“I think you’d better check again,” the prophet spoke to them.
They looked to one another then back to the prophet.
“What are you blabbing about, old fool?”
“Your contract to the town… I think you’d better check it again.”
With his words, a roll of parchment appeared on the table between the demonic creatures. Before every eye present, a spot of red formed at the corner. Slowly, it spread, crawling up the whole of the document.
“What in—" Pig began.
“Blood…” Donkey stated with disgust, not even attempting to halt what was occurring.
Soon, the blood that had seeped through the paper was ablaze. In the following moment, the article was gone.
The sprites turned to the prophet.
“No!” Donkey declared, stomping his hoof. “No, no, no!”
“You’ll pay for this!” the other screamed as he lunged for the prophet, but he stopped short and appeared to be looking at something in midair. “I’ll stand back if you’ll fight me fair and square,” he declared to… nothing… for all Wynn could see. He was literally staring into the space between them as if… something was there. But whatever it was, she could not view it. She had seen so many other things this day, a new planet in a new realm, these daemon sprites, why not… whatever this was?
“Oh, you let us decide if we’d stand a chance,” Donkey declared to the nothing-something.
Suddenly, their eyes were bulging, along with the bulgy-eyed man in the corner. In an instant, the three vanished.
Smacking his hands together, the prophet strolled out the door. “There you have it,” he said, starting up the stairs.
She raced after him. “Have what? What just happened back there?”
“Oh, there isn’t time for questions now,” he replied, linking arms with her. “We’ve got to deal with the mess they’ve left behind. Just you wait, darling girl. It is going to be riveting.” With that, he raced her up the rest of the stairs and through the candy shop. On his way out, he retrieved a slice of the caramel pecan, held it up to the shopgirl with a word of thanks and passed it to Wynn.
“That should be safe to consume now,” he told her, “but you should keep it in your pocket for later. Now is simply not the time.”
The two were greeted by a cluster of townspeople gathered before the shop, but the prophet merely brushed past them.
“Come along, kiddies,” he called back. “The show has only begun!”
Wynn followed him to the center of the village where the graveyard was kept. As a child, she had feared it, often dreaming they would come creeping out from their graves to snatch her.
At last, he came to a large rock upon which a blessing over the deceased had been chiseled long ago. When he sat down upon it, she posted herself behind him—whether supporting or hiding, she could not say.
“Gather around, all, gather around!” he shouted. “Yes, that’s it, dearies, closer now! You won’t want to miss this.” Before long, the entire village had come as commanded, though Wynn could not be certain for what purpose: curiosity or to toss them out.
“That’s it!” he hollered. “Yes, this looks like everyone. Now, let’s see. How shall we do this?” He tapped the blunt end of his rake to his chin. “Hm, hm, hm. Ah! That would do nicely.”
Flipping the rake around, fan side up, he paused a moment before raising it toward the sky. Wynn blinked at him and then at the sky. It was not long before the gray clouds that had earlier dispersed drew together again, curling and twisting in on themselves.
She noted how the prophet’s demeanor had altered from playful to piercingly engrossed as he watched. It was then she felt a single drop pelt her forehead. Astounded by how heavily it had fallen, she reached to touch it. With that, the downpour began, falling upon all present and stunning her as it produced a variety of irregular effects.
Grotesque screams sounded from a number of those in the crowd, as if the rain burned their skin. She turned to the prophet with concern, but that was when she saw them: the sticky daemon sprites fleeing their victims, shrieking as the rain showered their forms. These had been the source of the screams as the people were freed of them. From one of the women present, she watched eleven daemon sprites flee. Peering closer, she recognized the one-armed green-witch who crafted most of the charm bags. But what further astounded her was the sight of the woman’s left arm growing back before the eyes of all.
Turning her attention to the rest of the crowd, she watched as a number with wounds, diseases and deformities danced in wonderment under the cooling downpour, their bodies made completely unimpaired. With a grin, she held out her hands to catch some of the water. It was then she realized the drops were not clear, but rather a vibrant, sparkling turquoise blue.
“The color of freedom,” the prophet called to her as he continued to peer toward the sky.
Then, he let loose his rake and the rainfall ceased, the clouds above dispersing. Rather than taking in the sight of those leaping in the puddles and speaking about the phenomenon that had just transpired, he listened for something. She observed him, wondering if what he awaited was the voice of the Great One. He nodded to her, as if he had picked up on her thought, then begged for silence from the crowd.
“A disaster has recently befallen your village,” he began. The crowd grew astonishingly silent and the delight upon their faces vanished. “A fire… at the inn,” he stated. Mumblings sounded from the crowd. “Loved ones were trapped within… and lost to you.”
Wails sounded from the crowd while others sniffled and attempted to stand strong. But Wynn watched as the prophet turned to face the graveyard. Pointing the fan of his rake toward it, he declared, “Return.”
Wind whistled through the assemblage, making a striking picture of the prophet as his bagging clothes and long white beard were blown back. With glowing eyes, his face was resolute. All she could wrap her mind around at those moments was that he appeared not at all like the prophet she knew. This man was neither zany nor endearing. He was intense, wild and mystifying. He had lived ages upon ages and witnessed more of life than any human within any realm. He was both beautiful and frightening and… he had done something to the graveyard.
The ground rumbled underfoot. She feared it would part beneath them, but this qualm was soon replaced by another. In the far corner of the yard was a patch of freshly patted graves that churned and popped, casting dirt several feet into the air. Before anyone had a moment to realize what would follow, a long white arm burst from the soil.
Screams sounded from the gathering, Wynn most ardently included. The years of nightmares experienced by her child-self were coming to pass and they were made real by her dear prophet. As bodies, now alive and completely whole, began crawling from the graves, she covered her mouth at the reality before her. In horror, her eyes fell to her parents’ graves.
“Prophet, no! My parents!” she shrieked, heart pumping as it never had before. Not only did she dread the thought of seeing her dead parents’ bodies come to life again… but she truly had no desire ever to see them in any form. The sight of them could only bring back all the aching, self-hatred and utter worthlessness from her childhood.
He turned to her and set his rake upon the ground. All the intensity of his former aura drained from him, leaving behind his tenderness. “It is only those who passed in the recent fire, Wynnie,” he called with understanding. “Do not fear.”
Relief swept over her.
As those who had crawled from the dust brushed themselves clean, they looked to the spectacle of the entire town shrieking over them. Slowly, they began to wave and call out to loved ones. Some in the crowd quieted and looked on with hesitation while others only screamed louder. But it was the children within the assemblage who made the first move, racing to mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers and friends. Wildly, they threw their arms around them in desperate embraces, weeping over the restoration of their lost loved ones.
Finally, th
e remainder of the town edged toward the graveyard, many racing to those they had thought lost from them forever. Before Wynn’s eyes, the strangest reunion celebration she had ever beheld took place and she found herself brushing tears from her cheeks, laughing as she met the prophet’s shining face.
Not long after, he gathered the township around him and began to prophecy, speaking of the boundless power of the Great One. She took in the spectacle with delight until there was a tap on her shoulder.
“Excuse me, miss, but… who is that man?”
She turned to find herself looking into the eyes of Jamas, the first man who had agreed to hire her when she was bit six. She winced as she recalled how he’d beaten her when she had not performed her duties correctly. At the time, she’d thought him kind for having taken her on. She thought very differently now.
“He is the prophet of Kierelia,” she replied numbly, “the one who dwells in the Enchanted Wood.”
“Well, he gave my young lass the use of her legs back,” he declared through joyous tears, obviously eager to share. Soon, he was bent over, wailing with grateful relief.
She was uncertain what to do. Tentatively, she patted his back. “There, there, Jamas. All is well now.”
Looking up, he peered into her eyes. “You know my name? Are you a prophet as well?”
She twitched as she realized her mistake. “Er, well… yes and no.”
He studied her more closely. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
She shook her head. “Well, that is…” She hesitated, then relented. “I am Wynnifred.”
He squinted, as if weighing this, and then nodded in amazement, eyes wide. “Yes, it is you!” His memory of her as a child seemed to be conflicting with the young woman he now saw before him, the little girl he used let work for him for a meager sum… the little girl he had kicked around at his will. Appearing greatly confused, he asked, “How did you come to be in the company of such a man like the prophet?” From his expression, she conjectured this was more shocking even than the miracles he had witnessed that day.
She ground teeth. “The Great One brought us together.”
He shook his head in wonder. “Well, I can’t say I would ever have recognized you for the wee waif who ran the streets in search of work.” It was then his face fell. “The tiny waif I cannot recollect being so kind to… and now you’ve come to Jaefra this day and it has brought me the greatest joy of my life.”
She offered a strained smile. “I am glad your daughter has regained the use of her legs.”
He shook his head, sorrow clouding his face. “Can you ever forgive me, Miss Wynnifred, for how poorly I treated you—poor little kiddie that you were? How can I not have seen that you were to be cherished? Why do I see everything so differently now?”
She stood stunned. The hard Jamas she’d known as a child would never have thought to ask forgiveness, let alone feel the least bit remorseful for what he’d done to a forsaken wretch. The Great One had performed perhaps his greatest miracle in this man that day. Now, she had to find it within herself to forgive him… but with the memory of her childhood tears, she found it difficult.
Still, with a sweet smile, she lied. “Of course, I forgive you.”
His face immediately returned to its former elation. Taking her by the hands, he thanked her eagerly and returned to his family. She was left with a whirlwind of memories. In an effort to free her mind of the old wounds, she abandoned the gathering and started down the street. She knew not where she intended to go until she was before a small dilapidated shack. Seeing the door left hanging from a single hinge, she took this as a sign of vacancy and stepped inside.
A fresh wave of memories washed over her, reminding of all the years she had grown up in the reeking, rat-infested hole of a home that had been provided for her, made available by the fact no one else wanted anything to do with it. Unexpectedly, she was not filled with the anguish she might have anticipated. Rather, she felt strangely disconnected from the place, as if the girl who had lived, struggled and wept within had never been her at all. Had she not always lived in the ivy-covered cabin with a door that spirited her away on irksome adventures? Indeed, it seemed as if she had never lived until she’d entered the Enchanted Wood.
“Wynnie?” the prophet spoke from behind her.
She twirled to face him.
As he surveyed the premises, she knew he made the connection. A mixture of sincere empathy and surprising anger clouded his face. But in the next moment, he was looking into her eyes with an affectionate smile, the very likeness of her old prophet once more. “Shall we go home, dearest?”
Releasing a long breath, she was filled with peace at the thought. Contentedly, she nodded before blinking home.
* * *
Back within the cabin, she sat in her chair before the fire, wrapped in her blue woolen blanket. All she had been a part of that day felt fantastic and surreal. The fact she had transported several times was so far-fetched… but it had happened. Now, she understood why the prophet was said to be a wizard by those who did not understand him, for he did act with enormous, supernatural power.
She listened as he prepared their meal and endeavored not to be awed by him. She wished to continue thinking of him as her sweet, silly, old prophet-friend. Now she knew he was so much more, she was almost fearful of the power he held.
“How do you do it?” she asked.
He threw a mound of sausages and fermented cabbage onto the skillet—her favorite meal. “I’ll show you.”
“Show me?” she asked a little breathlessly… apprehensively.
“Teach you... You’re going to do it too.”
- S E V E N T E E N -
The Time for Training
“FIRST OF ALL,” the prophet began the following morning as he and Wynn sat leaning back to back upon the roof of the cabin. “I don’t want you to look at this as work of a sorcerer-like being, for it is very different. In fact, it is really the opposite of all witchcraft. Witchcraft is the work of our adversary. If you were to have anything to do with it, that very enemy would consider you his own and it would give him a door through which to use or harm you in varying ways.”
She nodded her understanding.
“I want you to see these things as a show of the Great One’s care. It is not our own power by which we work, but the Great One’s. We may use it freely because of his son, for he desires that mankind move in the same supernatural power that he once did. He even wishes that we would surpass all he did, though he be the very son of the Great One.”
“That’s all well and good, but why should he care we move in that power?”
“Because... he is divine—matchless...” He paused for thought as an enraptured light shone on his face. “If ever you had been to Paradise, his kingdom, you would comprehend why. It is simply how they exist—all those who originated there and those who have since entered. They desire the best for one another and take delight in seeing their successes.”
She sighed dreamily. “It is difficult to imagine.”
He nodded. “Everything is made of light there… used in ways we cannot yet begin to fathom. And there are such wonders, you simply cannot imagine. Because of the Great One’s kindness, everything exists to bring pleasure to each individual. And you know what, Wynn? It is not simply pleasure... it is such fun.”
She chuckled. “And I always thought death was something to be feared. It doesn’t sound like death at all.”
“Oh, listen to us. We’ve got things to do and we sit here gabbing.”
“I don’t mind.”
He grinned largely. “In any case, what I’ve to teach you is going to sound absurdly simple but is, in fact, more complex than it seems. As it stands, you are the instrument through which the Great One’s power is channeled. The key is to focus on that which you wish to come to pass, but in doing so, you must be…” He paused and turned to draw very near her face, finishing with great severity, “utterly and singly focused.”
“But it is more difficult to be singly focused than it sounds—to put your mind on one thing alone and center yourself around it with the whole of your heart. But this is how it must be if you are to be a… a funnel, if you will. We are funneling power from the very hands of the Great One. We are the ‘eye’ for his influence. That takes a singleness of purpose which is not something we humans effortlessly possess.”
Pulling his legs beneath him, he sat in his customary crisscross. “To simplify it, think on it as two steps: focus on what must transpire and witness the power of the Great One manifest through you.”
She was afflicted with uncertainty. “Is it always so simple?”
He took a deep breath. “In a word: no. It ought to be, but often times one must try again and again before a phenomenon comes to pass.”
“But why? If it is simple for some, at some times, why not for others… at other times.”
“Oooh, it might easily be a number of things. Namely, a lack of single purpose, as I mentioned. I often had trouble with that in the beginning. Some individuals are more inclined for the supernatural than others… but for all it is meant.”
“But what about those in Jaefra who were healed or freed from daemons even before you were aware of their need? You weren’t focused on anything specific then.”
He shrugged. “I have given the Great One complete liberty to use me at will. His anointed power flows like fire through my veins, ungoverned by myself. But it was quite some time before this was so.”
She sighed her perplexity, doubting she would ever get to such a grand level as that. After all, she did not have years upon years, as he had. Yet, she was his apprentice. “How do you get it, this ‘anointed power?’” she asked, much more discouraged than when they had begun.
“It is not your responsibility to anoint yourself, so do not attempt to pursue it by your own means. All you are meant to do is continue running your race—live—and run it with your whole heart. I promise the Great One will take care of the rest. At that point, you’ve only to be willing and unafraid to let Him have His way. You, my dear, are spirited. You will have no trouble, I think.”
The Prophet's Apprentice (Chronicles of the Chosen) Page 22