by Barb Hendee
“Tell me what you feel,” she said.
“It’s like an itch, but not an itch, as if I’ve forgotten something, and I must remember what it is, but I can’t.”
Hope flooded her face. She grasped my hand, leading me up inside our wagon. There, she lit a single candle and set it on the table.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Come and sit.” Her voice trembled. “I believe you have your grandmother’s gift.”
I nearly gasped. Among the members of our caravan, we possessed no Mist-Torn and no shifters. This was an embarrassment to my uncle. My grandmother had been Mist-Torn, but she’d died when I was young.
With the vanity of a seventeen-year-old, I liked the thought of taking my place as the only Mist-Torn witch in my family. Foolish girl.
“What do I do?” I asked my mother.
“Focus on the flame and on the prompt in your mind, repeat this litany in your thoughts to help you concentrate: Blessed fire in the night, show me what is in the sight, show me what brings fight or flight, blessed fire in the night.”
“But it isn’t night. It’s broad daylight.”
“The words will simply help you to focus.”
I did as she instructed, eager to prove her right, that I was indeed Mist-Torn. This caused some distraction at first, but then I focused on the flame, on the nag, and on the litany, repeating the phrases in my mind.
The wagon around me vanished, and to my shock, I found myself surrounded by a sea of white and gray mists. They cleared, and I was standing in a field that I recognized. It was not far from the vast campground of the Kéonsk fair. It was a place our men sometimes took our horses to graze.
I saw three horses grazing and a fourth one was sniffing something on the ground. Moving closer, I looked down at the prone form lying in the grass. It was Uncle Gaelan’s youngest son, Gustavo. His eyes were closed and his head was bleeding. When I looked at the horse beside him, I saw red on its right rear hoof. Gustavo must have startled the creature somehow and been kicked.
The mists closed in, and the scene vanished.
I was once again back in the wagon.
“Mother!” I cried. “Gustavo is hurt. He’s been kicked in the head, and he’s lying in the small field where we take the horses to graze.”
She didn’t wait or bother to answer. Running outside, she called to the men, who began rushing for the field. The next few hours were a blur of activity as Gustavo was found and brought back and his wound tended to and everyone worried for him.
But in the early evening, my mother, father, and Uncle Gaelan came to me, and I could see their excitement.
“How is Gustavo?” I asked.
“He will recover thanks to you,” Gaelan answered. “We reached him in time.”
He’d never spoken to me with such respect. He rarely spoke to me at all.
“Your mother tells me you felt the prompt and looked into the flame and saw Gustavo,” he went on. “Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“She is Mist-Torn,” my mother added.
“Your own mother is long gone,” Gaelan said to her. “Can you guide Helga yourself?”
“I can.”
My uncle was pleased, beyond pleased.
And so a new world began for me. My mother explained how my grandmother’s abilities had worked. They were twofold. The first possibility involved the mists reaching out to me, telling me that something was amiss or needed to be seen. This was the case with Gustavo. Such prompts mustn’t be ignored.
The second ability was for me to read individual people who might come with a question. I could focus on another place or person and see exactly what was happening in the moment. I knew well that seers from the line of Fawe, with their lavender eyes, often saw the future and the past, and at first, their gifts seemed more useful to me.
How many people wanted to know what was happening someplace else right now?
“You’ll see,” my mother said. “A good number.”
I soon learned she was right.
My uncle set me up in the largest, finest wagon—his own family’s wagon—a few mornings later. I wore a new red velvet dress with gold hoops in my ears. He then walked around the fair announcing that the line of Ayres boasted a seer who could read the present.
Not long after, people began arriving.
I was nervous. I’d seen other Móndyalítko women who were not Mist-Torn put on mesmerizing shows as they pretended to read futures. I was no show woman. I simply sat at the table and waited.
The first man to enter the wagon appeared to be a farmer. He looked askance at the silk cushions and hanging crystals, but he had a kind face.
“How can I help?” I asked, as my mother had taught me.
“When I traveled from my farm to bring the first half of the harvest to the fair,” he answered, “I left the other half in the fields for my sons to bring in. But bad weather threatened. Can you see my farm and tell me if the rest of the harvest has come in safely?”
At once, I was at ease and began to see how useful my powers could be to other people.
“Come and sit,” I said to him.
My mother had explained what I should do, but this was the first time I’d put this ability to the test. Reaching out, I grasped his hand and closed my eyes, and I focused intently on the spark of his spirit and the image of his farm.
The wagon vanished, and the mists closed in. When they cleared, I stood on the outskirts of a mown wheat field. To my right was a cheerful cottage with a thatched roof and just beyond that was a large barn where I could see young men working. All the fields in my sightline had been cleared of their crops, and the wheat was bound and ready to be threshed.
The mists closed in, and I found myself back in the wagon. I was pleased to give him good news.
“The harvest is safely in, and I saw your sons working with the bound wheat in the barn. All is well.”
He thanked me with a smile and paid me well.
This went on all morning. Some of the news I delivered was not so pleasant. One woman sought to see if a sick friend left behind had recovered from her illness, and I saw that the friend had died.
By noon, I’d grown weary, and Uncle Gaelan called the readings to a close, but he was pleased when he counted the coins I’d earned.
That night, everyone made a fuss over me. I didn’t have to help with the cooking, and I was served dinner first—and only the best portions.
I might have let some of this go to my head.
Strangely, even though Alondra was my sister, and therefore naturally placed in a position of rivalry, she held no resentment toward me at all and only rejoiced in my elevation. She was a sweet soul and ever mindful of the feelings of others.
Perhaps it would have been better for her to inherit my grandmother’s gift.
It was Griffin, my uncle’s eldest son, who would someday be our leader, who frowned that night when I was served dinner as I sat by the fire like a spoiled princess expecting her proper due.
“I don’t see why Helga suddenly has no duties,” he said, “and gets the best cuts of meat simply because she sat in a wagon all morning doing something that requires no skill or effort on her part.”
His words stung a little because they held truth. A kettle witch often underwent years of study to cast spells, and the women of my family who read or pretended to read fortunes were all practiced in how to put on a show for each patron and to listen and tell people what they needed to hear.
My ability was natural. It required no study and no skill.
But my uncle turned on Griffin angrily. “Hold your tongue! Your cousin earned more in a single morning than the entire family has earned at the fair so far this year. You should be thankful we have a Mist-Torn among us, and we can hold our heads higher. Next autumn, we’ll be given a c
amping spot at the front of the fair, closest to the city. Mark my words.”
Griffin glowered at me, but he obeyed his father and held his tongue.
The next morning, Gaelan once again set me up in the largest, finest wagon, and I went to work. For the first time, I wavered in my joy and my pride as I wondered how many days in a row I’d be expected to sit in my red velvet dress and my gold earrings and earn coins as a seer.
That morning also showed me the pain my gift could bring to someone else, and I never quite recovered from understanding the power I held.
Early on that day, a woman in a peach silk gown stepped carefully inside the wagon and looked at me. I could see desperation and fear in her eyes, but the rest of her face was calm and guarded. She was nearly fifty, but she must have once been quite beautiful, and the remnants were still visible in her blue eyes and small straight nose. Her near-black hair was piled elaborately on her head, and only a few strands of gray showed.
Moving closer, she sat down across from me, and I could see the tiny lines in her face.
Before speaking, she held up a fat pouch and slid it across the table. I knew she was going to ask me to see something difficult.
“How can I help?” I asked.
She opened her mouth once, closed it again, and then tried for a second time. “I live inside the city walls. As a young woman, I was married to a man old enough to be my father, and I served him well as his wife. He died last year, leaving me well provided for, and this year . . . this year, I married a man younger than myself.” She closed her eyes as if making a confession. “He is handsome and perfect, and all I’ve ever dreamed of. I’ve tried to convince myself that he loves me. In recent weeks, I’ve come to fear he is . . . cavorting with my maid. I hope I am wrong, but I must know. This morning, I dressed myself as you see and announced I was going to visit a friend and that I would be gone for hours.” She paused. “Can you see what is happening right now, inside my home?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I didn’t want to do this.
Still, I didn’t see how I could refuse, and I understood her reasons for wanting to know. Reaching out, I grasped her hand and focused on the spark of her spirit and on her husband and on her house. By this point, I’d learned to feel exactly when I made the connection.
The wagon vanished, and the mists rose. When they cleared, I found myself standing in a lavishly decorated bedroom.
I faced the bed.
A tall man with sandy blond hair and hawkish features lay naked upon a cream silk comforter. Beneath him lay a smallish woman with large breasts and wavy red hair. She was perhaps seventeen.
His hand stroked her stomach as he kissed her.
“This is too brazen,” she whispered, pulling her mouth away. “Not in the mistress’s bed.”
“Yes, in her bed,” he whispered back. “It’s now my bed, too, and you deserve the feel of silk beneath you.”
He kissed her again, harder this time, and she gave in, kissing him back.
The mists rose and vanished, and I was once again in the wagon, facing the woman in the peach gown. My expression must have betrayed me, because hers crumpled.
“It’s true, then?” she choked.
I didn’t want to answer, but she deserved to know. “I saw a blond man in a bed with a cream-colored comforter. He was with a red-haired girl.”
The woman closed her eyes again, and I don’t think I’d ever seen such grief. This was my first real glimpse into a world outside my own. This lady had spent much of her life married to a much older man, and then when she finally believed it was her turn for some happiness, it was only to learn the man she’d married by choice was unfaithful.
“I’ve been a fool,” she said. “Everyone told me, but I didn’t want to believe.”
“What will you do?” I asked. Until then, I’d not allowed myself to be drawn into actual conversation with the people who came to me, but I wanted to know.
She opened her eyes as if considering my question. “Nothing. I will do nothing. I will say nothing.”
Standing, she nodded to me once, but her face was still lined with pain. “Thank you.”
She left, and I wondered how I would be able to carry on for the rest of the morning. I somehow managed, and later, Uncle Gaelan was stunned when he counted the contents of the single pouch alone. He kissed the top of my head. His action made me feel guilty, as if we were profiting from the suffering of others.
For the remainder of that autumn, I spent mornings doing readings, and for the rest of each day, I was petted and spoiled, and I had no other duties whatsoever.
When the fair broke up and we pulled out, heading southwest, I could hardly contain my relief. While traveling at least, I would be given a reprieve. My parents’ standing had improved greatly among the family, and our wagon now rolled second in line, right behind Uncle Gaelan’s.
That winter, we followed the same path as always, passing from one town or village to the next—always invited, expected, and welcome. My reputation grew during those cold months, and I did more readings than I could count. I never ceased to be surprised by how many people wished to know what was happening in the moment in a different location, but most of the reasons were similar in nature: checking on an ill relative or friend, checking crops or livestock on a family farm some distance away . . . or attempting to learn if a spouse or lover was faithful.
I seldom felt the nag again, as this only appeared to occur during an emergency of which I must be made aware.
And anyway, Uncle Gaelan was more interested in the money I earned by reading people.
In the spring, we headed east, and I was given a true rest.
As we rolled into the meadow beneath the castle of Yegor, my life returned almost to what it had been before. Though word of my new standing spread quickly among the other families, most of our people would not require my abilities, and I once again returned to daily duties like any other Móndyalítko woman. As opposed to feeling resentful, I welcomed the mundane tasks: cooking, tending chickens, washing clothes, and cleaning the wagons. Alondra and I chatted away like the sisters we were, and I was thankful not to be sitting in a hard chair reading strangers all morning.
Soon, we were harvesting strawberries, then raspberries, then blueberries, and finally apples. We fished in the streams and snared rabbits, and some of the other families’ shifters brought down the occasional deer to be shared. Life was good.
In the autumn, we rolled out of the meadow and headed back for Kéonsk.
By the time of our arrival, just as always, large numbers of farmers, merchants, and other Móndyalítko converged for the fair, far too many to be allowed inside the already crowded city.
Wagons, tents, and market stalls were set up outside, overseen by a city administrator called Master Rolfo. He was lord of the fair back then, but this position altered every decade or so.
Just as Uncle Gaelan had predicted, we learned that Master Rolfo had kept a prime spot for our five wagons, just outside the west entrance of the city. Nobody could miss us there. Rolfo didn’t do this out of kindness, but after the previous year, I was now considered quite a draw. It was clear that a number of people would come to see me and then would spend money at the merchant stalls.
The city took a portion of all money earned at the stalls.
Once again, I became “the seer” each and every morning. I can remember being called “the great Helga.” I had no duties. I was petted and spoiled and served dinner first. The lure of this had worn off, though, and my mind kept drifting back to the days of summer when I’d stood in the sunshine picking blueberries.
I earned a good deal of money that autumn.
In early winter, we left Kéonsk and began our winter visits.
For the next five years, nothing much of note happened. Then in the autumn of my twenty-fourth year, we took our place in
Kéonsk once again for the autumn fair. By this point, I was resigned to my fate. The family thrived with fine clothes, good food, new wheels for the wagons, and several new horses. Most of our comforts were entirely due to me.
It never occurred to me to try to alter the arrangement.
One evening, I was resting in our family’s wagon when a knock sounded upon the door. Surprised, I got up to answer it and found myself looking out at a solider wearing the red tabard of the Väränj—the city guards. He was of average height and build, with short brown hair and brown eyes. There was nothing about his appearance to make him stand out . . . and yet when his eyes held mine, I sensed an old soul inside him.
“Yes?” I asked for lack of anything else that came to mind.
“Are you the seer?”
I wanted to sigh. “I only do readings in the mornings. Come back tomorrow.”
“I can’t. I’ll be on duty. Please.”
His voice held an edge of desperation, and I couldn’t send him away. Stepping back, I let him in. I’d never done a reading in my own family’s wagon before.
“What is it you need me to see?” I asked.
“My family lives to the south. I received a letter from my sister this morning, telling me my mother was ill, dying, and that I should come. But the letter was delayed, and it’s now weeks old. If my mother is still ill, I’ll request leave and set out tomorrow. If she is well . . . or if she has died, I’ll remain here at my duties, write back to my sister, and go home when I can. But I need to know.”
As with his appearance, his request was nothing out of the ordinary, but I could hear the emotion in his voice. He was torn between family and duty.
We both sat, and I took his hand. His fingers felt warm and weathered in my own. I focused on the spark of his spirit and on his home and on his mother. The mists closed in.
When they cleared, I found myself standing by a small family graveyard. A fresh grave had been recently dug, with a wooden marker that read ELIZA PORTER, LOVING MOTHER.
The mists closed in again and faded, and I sat looking at the soldier.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was sorry. “If your mother is Eliza, I saw her grave. She has passed over.”
