by Jason Denzel
Fathir turned to her and held her gaze. “That is how Mystics think, Pomella. That is their world. The happy love and Mystical power your grandmhathir spoke of is a dream. It’s time to wake up.”
He left her and she sat in silence until midnight passed, bringing Springrise at last.
* * *
Hours later, in the deep silence of the night when even shadows sleep, Pomella sat awake on the floor of her small room, staring at the wall. A trail of old tears stained her cheeks. They’d come at first when she barred herself in her room, but she refused to let them dominate her tonight, or any night.
A thick tome rested in her lap. It had belonged to Grandmhathir, who quietly passed it to Pomella in her final days. The Book of Songs, she’d called it.
A symbol of a tree, woven like a Mothic knot, decorated its leather cover. Running her fingers over it, Pomella traced the embossed shape. Unfamiliar letter-runes were stamped into the leather. The shapes were from the script reserved only for the merchant-scholar caste and above.
She opened the book to a random page in the middle. The leather spine creaked, and her grandmhathir’s scent danced around the room. The first time she’d opened it, Pomella had been surprised to see the book wasn’t a collection of songs. She didn’t know what it was. Grandmhathir had only managed to indicate it related to the Myst and therefore Pomella had to keep it hidden.
Pomella flipped through the pages, trying again to understand their contents. A hundred illustrations accompanied the book’s hand-printed text, creating a mesmerizing collection of pages. Colorful star diagrams, cross sections of plants, strange letter charts, a trail map of an unknown mountain, and depictions of hand gestures fought for room against the hand-printed letter-runes.
In the center of the book an elaborate drawing sprawled across two facing pages. The runes above it read, in the common script, The Mystical Hierarchy, and showed stylized rankings of water, flesh, stone, iron, blood, fire, and other essences Pomella did not recognize.
Most wondrous of all, though, was her grandmhathir’s familiar thin handwriting, scrawled throughout every page in rose-colored ink. Most of Grandmhathir’s notes related to music. Bars and musical notation, along with lyrics and poems, filled the open spaces of each page. Pomella didn’t understand what the original text was meant for, but could plainly see her grandmhathir was leaving behind songs.
“I wish you were here,” Pomella said aloud.
She studied page after page as the night deepened. The notes bewildered her, but she recognized many of the songs scribbled inside, including “A Sail to Pull the Moon” and “Into Mystic Skies.” She hummed some of them aloud, tasting their familiar sounds. Clearing her throat, she tried again, this time with her whispered voice rather than a hum.
“Turn my heart to rain
And I will illuminate
I will illuminate
The sky”
As far back as she could remember, Grandmhathir had always encouraged Pomella to sing. She recalled games they’d played together, where Grandmhathir taught her how to run scales and find melody. In recent years, singing had become her safe place. Nobody could take that from her, not even her fathir.
A gentle tap sounded at her window, startling her. She froze, wondering if she’d imagined it.
The tapping came again.
“Pomella?” came the barest hint of a whisper.
Pomella closed the book and stashed it under her mattress. She cracked open the window and peered out. “Bethy? What are you doing?”
“Let me in! It’s freezing out here!”
Pomella opened the window all the way and stood back as Bethy climbed through, her green Brigid cloak covering her nightdress. Bethy landed on her feet as Pomella closed the window behind her. “Were you asleep?” Bethy asked.
“Yah,” Pomella lied.
“You’ve been crying.”
“It’s been a long night.”
Bethy frowned and moved to hug her, but Pomella shied away.
“What did he say?” Bethy asked.
Pomella’s face hardened. She sank down to her knees, and stared back into the darkness.
Bethy settled beside her and draped her cloak over Pomella’s shoulders. Pomella wished Bethy would just go away, but she found herself unable to say that. They remained on the floor for what felt like the life of the stars.
“Tell me, Pom. What did he say?”
Anger and despair flooded Pomella’s veins. “That I would be foolish to go. That the Mystics don’t care about me. That nobody cares about me. That I’ll be Unclaimed, and—”
Bethy reached out tentatively to find Pomella’s hand. “Pom. Hush. Your fathir doesn’t know anything. The Green Man came for you! Pomella! The Green Man came for you!”
Pomella snatched her hand back. “He should’ve come for Elona. At least she already knows how to use the Myst. I can’t go. I’ll just fail. There’ll be others who want to be the apprentice. They’re all noble and better than me.”
“Shite and blather on them,” Bethy said. “I don’t care if every firstborn from Moth and the Continent show up. The High Mystic invited you, and she sits above anyone. You have a chance to rise beyond our caste, Pom! You’re special; I just know it. And look, so do others.”
She unwound a long, emerald string from her wrist and handed it to Pomella. Pomella recognized it immediately. It was a Common Cord, filled with intricate knots. At least twenty families had woven their unique style of knot into the rope in a show of solidarity.
Pomella accepted the Cord. She imagined each Goodness lovingly tying her family’s knot into it and passing it to the next woman.
“Don’t you see?” Bethy said. “You represent something to us. You’re not just a commoner. You’re a commoner with a chance.”
“I wish I hadn’t been invited. I should just stay home.”
Bethy sighed. “And what would happen if you did?”
Pomella fingered each family’s knot in the Common Cord. Not everyone from Oakspring had tied one, but many had. She traced the AnClure knot from Bethy’s family. The AnKellys’. AnGents’. Others. None of these families had bad lives. Pomella’s own might be a blathering mess, but what would really happen if she declined the invitation?
“Nothing,” she said, and realized what that meant. If she stayed, she would not only be rejecting the High Mystic; she’d also be dismissing an opportunity the families of Oakspring would never have. She’d be letting down her village and her grandmhathir. And Pomella would be denying herself the one deep desire she’d always had.
To learn to use the Myst.
If she turned away from this opportunity, the thin strand holding her otherwise dull life together would break, and so would she. She would wilt as surely as a flower without rain.
“I know nothing of the Myst,” she said.
“Yah, neither do I, but I suspect it is far more than waving hands and glowing flowers. They say Mystics are always surrounded by light and music, and there’s music in your heart like I’ve never seen. Think about how you lift people up with your singing! If you hold on to that, then the Myst will flow on its own.”
Pomella thought of her garden. She tended to it each day, and made smart choices when it came to planting, pruning, and harvesting. But in her heart, she knew it thrived from more than her careful attention. She’d never told anybody else, but she sang to the plants. And when she did, she sometimes saw silvery fog wafting through the leaves, or across the ground. It was always in the corner of her vision, and when she turned to face it, it vanished like mist on a sunny day. Just last week she saw a silvery bumblebee floating between flowers before vanishing after a few heartbeats.
“I want to go,” Pomella said, “but I’m afraid, Bethy. I’m afraid of going and being made into a fool. And I’m also afraid of staying and being a bigger one.”
Bethy smiled, as gentle as a mhathir with a wee tyke. “I’ll support whatever you decide. But I know you’ll regret it if you don’t
try. You’re strong and brave, Pom.”
Pomella scoffed a laugh at that, but quickly silenced herself. “I’m none of those things, and you know it.”
“Buggerish!” said Bethy. “You’ve always been strong! We were, what, four years old when your mhathir passed away? Just knee-high tykes! Sim and I also lost Dane to the Coughing Plague at the same time. I cried every day for a year. But not you. You helped your grandmhathir, who I think should be a Saint by the way, and helped with wee Gabor. Not a day goes by where I don’t admire your strength! I’d wager everything I have against the luckiest gambler on Moth that the High Mystic recognizes those traits in you somehow.”
“How would she know?”
Bethy smiled. “Go ask her yourself.”
Pomella’s heart swelled with emotion. Thank you, she mouthed, unable to make sound come out.
Bethy hugged her, and this time Pomella let her.
As Pomella wiped her cheeks with her sleeve, Bethy opened a rough canvas sack Pomella hadn’t noticed. “I packed some rations and a waterskin for you,” Bethy said. “The Green Man said it would take two days to get to Sentry, so watch how much you gobble.”
“You … packed for me?”
“You’re on your way to become a Mystic,” Bethy said with a wink. “I’m just a lowly commoner. I suppose it’s my duty.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“‘Thank you’ is sufficient. Oh, and, keep the cloak. That’s my real parting gift. You’re going on a real adventure, just like Saint Brigid. You might not have her red hair, but I think the cloak looks beautiful on you regardless.”
With a mischievous smile, Bethy opened the window and began to climb out. Pomella stopped her. “Thank you,” Pomella said, as sincerely as she could manage.
Bethy smiled. “Make us proud. You’ll find the Myst. I just know it!”
“Will you take care of Gabor? Ask your mhathir and fathir to give him … affection?” Pomella choked on the last word.
Bethy nodded and squeezed Pomella’s hand before slipping out the window and ducking her way through the night toward her house. Pomella closed the window, her hands shaking. She took a deep breath. Dark fears of becoming Unclaimed threatened to invade once more.
“No,” she said aloud to them. “Leave me be. I’m doing this.”
Quick as a skivering luck’n, she emptied her drawers of clothing. She hastened out of her nightdress, and threw on her best work dress. She packed two others into the canvas bag holding her food. After only a moment of consideration, she packed her Springrise dress, too.
She counted out her meager nugs and clips, tossing the small pouch she had into the larger canvas one. She fetched The Book of Songs, and tucked it away, too. With nothing else of value, she slipped out of her bedroom.
She considered waiting until morning, but sunrise was surely only a few hours away at this point, and she didn’t want to deal with her fathir. She peeked into Gabor’s room. He lay sprawled across his bed, mouth open and hand stuffed in his too-short pants. A lump formed in her throat. “Good-bye, twerper.”
She tiptoed into the main room of the house and slipped toward the door. She paused at the threshold and glanced across the room, fearful that her fathir lurked there, ready to trap her. But the room was empty and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Outside, she whispered a farewell to her garden, silently hoping somebody would harvest the vegetables and water the rest. Not looking back, she found the road leading south, and set out. Grandmhathir always said a traveler needed a tune, so Pomella recalled the one she’d come up with earlier and sang the final stanza of the Toweren. It wasn’t a very good melody yet, but it would suit the road well enough.
“Come fall with me
My Brigid free
Her heart now cold
And all foretold
Of accomplished quest
And purpose begotten
A scorned master crossed
Mother and child forgotten
In death’s dark Tower, lost”
Pomella strode away from Oakspring, and her old life. She stretched her legs and let the wind catch Bethy’s cloak. The road rose before Pomella, and she met it with an eagerness as fresh as the promise of the new day. It wasn’t until the sun’s first rays touched the eastern horizon that she recalled with sudden guilt that she’d forgotten to meet with Sim.
THREE
THE MYSTWOOD
The first day on the southern road proved to be more challenging than Pomella had expected. Her feet ached after the first sprinkling of miles. The waterskin dangling from her belt and the canvas pack across her chest became bulky annoyances.
The sun hung high above the eastern horizon by the time her nerves finally settled from the night’s urgent rush. Pomella found herself frequently glancing back, worrying that her fathir would catch up and drag her home. She wondered how he had reacted when he’d discovered she’d left. A part of her knew she shouldn’t care what he thought, but she couldn’t help it.
But despite her worries and sore feet, the gentle spring morning soothed her. She breathed in the beautiful green countryside. Fir and oak lined both sides of the road, slowly growing in density as she approached the edge of the Mystwood. She spied the Ironlow Mountains to the south, with MagBreckan rising at their westernmost edge, its peak covered in cloud and snow.
By highsun she passed the AnGrey farm where Goodman Danni and Goodness Jhanni were bringing the sheep in for shearing. A pang of apprehension chilled through Pomella. This was the farthest she’d ever been from home, and she worried they might try to stop her from leaving the baron’s land. She detoured on a wide path around them, hoping to remain out of sight.
Past the AnGrey farm, she fished in her pocket for the smooth stone that the Green Man had given her. She examined it up close. It looked like a simple rock that could be found on the village green. Feeling a bit foolish, Pomella tossed it in front of her.
The little stone tumbled to the ground.
But just as it was about to land on the road, an echoing sound like a twirling bird popped from the stone. Pomella jumped in surprise as it rolled upward, lifted through the air, and hovered before her. A soft, green light emanated from it, pulsing as if breathing.
This had to be the Myst!
She reached out a trembling hand. The stone skittered away, just out of reach.
She swallowed. “I-I need to find the ranger who’s waiting for me north of Sentry, please.”
The stone spun like a toy top and zoomed away, heading toward the Mystwood. A grin spread across her face, and she hurried after it.
* * *
Her happiness didn’t last. In the late afternoon, heavy clouds pushed up from the south. Rain began to fall, and quick as a luck’n, a heavy torrent turned the road to mud. The wind drove the rain straight at her like a hail of arrows. She thanked the Saints for Bethy’s hooded cloak, and trudged on.
A heavy jangling sounded on the road behind Pomella. She glanced back, and pulled her hood aside to give her a clear view. A handful of mounted soldiers rode toward her. Cold terror gripped Pomella. Each man wore the Baron AnBroke’s gold and green atop his mail armor. The lead soldier carried a spear topped with the baron’s standard, depicting a laurel-crowned harp over emerald treetops.
Without thinking, Pomella sprinted off the road for the cover of the trees. The little guiding stone remained where it was, hovering in place above the road, waiting for her to return. As Pomella crossed the tree line, she looked back at the soldiers. They marched forward, gritting their teeth through the rain. None of them called out or chased after her. Perhaps she’d hidden before they saw her.
Pomella spied a broad oak tree nearby, its leaves fully in bloom, tucked away from the road. Its thick branches reached out like arms offering embrace. She scrambled over and pressed her back to the trunk.
“Lookit this,” said one of the soldiers. “Jagged floating rock.”
“Aye, looks like the Myst to me,�
� said a second.
Pomella stifled a curse.
“She’s got to be around here. Spread out. Eban, you stay here.”
One of the soldier’s horses whinnied and another clomped its hoof. Heavy boots thumped onto the muddy road. Pomella’s breath came in heavy gasps. Her fathir had been right; they were going to kill her. She was going to be murdered and left to rot in the forest.
Footsteps padded behind her, getting closer. Pomella squeezed her eyes shut. He was going to find her. She prayed silently to Saint Brigid that he’d pass her by. She considered running, but the man was too close now. He’d see her for sure. She wished she didn’t feel so powerless.
She took a trembling step forward, ready to sprint.
“Hey! The rock just dropped!” called the soldier still on the road.
Pomella stiffened back up against the tree again, her heart storming in her chest. The soldier who had been approaching her turned around.
“She can’t be far,” said one of the others.
“Sure she can. She abandoned the spiking rock! She’s probably long gone. C’mon.”
Pomella stood like a statue for several minutes after the soldiers rode away and into the rain. Breathing a sigh of relief, she slipped to the ground and huddled into her cloak, teeth chattering. She drank from her waterskin and ate some vegetables and dried meat before slumping against the oak. She picked at the cloak, trying to think what to do. She didn’t dare go back to the road, even to see if she could find the guiding stone.
She took out Grandmhathir’s Book of Songs, hoping it would soothe her. Her Book of Songs now, she supposed. She opened it to the first page, looking for nothing in particular.
On the inside of the cover was a stylized sketch of a fox, partially concealed by tall grass. Its eyes were rendered so cleanly on the page that Pomella felt they were staring at her. When her gaze slipped away, she thought she glimpsed its tail swish.
Thunder shook the forest. The wind whipped the pages of the book. “Ah, buggerish!” she snapped, closing the book.
Glancing around, she became aware that it wasn’t just raining; it was storming like a shaken honeyhive. The oak tree had sheltered her well, but now the rain slanted in, soaking her.
