by K.N. Lee
“I am the teacher of the last vidartan,” she whispered to the wax. “I’ll steal nothing. I’ll take only what is given. And I will make sure that the student always uses the magic for the good of humans. There will be no force, no dominion, only defense, only protection. I stand as defiant as this wax, and as true as my father’s heart.”
She thought of the prayers her brothers had spoken aloud, close enough to her ears to make an impression. Sacred words. Holy. Unknowable by anyone outside of the inner circle of the vidartans. Not even most vidaya would know these words.
Mathilde did.
Buried somewhere deep in her mind, the thoughts bubbled up, unstoppable. Rising to a place where her conscious mind could speak them. She had not learned the prayers. Those were strictly for the priests. But in her dire need, Mathilde remembered more and more.
Words tumbled into her head, without rational thought. It was like a ball of gold fire spun in her mind and spiralled out of her mouth. She didn’t know half of what she spoke. She only heard the prayer she uttered as the words spilled out into the dirt, filling the dug-out room.
Mathilde whispered to the root vegetables and the silent earth that held them, cold and ready. She listened for an answer.
The wax hissed and smoked, angry, refusing her words.
“I am not vidartan. I know. I am not the one you seek. The one who needs you. But I am here. I have to teach my brother. I have to...” she spoke to the bubbling, burning wax, begging the magic to hear what she needed—regardless of my unworthiness.
“Y-you have to help us. We need you now.”
Sullen and defiant, the wax refused her plea.
Without even thinking twice, Mathilde picked up the wooden bucket. She took two strides to the icewall. Raising the pail above her head, she didn’t hesitate.
“Maybe you’ll hear this.” she snarled. Then, she threw the worn wooden bucket upside down onto the icy surface.
Contact between such opposite temperatures was explosive.
Steam bloomed in a cloud above her head. The heated wax hit the ice, resisting, fighting to the end.
“Please. For the Vidartan priests,” she urged. Mathilde could not do magic. She spoke to the spells, to the dead spellmakers, to her father who knew all the answers. The man who took all the secrets to his watery grave.
“Magic of the Vidayas, power of my father, brothers, and grandfather, you have to hear me. There must be a way. I have to learn. Show me.”
Sheer heat melted through two feet of ice. The wax packet fell farther into the icewall. It was almost beyond her reach.
“The Vidaya will die. We will all die,” Mathilde bowed her head, begging, asking, pleading.
Ignorant.
Hopeful.
Alone.
And then, the magically-fed heat flickered out.
The melting slowed and stopped. Water dripped down the wall.
Mathilde carefully reached down the hole created by its vanquished heat to feel the cool packet. The dull resistance of cold wax felt like heaven to her blistered fingertips.
Carefully, Mathilde lifted the wax out of the ice wall.
Leaning down, she removed one wooden clog.
Placing the sacred writings on an unspoiled section of ice, Mathilde tapped the hard, solid surface. Wax cracked and fell apart, revealing the fragile book of bound linen.
Mathilde trembled, awed. Frightened.
Real power lay in her hand, enough to save Mama. Maybe more…
First, she had to learn the spells and teach them to Fritz.
Try as she might, with only one candlelight to read by, Mathilde could not focus on one symbol on the front cover. The strange words jumbled around, dancing, refusing to settle, denying her even the chance to identify a few of the simplest symbols she had learned from watching Ethan and Edgar’s study.
Useless.
Carefully, she tucked the broken wax in one apron pocket and the linen pages in the other. Then she sat down on the wooden stood, picked up a potato, and began to peel.
Bertha wouldn’t be back for hours. Mathilde began to count.
“One potato. Two potato. Three potato, four…”
7
Unreadable Signs
A bowl of hot chocolate steamed next to each of them, much too hot to drink. Set in front of Mathilde and Fritz’s startled faces, the ceramic containers were almost too big. Even taking a sip threatened to spill the drinks down the front of their tunics. Still, the rich smell was a comfort. Bertha made her chocolate drink exactly like Papa always had. Like they learned it in the same place…
“Do you like it?” Bertha asked, bringing in a covered tray of eggs and toast. “Your grandmother taught me the secret. It’s cinnamon,” she whispered dramatically. Even the aroma was enough to choke up Mathilde in memories of her old life.
But she didn’t have time for that. Not really.
Concentrate.
“So this symbol, levav, can you see it clearly?”
For the twenty-second time, Fritz shook his head. No. Again.
Mathilde sighed in defeat.
Neither of them could even begin to read the book. So they had the spellbook by actual possession only. Which led to absolutely nothing. A pile of papers covered in squiggly lines sat between them. A collection of knowledge without a teacher to explain the lessons only wasted their precious time.
“I could read it,” Fritz said, frustrated, “...if only the words slowed down. I know I could.” The scowl on his face spoke volumes. The task set for the last two children of Enrich Shawsman remained impossible.
Just as confused, Mathilde tried to hide her feelings. She didn’t do a very good job.
Her brother had an enormous cocoa mustache. Seeing that bit of silliness lightened some of the crushing despair.
“Maybe,” Fritz said, sipping the edge of the hot chocolate, “Maybe the book just doesn’t recognize us. How does it know we are vidaya, after all? It can’t see us. It doesn’t talk. How can the magic trust us? Maybe,” he said, “...it’s more like a pet?”
Quick as a jackrabbit, he jumped up from the table and ran to their little sleeping area in the back closet. Big enough for a stuffed mattress, Mathilde and he barely fit in the cramped space.
Being able to sleep is the last of my concerns.
And, if she could, Mathilde knew she would only rest if her brother was right next to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t dare let Fritz out of her sight. He’s all I have left. I won’t lose him. No matter what.
I’d die before the dogs take him away.
Echoes of the devastation she felt when she found the empty cellar room shook Mathilde. Not one more drop, she swore. No more vidayan blood. Not for the dogs or their unholy masters...
“I don’t know how to use magic. I don’t know what to do.” Was anyone listening? Was there a God up there, a force of magic that recognized her? Mathilde felt very alone. The weight crushed her. Who am I to talk about rescuing three prisoners from a camp of armed men?
She felt a dread, down to the core of her being.
They had no real plan. Other than an unreadable ancient spellbook, they had no hope at all.
Time wasn’t polite. It didn’t wait for Mathilde. It didn’t stop so she could figure out the rules of magic that bound the artifact. Tick. Tock. Went the clock… Every second, another chance to rescue her family slipped away. There were too few opportunities left to squander.
Like it had a mind of its own, the magic refused to listen. Elaborate spells set against interference ended their quest before she could even try to teach Fritz.
Mathilde sensed that the rescue was over before it began.
But her brother didn’t listen to doubt. He just believed.
Emerging from the pile of bedding, Fritz held the brilliant blue shirts in his hand. Wrinkled, ill-used, the beautiful material still shone as it moved. The embroidered stories of the vidartan priests danced across the shining fabric, sheen to gloss. Each thread was bright and
true as if it had been sewn yesterday.
“Hey...that’s a good idea,” Mathilde spoke, a bit in awe of his problem-solving skill. “Anything that works, helps us. We have only a day and a half left before…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
They both counted every second until the dogs sent the captured vidaya back to Hollyoaks. A few more precious hours until Mama’s death sentence. Minutes ticked away, sealing Johan’s abduction. The end of their family and their dream of freedom beyond the reaches of the hate of Hollyoaks.
Her little brother handed Mathilde one of the shirts. They both touched the fabric to the pages, like introducing a dog to the scent of a stranger’s hand.
There was a pop in the air. An odd click Mathilde couldn’t place.
Fritz grinned.
Mathilde and her brother threw the shirts over their shoulders, plunging skinny arms into the sleeves of incredible value. She felt like a queen. “I’ve never worn anything so fine. Soft. Beautiful.”
She looked at Fritz.
His shirt swallowed the boy whole. Sleeves flopping, he looked ridiculous. They both did.
The shirts were exquisite. Fine beyond anything they would ever touch. But they were just shirts. Even Mathilde’s was too big for her. They were meant to be worn by grown men. An eighteen year old girl and a ten year old boy were never going to fit.
The last shirt lay in a bundle on the table.
She felt as ridiculous as her brother looked. “I don’t know what we thought would happen… We must guard these shirts as artifacts. Unless they help you read the symbols?” She asked her brother.
Again, the answer was the same. No.
“It still shifts wildly,” he groaned, disheartened.
Matilde picked up the final shirt.
As she did, something fell on to the worn wooden table: Papa’s glasses. He always wore them whenever he read stories to Ethan and Edgar. They made him look like a scholar. The silver frames lent an air of authority and wisdom to his words and to their studies.
Mathilde gasped at again seeing the simple frames. Memories of Papa were ripped wide open, along with her heart. “Oh Papa…” she exhaled his name with reverence. “I wish you were here.”
“Through a glass darkly…” that’s what he had always replied when they talked about the unknown, the mysteries of the vidartan magics, the way of the vidaya. And that was what Fritz said now as her brother picked up the fragile spectacles and put them on.
Mathilde smiled.
Fritz was always a bit of a comedian. Mathilde didn’t blame him for a bit of fun now. She understood his sorrow. She couldn’t be mad, not at him.
“Fritz,” she began “…we need to put them away. We have to keep them saf--” Her voice trailed off. The look of wonder on his face stopped her scolding.
“Achut,” he whispered. “Achut, the shirts are dancing…”
“What do you mean? What’s happening?” she exclaimed. Hope flared bright. Something finally. Maybe?
Excited, her little brother took off the glasses and handed them to her.
“You try, Mattie,” he said, his voice earnest, his heart innocent. “I can tell something is happening but not exactly. And I can’t read these symbols, anyhow.”
Mathilde hesitated to touch something so precious. I’m not supposed to handle the sacred. This is not my place. I can’t.
I have to. If not me, then who? If not now, then when will I have that right? My family needs this. What I do, I do for them.
Mama.
Johan.
Their peril gave her the only reason she needed. Their need was too great for her not to try. Anything at this point was worth an attempt.
Anything that might unlock the magic.
Why did Papa need these glasses? What was he trying to accomplish?
“I don’t have the right to ask this, but won’t you help us?” Mathilde spoke to a pile of papers, three finely-embroidered shirts, and a pair of bent, silver glasses.
Taking a deep breath, she stilled her shaking hands and slid the silver frames over her ears. Light as a single feather, they rested on the bridge of her nose.
And suddenly, everything became crystal clear.
“The shirts…” she whispered. “The stories… They’re all true, Fritz! Everything weaves together. I can see it all…”
Even as she marveled, the shirts’ intricate embroidery begins to shift, moving, telling fantastic stories, ancient and unknown. The threads still wiggled, the symbols continued moving. But with Papa’s glasses, she was a part of the dance.
Mathilde’s mind thrummed along, waltzing in the same dance, riding the currents of power. Stories spilled into her mind. She knew some of them. But the detail? That was all new.
Fritz grinned fiercely at their triumph.
“Yes!” he cried out. “You did it! You’ve really broken the spells. I knew you could, achut. I knew it!”
“It’s amazing, Fritz. So beautiful. Beyond anything I can explain…” she told him.
“Here,” Mathilde called him closer, “Put these on, and we will win! Together, we can do anything!”
She placed the too-big glasses gently on his button nose. They slid down the bridge. Fritz pushed the frames back up again, squinting his eyes. He blinked. Closed his eyes and tried again.
“I don’t…” he said slowly, “I can’t see anything, Mattie. The images all blend and blur, same as before. I can’t see the stories.”
He took off the glasses. A big tear welled in the corner of his darling green eyes.
“No, no, my levav. No, don’t cry,” his sister reached her arms around him, holding him tight. “That’s what I am here for.” she said, “I will tell you the stories and you will find the magic. It is within you. I swear it is. You are vidartan. It’s in your blood.” He stiffened his shoulders and nodded curtly. Her little brother wanted to believe her.
‘Sometimes, the desire to believe is enough for magic to begin.’ Their mother’s words floated between them, like she whispered them herself.
“Alright now,” Mathilde said with a great deal more confidence than she felt. “Let’s talk about the story of the Garden and the Toad at the end of the World. “
Fritz listened as his sister told one fantastic story after the other.
Even Bertha stood still, overhearing bits and pieces of the stories. They were captivating. Colorful. Powerful. And the stories didn’t all end in happily ever afters, either.
Some did. But some were every bit as fragile and fraught as the real world. Every bit as dangerous, too. Mathilde held her breath on more than one occasion, not sure she should tell such horrible tales to a child…
He would have terrible nightmares.
“Fritz? Should I stop? Is it too much? Can you bear it?” Mathilde shook from fear after she had told the last story. He did, too. “Perhaps, we can stop. Maybe it is enough? Maybe the shirts can harness the magic?”
Picking up the pile of papers, Mathilde tried to read the spells hidden within the linen pages.
Nothing.
It was like following a child’s pen drawing across the page. Distorted, random, brutish, primitive—the words remained unrecognizable.
“I’m sorry.” She finally had to admit that they failed again. Closer but not close enough. “The glasses, the shirt—they don’t change the spellwork protecting the book. The pages, they’re still scrambled.” The disappointment on his face cut like the edge of broken glass.
“I’m afraid the magic won’t let us in.”
Fritz walked to her side and hugged her. Tight. The way he used to when he was five and she was thirteen. When he adored her, when the little boy loved her the same way he loved their Mama.
Mathilde’s heart rocked.
Her head spun with worry for his health, for their future. For a moment, it was all she could do to hold him tight. His little body, the ribs she could feel sticking through his skin, the sunken cheeks, the force of the road—Mathilde felt it all as her ha
nds touched his back.
“Love you, Mattie. Thank you for trying,” he whispered in her ear.
She just held him there, a little boy, lost to the world and to his father.
“We will save Mama,” she whispered, “you’ll see. We can still do it. We just have to keep trying. I promise you, if there is a way, I will find it.”
Looking him in the eye, Mathilde made sure he heard her. Fritz was exhausted, overwhelmed, and underfed. “You sleep for a bit. I will keep trying for a few minutes. Then I will come rest next to you... alright?”
He nodded with the last of his energy. It was all too much. No kid could have done more. No one expected a child to save the world.
She waited until he had slipped around the corner, more cat than boy.
Mathilde stuffed her hands in her apron pockets. The discarded wax filled her grip on one side. And on the other, she felt a sharp, deep pain.
“What’s that?” she gasped, startled.
Her hand bled from a jagged cut across her palm.
Gingerly, she pried the apron pocket’s mouth wide. She couldn’t figure out what had hurt her. This time, she reached in gently. Her fingers closed around something bone hard. Rigid.
Pulling it out of her pocket, Mathilde stared at the handle of the broken mug, slick with her blood.
“Oh. I forgot about that. Smart. Really great protection there, Mattie. Not much of a weapon, are you?” She had to laugh at the idiocy of injuring her own body with a broken bit of tableware.
She stood, looking for a cloth napkin to staunch the bleeding.
Drops of blood ran down her hand all the way to her elbow. So fast she didn’t even notice, splotches of blood fell to the wooden floor. Mathilde clasped her injured palm tightly, but it did no good.
Blood spilled, everywhere.
Behind her shoulder, she heard the cook cursing in the kitchen. No one knew she was injured. But it was not that bad. Blood kept falling. The sheer quantity began to alarm her, making a small puddle near her shoe.
Accidentally, she stepped in her own blood, trying to reach the kitchen for help.
Mathilde’s feet slipped out from under her.