Points of Departure

by Patricia C. Wrede

  When he said this, Isobel snorted and Gillo glared at her. Jehane immediately took against the entire idea of the mirror. She would let them show it to her, but she would not be whole-hearted about Acrilat.

  The mirror was in the trunk under the western window, bedded down like a special doll in the softest of red velvet. Jehane thought she would like a winter hat made of that velvet, but her mother had decreed that Jehane’s color was blue.

  “But it’s broken!” she said, when Gillo turned back the velvet covering the mirror.

  “It has to be,” said Givanni, her oldest brother, “to include all of us.”

  “But you said whole-hearted!”

  Gillo and Givanni looked at one another. Marigand, the eldest child, said in the kindly tone Jehane despised because it meant that they were keeping secrets from her, “It’s a paradox.”

  “Don’t you want to know which piece is yours?” said Marigand.

  Jehane was not interested, but felt it wiser not to say so. Being the youngest child was very difficult when the rest of them got an idea. She nodded. Marigand pointed to a largish triangular piece in the lower right corner of the mirror. Jehane looked at it, curious in spite of herself. There was a large tree in the mirror. Jehane cast a wild glance over her shoulder, but no tree had suddenly appeared in the attic. She looked back, and in the middle of the tree’s trunk there appeared a large brown eye. It looked at her. Jehane disliked it profoundly and made at it the most horrible face in her collection, crossing her eyes for good measure, although that always hurt.

  “I told you we should wait another year or two,” said Givanni.

  “Nonsense,” said Isobel. “This is a splendid time for her to see her shard.”

  “Why is it looking at me?” said Jehane, reluctantly uncrossing her eyes.

  “That’s what the mirror is for,” said Givanni. “So that you can look at Acrilat, and Acrilat can look at you.”

  “That is not Acrilat,” said Jehane. “Acrilat is good and preserves us.”

  There was an extended silence. The eye closed, and opened again as a blue eye, like everyone’s in the family. Jehane glared at the eye. It blinked lazily, and was green.

  “Jehane,” said Givanni, “Acrilat is good. But It’s good sometimes by being bad.”

  “No,” said Jehane. “That is a bad eye.”

  “Jehane,” said Marigand, coaxingly, “you like the eyes in trees in Papa’s play.”

  “That tree,” said Jehane, “had two eyes.”

  “Jehane—”

  “That is not Acrilat.”

  There was another silence. The eye closed and became tree bark. Jehane could not tell what kind of tree it was.

  “Do you suppose—” said Isobel.

  “No!” said Givanni and Marigand, all at once.

  “But do you? We all hate this mirror, you know we do—”

  “I don’t hate the mirror,” and “No, we don’t, don’t be foolish,” said Givanni and Marigand.

  Jehane looked away from the tree and saw that Gillo and Isobel were looking at one another. She hated it when they did that. She could tell that they might as well be whispering in a corner where she couldn’t hear them.

  So as not to be left out, she said again, “That is not Acrilat.”

  Isobel said, “But that must be our secret.”

  “I won’t tell,” said Jehane.

  • • •

  But it was.

  • • •

  In a warehouse by the docks, a fisher packed the day’s catch in barrels as he talked with a brisk old lady leaning on a cane.

  “My intentions?” Blue beads swung on locks of dark brown hair, Hrothvek-style, as the young man tilted his head. “Say hopes, rather. I wish to marry her, Mistress.”

  “Call me Granny,” the old woman said, though she seemed pleased by his respect. “And her intentions?”

  “The same. But she says her family will never allow it, and—” He shrugged expressively. “They are Farlanders. I do not know their customs, and I am not sure how best to approach them.”

  “With money,” Granny said flatly.

  “Farlanders sell their daughters?” The man sounded disgusted by the thought.

  “No; they expect to give their daughters a dowry. It can be quite a drain on the family purse.”

  “And Livia has four sisters.” The young man smiled slowly. “My gratitude, Mistress Granny. I believe I know how to proceed now.”

  • • •

  Granny Carry stared at the girl standing in front of her, holding out a small book bound in an unlikely shade of green velvet. “Your sister’s diary, is it?” she said after the silence had stretched long enough for Jehane to realize her error.

  “Yes,” Jehane said in a tone that meant she would really rather not have answered.

  “And she gave it to you to bring to me, did she?”

  “No, Granny.”

  “So you stole it,” Granny said flatly.

  Jehane said nothing, but her chin firmed.

  Granny snorted. “And does Nerissa steal from you? Or your other sisters?”

  “I keep my diary locked up,” Jehane said, frowning. “Nissy should know—” She broke off as Granny’s expression turned positively thunderous.

  “So it’s not just you. Young woman, is there no one in your family possessed of common decency and morality?”

  “I beg your pardon!” Jehane sounded outraged.

  “As well you should. Manners, however, are not morals—a thing you and yours appear to have forgotten. And don’t try to tell me it’s because you’re Acrivannish,” Granny added as Jehane seemed about to object. “I won’t believe you. Nobody encourages such a casual attitude toward others’ privacy and property, not even that mad god of yours.”

  Jehane turned an unattractive cooked-lobster color and didn’t answer.

  “I’ll return this to Nerissa myself,” Granny went on, taking the book. She gave the girl a stern look. “And I’d best not hear of any more of this nonsense from you, at least, no matter your excuses.”

  “I haven’t made any excuses!”

  “You have in your head, and they’re just as wrong there as they would be if you spouted them out loud. Be off with you, and mend your ways.” Granny’s usual farewell had even more bite than usual. Jehane nodded, and fled out through the garden.

  • • •

  A fishing dock looks—and smells—much the same, whatever country it is located in. Sailors the world over have the same rolling swagger, which makes it easy to spot any stranger who is not of the sea. The two young men drinking at the small dockside tavern would have stood out regardless; their blond hair and fair skin were a sharp contrast to that of the men around them. Liavekan sailors, whatever shade of brown their skin started, generally ended sun-struck to near-ebony by the end of their first season, and only the blackest of black hair escaped irregular bleached streaks from the constant exposure to sun and salt water.

  The elderly woman seated nearby did not look nearly so out of place, though from her bearing she was no retired sailor. “Who’re the tourists?” she asked the boy who brought her bowl of pot-boil.

  “The ghosts? Couple of Farlanders curious about how the rest of the city lives,” the server replied. “Arani jhi Rovoq says they’re talking of investing in the fleet.”

  “Investing?”

  “One of them has a bit of money from selling his old business—wine, I think it was. Arani said he talked of buying a boat.”

  “Someone had best hire them for a trip or two first,” the old woman said. “A new boat with a green owner is a recipe for trouble, no matter how good the fishing’s been this past year.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” the boy said thoughtfully. “Let them see what they’ll be in for. Arani’s youngest brother has a trawler, and he’s friends with them. I’ll pass the word.”

  “And tell ’em I said so,” the old woman added.

  “I will.”

  • •
•

  When Marigand Benedicti was five months pregnant with her namesake, she went to the Temple of Acrilat and bought a mirror. The revolution at that time consisted of twelve friends of her husband who met at her house every week to read Morianie plays and drink the beer she brewed. They were inspired by the very peculiar situation of the royal family and in particular the possibility of a Third Queen and a body of legislators for her to direct; but they did not act promptly to use this situation; in fact, they delayed for more than a decade. But she had thought that they might even act precipitately, a fear that later made her laugh in private.

  Of course, they were not all the revolution, even then. The priests of Acrilat were split into a number of factions, only two of which were acknowledged in public. The larger faction was dedicated to keeping Acrilat in check, the smaller to doing Its bidding. Marigand agreed with her husband that if one worshipped a god, one ought to do its bidding where that could be ascertained. It was the human aspects of the situation that she felt he failed to grasp, and accordingly, on a chilly summer day where cloud shadows chased sunlight on and off the great river of Acrilat’s city, she went to Its market and found the stall of her neighbor the silversmith. She had thought of conducting the business privately, but the social complications of such an action would be difficult, and also she wanted things to happen under the view of Acrilat.

  “I need a child-mirror,” she said to Alis her neighbor, after the proper greetings had been exchanged, “but I wish to have only one for all of my children, now and henceforth.”

  Her neighbor, a lanky woman with enormous dark-blue eyes, looked dubious. “Children like having their own mirrors,” she said. “And if it’s shared, it’s no use as a mirror.”

  “Can you make it?”

  “I’ll want to talk with a priest. Do you have one that you like?”

  “Dicemal,” said Marigand, naming the most revolutionary of the priests.

  “What motif do you want?”

  “A botanical one,” said Marigand.

  “Not all your children may care for botany.”

  I will see that they do, thought Marigand. She said, “A botanical motif.”

  Alis sighed, offered her a cup of tea that she refused, and went off to find Dicemal. She returned almost at once with him in tow. He was a short, meek-looking man whose lugubrious expression masked a very sharp mind and a penchant for abstruse philosophy.

  “He wants to talk to you,” said Alis.

  Marigand and Dicemal withdrew to a stone bench in the sun.

  “What are you plotting, Wife Marigand?”

  “I am plotting to survive your plots, Holy Dicemal.”

  She had chosen him partly because he would not dissemble. “You will want two mirrors,” he said.

  “Yes, but Alis mustn’t make them both.”

  “But they must be identical.”

  “Then tell me who can make an exact copy once Alis is done.”

  “I will inquire,” he said.

  Marigand frowned at him. “You are very meek, Holy Dicemal. What do you know?”

  “No more than you. But life is perilous. How far away would you go?”

  “To Liavek.”

  “Liavek! I would think Mereland far enough, and you would not have to learn a new language.”

  “I fear twice so far as Liavek will not be far enough, but it is as far as Husband Vanni will consent to go.”

  “This will cost dearly.”

  “I have money.”

  “It will cost more than money. How can you be dedicated to the salvation of Acrivain if you have this mirror in your house?”

  “How can I, if I do not have it?”

  • • •

  In the front garden, Granny set the linen-wrapped mirror in the sunniest spot she could find. Gripping her cane with her right hand, she uncovered the mirror with her left. The garden filled with a sudden smell of cloves, and the mirror began to glow with a flickering blue light.

  “Acrilat,” Granny said. “You don’t belong in Liavek. Go home.”

  The blue light intensified. Granny snorted. “You’ve plenty to keep you busy in your own country. Go!”

  The light brightened further, then suddenly turned red, and Granny brought her cane down hard on the mirror. The crash was much louder than it should have been, as if three mirrors had broken at once instead of only one. Shards of ink-smeared glass fountained in the sunlight, then fell back onto the linen square that had wrapped it. The scent of cloves vanished, to be replaced by the smell of Granny’s herbs and flowers.

  “That was easier than I expected,” Granny muttered. She bundled the pieces of the broken mirror in the linen and took them inside. Tomorrow, she’d dispose of them more completely, and the matter would be finished for good.

  Well, Acrilat was out of Liavek for good. The Benedictis would likely be a thorn in her side for a long time, but that was family.

  • • •

  The box in the Benedicti attic held nothing more than a silver frame and a pile of powdered glass. Acrilat expressed Its displeasure by showering Its priests in Acrivain with jet-black rose petals for three days and causing a plague of snow mice in Its capital city. These measures somewhat allayed Its irritation, and after a time, It turned away from Its relieved worshippers and began to plan. It was not done with Liavek, no matter what that meddlesome old woman thought.

  • • •

  A few months into Gillo’s not speaking to Isobel, she wandered sadly into the garden early one morning and found her mother taking tea all by herself. At least, no one else sat at the stone table under the apple tree. But there was another place, set with a leaf-shaped plate and a cup with a leafy handle. Maybe Mama was waiting for Marigand. Isobel began to back away, but though she made no sound, her mother’s head turned, and their eyes met.

  Isobel wondered why her mother was up so early when she looked so tired. She made a careful bow, hoping not to be scolded. Her mother smiled and beckoned to her. Isobel walked slowly over to the table, and sat down at the empty place, moving a fallen green apple out of the way.

  “Good morning, Mama,” she said, going on with what she had been taught were good manners.

  Her mother smiled again but did not provide the expected answer. She lifted the tall pot with an acorn atop its lid and poured tea into the empty cup. It was pale yellowy green and smelled sharp. Isobel looked for the honey bowl, but although the formal tea set had one in the shape of a huge acorn, it was not there. The tea steamed in the cool air of morning and made her nose sting.

  “I am glad you are up so early, lazybones,” said her mother.

  Isobel smiled and nodded.

  “This is the tea for your sister that was to be,” said her mother.

  “Nobody said,” said Isobel.

  “No,” said her mother. “We would have, at the right time, but I told your father that matters were amiss.”

  “Was it Acrilat?” asked Isobel. Then she wished she had not, for her mother’s face was assuming a familiar angry shape.

  But her mother shook her head, and the shape went away. “Don’t say that to your father,” she said.

  “I won’t,” said Isobel. She took a sip of the bitter tea, and somehow it made her brave. “But was it?” She did not say, Is it because we looked at the mirror?

  “I don’t know,” said her mother. “Babies die before they are born in other lands where It holds no sway.” She sipped her own tea.

  “Did we do something bad?” said Isobel.

  “We always do something bad,” said her mother. “It’s how we’re made. But Acrilat regards some good deeds as bad, and some bad deeds as good. Were we to act as It thinks of bad and good, we would not know where we were.”

  Isobel stared at her. “But doesn’t Acrilat say what’s bad and good?”

  “No,” said her mother. “That is Its sorrow.”

  “I don’t think It’s sad,” said Isobel. She reflected. “I think we are.”

 
“But we must strive to be merry,” said her mother. She stood up. “Wait a moment and I’ll fetch the honey.”

  Liavek, year 3320

  The Last Part of the Tragical History of Acrilat

  By Pamela Dean

  That year in Acrivain, the spring thaw arrived in the middle of the month of Heat. Farmers wondered glumly if they could get in a fall crop of beans before winter, returning, fell over its own heels; the priests of Acrilat breathed easier and dared to make an inventory of the granaries. Heat was the element of Acrilat’s indifference, as cold was that of Its interest, and they needed this respite.

  Three thousand miles away in Liavek, the weather arranged itself as it always did in Heat. The brazen sunlight fell out of a vicious blue sky and stung the skin like molten metal; the dust lay in heaps like the autumn leaves or spring snows of more reasonable climates; every growing thing looked as bright and brittle as if it were made of painted paper; and visitors from more reasonable climates got sunburned.

  And yet it was not quite the same. The strong dry heat of Liavek had usually a preservative effect on all smells, good or bad; but this year neither the orange tree nor the orange peel, not the blooming nor the cut and festering jasmine, neither the clean tang of freshly-drawn beer nor the sour lingering taint of it spilled later were evident in the still air. There was only the smell of dust. While not regretting the beer in the least, as she paced her aimless way among the hot, bright streets of Liavek, Jehane Benedicti was nevertheless perturbed. She turned into her own back garden and sniffed vigorously at the drooping tomatoes. Yes, that sharp cat-related smell was there; so was the dim presentiment of the ripening fruit and the drowned-purple redolence of nearby poppies. Everything smelled as it ought, if you attended to it. But the general air was as sterile as winter, and the whole garden looked like a basket of dried flowers.

  A sunburn still felt precisely like a sunburn, even when you tried not to attend to it. The Benedictis had lived in Liavek for twenty years and knew how to behave in the summer. Jehane and Livia had gotten sunburned just the same, Livia because she was deliriously happy and Jehane because was pleasantly melancholy. Livia dealt with the matter by developing a high fever and retiring to bed in a shower of complaints, where she required the services of every sister that she had. Jehane, having sniffed the tomatoes and derived from the results only puzzlement, dealt with puzzlement and sunburn alike by retiring to the cellar with six cushions, twelve books, and a jug of orange juice.