goal the Meri only represented—mankind’s living link with the Divine, it’s only way of knowing That, holding conversation with That, knowing It’s will. Her goal was to become a channel for That, a link to the Link, a link in the chain that joined the Universe with its very Soul.

  Only a handful of souls in a generation attained that. Souls like Bevol. Each was given its own Duan—a secret Duan that sang the essence of the individual’s spirit—along with a unique mission. Bevol’s mission had been to stay in Caraid-land, educate its people and raise up future Osraed. Others had been commissioned to scatter like wind-blown pollen, spreading their special knowledge far and wide. And wherever they journeyed, the old ways were adjusted to the new knowledge, made to fit whatever new wisdom flowed from the Meri’s chosen; things were advanced or put back the way they had been, depending.

  Mankind listened to those who had received the Kiss of the Meri—paid close attention to those who wore Her mark upon their brow. To some, that made the station of the Divine Counselor something to be coveted, to be striven for as a Cyne might strive to be set upon the stone, to be crowned, to rule. But in the very act of craving Osraed-hood, of seeing in it power or prestige or an ear with the Cyne, those covetous souls put themselves out of its reach. The Kiss of the Meri was not a crown, but a collar. It was not for those who wished to govern, but for those who wished to serve.

  That was Meredydd’s goal: To receive the Kiss, to wear the collar, to be like her Master Bevol in all things. To be like Gwynet—a jewel of great virtue. She must not let the exercise overshadow the goal of the exercise. It was not the riddle that mattered—it was the reality; it was not the symbol, but the substance.

  She put away her metaphoric rune crystal, satisfied that her divergent paths had been straightened, cleared and unified.

  “Ah,” she heard Skeet say. “Look.”

  She glanced up from the shore and noticed that a real path joined it, ahead. In several strides, their feet met the new trail. They continued along it, walking easily on its smoothly packed surface. The Sun was sinking lower and just as Meredydd wondered if they should stop to make camp, the smell of wood smoke came to her on the breeze. She looked up, eyes searching, and saw it—a banner of smoke fanning up from a narrow base to flatten itself over the trees.

  They approached cautiously and were gratified to see that the smoky plume came from the chimney of a white-washed cottage set in a clearing hard by the Bebhinn. A mill-house was built out over the water and a scattering of other out-buildings lay about the central house at intervals—a hen house, a storage shed and a small barn—all mudpack and white-washed like the cottage, with dark wood beams framing the walls and underpinning the thatched roof.

  It was not like Lagan, not really, and yet it was enough to catch Meredydd’s breath in her throat and make her eyes sting.

  Her steps slowed as they approached the mill. She could hear the stone grinding within and thought of fresh-baked bread. She was suddenly hungry.

  They skirted the mill and were climbing the grassy slope toward the cottage when a shriek slit the air with sharp terror.

  They froze half up-slope and spun back toward the mill. It was a two story structure, tallest on the river side with a rough wooden platform running about the walls to allow access to the waterwheel.

  It was that wheel that drew Meredydd’s eyes. There, too close to it, dangling from the wooden decking, was a small boy. He was gripping the planks with both hands, but it was not a firm grip, and Meredydd’s heart forced its way up to her throat.

  Below the wriggling form, the Bebhinn roared over a rocky sluice that fed whitewater to the wheel.

  Meredydd bolted for the steps that gave onto the platform from the front of the mill, scrambling diagonally up the grassy hillside with Skeet on her heels. The child screamed shrilly again as her feet hit the solid planks of the decking and he moved faster, adrenaline pumping, blood rushing to her ears. She rounded the corner of the mill. Here the din was epic; the combined hiss, groan and grind of water, wheel and millstone all but blotted out the thin child-cries.

  Meredydd went to her knees, locking one arm about a railing stanchion, and reached down for the terrified boy. Panicked, he let go of the decking and grasped her instea
d. Ripped completely off balance, she tumbled forward and would have gone over if Skeet had not been behind her, had not thrown his arms about her waist and his weight toward the mill’s solid stone wall.

  She yelped in pain as her supporting arm tore free of the stanchion, splinters of wood driving into the soft flesh of her forearm. She was upside-down now, both arms encumbered with squirming, squealing child. The splinters burrowed deeper into her arm, but her attention was all on that waterwheel—groaning, roaring, thrashing the water below like a wounded water beast.

  Fingernails gripping the cloth of the child’s shirt, Meredydd tried to get a purchase on the deck with her knees. The attempt only caused her slip further over the edge.

  “Don’t struggle!” yelled Skeet and, in her arms, the child thrashed, his small hands tearing at her hair and tunic. Her greatest fear was met when the tunic began to pull off over her head.

  “Skeet!” she shrieked. “Back! Pull back! Pull—”

  The last word was ripped from her throat as her body was hauled suddenly up and back under the railing of the platform.

  Strong arms that could never have been Skeet’s encircled her waist, then deposited her roughly on the decking, wrenching the little boy away from her.

  Gasping, she pulled her tunic back into place. A tall young man stood over her, cradling the sobbing child in his arms, while a young woman, also sobbing, wrapped her arms around both. In a moment the man handed the child over to the woman and looked down at Meredydd.

  “Where did you two come from?” he asked. His voice was rough and brown as tree bark.

  “From up Bebhinn, sir,” said Skeet, when Meredydd’s voice failed in her throat. “We heerd the little boy scream and saw he’d fallen.”

  The man, a look of sheer relief on his face, put his hands down to help them up. “Thank God for sending you. Thank you, both.”

  Skeet bobbed his head in welcome. “Pleased to serve ye, sir.”

  “Oh, your arm!” This came from the young woman, her eyes on the now upright Meredydd, who, unthinkingly, looked down at herself.