Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  Pomella forgot Gabor and stared in wonder as the little girl summoned the Myst. At least, Pomella assumed it was the Myst. What else could it be? The flower spun and lifted, drawing all eyes upward. Voices flew from the flower, filling the village with soft singing. The music resonated with something inside Pomella, coaxing her to join with its melody. A desire arose within her, steady and burning, to know how the girl did that.

  By the Saints, if only Pomella weren’t a commoner. She didn’t really mind keeping her hair so short, but it seemed silly that she couldn’t keep it longer like a noblewoman. Pomella had never known the feel of silk, either, but how could she miss what she’d never known? She wished she didn’t have to try to teach herself to read noble runes in secret, and that people would believe her about seeing silver animals in her garden and in the forest. But most of all, she wished, desperately, that she was allowed to learn of the Myst.

  A low rumble filled the village.

  The shaking wasn’t gentle, like the Mystic flower, but was a heavy, deep tremor that quickly escalated into a chaotic quake. Somebody screamed. Panic raced up Pomella’s spine.

  Villagers bumped her as they ran past, but Pomella could only look toward Elona, the girl’s face paling with fear. The flower vanished, like a flame snuffed by wind. Beside the noblewoman, Bethy fell backward, tripping on her cloak.

  Grass churned and surged upward, shaping itself into a massive form. The smell of freshly turned dirt wafted over the green. Soil and stone rolled together, forming broad arms and shoulders. A head, tilted down, gathered dirt and grass. Pomella felt a chill of terrified fascination as a long beard of leaves wove itself around a face.

  Several people dove to safety or fled entirely. Watcherman AnGent moved quickly despite his bulk, yanking Elona out of the way. Sim rushed to help Bethy scramble away from the rising figure. It towered over them, twice the height of any person.

  A rounded crater now existed where the green had been, its soil forming the creature before them. On the far side of the decimated stage, Pomella saw her fathir staring with wide eyes. Despite the chaos, an irrational worry came to her mind that he’d punish her for wasting money on her festival dress.

  A gray-haired old man, Goodman AnMere, pointed at the creature. “The Green Man! I sees the Green Man!”

  The creature’s head lifted, revealing eyes of polished stone, seemingly pulled from deep within the ground. His mouth opened and a voice thundered across the remains of the green.

  “Who is the Watcherman?” he boomed.

  Pomella had heard stories of the Green Man, and nobody except a skeptic or dunder denied he was real. But she never, in her whole life, expected to actually see him.

  Goodman AnGent stepped forward, his bushy brown beard jutting out. “I am Watcherman Argeleff AnGent. I represent this village.”

  “By Saints, th’ Green Man has returned!” Goodman AnMere shouted, clapping his hands.

  The creature’s face softened into a smile, the dirt shifting like skin and muscle. “So I have.”

  Somehow, his smile and easy manner calmed Pomella’s nerves. It must’ve had a similar effect on the other villagers, too, because all around her people eased back toward the place where the stage had stood. Some dusted themselves off, while others rounded up the children.

  “Your timing is poor, Green Man,” said the Watcherman, crossing his arms. “Fifty years absent and you choose to arrive during our Springrise feast. You interrupted Lady Elona, and the Toweren.”

  The Green Man bowed, loose grass fluttering off him. “Oh, so I did. Forgive me, Lady and Watcherman, but I bring a timely message.”

  Elona’s face lit up. “Is it from the High Mystic?”

  Watcherman AnGent held up a steadying hand toward the baron’s daughter, clearly trying to keep her back but not wanting to overstep his position. She was a noble, after all.

  “Yes, I bring news from the Mystwood,” the Green Man said, sweeping his gaze across everyone gathered.

  The villagers hushed. Somewhere in the crowd, a mhathir scolded her child in a whisper to keep quiet.

  “A new High Mystic has been anointed. By the grace of the Myst, Mistress Yarina Sineese now occupies Kelt Apar. It is she who sent me here to summon one of you.”

  More murmuring. Pomella’s heart twisted as she saw the joyous expression on Elona’s face. The noblewoman’s time had come. Her entire young life had been focused on this moment, waiting for the opportunity to rise above even the nobility and become something greater.

  Elona wrung her hands. The Green Man waited until only drifting sounds from the forest and the crackle of the bonfire could be heard. Even the wee tykes held their breath.

  “The High Mystic summons Pomella AnDone.”

  TWO

  THE BOOK OF SONGS

  Silence gripped the village green.

  Pomella gaped. Her mind wobbled as she tried to understand what had just been said. The Green Man had spoken her name, as clear as spring rain.

  Pomella AnDone.

  Across the green, the blood drained from her fathir’s face. The villagers looked around, whispering, trying to find her in the crowd. She picked a fingernail to steady her hands from shaking.

  Lady Elona’s mouth moved as if she were trying in vain to find words.

  The Watcherman drew himself up and dusted off his sleeve. “What does the High Mystic need from Goodmiss AnDone?”

  A hand settled on Pomella’s arm, startling her. Gabor stood there, his normally mischievous eyes rounded with concern.

  Pomella had no idea what the message for her could be, but she hated the scared look on her brother’s face. Maybe the Green Man spoke the wrong name. Surely he meant to call Elona’s. Why would the High Mystic summon a lowborn commoner?

  “Mistress Yarina seeks an apprentice,” the Green Man intoned. “Goodmiss AnDone has been invited to attend the Trials as a candidate.”

  Pomella’s skin pebbled. The High Mystic lived deep within the Mystwood to the south. Grandmhathir had frequently spoken of the previous High Mystic, although nobody from the village had seen him in living memory.

  Pomella’s heart thundered. She didn’t understand. Didn’t dare hope. Her earliest memories were of Grandmhathir speaking of the Myst, whispering to Pomella at night how it was the source of all life and energy. They sang songs about it, played simple games about it, and years later, even recently, Pomella tried, while alone in the Mystwood, to sense and control the Myst as Grandmhathir said was possible. Pomella never succeeded, but she daydreamed of one day meeting a Mystic who would teach her.

  Elona, who looked as stunned as Pomella felt, finally found her courage. “Green Man! You surely announced the wrong name. She invited me, did she not?”

  The Green Man bowed to the young noblewoman. “I’m sorry, Lady AnBroke, but it is Goodmiss AnDone whom I was instructed to summon. Will you call her forth?”

  Pomella reassured Gabor with a pat on the hand, although she didn’t know if it was for herself or him. Pulling away from her brother, she stepped out of the crowd to stand beside the Watcherman. She curtsied to Lady Elona as was proper, and hoped the young noblewoman didn’t become angry. Pomella dared not meet Elona’s gaze, and instead turned to the Green Man. She also ignored her fathir, who was surely frowning at her.

  She steadied her voice. “I am Pomella.”

  The whole village seemed to lean in.

  The Green Man turned his massive body to face her. He towered over her like an ancient oak. “Pomella AnDone. You are hereby invited by the High Mystic of Moth to call upon her at Kelt Apar within the Mystwood and apply for the position of her apprentice.”

  Pomella’s hands shook. Bethy stared wide-eyed. Sim twisted his mask in his hands.

  Questions roared through Pomella’s mind, mixing fear and doubt. She opened her mouth to ask why she’d been chosen, or to insist that there’d been some mistake. But the song in her heart that she heard when she tiptoed through the forest, or looked across the la
nd from nearby hills, refused to be silent. Hardly believing what was happening, she found her voice.

  “I accept.”

  The crowd rumbled with chatter.

  The Green Man nodded. “That is well. I will leave you to your celebrations.” He held out his hand, and a small, marbled stone emerged from the center of his palm. It lifted into the air like a butterfly fluttering off a branch and drifted toward Pomella.

  “When you set out, toss the stone onto the road before you,” said the Green Man. “It will lead you through the Mystwood to the meeting place. A ranger will meet you in two days at the northwest border of Sentry. From there he will take you out of your barony to Kelt Apar. Do not be late.”

  The Green Man dipped his head in farewell, then collapsed into the ground. Dirt and stone tumbled into place, rolling and churning back to where it had been, with the grass becoming a gentle blanket over it all once again. For a hushed moment, nothing stirred except a gentle wind over the now-perfect green.

  Pomella inhaled the fresh scent of the soil. A tenuous smile lifted her lips.

  “Yer not a noble!” old Goodman AnMere hollered from the crowd. Angry stares from some of the villagers pelted him, while others nodded in agreement. Pomella’s smile vanished.

  “Aye, a commoner’s place is in her barony, not skivering up ’n’ down the countryside,” said Goodness Ilise AnCutler, her round face wrinkling in the torchlight. She’d recently inherited her fathir’s farms, which were accounted as the oldest in the barony.

  “But the High Mystic personally invited her!” said Lathwin AnClure, Bethy and Sim’s fathir. His wife, Cana, pulled at his arm, her eyes pleading with him to shush.

  “Only the nobility can become Mystics,” Goodman AnMere argued. “Yeh can’t just become something yer not! Even this Mistress Yarina can’t change tradition like that. Mean’n’ no disrespect, but she’s only been High Mystic a few months!”

  “’Tain’t disrespect to say it like that,” said Goodness AnCutler, her gray hair shaking with her fist. “The barons and highborns are bred for that Myst-learn’n’. Our place is here, working the land. You ain’t a special butterfly, girl. Lady Elona should go. As the baron’s daughter, she represents our village.”

  Elona beamed and nodded.

  Goodman AnMere nodded furiously. “There’s an order to things, and we wouldn’t want to insult the baron. Wouldn’t yeh say, Watcherman?”

  The round Watcherman stepped forward. Behind him, Bethy barely held tears back. Sim stared blankly at Pomella, his face pale.

  Before Watcherman AnGent could respond, a familiar voice cut in with a hard tone. “This is a family matter. My daughter and I will speak.” Firelight danced across the dark features of her fathir’s bearded face. He seemed to avoid looking at Pomella.

  A sickening feeling swirled in Pomella’s stomach. Why did Fathir always have to decide things for her? She opened her mouth to protest, but seeing the chiseled expression on his face, she snapped it shut.

  “No.” Elona’s soft voice cut like a shearing knife. She slipped off her faerie wings. “You are all mistaken if you think this is a matter for a commoner family. It is a matter for mine. The girl is not allowed to leave my fathir’s barony.”

  Nobody in the village seemed to breathe. The Watcherman cleared his throat. “Lady AnBroke, you understand the High Mystic directly summoned Pomella and—”

  “I understand perfectly, AnGent,” Elona said, picking a piece of dirt off her lacy sleeve. “If the High Mystic feels wronged, she can petition my fathir at a later time. But she should know better than to pilfer commoners from him.”

  Pomella looked to the Watcherman for help and then back to Elona. The young noblewoman most likely realized that the High Mystic’s summons would supersede the baron’s, or any other noble’s. But a sickening fear wormed through Pomella as she realized Lady AnBroke could still make her life miserable if she wanted to.

  Elona stared at Pomella, anger storming behind her eyes. “I do not give the girl permission to put a single grubby toe outside the barony. Let it be known that if she leaves the barony and returns without becoming a Mystic, my fathir will declare her Unclaimed.”

  Somebody in the crowd gasped. Anxiety roared in Pomella’s chest. Unclaimed! She might as well be dead!

  Watcherman AnGent flexed his hands and steadied his voice. “Lady AnBroke, I don’t think it’s fair to punish Pomella for—”

  “You are incapable of determining what is fair, commoner. That is why you are cared for by your betters. Ready my horse and escort. I must report this atrocity to my fathir at once.”

  Watcherman AnGent bowed his head. Nothing else could be said. Pomella and the rest of the village curtsied or bowed, as was appropriate. Elona turned her back and stormed off the stage, dropping her faerie wings onto the grass.

  Trying to salvage something of the festival, the Watcherman urged Bethy back onto the green to try to continue the Toweren. But one by one the villagers shook their heads, slipping back to their homes, where they locked their doors for the first time in memory. At least one voice mumbled, “Spoiled child,” from the darkness.

  Hoping to disappear unseen, Pomella slipped away and leaned against the hidden side of a nearby home. Her eyes burned as she struggled to find her breath.

  Unclaimed.

  By the Saints, what would she do now?

  As she began to walk home, she caught sight of Sim coming over to her. It was too much. She couldn’t deal with him, too, right now. She broke into a run, and fled.

  * * *

  Fathir scratched his beard. “You can’t go.”

  Pomella slouched in her chair, mindlessly picking the embroidery on her dress. Her clothes basket still sat on top of the table. Her fathir paced their small living space while one of his calloused carpenter hands rubbed his temple.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe it was foolish to leave the barony. But by the Saints, she wanted to go! She wished again for Bethy’s confidence.

  “Fathir, I already—”

  “No, Pomella!” he snapped. “I won’t even consider it. You could become Unclaimed!”

  “But—”

  “The baron’s soldiers will look for you on the road. If you’re outside Oakspring tomorrow, they’ll cut you down.”

  Pomella shook her head. “N-no. The baron wouldn’t do that. I have the little stone from the Green Man.”

  Fathir pushed off from the mantel and loomed over her. She shrank back. “You’re blind, girl. You think a rock will protect you from those soldiers? You’re in danger. And even if you made it to Kelt Apar, you’ll be Unclaimed when you return home. You cannot fathom what it’s like to be Unclaimed! Living without even a name on broken roads, eating insects, gathering disease. Nobody will touch you or even hand you a scrap of moldy bread. Animals live better than the Unclaimed!”

  Pomella clutched her fingers. “But I’m of age now. I’m old enough to make this decision for myself.”

  “What decision is there to make? Whatever shred of a life you have will be ruined.”

  Pomella tried to find the words that would make him understand. She could feel, down to her bones, that the Myst called to her.

  “But I won’t be Unclaimed if I become the High Mystic’s apprentice,” she said.

  “You’ll never become a Mystic!” her fathir roared. She started, her heart pounding. “You’re a blathering dunder if you think otherwise! I don’t know what schemes this, this … Yarina has, but by all the Saints, you’ll just be a pawn in some game. Becoming a Mystic is best left to the nobility, who have nothing better to do with their lives. Why would you risk your life for something like that?”

  She trembled beneath his anger. Despite the fear, she forced herself forward, reckless. “What’s so terrible about the Myst? Grandmhathir said it’s something we all can feel and learn to use!”

  “And it chaps me that she did!” he flared.

  Silence drifted in the air like the motes of dust.

  �
��Your grandmhathir did more than just talk about it, Pomella,” he said at last. “She dabbled in it. I don’t know how she got exposed to it. She never explained. But I know she meddled without supervision, and it … it killed your grandfathir.”

  Pomella’s nails bit into her skin. “What do you mean? I thought Grandfathir died from—”

  “No!” he snapped. “She killed him.”

  Pomella shook her head. “No. No, you’re lying!”

  “Don’t call me a liar under my roof, girl!” he snarled. “You don’t know a clip’s worth about your grandmhathir like you think you do. It was an accident. I’m not calling her a murderer. But by my unsainted life, I saw my fathir die because of her meddling. The Myst is for those better than us, Pomella. You and me? We’re barely good enough for this shite village. We don’t own this land. We live here at the whim of the baron. I know you don’t like to hear it, but, like you said, you’re old enough to know how it is in the world.”

  Pomella narrowed her eyes. Her nails dug deeper as she tried to balance the pain inside with something she could control. “Then why did the High Mystic invite me? Did it have something to do with Grandmhathir? Was she a Mystic?”

  Fathir scoffed. “No, she was definitely not a Mystic. She fancied herself something like one, but it was just blather in her mind. She was a foreigner, as obvious as her black skin. She brought foreign ideas to Moth along with fanciful dreams.” He looked into the cold fireplace. “I once believed all her stories. I even went to find a Mystic once. I left home, just like you’re thinking of doing. I traveled all through the barony, following the rumor of a wandering Mystic. I found him. I groveled at the hem of his torn robes and begged him to take me as his apprentice.”

  She blinked, not believing what she heard. Could he be lying? She’d learned long ago to weigh his words carefully. But these had a note of honesty about them. “Wh-what did he say?”

  “He kicked me as I knelt in the dirt. He spit snot on me and told me to lick the ground. Said that if I ever spoke to him again, he would strip me of my name and brand me Unclaimed.”

  Pomella’s breath froze in her chest.