by J. A. White
“Well, it’s not going to work if you just stand there,” Mary said. “You’re a boy. It’s a ball. Use that clever mind of yours and figure out what to do.”
Taff tossed the ball into the air, and it began to glow faintly. Giggling, he tossed it again and again until it was as bright as a torch.
“Thank you,” said Mary, taking the ball from his hands. “Let’s go.”
Though it flickered erratically and sometimes went out for entire minutes at a time, the glowing ball was a welcome beacon of light as they passed beneath trees bristling with hidden life. Sets of eyes in twos and threes watched them between parted leaves. A snake that was little more than a forked tongue slithered over Kara’s boots, while above them a many-clawed creature, thin as a flapjack, stretched tightly across the limbs of several trees.
In time they came to a small clearing.
Knee-high grass just a few shades darker than wheat rustled in the gentle breeze. Past the clearing Kara heard the rushing of a waterfall. She stepped forward, intending to investigate, but Mary gripped her arm.
“Wait,” said Mary. She picked a few blades of grass, rolled them into a ball, and sucked it eagerly. “It won’t be long now.” She found a stump to rest on. Taff plucked a blade of grass and took a hesitant taste before tossing it to the ground. He looked at Mary with newfound admiration, impressed by her ability to ingest disgusting things.
“The thing to remember about magic,” Mary said, “is that it’s a talent, no different from being a painter, or singer, or teller of tales. They are witches, all, creating something that was not previously in the world.”
“There’s a big difference between singing a song and casting a spell,” Kara said.
“Is there? A talespinner, for a time, will take his audience and transport them to a different place. A good singer as well. And a sculptor uses her craft to reflect reality as she sees it.” Mary spat out a huge wad of gunk and replaced it with some fresh grass; her tongue was beginning to turn yellow. “When you use magic, you are simply changing what’s real to what you want it to be.”
“But that’s not possible.”
“For most. But have you never looked at something extraordinary—a stained-glass window, a beautiful gown—and wondered, ‘How did they do that?’ Possibility is not universal, Kara. It’s a matter of ability.” Leaning forward, Mary held the glowing ball between them, her features almost pretty in the soft light. “Believe you have the power to change the world, and you will. Forget the Forest Demon. Doubt is your greatest enemy right now.”
Something darted through the grass. Taff withdrew his wooden sword.
“Put that thing away, boy. You’ll be doing your sister a grave disservice if you scare the grettins away before we even start.”
“What’s a grettin?” Kara asked.
“Little creatures that come out here every night to eat the grass. They’re as harmless as mice. That’s not the best part, though. Wait.”
They waited. There seemed to be a dozen creatures moving through the grass now—two dozen. And then, muffled by the stalks, came a high-pitched, melodious sound.
“They’re singing!” exclaimed Kara.
The chirping rose and fell in perfect time to the wind’s rustling, the creaking of the branches, the song’s beauty only intensified by its contrast to their grim surroundings.
Kara looked over at Mary. Her eyes were closed, and an expression that was almost peaceful had settled over her features.
“What do they look like?” Taff asked, stretching across the ground on his elbows.
Mary shrugged. “I’ve never seen one. Grettins have the misfortune of being a tasty treat for predators, so they’re understandably skittish. If I were to take a single step toward the grass, they would all run off.” She opened her eyes and turned to Kara. “But if you were to use your magic, I think we might get a different result.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Kara said, wringing her hands. “Hearing these creatures is one thing. Making them do my bidding . . .”
“You’ve done it before,” said Mary.
“With the grimoire!”
“The spellbook allowed you to cast spells more easily, I’ll grant you that. But nothing has changed. You are wexari. A true witch.” Mary gestured toward the clearing. “Now go out there and prove it.”
Kara took a dazed step forward, the first blades of stiff yellow grass scratching her knee, before a question occurred to her. She looked back over her shoulder, taking a moment to brush long strands of black hair from her eyes.
“You said a witch was like an artist, creating something that wasn’t there before. But I just communicate with animals. What am I creating?”
Mary clapped her hands together. “Well done, wexari. You’re asking the right question. Or close enough, at any rate. A better question would be, ‘What do I need to create?’”
“That doesn’t help.”
“Nor should it. Asking the right question isn’t enough. You have to ask it at the right time.”
“How will I—” Kara started, but Taff cut her off.
“They won’t hurt her, will they?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Mary said. “Kara, if you truly intend to face Imogen, you need to master your powers, but I would never put you in a situation where you might get hurt—not yet, at least. Then again . . .”
Mary withdrew a curved dagger from a sheath hanging from her side and handed it to Kara.
“Probably best to be cautious. This is the Thickety, after all.”
With hesitant footsteps Kara entered the clearing. At first the grass rustled as startled creatures fled her approach, but Kara moved slowly toward the center of the field, humming a song her mother had taught her, and the creatures returned. She sat down and crossed her legs, the blades of grass rising over her head and obscuring everything but the treetops. It was like sinking into a secret world.
You’ve called animals to you before, she thought. You can do it again.
“Come here,” Kara whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”
Her words were anchored by doubt.
What if Mary is wrong? What if I’m not special after all?
“You get one yet?” Taff asked after only a few minutes had passed. Mary shushed him.
In the following hour Kara asked, commanded, cajoled, and begged the creatures to come to her, with no result. Kara could hear the true voices of many grettins, but even these were vague, no more than brief snatches of SING and HIDE peeking out from beneath the telltale sounds of the night.
She had begun to nod off when the grettins’ song rose in intensity. Now, however, it bore a slightly mocking quality, as though it knew what Kara was trying to do and found it amusing. The grettins were playing with her in their fashion, and for a few moments she forgot all about magic in light of this strange and wonderful animal.
You want to come to me, don’t you? You’re curious . . . but you’re afraid it might be a trick. How can I prove that I won’t harm you? If you were a person I would just use words, but you’re an animal. Human words mean nothing to you. We need a different kind of connection.
(Ask the right question at the right time. . . . )
What connects two things?
“A bridge,” Kara said.
She closed her eyes and imagined a simple wooden bridge that began in her mind and stretched out toward the voices of the grettins. I offer this connection between us, she thought, hoping that they could understand the words. You can trust me. In her mind Kara felt the grettins get closer, like indecisive dogs sniffing a path, and braced herself for whatever might happen next.
They refused to cross.
Something’s not right, Kara realized. I need to make a link between us—I’m sure of it!—but I’m not giving them a good enough reason to trust me. How can I prove I mean them no harm?
The answer came in a flash of insight, as though the canopy had suddenly peeled open and let in the afternoon sun.
Real bridges are built from wood or stone because that makes them safe—but that’s only true in the physical world. A mind-bridge needs to be built from a different sort of material altogether, one that makes these creatures feel safe in their minds, just like wood makes people feel safe in reality.
Kara remembered the times in her life when she had felt the safest. Falling asleep on the porch and waking in Father’s strong arms as he carried her to bed. Walking through the aisles of the general store with Mother’s hand in hers. Like a mason baking bricks, Kara transformed these memories into building material and then used them to form a mind-bridge constructed from feelings of warmth and safety.
With renewed curiosity, the grettins milled closer.
“Come,” Kara whispered. “You are welcome.”
She felt a small tug in her head and gasped softly.
Her invitation had been accepted.
The grass parted, and a creature with large amber eyes peered out at her. Its body was long and pliable, like a ferret’s, with rust-colored fur and a bushy tail.
“There you are,” Kara said.
She held her hand low to the ground and waited. After hesitating for a moment, more out of pride than concern for its safety, the grettin sniffed Kara’s fingers, then hopped onto her hand. The tiny animal was heavier than it looked, but not so heavy that Kara couldn’t lift it with ease until it was level with her eyes.
“Hello, my friend,” Kara said.
The grettin chirped.
From all around her now, they came. Kara felt the creatures slip beneath her legs and over her shoulders and up her arms. She laughed as their tiny paws tickled her skin.
“What’s going on?” Taff shouted. And then, hurt accusation in his voice: “Are you having fun without me?”
The grettins climbed off Kara and began gathering together at her feet, a growing mass of shifting bodies that ballooned to her height before suddenly shrinking and reshaping, the bodies falling into one another, combining, until a creature the size of a pony stood before her, its face withered and wise and old.
“All of you,” Kara said. “You’re all part of the same creature.”
She stroked the grettin’s back, marveling at the lumps sliding beneath its skin like a sack of marbles. From the back of its hind leg protruded a bushy tail that had gotten confused during the transformation.
Kara rose to her feet and waved to Mary and her brother, dim shapes in the approaching darkness of morning.
“You have to come and see!” she called. “It’s wonderful!”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mary asked, holding Taff back. “I don’t want to scare it off.”
Kara bent down so she was eye level with the grettin, and scratched behind its ears.
“Is that all right with you?” she asked, and because the creature was on Kara’s side of the mind-bridge she knew it understood. “Can my friends come and see how pretty you—”
A low growl rumbled in the base of the creature’s throat. Kara took a step backward, thinking that she had completely misjudged the situation. This is a trap, she thought, snatching her hand back while she still had all her fingers. It’s going to attack me!
But then she found the grettin’s gentle eyes and saw that it held no malice in its heart, for her or any other creature. The growling was meant as a warning, and as Kara realized this, the growl changed into something different, something her mind could latch on to and understand.
Sledgeworm come! Teethsome! Rungofast! Now!
But it was too late.
The ground quaked as a monster thudded to the earth. It had no legs, but instead balanced itself on arms corded with thick, reptilian muscle. The skin of its squirming torso was concealed beneath a garden of moss and fungus.
Blighted, Kara thought.
The sledgeworm bent forward, lifting its maggot-like body into the air to balance its body weight, and Kara found herself staring into vermillion eyes rank with madness.
“Run, Kara! Run!” Taff exclaimed.
The sledgeworm opened its mouth, revealing a gruesome combination of fangs and thorns. A vine shot from the place a tongue should have been and whipped around the grettin, holding the flailing animal in place.
Through the grettin’s half-closed eyes Kara saw a look of somber acceptance.
It is time, she heard it say. Fate for such as I.
“NO!” Kara shouted.
Even later, Kara would be hard-pressed to explain what had happened. The best way she could put it was that the grettin was on her side of the mind-bridge, and because of that it had to listen to her. Kara didn’t give it a choice.
“Escape!” she shouted.
The grettin exploded, no longer one creature but hundreds, slipping between the sledgeworm’s teeth and into the night, the monster snapping at its prey but unable to catch something so small and fleet.
“Yes!” Kara shouted. “Run!”
She thought she might have heard a chorus of chirps in the distance, coalescing into one last message.
Thank you.
Kara’s triumph, however, was short-lived.
The sledgeworm turned its full attention to her. It was too stupid to truly comprehend what had just happened, but seemed to be aware, in a very basic way, that this small human had somehow stolen its breakfast. Heart galloping in her chest, Kara backed slowly away. Her instinct was to turn and run as fast as she could, but she fought it, afraid the sudden motion would spur the monster to attack.
Kara felt a hand flat against her upper back.
“Magic, wexari,” Mary whispered in her ear. “Control it. Make it yours.”
The sledgeworm took another giant arm-step forward. Something stringy and uneaten dangled from its lower gums.
Kara reached out with her mind, feeling for the creature, but whereas the grettin was like a fond memory eager to be recalled, the sledgeworm was a moment better left forgotten: the snap of a broken bone, a sleepless night burning with fever, her mother’s face looking away in disappointment.
“I can’t,” Kara said. “I found what the grettin wanted and made a sort of connection with it, but there’s nothing I share with this monster.”
“You mean nothing you want to share.”
The sledgeworm went after Mary then, turning its body with surprising speed and knocking her to the ground. Kara ran to help her but the monster blocked her path. It swung an arm and Kara ducked, feeling the hiss of air as its claw passed just over its head.
Suddenly the sledgeworm collapsed.
“I got it!” Taff shouted, wooden sword in hand.
Kara saw what had happened. When the sledgeworm put all its weight on one arm to attack her, Taff struck it with his sword. The blow hadn’t been enough to hurt it, but the timing had caused the monster to lose its balance, buying her precious seconds.
Taff had already helped Mary to her feet, the two of them running toward the shelter of the trees now. Kara, thinking the sledgeworm would follow her, ran in the opposite direction.
Except it followed her brother instead, furious at the little human wielding the biting stick.
“Get back here!” Kara screamed. “Leave him alone!”
She picked up a rock and threw it at the sledgeworm, striking its body. The monster, only a few steps away from Taff now, ignored her.
Build a bridge! Now!
Reaching into her mind, she thought about Simon—not the guilt she felt for killing him but the pure joy she had taken in the act, under the spell of the grimoire but ignoring that now, enjoying his screams as her children bit into him, the pleasure of the kill . . .
. . . and transformed that rush of feeling into a mind-bridge that she followed straight to the sledgeworm. Her passage into its mind, however, was blocked by a solid wall of hate. She concentrated harder, pushing the wall, but it was as hard as stone. Unlike the grettin, the sledgeworm did not know the meaning of trust. It would never come to her. If Kara wanted to stop it, she would have to make her own
entrance into its mind.
Taff screamed.
Holding her head between her hands, Kara lashed out with her mind and struck the wall as hard as she could.
The sledgeworm wailed in pain and fire blossomed in Kara’s head. Her nose popped. Something wet and sticky dribbled onto her lips. The creature faced her, uncertain, but then Kara saw its arms tense as it prepared to charge.
She closed her eyes and struck the wall again. It was easier this this time, though no less painful.
The sledgeworm flew backward as though caught in a sudden gust of wind.
Withdrawing Mary’s dagger, Kara approached the monster. It lay coiled on the ground, struggling to regain its balance. Despite everything that had happened, Kara felt pity for the creature. It had only been hungry, nothing more.
She held its gaze, remembering a moment of blinding fear (Grace has Taff; where has she taken him?) and used that to find the monster, feeling what it was feeling right now.
I won’t hurt you again, Kara told it. As long as you leave this second.
With a weak hiss the sledgeworm righted itself and sprang into the treetops.
Taff watched it go, then turned to his sister with something like awe in his eyes.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“Magic,” Kara replied, and collapsed.
BOOK TWO
IMOGEN
“In time, those who use magic become monsters.
This is the fate no witch can escape.”
—The Path
Leaf 182, Line 45
She slept for two days.
During this time she was visited by another dream of her father. It started like the first one: Father in the field, folding seeds into the soil and standing back to wait as though they might actually sprout there and then.
They did.
Green shoots stretched to the sky, flattening into stalks as husks of corn blossomed before her eyes, the whole process insanely fast but Father tapping his foot impatiently nevertheless. In just a few moments a cornfield surrounded him. Picking a husk from the nearest stalk, Father peeled the corn in that peculiar way he had, from the bottom up, revealing a perfect ear that would have fetched at least a brown at market.