Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  “Broon!” Lal scolded.

  “It’s OK,” Pomella said, scratching the dog’s ears before addressing the hummingbirds. “Stop it. He’s being nice. You should, too.”

  The gardener laughed. “Your pets?”

  “They’re my friends,” Pomella said. “They follow me around, and—hey! You can see them?”

  He shrugged. “Live in woods long enough, be near Mystics and fay. Not unusual.”

  “Sorry they bothered your dog,” Pomella said.

  “Not mine,” Lal said.

  “Oh. Right. The High Mystic.”

  “No.”

  She looked at him, confused. “I thought you said…”

  “Broon free. Wild dog.”

  The dog barked at the hummingbirds again. Suddenly Lal lifted his hoe high above his head and let out a warlike scream. Pomella gasped and backed away, bumping into the cabin wall.

  The gardener charged the dog, screaming and shaking his hoe. “Wild dog! Leave hummingbirds alone! Pomella my friend!”

  She watched, wide-eyed, as the dog crouched playfully and barked. Lal swung the hoe, but the dog dodged and ran. They chased each other, fur and legs tumbling and rolling through the field. Suddenly she burst out laughing.

  What a strange man.

  When Broon was done assaulting him, Lal invited Pomella into the cabin. He stood well clear of the doorway, smiling and gesturing inside. Bits of grass clung to his clothes. There were no chairs, so she sat on the floor. Lal brought her tea, but she took it only to be polite. She’d had enough for one morning. He carefully avoided touching her, and always remained as far from her as he could, head lowered. That comforted her a little.

  After he removed his wide hat, Pomella could better see his lined face. He was old, likely older than Grandmhathir had been. Gray hair streaked his head, hacked short in an awkward fashion. His scraggly chin showed a few days of patchy growth. Pomella wondered if he ever had other visitors.

  “From Moth?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Pomella replied. “From Oakspring.”

  “Ah, yes. I never there.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Qin. Motherland.”

  Pomella glanced around the empty cabin. “Have you been here long?”

  “I come. I go.”

  “Do you have any family?”

  He bowed to her again. “Thank you. No. All gone.”

  She thought of her own family, and wondered when or if she would see them again. Not likely. Even if she was chosen as the apprentice, she had no idea if she’d be allowed to return home. She’d miss Bethy and Sim more than anybody else, and Gabor, too. Looking at Lal, she wondered what it would be like to be entirely alone. Nobody to talk to. Nobody to call family.

  “You become a Mystic?” he asked her.

  She sighed and let out a little laugh at the same time. “Probably not. Mistress Yarina invited me to the apprentice Trials, but I haven’t exactly done well so far.”

  “Can you Unveil Myst?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. But I don’t know how I did it. I’m very confused.”

  “Hmm,” Lal mused, scratching his chin. “You not apprentice yet. So no need to know about Myst yet, hmm?”

  “Yes, I suppose. But the others already have training. They know so much about being Mystics! They’ve been preparing for this their whole life, I think.”

  “But they not Mystics yet, either. How can they know Myst if they never had real teacher?”

  “Well, they know more than me. I wish I had their knowledge and skill.”

  “I heard you sing,” Lal said. “Very good. Better to be best you instead of second-best them, hmm? Better to have quiet courage that says, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”

  Pomella smiled. “Thank you. You’re … sweet.”

  He stood up. “I know what you need. Be right back. Stay!”

  He shuffled out of the cabin, and Pomella noticed it had begun to rain again. Broon quirked an eye from where he lay on the floor beside the fire, head on his paws. Pomella remained sitting, legs crossed on the plain floor, wondering what Lal was doing. She wondered, too, whether she should go find Quentin.

  Lal came back in, holding a large clay pitcher. He gestured for Pomella to slide the little cup toward him. “I make myself. We toast you good luck!”

  A nagging fear wiggled in Pomella’s stomach. She couldn’t believe she was sharing with an Unclaimed. She forced herself to relax and pushed the cup over to him. Lal waited until she’d retrieved her hand before tossing its old contents out the window.

  “Tea no good anyway. Mistress Yarina always better at making it.”

  Pomella winced as if he had just ripped a fresh scab off her skin. She would need as much luck as she could get if she was to have a chance at becoming the apprentice.

  He filled the cup with an amber liquid and returned it the same way, saying in a loud, almost comical voice, “For Pomella! She get good luck!” He gestured for her to drink.

  Pomella sniffed the contents.

  “Go!” he said, patting his round belly. “Fill basket!”

  She hesitated. “Oh, buggerish,” she said, and drained the cup. She exploded with coughs.

  Lal burst out laughing and collapsed onto the floor, rolling almost onto his back. “Pomella! You have very good luck!”

  Pomella kept coughing. Whatever it had been, it burned the skivers out of her throat. She could feel it swimming in her belly, like a furnace glowing bright. She’d drunk alcohol before as part of Summeryarn festivals. Oakspring-brewed beer was an important part of the holiday, so Fathir had let her try it as young as fourteen. But this was something else.

  Lal continued to hoot, rocking back and forth on the ground. “Chi-uy burn your basket!”

  Pomella glared at him. “Let’s see you do it!” she snapped. She grabbed the pitcher and poured a cupful for him.

  Lal waited for her to slide the cup over, bowed to her in thanks, and drank it down. He coughed once, then started laughing again through his teeth, shoulders shaking.

  Pomella couldn’t help but get caught up in the laughter, too. “Let me try again!” She reached out to snatch the cup from him, but his upheld hand stopped her cold.

  “No, no. Too much chi-uy in young basket make you sick.”

  Pomella nodded. Whatever this stuff was, it acted quickly. “You make good chi-uy!” she said.

  Lal bowed. “Thank you. You good, too!”

  She pushed the cup over to him. “No. I’m terrible at most things.”

  Lal poured himself another. “Surely you good at some things. Tell Lal.”

  “Well,” Pomella began, “I like to sing. And back home I had a really beautiful garden filled with five different kinds of roses, sunflowers that were taller than my head, and the most amazing crop of vegetables around. Last spring, people came from other villages to see it.”

  “Ah, very good. And you just like Lal,” said Lal. “Both gardeners. Maybe gardening is your Unveiling.” He raised the cup in toast and drank it.

  Pomella grinned. “Maybe drinking chi-uy is yours?”

  Lal exploded with laughter. “Good one, Pomella!”

  They joked back and forth some more as the storm outside picked up intensity. Soon the laughter drifted away to silence and they listened to the rain. Pomella closed her eyes, enjoying the moment. The air from the open window smelled so fresh. The drowsy atmosphere dragged her eyelids down. She drifted in and out of sleep. Her eyes longed to remain shut.

  Lal’s gentle voice woke her. “Pomellaaa,” he sang. “Will you sing song?”

  She blinked herself to wakefulness. “Sing? Sure, I suppose. What would you like?”

  “What you feel.”

  She yawned. “I feel sleepy.”

  Lal smiled, but his humor had faded. “If you feel happy, sing happy songs. If you feel content, sing content.”

  Pomella forced herself to think clearly. She watched the rain outside the window and thought of the so
ngs she knew. “I only know sad songs,” she said, realizing it was true.

  “Why?” Lal asked.

  Pomella slowly circled her finger in patterns on the floor. “I sing when I’m sad, or when I’m thinking about sad things. There haven’t been a lot of happy things for me to sing about lately.”

  Lal just smiled at her, and Pomella was struck by his humility. She suddenly regretted what she’d just said. Surely an Unclaimed man had more to be sad about than her, but there was no sadness around him. Only … contentment.

  “In Qin, where I come from,” he began, “old village is in mountains. Maybe like Oakspring. Looks different, but same. Understand? They have tradition where full moon night everyone gathers outside and sings. Reminds me of you. Highborn welcome, too. Leader of song called huzzo. Huzzos always chosen for mighty voice. Stands middle of village and chants, ‘Huzzzz-oh!’”

  Pomella started at the sudden deep resonance in his voice, like an earthquake within the small cabin.

  “After few times, more people join. ‘Huzzzz-oh!’ Soon whole village is chanting. In thin mountain air, it can be heard all way down to Yin-Aab. ‘Huzzzz-oh’ becomes voice of mountain. A song of people and mountain together.”

  “I don’t know any songs like that,” Pomella said.

  The old gardener leaned back against the cabin wall and shut his eyes. “If you say so, Pomella. But I think you are song like that, waiting to be sung.” Within moments, his breathing evened and a faint snore rumbled out.

  Pomella sighed, puffing out a strand of hair that trailed across her face. The little stone cup still rested in Lal’s hand, and the clay pitcher sat beside him. Next to the fireplace, Broon snoozed, occasionally snoring like the gardener.

  Pomella eyed the cup. Biting her lip, she eased forward and pinched the rim, lifting it away. Lal snored again, and Pomella froze. She didn’t think he would mind if she had another sip of his chi-uy. She just didn’t want to wake him.

  As she pulled the cup free, Lal shifted, rubbing his nose. His arm bumped hers.

  Pomella gasped and dropped the cup. It clunked on the floor. She yanked her hand away and instantly wiped it on her other sleeve. Glancing to make sure Lal was still asleep, she grabbed the cup and pitcher and slid to the opposite wall across from him.

  She’d touched an Unclaimed. He was just a harmless old man, she knew, and very kind, but still, it was hard to shake the feeling that she shouldn’t touch him. “Don’t be such a blather-head,” she muttered to herself.

  She poured some chi-uy and gagged it down. It burned again, but not as badly this time.

  Lal’s story of the mountain singers lingered in her mind. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to live in the remote village of Yin-Aab. Probably a lot like Oakspring, like Lal had said, only with more sheep. In her mind, she envisioned a clear night where a thousand stars clearly shone through towering evergreens, dimmed only by the light and smoke roaring off a central village bonfire. She saw herself standing in a ring around the fire, holding hands with the person next to her, a boy. He was handsome, like Sim, but with darker skin, like Lal or Quentin. This imaginary boy smiled at her, and squeezed her hand before lifting his deep voice in song.

  Everyone in the ring sang that strange “huzzo” chant. “Huzzzz-oh.” Even now it resonated in Pomella’s chest, rumbling with power, like an echo of a drum vibrating across a wide valley. It was as if she could actually hear it, right here, alive in this moment as she sat in the little cabin and drank more chi-uy.

  Lifting her voice, Pomella tested the song.

  She started with a quiet note—“hhuuu”—and slid into the next—“zzzohh.” The word filled the room with a quiet whisper but seemed to linger, drawing strength from the air. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she could almost hear the rain, and smell the fresh scent of stormy air more clearly now.

  Pomella repeated the “huzzo” notes again, this time a little higher, and adding a touch of musicality. They definitely echoed, dancing with the first instance of her chant.

  She opened her eyes, and gasped.

  The entire cabin was alight with silvery mist. Tendrils of wavy lace drifted through the air, pulsing with faint luminance. Pomella’s heart swelled. She was using the Myst!

  “Huuuz-oh,” she sang again softly, and as she did, the twisting lines pulsed in rhythmic time to her notes.

  Pomella wanted to rush over to Lal and wake him, and show him what she’d created, but she worried that the effect would be ruined if she did. She wished Yarina could see this. Why had the Myst awoken around her this time? Why couldn’t it have worked during her second Trial, when it counted? Maybe the chi-uy was involved. It was clearly stronger than Yarina’s tea.

  There was nothing she could do about that now. Relaxing again, Pomella sang another gentle “huzzo” and smiled as the silky threads pulsed with light.

  This called for a little celebration. She poured herself another splash of chi-uy.

  * * *

  Pomella stumbled back across the open field. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, so she’d thought it would be a good time to return to her cabin. The afternoon had long ago faded, and full dark seemed just a hair’s breadth away.

  As she walked, she tried unsuccessfully to keep herself from splattering through mud. She didn’t mean to be so unsteady. In fact, with her head so full of chi-uy, she was trying to walk as normally as possible. But no matter how much she concentrated on putting her foot down in exactly the right spot, the muddy ground proved to be less stable than she’d initially judged. If Sim or Bethy were here, they would have called her a dunder.

  The idea of it made her giggle.

  She trudged through the wet grass, feeling like a soaked towel by the time she arrived at her door. She smiled and waved good night to her hummingbirds, who seemed perplexed by her condition, and stumbled into her cabin. It was dark, so she fumbled around until she lit the oil lantern with a striker. She stared into the smooth, steady flame and felt her head swirl. She began to hum, and was just about to strip off her soaking work dress when a soft knock sounded at the door.

  She hopped to the door, missed the door handle, and caught it on the second try. The door opened and she managed to focus on Quentin.

  “Hi,” she said, surprising herself at how sober she sounded. Very sober.

  He gave her a strange look. “Where were you today?” he asked. “I was looking for you.”

  “Were you?” she crooned. “That’s the sweetest.”

  “May I come in?”

  She took his hand and pulled him in, stumbling and nearly rolling her ankle. He caught her. “Are you all right?”

  She steadied herself and stepped closer to him. A flash of surprise crossed his face.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured.

  “I brought you something,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “A gift?”

  “Yes.” He handed her a scroll case made of dark, lacquered wood. An unfamiliar coat of arms was painted on it.

  Trying to be as deliberate as possible, Pomella slowly opened the capped end and slid out a roll of fine paper. Her fingers explored its smooth surface.

  “This paper is so nice!” she said.

  Quentin grinned. “Open it.”

  She rolled it open and gasped.

  Musical notation, written in a fine, steady hand between perfectly straight lines, filled the entire scroll. It wasn’t a complex tune, but she broke out into a wide grin and laughed when she recognized it.

  “Is this ‘Boom-bung Dog-ding’?”

  “It is. I figured you had to be properly educated in the classics.”

  “Quentin, this is the kindest gift, ever.” She wished the last word hadn’t sound so slurred.

  “I asked Oxillian to deliver my request to my manservant waiting in the woods, and return when it was ready. It arrived earlier today. I’ve also asked him to send a rider to the nearest city and hire a bard to prepare other songs for you.”


  She gaped at him. “Thank you. For everything. And for, you know…”

  He looked at her, waiting. “For…?”

  She set the scroll down and closed the door behind him. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to touch his cheek. “For being you.”

  His closeness, and the chi-uy, warmed her skin. She eased closer to him. “And thank you,” she said, “for being so handsome and for having these arms.” She traced a finger along his muscular shoulder. A tiny part of her realized she was finding bravery in her unstable condition, but blither-blather, she didn’t care. Her fingers found the back of his head and the coarse hair growing there.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he said quietly.

  “I want to kiss you,” she whispered, amazed and proud of her boldness.

  “Pomella…”

  “Quentin-my,” she whispered, holding his gaze. She took a steadying breath and spoke as rationally and steady as she could manage. “I. Want. To kiss. You. Now.”

  She felt his shoulders tremble as she lifted up to her tiptoes and closed her eyes. Her mouth met his. She moved her hands slowly up his back, and melted when he leaned into her.

  She kissed him again, more urgently this time, and he went with her, matching her intensity. Between more kissing and quick gasps for breath, their hands explored each other’s bodies. Pomella didn’t care, even welcomed, his hands caressing her hair, neck, and down the front of her chest. After a long minute, Quentin pulled away.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t,” he said. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

  “Take advantage of what?” Pomella said, kissing his neck. “I want to take advantage of right now, before we have the last Trial. I ruined my meeting with Yarina.”

  He gently pushed her away to half an arm’s length. “Not like this. It’s not right.”

  “Do I taste like dog?” she blurted.

  His face scrunched into a confused grimace. “No, not at all.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. The whole room spun around her. She gripped his arm to steady herself. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Slowing down might be a good idea right now.”

  He moved to the table, which was filled with fresh food and a wooden pitcher. “Let me get you some water.”