The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen)

by Cassandra Boyson

  Wynn considered. After all, she was in no position to snub a guest of the prophet. Although she hardly felt it her place to entertain a stranger in a stranger’s home, especially with a stranger’s food, she reminded herself this was the prophet’s friend.

  “Oh, fine,” the girl acquiesced with a sigh. Walking into the main room, she left the door wide for him.

  “I thank you most humbly,” he said, picking a path through the piles of the prophet’s belongings as he followed. “And don’t worry about making something fancy. I’m so ravenous I could eat anything just now.”

  “Well, I don’t know how to make anything fancy, so it’s just as well,” she replied sourly, looking over the baskets and rummaging through the cupboard for something she was capable of executing. At last, she spotted that morning’s spiced oats in the cauldron within the fireplace and realized she might easily reheat them. Tossing an apple to the man, she demanded he go and sit at the prophet’s desk. If he wasn’t going to lift a finger to help, he didn’t need to be in her way. Returning to the fireplace with flint and steel, she found it already lit and blazing.

  “Did you light this?” she asked of the dwarf.

  He looked at her as if she was looney. “How can I have? I’ve no magic to speak of.”

  Staring into the flames that were swiftly warming the oats of that morning, she had that feeling again—of the cabin breathing in and out, deeply and ever so slightly. It had lit the fire, she was certain.

  That is enough, Wynn, she rebuked. It was high time she tamed her roguish imagination. Reaching for a large spoon, she stirred the porridge, sprinkling in some of the more intriguing looking spices from the bottles on the prophet’s motley shelf.

  It was not long before the aroma of freshly burned porridge filled the little cabin and a bowl of the stuff with nice black bits along with a little cream, sugar and terribly misused seasonings was passed to the man at the desk. Wynn scooped out a bowl for herself and ate it heartily, knowing full well it was nothing like the prophet might have made but a little proud she had managed not to burn it any more than she had. Something in the back of her mind had contemplated whether the fire would go out of its own accord once the meal was heated through, but she had not realized she was awaiting this until it had scorched.

  “Gee…” muttered the dwarf, spooning a little into his mouth. “This sure is… something.”

  Wynn nodded curtly. “There’s plenty more if you want it.”

  The man looked her over as if searching for signs of foolery.

  Wynn ignored this and stood to pour herself a glass of milk. “You want some?” she offered.

  “Sure thing, lady love.”

  “Drop the nicknames.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Taking another bite, he added easily, “I thought all women could cook at least decently.”

  Wynn grimaced and slopped the glass into his hands, causing drops to spill over. Typically, her response would not have disturbed her conscience, but as she recalled this was the prophet’s guest and she herself was a guest in the home, she regretted she could not seem to find it within herself to be cordial. Perhaps, if she tried very hard, she could be civil.

  “What is your name?” she inquired.

  “Terrance. What’s yours, sweet—er—”

  “Wynn.”

  “Pretty.”

  “It is not.”

  “Short for Wynnifred?” he asked with a smirk.

  Her cheeks flushed and she refrained from responding. She hated her name.

  “Well, don’t worry, girly,” he replied in a confidential tone. “Secret’s safe with me.”

  Wynn felt her cheeks burn, hating herself for it. When would these adolescent habits she had been working to smother for years be tamed? So what if he knew her real name? He was no friend of hers and she would not likely meet him again. She was glad of that, for he was a presumptuous little man. Indeed, for someone so very small—the top of his head coming to the top of her stomach (and she struggling for height herself)—she didn’t know what he had to be so smug about. Yet he carried himself as if he was a great giant.

  “Now I know your darkest secret, Miss Wynnifred, I suppose I owe you mine,” he offered, cringing as he took another bite.

  She rolled her eyes, though she might not have done so if her face was not shielded by her curly mop. “Don’t bother. I’m really not that curious.”

  “No, no, it is only fair,” he continued. “You see, I was born to a very beautiful woman. I, of course, was her life’s pride and joy.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Terrance nodded eagerly, setting his bowl aside with an expression of poorly concealed abhorrence. “I do say. And I should have grown to be a tall, strapping fellow if she hadn’t incited the hatred of the malevolent sorceress, Maera of the Wood Beguiling.”

  Wynn looked up, unable to contain her sudden interest. Was he sincere?

  “My mother was a single woman, for my father had passed before I was born. Tragic accident, but I won’t bother you with gory details. At any rate, it seemed the sorceress had a sweetheart of a young recluse living in the forest—might have been some kind of wizard, might not have—that part’s never been clear. Anyway, he met me and my mother in the woods one day when I was a lad of, oh, say three years, growing leaps and bounds ahead of the other children. Problem was, he fell for my pretty mother, he did. And though she did not return his affection, the jealous sorceress saw fit to make my poor, sweet mother pay. So, seeing I was her pride and joy, the very center of her life and all that was pleasing in her world, the witch cursed me to this dwarfism and so I have remained since.”

  Wynn could not conceal her interest, so absorbing did she find his tale. She would never have guessed he had such a history.

  “But I don’t think I’ve suffered so much, do you? The ladies certainly don’t mind, if I do say so myself,” he added with a wink. “And I’m strong as an ox. Indeed, strong as any man around. Yes,” he said, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “I am perfectly content as I am, ‘cursed’ or not.”

  “Well… I have never heard the like of it,” she replied. Though she had heard such stories in passing, she had never believed them to be true. That a sorceress should take out her feelings of rejection on a mere village woman was beyond her.

  Ever so slowly, the dwarf’s mouth curled into a knavish smirk. “I knew you could not be so old as you put on,” he said smugly.

  Wynn’s brows furrowed in confusion before she realized what he was getting at: He was having her on. How dare he treat her as a child? She was no child. She was nearing her eighteenth year. And he did not appear so many years older than she was, though it was difficult to tell on account of his diminished stature.

  “You swine,” she grumbled through gritted teeth, clutching her bowl as if ready to fling it at him.

  Clearly recognizing her sudden fury, he threw up his hands. “Now, now, Miss Wynn, let’s not be hasty! Tis only the tale my mother raised me on! And was a long time, too, before I realized she was having me on… Of course, I was but ten years by that time, but perhaps you are not so much older.”

  That was it. The bowl flew across the room until it had splattered upon the dwarf and all the prophet’s fine things surrounding, including much of his parchment.

  “Oh, look what you made me do!” shrieked Wynn. Swiftly, she rifled through the pantry doors until she had procured an old, used cloth and raced to clean the prophet’s fine things.

  “My goodness, woman, if ever I’ve met a person with a quicker temper than you, I haven’t known it!” the small man declared with mild awe. Good-naturedly, he rummaged through the pantry until he’d found another cloth and not only wiped himself clean but moved to help clear off the papers on the desk.

  Seeing this, Wynn nearly cast him from the cabin until a knock sounded upon the door for the third time that day. Unconsciously, she looked to Terrance for what to do.

  “Well, I’m not the
prophet’s apprentice,” he replied, gesturing for her to answer it.

  “Neither am I!” she bellowed. Tossing her cloth aside, she went for the door. “How can I help you?” she demanded of the woman standing outside.

  Wynn stopped short as she realized the sight before her was not at all commonplace. The visitor herself was mildly interesting in appearance with long dreads of brown-gray hair embellished with beads and feathers. Additionally, she wore draping garments in rich, earthy brown and purple tones. But it was the great number of exotic birds lining her shoulders, arms and even the top of her head that had hold of Wynn’s tongue.

  “Don’t tell me!” cried the woman with a warm grin. “Let me guess it… Marie? No, no, no. Margie? Nay. Hephzibah? Noooo. Well… perhaps you had better just tell me.”

  Wynn looked her over, dismayed by the way the birds’ gazes moved in time with the woman’s. “Er—my name?”

  “Of course, my dear Wynnifred, of course! Oops!” The woman covered her mouth, then let ring a melodic bout of laughter. “There, I’ve done it. I was supposed to act as if I did not know your name and here I knew it all along and have just told you. Oh, well, at any rate, at last we meet face to face! I am Bell, the singing kind—not the ringing.”

  “Oh,” Wynn muttered lamely, not knowing what to say. Those birds, how they gazed at her. Even so, she must ask how the woman knew her full name, for she had told neither Phillip nor the prophet and had only just been found out by this Terrance. “How do you know me?” she queried.

  “Oh, you know… Now, tell me, how are you liking your new home? How this cabin does stare, doesn’t it?! But do not mind that. It likes you very well.”

  What was Wynn to say? What was she to think? This was another mad woman. Yet, there was something about her that seemed to possess some intelligence—a something deeper and slightly hypnotic.

  “You know, you truly do remind me of someone,” said Bell. “I knew you would, but it is uncanny.”

  “Oh… er—who?”

  Bell smiled sweetly, replying in a knowing voice, “Oh, you know… or you will in any case, but there I go again—spilling secrets I had every intention of keeping. It really isn’t fair. But then perhaps I always meant to tell you! Who is to say but me? Now, let us get to business. I came here with a purpose and here we stand gossiping. What were we speaking of?”

  Wynn waited but soon realized this Bell and all her birds were actually awaiting a reply from her. For heavens. If she hadn’t found herself unintentionally liking this peculiar woman, she would be terribly cross. “You never said, I’m afraid. That is, you never said what you came to say, I gather.”

  “Oh, dear, dear, dear, dear me! How silly. Why, I came to say...” She hesitated. “I came to tell you…” Turning to her birds who in turn looked to her with their charming, chirpy, little faces, she asked, “What was it I came to say?”

  A beautiful, pure white dove moved from her head to her shoulder just beside her ear as if to share a secret.

  “Oh, that’s right!” Returning her warming gaze to Wynn, she sang out,

  On the day of the dark, when all is lost,

  look to me and ye shall see

  how I have provided all you will need.

  The woman ceased and looked Wynn full in the face as if waiting for her response. But what in the world could she say? She had no idea what this Bell sang of. She had already seen her darkest days, she was certain, and she had seen herself through those. She needed no one else.

  “Urm… thank you,” she finally replied.

  Bell reached to take hold of her hands and a number of the birds fluttered onto Wynn’s arms. Wynn resisted the urge to fling them off as she was held fast by the stranger’s gaze.

  “Oh, I just love you, dear girl.”

  The girl felt goosebumps flood her body as a wave of something strange washed over her—a flood of what might have been motherly adoration, if she had to put a word to it. But in that moment, she could not. She only stood wide-eyed and wondering why she almost believed this woman and why tears, so foreign to her previously, were once more nipping at the corners of her eyes. It was as if her heart was slowly unraveling and she was certain she did not like it, though it attempted to convince her she did.

  Bell continued gazing into her eyes with that expression of fondness and at last pulled away from her with approval. “There,” she said, nodding. With that, she turned and strolled gracefully away, dreads, birds and all.

  Upon her absence, Wynn felt hollow inside. She closed the door behind her and regretted having let Bell leave so soon. She might have stayed for a cup of tea perhaps.

  “I don’t know that woman,” Terrance spoke from across the room.

  “Oh, you,” Wynn muttered unhappily.

  “She’s not from around here,” he said with a raised brow.

  She tossed him an impatient glare. “What of it?”

  He shrugged. “I know about every face around these parts and I’ve never seen her in my life.”

  “Well, good for you,” she replied. “You’ve another face to know.”

  “Well, I thought she was an odd sort, but clearly the fact some strange woman knew you’d be here and sang a bizarre song at you is an everyday occurrence. At any rate, as the prophet does not appear to be arriving any time soon, I’ve other places to be.” With that, he exited, but it was moments before she heard the voice of the prophet greeting him.

  “My boy, my boy, so you have met my new apprentice!”

  With a grimace, Wynn peered out the window.

  “Aye, I have at that… and what a fiery-tempered redhead of a little girl you have selected for the task.”

  “She is beautifully spirited, is she not!” the prophet replied.

  She could not help liking him for this answer, though she wondered where in the world he had been all that time. Whatever conversation followed between them, she could not make out and soon the dwarf was on his way.

  “So, you have met my good friend, Terrance, have you?” the prophet stated as he entered. “Is he not an interesting fellow? I suppose he told you about the sorceress’ curse? What a terrible story it is. Yet, we need not be sorry for him. If he has no qualms, why should we?”

  Wynn found herself sputtering, uncertain where to begin. He believed that ridiculous man’s fairytale? And where had he been all that time? How had the woman named Bell known she would be there? And why was he telling people she was his apprentice when she quite clearly and ultimately was not?

  “Wh-why do you have wood brought to you when you live in the middle of a forest?” she spat accusingly. Though why she had ended by choosing that particular question, she could not grasp.

  “Why, because I like a particular sort.”

  She raised a brow. “I realize I hardly know you, but you do not seem the sort to be picky about what you burn.”

  He smiled conspiratorially and moved to his desk, taking a seat and lifting his quill. “If I’m not picky, she won’t accept the honey.”

  At first confused, Wynn eventually caught herself smiling. That was something of a dear thing to do, she had to admit. Still, she was ready to demand an explanation as to his disappearance when she realized he had already begun writing.

  “Er…” Oh, what was she to call him? She had never learned his name. “Prophet?”

  Waving the hand at her that was not busily penning, he muttered, “Only a moment, Wynn.”

  But it was not but a moment. Indeed, it was so many more moments put together that the time for evening sup came and went and Wynn fell asleep with her arms crossed in aggravation before a fire that had, at some point, gone out of its own accord.

  “My, it has been a busy day, has it not?” voiced the prophet as he stood to stretch.

  Wynn jolted in her seat. It was a moment before her thoughts came to rights, but at last she responded, “You know, it has. I’ve been rather busy with answering your door and feeding your friends while you were off doing who knows what?” />
  “Oh, dear,” he cried, throwing his arms up and then grabbing at his shabby white hair. “I had meant to feed you for both mid-day and evening meal and it is long past both, I imagine! But do not you worry, my girl. I will have something fixed up in no time.” With that, he went about the preparations as eagerly as a youth.

  Despite his pleasant tenor, Wynn was struck dumbfounded by this speech. After all the time she had spent in his house, handling his affairs, he seemed to consider it perfectly natural that she should do so. This was… intolerable. She was a stranger and had not reveled in being put on the spot, exposed to the scrutiny of every interloper who had the capricious impertinence to call.

  Furthermore, she did not intend to remain any longer than she had to, so what had been the prophet’s intention when he had labeled her his “apprentice?” She was unquestionably nothing of the sort and this aged, irrational man (dear as he was) had no right to pronounce such an assumption. What she necessitated was someone with reason with whom she could speak. Where had that Phillip gone to? He had seemed a levelheaded fellow, if perhaps something of a blundering bungler. Still, he had been willing to speak sensibly.

  “Where is Phillip?” she demanded.

  “Phillip?” The prophet thought a moment, searching the rafters for an answer. “Oh, yes, he departed last evening.”

  “I see,” Wynn replied with some disappointment. So, she was not to have sense after all. Well, she would work with what she had. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Oh, no, no, no! You sit right down there. You’ve done quite enough for your first day.”

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head with quiet exasperation. “Why…” she began patiently, “did you call me your apprentice this morning?”

  “Oh... did I?” He appeared puzzled, even going so far as to scratch his head. “I had not realized. Well, I hadn’t planned to say anything until we’d had a chance to talk. But let’s not get into that just yet. Let us have our fill and then we’ll have it out. Is that agreeable?”

  Wynn was not accustomed to silly old men who spoke so pleasantly to her, so she did not feel capable of responding as she would with any other. Customarily, she would demand her answers straight out or depart without them in good riddance, but neither option was adequate for the darling gentleman before her.