A Mythos Grimmly

by Morgan Griffith

  "I didn't mean--"

  "Didn't mean. Never intended. Was only curious. Let me explain the best way you might help me. Not by exercising curiosity. Not by contemplating ways to prove greater capability." Forcefully his fingers screw shut an ink jar, the lid straining as if about to snap. "Do nothing more than finish the list of tasks I've given, otherwise leave me alone. Stop spying. Stop leering at Taia in her work. Stop muttering in imitation of incantations overheard."

  "I haven't--"

  "Of course you have. I'm tempted to let you discover what would happen, should you succeed." Mancer stands abruptly, as if he's just remembered something. "But enough. I go, seeking consult with my old teacher. See that by the time I return tonight, your tasks are complete. Think of nothing else. Only these tasks."

  I turn my face, trying to hide the dejection I realize must show.

  "But wait," Mancer says, as if he's remembered something more. "There is another thing. You wanted new duties."

  I brighten. Hope surges, too much to conceal.

  "Fetch water." He indicates the bucket at the edge of his workbench. "Take this to the well."

  "That?" I approach, lean in. "But it's a bucket of water, already full."

  Mancer gestures. Force extends well beyond his outstretched palm, a motion making physical his intention, which strikes invisibly even as his palm remains yet two steps away. The bucket upends, water spills, soaks me down my front. My thin tunic sticks, all I'm wearing, gone transparent to my skin, as if I'm naked. My narrow chest, sunken belly, thin arms, and more below dwindling in the chill, fully revealed.

  A laugh from the shadows, light yet womanly rather than girlish.

  Mancer is already gathering oddments, ink-soaked corks, jagged razor blades, hollow needles. Mostly, scraps of paper, herb-infused and leaf-permeated, jars of special purpose inks, heat-carrying or whispering, invisible or truth-divining, these varieties and more. All this he sweeps into the many pouches and compartments of his hide pack, striped green and black. Usually it's my wish to study what he's doing, his tools of work, but this time I can't bear to see, don't want to know.

  I jump, ready to hurry out, then turn and snatch up the empty bucket.

  Taia's watching.

  I run, wind through halls, dark ways so familiar I could race them blind, to my corner closet. I have no door to slam, can only exchange wet garments for dry, and take the bucket out to the shallow well, endlessly refilled from membranes trickling down the outer wall.

  By the time I return the filled bucket to Mancer's desk, the workshop is empty and silent.

  Though I quickly dry, sitting in my closet, I remain angry, feeling disrespected. I sit at my bench facing inks and pens and cut squares of parchment, linen and vellum, knowing I should resume my work. My hands take up the implements, yet I'm too preoccupied to focus.

  Why won't Mancer listen? He can't judge my capabilities, because he refuses even to consider them. Certainly he's never tested me. I could be helping so much more.

  And Taia, the more I know of her, the less I understand. Mancer seems to consider her an equal, a crucial partner in his work, while I toil down here in this closet, ink-stained hands itching, eyes strained bleary in the dark. Can't possibly accomplish any transcribing work yet, so I sort and clean nibs, then grind pigments for ink. I move without intention, still obsessed. The workshop. Taia and Mancer.

  By now, he must be gone. What's she doing now, alone? I know nothing of what life she may have beyond her servitude to a decrepit would-be summoner. How does Taia occupy herself?

  I'm not accomplishing anything, just sitting here halfhearted with distraction. I stand, survey my closet, then walk out the door and creep back down the halls, peering around every corner. This compulsion to see, I can't help it. This time, I'll stay back. Careful. No risk.

  As I approach Mancer's workshop, I hear Taia moving, shuffling lightly within, like a muted chime.

  Well hidden down the dark hallway, I watch her move, sort of dancing like before, now posing with a practiced quality, like rehearsal for a more meaningful upcoming performance. She's alone, no sound of Mancer's scratches and murmurs, yet still she moves with an urgency, occasionally straining, or moving faster than I can follow. She spins, pink eyes focused upon the spot where Mancer usually sits.

  What's this she's doing? What music does she hear? If not music, some rhythm must give timing to her movements. Closer.

  She's caught up in herself, unaware of me. Brow knit in focus, lean muscles tense. Long white hair sticks to her forehead, as before. Closer still.

  She turns, her eyes seize me where I stand. She laughs, aware I'm watching.

  I start to run, stop, look back.

  Her look isn't scolding, seems more curious. Bemused.

  “Is he gone?” I whisper.

  She squints at me, studying me, not as a friend would, but with a teacher's judging scrutiny.

  “You can't stop yourself, crossing bounds." Taia stretches her spine left, right. “He's right, you know. An apprentice must understand his role.”

  I want to protest, though I know she's right. “I finish my work.”

  She considers. “If you're capable of hearing anything I ever say, let it be this. Everything you know is wrong.”

  “What, about you?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, laughs, as if I'm a silly child. Yet she's the tiny one, so slight. It's true, I don't understand. That's why she interests me.

  “How old are you?" I venture. "What brought you here? What do you do for the master?”

  Taia raises arms, bends at the waist, then spins, jumps and lands in a new pose. “None of this is for you.”

  "You're much too young to be with him." It's out of bounds, I realize, but can't stop myself. "You're more suited to... someone our age."

  Her eyes narrow and she laughs outright. It's clear she's thinking of something else, more than what I suggested. "You're always reaching, trying to grasp at what you think you see, but your hands close on nothing, because you don't really see. Because of this, your concerns are meaningless. As for me? I'm ageless.”

  I protest. “Ageless? You can't be even as old as me.”

  "My appearance?" she asks, as if she hasn't considered this. "That's nothing. How old are you yourself? Fifteen?"

  I consider exaggerating, or lying, but instead jut my chin defiantly, and nod.

  "Fifteen." Her eyes go distant, searching. "I can't remember fifteen."

  "But you're small." My hands indicate parts of my own body, corresponding to hers. "Your breasts, your..." I point between her legs. "Your body isn't yet developed, like a woman's becomes."

  She shrugs. "I prefer this. It's conducive to work."

  "Let me see your true appearance. If it's so different."

  That same laugh, as if indulging a child. "I would show you, if I believed it might finally change you."

  I feel her scorn diminishing me. "But I want to see!"

  "But I want to see!" she mocks. "I've told you, your desires are based upon misapprehension."

  She lectures me like a baby, though I still can't believe she's more than fourteen, at most. I believe what my eyes show me. It hurts, being dismissed. I'm the only one living here who's always excluded. The way she treats me, it's worse than Mancer. He's an old man. To him I'm a child. She's still mostly like me. She's not even looking at me anymore, having resumed her movements.

  "You know something," I venture, "I've worked more words of my own than Mancer realizes."

  Her eyes narrow, like a sprung trap. "Ha! You admit your secret. I'll let Mancer pursue it, then, unless you tell me. Be specific."

  I'm caught. Why did I have to boast? The only thing left is to tell, perhaps hope to impress her with my capabilities. But I don't even know what to name the work I've done. What have I really accomplished? My experiments haven't really summoned anything. The more I think about it, the less sure I am the murmurings were even functioned.

  Backing up, I look
away. After a few steps, I turn and race back to my closet.

  Swerving from frustration to anger, I try to resume work. There has to be some way to prove I'm more than they perceive. Obviously Mancer's never seen me as anything but a child, but he's wrong. I understand his work. I've held on, believing my time would come. A chance to show I can help. But he won't see, Taia either. They can't imagine me as anything but what they see.

  I want to reveal what I've learned, practiced in secret. It's not much, yet. I have to extend myself, take chances.

  I'm working with new parchment, copying scribbled poetry from tattered scraps in Mancer's jagged hand into clearer characters on good parchment. It's boring work. I'm not permitted to focus on the words, to think about what I'm reading. It's tempting to recite little bits, to prove myself capable, but it's forbidden even to consider the intention bound up in the words.

  Still in secret, some part of me keeps track, even memorizes portions. If I read it to myself, under my breath, he'll never know. I've done it before.

  How can I to do this? I have to try.

  "That's what I have to do," I say to myself. "There's power in it. Speak out loud."

  I have ambition, hope. I admit that. What's wrong with wanting more? Why else do apprenticeship, if not to gain knowledge, attain power, and finally move ahead? I want to impress Mancer, of course. What apprentice wouldn't? Probably he was like me, once.

  Also I admit, I want to impress Taia. She's close to my age, despite what she says. Maybe not younger, as I first guessed. Her appearance intrigues me. I enjoy watching her, feel curious drawn to her thin, colorless form, her weightless white hair.

  I want more than just to peek at her from a distance, while she dances for him.

  "Say it, then," I challenge myself, aloud. "Say what I intend. What I desire."

  Speaking such words seems transgressive. Rules broken, boundaries crossed. Unrecoverable.

  "I want Taia to learn about me. I'll do whatever I must."

  I try to sort the ragged scraps of Mancer's notes, prepare to transcribe them according to Mancer's rules, my primary duty, to render his sketches in clean, careful ink work.

  I recall words I've spun in secret. They're not much. I have to go much farther. Am I even capable?

  I allow my mind to focus on the words before me. Saying them in my mind has no effect, but then...

  I speak aloud, read the lines from the paper.

  A spark sizzles from the tip of my pen. Ink burns, tingling smoke.

  I set down the pen and repeat the passage, holding index fingers inches apart. Heat wavers, distorting the air, then flame jumps the gap. The corner of a vellum scrap burns. I swat it with my palm.

  Choose another, and speak. Words come to life, the ink dances, glitters, streams from the jar to my index finger, flows back again.

  This isn't enough. It needs to be more, stronger than anything I've memorized, or even thought about before. No more casual tricks.

  I stand, hesitate in the doorway to my humble closet, and set out. I take the winding path, past the locked closet, down dark hallways, beyond a row of carven wood mockups of strange ceiling-high creatures, sea-dwelling monsters, or perhaps gods.

  Finally I reach the storage area near Mancer's workshop. Taia may yet be working, but I know how to approach in stealth, and find what I need without being seen. The rear of the bookshelf, the vantage point from which I watched before. Crouch, come up under, and there. Mancer's primary workbook, distinctive brown leather with an expandable binding laced with cord, so that my newest pages can be added in, as needed.

  It's worth the risk. Think of all I want for myself. For Taia.

  Is it really true? I'm going to do it, surprise them. I'll bring whatever Mancer's seeking, bring it near, bind it for him. He'll see.

  I open the book, flip ahead as I carry it to the bench. Not many earlier pages are tabbed, and Mancer has only recently begun to express confidence about the nearness of his goal. Though I have obeyed the rules prohibiting me from reading what I copy, most of the time, I've seen enough to know it's been only within the latest dozen pages where something changed. As I copied these works for him, Mancer checked my efforts impatiently and with extra focus the very moment I finished. Among these latest pages are sections of words, strangely accented according to his specific instructions, and calligraphed in varying sizes and colors. It's as if his recent work is inspired by an entirely different foundation of myth and language. I can only surmise how these might be read, how Mancer himself would render them in voice. Imagining this, I can't help but picture Taia's movements. I visualize her clearly.

  From experience I know the written words are valueless, except when spoken. My finger traces the lines. I rehearse them in my mind, soundless, heart pounding, until I feel ready to attempt my first summoning.

  I mutter words, under my breath at first, feeling the weight of them as I proceed through the line. Tongue forceful, lips heavy, burdened with the significance of what I'm saying. What I'm trying to bring.

  A spark whirls in the air before me, surprises me with sizzling brightness. It jolts me back. I stop speaking, and the effect vanishes.

  I resume, from the beginning. Nothing happens. Too hurried. Intonation is important.

  Starting again, I bear in mind the rhythmic, syncopated emphasis I've heard Mancer employ. Like emulating a favorite singer.

  There's a loud pop, followed by a quavering in the air, separate from my voice. This time, nothing visual happens. Even the sound fades.

  I slam my fist on the table, anger bursting within. So frustrating. I don't have time, can't wait. Have to show them.

  "It's not just speaking the words." I try to remember how he explained it, repeat it in his voice. "Not just how the words form in the mouth, not just the spaces between. Most important is the carrying of intention through the act of speaking. The conveyance of willpower, within to without."

  I realize I don't even know what Mancer's looking for. Am I really prepared to find it? I can't be sure, feel like giving up. Anger surges again.

  I turn pages back, forward. Nothing here. This can't be it. Then I notice another book, beneath this one, mostly covered by loose papers on the desk. What's this? I've always believed Mancer makes me transcribe all the notes he makes. I've never seen this other book before. Thicker, paper far heavier and older. The cover is worn black, adorned with strange symbols in gold ink.

  I set Mancer's book aside, and explore this other. Without thinking, I start to read. To whisper.

  Not loud enough. Needs to be louder, but she'll hear. Who cares? Let her hear what I can do.

  I raise my voice. The words build. Let her watch me, as I bring them down.

  One line, another. In the air, a humming, a crackling resonance. A spark of visitation, something coming. Beneath me, the table vibrates. Nothing solid is visible, but I feel hands, fingertips tracing my skin. The air whirls, like fluttering birds.

  I'm shoved back, jarred by unseen force. Still I read on. I'm struck across the face so hard, my teeth clack together. I fall to the floor, face down.

  "No!" I cry, thinking I'll have to start again, now that my lines have been interrupted. Quickly I jump up, continue.

  Above me, a shape moves, hovering. It's hard to discern its exact outline. Another emerges from behind it, then a third, all of them quavering and shimmering in the air. They spin and whirl, as if aware of me, as if watching. In a sort of aerial dance, they seem to be trying to position themselves between myself and the open book.

  The incantation is complete. These things are here, but what next? I don't know how to contain them, or get rid of them.

  Taia's going to hear, I think. That very moment, her footsteps come, lightly shuffling. The jingle of delicate metal rings.

  She enters, seems to float into the room weightless, unconcerned. "What are you doing? You're..." She sees, runs closer, and freezes.

  "Listen," I say.

  I resume reading, this time w
ith a difference. As I form the words, I watch Taia, just as Mancer always does.

  A loud bang, then a series of bass-drum booms. A wind swirls, tugs my garment, ruffles my hair, as if the very air is expanding in pockets and rapidly contracting again. Like invisible lungs, breathing in the air.

  I stop reading, and the overpowering sounds subside, replaced by whispers. The voices are nothing like my own, nor Taia's. Ghostly words, fragments of speech from another place.

  Sudden flashes of blinding, nauseating brightness, alternate with sickening tangible dark, like an incoming tide of black. A smell, like something dead or rotting, nausea and seasick disorientation. I feel myself pulled, the harrowing tug of madness.

  Wings flutter, still barely seen, brushing my face. Hands too, fingertips grasping, not separate but in the same space, as if some creature possessed of both hands and wings exists, invisible beside me. What is this? I try to shove it away, but my hands barely managed to find anything solid. Somehow, these things are able to see me, to strike me, yet when I try to fight back, I find nothing. My efforts are useless. I focus instead on the book, try to flip through other pages, seeking clues. Anything might help. I should've been more certain before I began. This isn't what I wanted. With all this fluttering around, it's getting hard to read.

  Taia approaches, pink eyes focused not on me, but something past me. She approaches, swings backhand, seems about to strike me. I trust her. I feel an impact, the thing knocked away. Taia, no longer graceful like a dancer, but a different kind of poise now. Forceful and strong. A fighter.

  I realize there are more openings, gateways all around me in mid-air. "The way is open!" Shapes swoop in, shove me aside. I stagger.

  "Shut it," Taia screams.

  "How?" Frantic, I search pages, too panicked to focus. I didn't know, shouldn't have tried. All these pages, what can it be? I barely recognize, don't understand. How can I pronounce these bizarre symbols?