by Ash Krafton
“As well as old bones can be,” she said. “The gods have been kind.”
The woman’s face was like a walnut, sun-browned and deeply ridged, her eyes as bright and quick as a sparrow. Much of the woman’s bulk must be in the many layers of shawls draped over her shoulders. Her body must be as bird-like as her voice. No wonder he took such care with her.
“You brought company.” The elder mother waved at Tam, urging her closer. She tipped her head, chin to chest. “You are welcome in my home, fire child.”
“Oh no,” Tam said. She tugged at the yak hood but it was too securely fast. She settled for pulling it back from her face enough to get her mouth out. “I’m not like him. I’m just a woman.”
“Just a woman.” Elder Mother’s voice lightened with amusement. “Come to the fire. I, too, am just a woman.”
Tam stepped forward but Burns caught her by the waist. “Wait.”
Freezing in mid-step, she slid her gaze toward him.
“Undress first,” he said. “The fire is warm enough.”
He tugged at the rope and pulled the coat off over her head. “No need to talk to Elder Mother looking like a shaggy beast.”
She smoothed her hair down, suspecting she still looked shaggy. And—she drew a handful of hair to her face and sniffed. Ugh. She still smelled like one.
“Come, sit,” Elder Mother said. She gestured to a stack of bowls in a basket near the hearth. “Eat. You’ve come a long way, and I am mother enough to know hunger when I see it in a child’s eyes.”
“I am missing my lunch,” she said, and cast a playful glare in Burns’ direction.
He obliged her by ladling a bowlful of the stew that simmered over the fire. She took it with grateful hands, feeling the warmth of the bowl and, oh, the aromas…Tam inhaled the steam wafting from the bowl, a mixture of spice and root vegetable and hearty meat.
She lifted a small spoonful to her mouth. Heat wafted up against her lips in a fragrant steam. A tiny taste—sweetness from thick chunks of carrot, the savory flavor of stewed meat, a slow burn on her lips from simmered chili peppers. Delighting in both the temperature and the taste, she spooned up another bite. “This is absolutely wonderful.”
Elder Mother laughed. “My great-grandmother’s recipe.”
He filled another bowl with stew and hunkered down on a low bench near the fire. “Elder Mother is by far, the best cook of the tribe.”
“Bah.” Elder Mother made a shooing motion with her hand. “I just do what I’ve been taught. That deserves no credit other than I follow directions well.”
Her eyes now adjusted to the firelight and the shadows, Tam looked around the room. Baskets and blankets covered the walls, tools and tapestries of all colors. Her surroundings were as detailed as a museum diorama—and as impossible. “How did you find her, Burns? This doesn’t look like your type of neighborhood.”
He waited to chew and swallow before answering. “I got directions.”
“It was a hard winter, the first time he came,” Elder Mother said. “Fuel was scarce. Our fires were going out. We prayed to the gods.” She nodded at Burns. “They sent an angel.”
He hung his head, busying himself with his meal. “I told you, Elder Mother. I’m not an angel.”
“I know what you are, fire child. You are a blessing.”
Tam grinned at him. Elder Mother’s praise had made him blush, a rosy glow heating his cheeks.
“Long story,” he grumbled.
He couldn’t even grumble convincingly.
“Oh, good.” Tam waved her spoon. “I love stories.”
“So,” Elder Mother said. “A fire child brings his woman here.”
Tam’s grin disappeared. She chased a chunk of carrot around the bowl. “Oh, I’m not his.”
Elder Mother smiled, the deep wrinkles growing deeper around her mouth and eyes. “This is curious.”
His own bowl empty, Burns tossed his yak cloak onto the floor near the fire and knelt to sprawl over it, one arm curled behind his head. The light danced over his bare chest, and from time to time tiny sprouts of flame would creep across his skin. His eyes held twists of fire, dancing in time to the crackling of the hearth.
“I was bored,” he said. “I thought I’d terrify the poor mortal.”
“Poor mortal, indeed.” Elder Mother held out her hands toward Tam. “Come.”
She walked over to the woman, grasping her hands. Their strength, their pleasant warmth. So much like her grandmother’s hands had been.
“Ah,” Elder Mother said. She lifted Tam’s hands toward her face, nodding slowly. “I sense you. You see things others cannot.”
“Yes,” she replied. The sensation of being an interloper had completely disappeared. She felt comfortable here, somehow, in this tiny village on the side of a Peruvian mountain. She had no reservations about being open with this woman. “I do. I always have.”
“You see things in other people, as well.” Elder Mother tugged Tam down to sit beside her. “But you do not see yourself. You cannot see yourself. You require a special mirror.”
He rolled to a crouch, his eyes glinting with a keen interest. “I didn’t dare ask, Elder Mother.”
“Nonsense.” She released Tam’s hands and scolded him with a wag of her finger. “That’s why you brought her here. You cannot lie to me, fire child.”
“What mirror?” Tam looked to Burns. “What does she mean?”
The elder mother released her hands and groaned to her feet, leaning heavily on her walking cane. She shuffled over to a trunk near the wall and lifted the lid. Rooting around inside, she tugged out a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Her steps slow, her walking stick making dull thuds on the floor, she returned to her seat.
“This mirror, like that stew recipe, has been passed down through my mother’s line for many generations. We share a gift. A tradition. He called me a wise woman but wisdom is only part of the gift. There is something else, something borrowed. Something from the stars. When I make my journey to the gods, my daughter will carry on. And hers after her. Already the youngest has shown the promise. We are blessed.”
She unwrapped the cloths, folding each one and setting it aside. “And so are you. There are traditions in your blood, as well.”
“I guess,” Tam said. “I have my grandma’s heirlooms.”
“She guesses because she cannot see herself. Well, we will look. This mirror, too, is an—heirloom.” Pulling the final cloth free, she held up the mirror. About a foot in diameter, octagonal frame, symbols outlines in green glass beads and bits of hammered brass.
The shiny pieces caught the firelight and sparkled. Burns’ eyes, too. He never took his gaze from the mirror.
He sat up straighter and watched with mouth gaping, looking every bit like a dog at the edge of its restraint.
Elder Mother held out the mirror toward Tam. Puzzled, she took it, guessing that was what the woman wanted her to do.
It wasn’t as heavy as it looked and it buzzed in her hands, humming with a strange energy.
Burns flicked his gaze to her face, silent, motionless, watching.
Tam shook her head, a tiny tremor. What was she supposed to do?
“It’s—beautiful,” she said. She brushed her fingertips against the beads, feeling the cool metal sharply contrast with the warm wood, the pleasing texture of the glass. Laying it on her lap, she rubbed the glass beads with her fingertips. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It feels—”
“Alive.” He slid closer, sitting nearly at Tam’s feet.
“Yes,” Elder Mother said. “It has a power. This mirror will show you the secret of your soul. Destiny. Purpose. It makes things clear. Hold it this way—”
Elder Mother lifted Tam’s hands, raising the mirror, and rotated it to a specific direction, turning it like a steering wheel. “Now, look. It will not hurt you.”
Tam looked at the mirror. The surface was marred by tiny imperfections, dimples and dips in the glass. Old glass was neve
r perfect. Her reflection looked wavy.
“What do you see?” Elder Mother’s voice was patient.
Tam scowled. “My hair is a wreck from wearing that cloak.”
“Exactly.” Elder Mother sounded pleased. “That is your outside Now, look to your inside.”
She placed one of her hands on top of Tam’s, grasped the mirror, and rotated it a quarter turn. The hum increased, like a jet engine igniting.
“See.” The woman’s voice dropped, sounding ominous. The old woman’s eyes filling up with inky dark, her pupils expanding to fill her eyes. “See.”
Tam tore her gaze away from the woman’s face and looked into the mirror.
And almost dropped it.
Chapter 8
Tam shook her head, trying to shake the image from her mind. It simply wasn’t right. Mirrors reflected. This was not her reflection. “That’s—that’s not my face. I mean, it’s my face, but it…it’s not.”
“What do you see?” He stroked the calf of her leg, a light touch, almost absent-mindedly.
“Me. But I’m changing. My face, shifting from one face to another. Like sand in the wind.”
He made a sound deep in his throat. It was a very pleased sound, a touch of satisfied smugness.
She ignored him. “But my eyes—they’re always white. Blank. Empty.”
“You are sure it’s you?” He scooted closer to her seat.
“They are all me.” A tightness grew in her throat, tiny fingers pressing, blocking her breath. “I don’t like it, Burns. I want to stop.”
“Go deeper.” Elder Mother rotated the mirror again.
The image changed before her eyes.
“Sand,” she whispered. “Blue sky, impossible blue. No clouds. And…two moons? How can that be? And―”
She gasped. “Him. The candlewick man. I dream of him. I dreamed this—”
She trembled, the glass rattling against the frame. The muscles in her arms turned to liquid, and she almost dropped the mirror. Again.
Elder Mother stared hard into Tam’s face, the mirror between them, the older woman’s hands upon hers with surprising strength. “Keep looking. It is the secret of your soul. Who is he?”
“He’s all fire, dancing on a wick. He always does. I can’t see his face.”
“Look at him,” Burns said. Tension had thinned his voice. “Is he me?”
“No, not you.” She stared hard, lowering her face down to the surface. The figure inside twisted and writhed, revealing curves and a length of hair. “It’s—a woman.”
Elder Mother made an ah sound. “What is she doing, child?”
“Waving a knife. She stands on a hill. There’s a body.” Suddenly, Tam knew what was coming next. She didn’t want to see anymore. She’d seen it all too many times before, the worst parts of her dreams. The parts she never remembered. This mirror brought it all back with stifling clarity. She’d have to see it all again—
“What is she doing?” His voice was tight, sounding as if he were approaching panic.
She let her eyes sag closed. She didn’t have to look to know. “Smiling. Laughing. She is standing over a body, and she’s laughing. Wait—”
Her eyes popped open, and she leaned toward the mirror. “She’s saying something.”
Elder Mother squeezed her fingers around Tam’s hands. “What is she saying?”
“I don’t know.” Tam twisted her face away. “I don’t care. I don’t want to hear her voice.”
“Channel her.” Elder Mother leaned closer. Her black eyes swallowed the firelight, deep and intense.
“What?” Tam pushed at the mirror, wanting it as far away from herself as possible. “Are you nuts?”
“Touch the mirror. Touch her.”
“No, I don’t want—”
“You must.” Elder Mother’s grip was like iron, solid and unrelenting. It matched the tone of her voice. “You cannot journey halfway and simply stop.”
He knelt beside her, reaching around to hug her knees. “Touch her, Tamarinda. You must.”
She lowered the mirror onto her lap. She raised a finger and let it hover over the woman in the mirror. The woman turned in her direction, her fiery eyes seeming to focus outward. Bared her teeth at her and laughed, flung open her arms.
Tam dropped her finger to the glass. A moment of resistance, cold glass. Then the surface yielded and her flesh sank into it, feeling molten and frozen at the same time. The wind rushed out of the mirror at her. She opened her mouth to scream. The wind became a gale storm—
The room had fallen away. Tam found herself face to face with the candlewick woman.
She stood on the sand, hand extended, palm to palm with the woman, who solidified enough to wear a human-shaped form. The ground was firm beneath their feet. All the world seemed to spin around them, their gazes were locked. Tam heard the song of the wind, smelled it, smelled the sand.
A clean, dusty freshness—she never knew the scent of sand before, never knew it even had one—
But she recognized it.
A hum flooded into her. The candlewick woman spoke and the words reverberated through her bones, pouring out through her own mouth. She couldn’t resist the words. She and the candle woman were one, one will, one mind.
The specter had taken her over.
You are two. You are half. You are one. You struggle to break. And you will.
The candlewick woman slid her hands up Tam’s arms, her neck, and framed her face in her flame-like fingers. In a hollow voice, she uttered a string of syllables, each sound appearing as an image in Tam’s mind.
She heard the words, saw them, felt each one imprint itself on her soul.
The candlewick woman repeated the words and once more Tam repeated them with her, one voice.
The flame woman pulled her hands away and stared into Tam’s face one last time before turning to a pillar of twisting flame once more, to dance away across the sand. She disappeared into the sunlight, a mirage upon the shimmering sands.
The wind slammed into Tam, doubling her over. She was lost in the rush and the smell of the sand, and she drifted back into her body.
He crouched between her knees, gripping her by the shoulders and calling her name.
She swatted absent-mindedly at him as her senses trickled back. “Stop—stop it.”
He still had her by the arms, seemingly reluctant to release her. Although he looked visibly relieved, a tightness remained around his eyes as if he feared she might drift away again. “I thought you were lost.”
Elder Mother stood behind Burns. Her hand on his shoulder, she only nodded.
Tam set the mirror down on the seat beside her, snatching her hands away. The glass was dark, its surface cool and unyielding once more. “What happened?”
“That was your secret,” Elder Mother said. “You know that creature.”
Oh, yes. She knew that creature, all right. She’d seen it nearly every night of her life. Never had the dreams been that intense.
Or were they? Her bed sheets, always sweated and twisted—
She rubbed her mouth. The dreams were always that intense. She just never remembered.
She shuddered, her sweater damp against her back, her breasts, as the perspiration chilled. He handed her a wooden cup, and she sipped at the cold sweet water before answering. “I’ve dreamed about it all my life.”
“I am wretchedly disappointed,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “I really had hoped it was me.”
“But those words—” She glanced to Elder Mother, and back. “Did you hear them?”
He shook his head.
“You must have. She said you are two. You are half. You are one. You struggle to break. And you will. None of it made sense.”
“You will make sense of it. You will.” Elder Mother reached for the mirror, lifting it, faltering as if it was a tremendous burden. He supported it while she wrapped it in its layers of cloth. She turned to carry it back to the chest, her pace weary. “You will find your w
ay. My fire child will help you.”
“Elder Mother, let me help you.” He bounced to his feet.
“No,” she said, and waved his help away. “I can manage. Take your young woman home.”
He stole a quick glance at Tam. “I will build your fire, then.”
“My thanks.” She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, looking tired. With a trembling hand, she reached up and patted his cheek. “Always my thanks.”
“Rest well, Elder Mother.” His gentle voice deepened with a nurturing tone, a hint of worry, as if every time he said goodbye he feared it would be his last.
“Thank you,” Tam said. “The food, the mirror thing—thank you.”
Elder Mother chuckled. “You are a good person. You do not understand yet the gift, but you remember to say thank you. Your destiny will be bright. You will find your way, but you will first break. Keep going through the pain.”
That didn’t sound very optimistic. “Pain?”
The woman paused and looked over her shoulder, the lines between her brows deepening with sorrow. “Oh, yes. There will be pain.”
Burns held the curtain so Elder Mother could pass through to the other room, presumably her bed chamber. Crossing to the fire, he waved his palms. Piece by piece, stick by stick, dry firewood popped into sight, each piece floating before drifting into the fireplace, piling around the dying blaze.
When the fireplace could hold no more, he swished his fingers, directing the wood to growing stacks on each side of the hearth. Only when the wood was piled as high as his nose did new logs cease to appear.
He brushed his hands nosily and flashed a lopsided grin. “Fire building is such dusty work.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I can see that.”
“It is worth the exertion,” he said. “The fireside is the tulip bed of a winter day.”
Next, he opened the door of a glass lantern hanging in the corner. Within the confines of the bumpy green glass quivered a dim flicker. Reaching inside, he plucked out the flame, holding it between his slender fingers, cupping his other hand around. Gently, he blew on it, as one blows on tinder to grow the flame.