Mystic

by Jason Denzel

  Pain shot through her shoulder and elbow as a clawed hand grabbed hers. She wrenched her gaze upward. A scaled face with wide, protruding eyes and jagged teeth stared down at her. He seemed humanoid, and lay belly down at the edge of the pit, gripping her wrist.

  Panicked, she tried to shake her hand loose, giving no thought to the drop below.

  “Pomella!” Sim screamed. She vaguely heard him draw his sword and try to scramble up the wooden board.

  The lizardlike creature pulled her up, and within moments she found herself gasping on the grass at the outside edge of the shrine. She scrambled to her feet and backed away.

  “Don’tttt run, chhhild,” the creature rasped as he stood. He wore strange dark-green armor consisting of layers of leather and padded wool. A strange pattern of swirling scales covered the visible parts of his body, circling around one another, creating mesmerizing vortexes. A line of short white spikes ran from his forehead, down his spine, and out the tip of his long tail.

  The creature lifted a sheathed sword and an unstrung bow from the wet ground. A quiver hung at his waist, wrapped in canvas to keep the arrows dry.

  Her mind raced to identify the creature. The name bubbled to her mind, and without thinking, she blurted it out.

  “Laghart!”

  A strange sound came from the creature, his chest heaving. “You don’ttt sssee many offf my kinnd in Oakssspring, do yyyou?”

  The voice sounded male. “What do you want?” Pomella demanded, sounding far braver than she felt.

  “Fffor you to telll your ffffriend to relaxx while I hhhelp him outtt,” the laghart said.

  “Pomella! Where are you?” Sim called.

  Watching the laghart as closely as possible, Pomella leaned over the edge. “I’m safe, Sim. There’s a … a laghart … up here. I think he wants to—”

  The laghart uncoiled a rope and tossed it down the pit. He braced himself against a heavy stone and waited for Sim to begin climbing. A minute later, Sim crawled up out of the hole. He scrambled toward Pomella and pointed his sword at the laghart.

  “Who are you?” Sim demanded.

  Pomella found herself surprisingly comforted by Sim’s presence. “Sim, it’s all right,” she said. “He helped us.”

  The laghart sheathed his sword. “I am Vlenar, and you’re latttte.”

  “Late? What do you mean?” Sim said.

  Pomella stepped around Sim, putting her hand on his shoulder to ease him. “He’s the ranger who was sent to meet me. Aren’t you?”

  Vlenar nodded, his strange slitted eyes watching them. “Yessss, Goodmisss AnDone.”

  “You were supposed to meet us at Sentry,” Sim said.

  “Usss?” Vlenar’s tone sounded unamused.

  “I-I meant, her, obviously,” Sim stammered.

  “We knew ssshe would be lattte, becaussse of the storm, ssso I tracked herr herre.”

  “But how could you know that?” Sim demanded.

  “Rangersss and Myssstics know evvverything about the Great Forressst. Where it growsss, we sssee.”

  Pomella bit her lip. She believed Vlenar was telling the truth. Besides, she and Sim were lost, and if Vlenar was a true ranger, he could guide them through the woods to Kelt Apar. She turned to Sim.

  “I’m going with him,” she whispered, putting her hand on Sim’s arm.

  His eyes wavered just a little. “I’ll come with you.”

  “You know you can’t. If you’re caught outside the barony, you’ll become Unclaimed.”

  Sim shook his head. “I’m not leaving you with him.”

  “This is already hard, Sim,” Pomella said, trying not to let those blue eyes upset her. “Thank you for coming for me. I needed it more than I knew. But I need to go alone, now. I— Good-bye.”

  She danced on the edge of hesitation and, without thinking, tiptoed up to kiss him.

  As her lips reached his, he turned his head just enough so the kiss landed on his cheek.

  “Good-bye, Pomella,” he said.

  She watched him walk away, sheathing his sword. He paused beside Vlenar to murmur some questions. Without speaking, the ranger pulled some provisions from a bag and handed them to Sim. Vlenar pointed in the direction she and Sim had come from. With a final glance back at her, Sim headed off in the indicated direction. Soon he was lost to the rain and shadows of the forest.

  “Come,” said Vlenar. “Kelt Apaarr awaittsss.”

  Pomella lingered, then followed the ranger.

  * * *

  Sim trudged through the Mystwood, heading back the way he and Pomella had come. Late-afternoon shadows dimmed everything around him. He tried to retrace their footprints, but the deluge had wiped them away. He settled for finding the river and followed it back.

  He hated himself for leaving Pomella. He hated the laghart for taking her away. And, by the Saints, he hated himself for turning away her kiss. He cursed himself six times for being a dunder. He’d pushed too hard last night in the pit. Now, today, he didn’t feel right kissing her when she was so muddled. Jagged Saints, he was all muddled! What would he do now?

  At least the rain had stopped.

  As he walked, he imagined himself returning home. He saw himself handing the iron sword back to his fathir, apologizing, and putting his work clothes on for another day in the forge or fields. He could see Bethy smirking at him as he hammered away at yet another horseshoe. He sighed as he imagined himself having to court and marry somebody else before taking over the family trade. With his older brother, Dane, gone, the expectation fell on Sim now.

  Over and over, he imagined the limited possibilities his life might take. He was the iron, never having a say in how he could be forged. But that was life for a commoner.

  Lightning flashed, bringing him back to the present. He’d come to a place he hadn’t realized he’d been walking toward. Stopping just below the ridge where Pomella had jumped into the river, he hopped across some dry stones, trying to avoid falling in. He made his way upstream along the bank until he found Pomella’s book sprawled open inside a blackberry bush.

  He reached in and lifted the leather book out of the overgrown branches. The rain had ruined the pages exposed to the sky, and soaked a few beneath them as well, but overall the book seemed in good condition. He flipped through it, admiring the interesting artwork within, but not understanding the noble runes. Commoners couldn’t read those.

  Most commoners, anyway.

  Closing the cover, Sim placed the book in his shoulder sack. As he was near the Creekwaters, his thoughts lingered on Dane. Even though he’d been the eldest, Dane would never’ve stuck around in Oakspring, Sim knew. No matter the risk, the moment he’d saved enough clips Dane would’ve broken the law and headed for a city, or maybe even the Continent. It sometimes seemed like Dane was a bird who’d just settled on Moth long enough to hatch and fly on.

  You can come with me if you want, he’d told Sim years ago. I’ll go travel for a while and see what’s out there. Then I’ll come back and get ya. When you’re old enough, you can come to the jungles of Gunna with me.

  “Yah,” whispered Sim to himself now, trying hard to picture Dane’s face. Strange, what you remembered about a person after he was gone.

  What would Sim remember about Pomella?

  He knew he didn’t want to remember her as being sad. It seemed to him like all she’d known since the Coughing Plague swept through Oakspring and took Dane and her mhathir was sadness. And it didn’t help that Goodman AnDone, her fathir, wasn’t exactly the kindest man to live with.

  Sim wondered about her fathir. The man was sour and prone to bursts of red-hot anger. What would cause a man to become so cruel? Losing his wife, maybe? Perhaps he wanted more for his life, but never attained it? Commoners from Moth could rise above their caste, though it didn’t happen very often.

  The thought brought Sim back to his previous thoughts and his own destiny. His fathir had been a blacksmith, and a farmer before that. His grandfathir had been a farmer,
and his great-grandfathir before him, too. Since as far back as his family’s history went, the AnClures had tilled the soil on Moth. They bothered no one, and asked only for a chance to lead a peaceful life.

  So why was that not enough for Sim? Did Dane’s spirit whisper to Sim from the Creekwaters? Why did he feel that returning home now would forever close the door on a once in a lifetime opportunity?

  He gazed north toward Oakspring, and realized he couldn’t go back. With or without Pomella, something had awoken in him. He rested his hand on the sword at his side. He wouldn’t let life hammer him down. He would not become what Pomella’s fathir had.

  Turning to the south, Sim gazed in the direction Pomella likely had gone. She might not want him around, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least make sure she got to Kelt Apar safely. Yah, he would do that.

  He bit his lip. And then what? If he followed this course, he would be declared Unclaimed for leaving the barony of his birth. He had to risk it. Pomella was making the same choice, just in a different way. After he got her safely to Kelt Apar, he could continue south. The road supposedly led all the way to Port Morrush on the southern tip of Moth. He could find work there, or even a ship to the Continent. He’d take Dane’s memories with him.

  He turned and walked three steps into a new life. Then he ran, noting that full dark was still a few hours away. He rushed faster, hoping to at least make it back to the shrine before night fell.

  He ran for longer than he thought possible. Finally, he stopped to catch his breath. Water droplets fell from trees whose spring greenery was in full display. He drank from his waterskin, and pulled out some dried rabbit meat the laghart had given him. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it to Sentry before—

  He stopped. A familiar sound came from the west, repeating in a steady rhythm. It was a sharp, piercing sound that reminded him of home. He crept toward it, and quickly recognized it as the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer slamming onto metal. He wondered who would be smithing in the middle of the forest.

  Stepping carefully, he brushed past the long vinelike branches of a willow tree and spied a small camp beside a thin creek. The camp consisted of two tents, a wagon, and three hobbled horses, each grazing hungrily. Sim couldn’t see anybody, but could hear the blacksmith working on the far side of the wagon near the creek. No banner waved above the tents.

  A chill swept over Sim. He shivered. His instinct screamed that it was time to go. Turning to leave, he stepped forward and nearly skewered himself on the tip of a spear aimed at his chest.

  “Don’t move, scrit,” said a greasy voice.

  FIVE

  KELT APAR

  Pomella’s feet hurt. After a day of walking with Vlenar through the Mystwood, she was ready to burn her shoes. The laghart spoke very little, except to tell her to keep moving when she tried to stop and rest her aching feet.

  He led her through the dense forest, always remaining beneath the thick canopy of trees. Despite the more difficult terrain, Pomella was glad they avoided the road. The only sounds she heard during the full day of walking were the chirping and fluttering of birds mixed with the fall of needles and leaves. She noted with annoyance that flies and biterbugs apparently bred large in this part of the island. Overall, she enjoyed the solitude, but found herself often humming just to break the monotony.

  She missed her Book of Songs. Looking back, she wished she’d been more insistent to Sim that they go back to find it. If they had, maybe they wouldn’t have fallen into that blathering pit. Shortly after setting out with Vlenar, she’d mustered the courage to ask him if they could go back to find her book. The ranger’s hard, slitted gaze had been enough to tell her to forget it. Her heart ached knowing that the book was probably lost and ruined.

  During that first day of travel, she worried that they would encounter more of the silver wolves. But she didn’t see or hear any sign of the terrifying creatures or any other ghostlike animals. She refrained from mentioning them to Vlenar. He’d probably not take her seriously. That, and he terrified her in his own way. Although he stood on hind legs, he walked hunched over, so that his spine was almost parallel to the ground. She tried not to stare too much.

  At night, around their campfire, she watched his tail swish back and forth across the ground, idly tracing patterns in the dirt.

  They bypassed the town of Sentry on the second day of travel, skirting around it by taking a westerly route that put them within sight of Loch Bracken, the largest body of water in the forest. They followed no path that Pomella could see. Vlenar pushed forward with confidence, leading her south and west. Glancing upward, she had difficulty gauging the sun’s position. The tall, moss-coated oaks spread their limbs high above her, intermixing their branches as if holding hands.

  Pomella adjusted the pack slung across her back. When she’d first carried it out of Oakspring, she’d thought it had been light. Now, it felt like carrying boulders.

  As they set camp for the second night, Pomella caught sight of a great snowcapped mountain peak, rising in the distance above the treetops.

  “MagDoon,” the ranger said, handing her a flat loaf of bread for her supper.

  Pomella smiled as a thrill of excitement raced through her. Everyone on Moth knew of the great mountain, and the legends associated with it. She’d never so much as glimpsed it before, despite living less than a week’s travel away. Saint Brigid herself was said to have walked those slopes.

  Late on the morning of the third day, just as Pomella worked up the courage to ask Vlenar when they could eat again, he stopped. “We are hhhere,” he said.

  Pomella’s head popped up. She’d been staring at the ground as they walked. “What? Where?”

  The laghart pushed aside a branch to reveal an enormous circular clearing. Pomella gasped.

  A wide, manicured lawn, bigger than she’d ever seen, shone under the highsun light. Scattered trees provided pools of shade, including a massive willow tree trailing its leaves in a gentle pond. Shaggy goats grazed lazily. The sounds of a nearby river drifted toward her and the laghart. A cluster of simple buildings rested on the far side of the clearing near the source of the sound. Pomella glanced down and saw a path of pebbled stones that began near her feet and ran toward the clearing’s most dominant feature—a rounded stone tower, perhaps seventy or eighty feet tall and half as wide, rising from the center of the clearing. Ivy crawled up its sides, the tendrils spreading across the white rock beneath it. A series of small windows climbed the tower in a slow spiral, unevenly spread apart, their panes twinkling in the sun. Capping the tower was a conical green slate roof. Wildflowers surrounded the tower in a wide ring, rippling like the waves of a colorful moat.

  A hawk soared overhead as they stepped out from the cover of trees onto the grass. A wide smile burst onto Pomella’s face. She yanked off her shoes. Her toes found the soft grass and she wiggled them, feeling the comforting relief offered by the lawn.

  Vlenar led her along the pebbled path toward the great tower. He walked in his hunched manner, his tail swishing in a steady rhythm. Pomella craned her neck, trying to take it all in.

  The ground rumbled, and the soil ahead of them erupted into a massive humanoid shape. Pomella jumped back and yelped. Vlenar gave no reaction as the figure loomed over them. Steadying her tumbling nerves, she forced herself to calm. She recognized this creature.

  “Welcome, Goodmiss AnDone,” the Green Man said, his voice rumbling like shifting tree trunks. “I’m glad you made it safely. You are a bit early, in fact.”

  Relief flooded Pomella. She’d made it! She flashed the Green Man her best smile.

  As before, his eyes were made from stones and his body was formed from the nearby soil. But instead of branches and leaves like she remembered him having in Oakspring, well-manicured grass now built his body. The shape of his face and his mannerisms remained the same, however.

  She stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. Vlenar bowed, the tip of his face touching the grass. Pomella dr
opped to curtsy, suddenly aware of her absolutely filthy appearance. She’d washed most of the grime from the pit away in a creek the day the ranger found her, but her clothes and hair were still knotted and stiff. Her cloak still hadn’t dried from the rain and falling in the river.

  “Thank you, good Green Man,” she said, not knowing the proper way to address him.

  “Behold Kelt Apar,” he said, sweeping a heavy arm across the clearing. “For over a thousand years the lineage of High Mystics has held presence here, tending to and protecting the Mystwood and its inhabitants. Perhaps someday that duty will become yours, so look upon it this one time with fresh, new eyes.”

  A warm wind blew across Pomella’s face, catching her hair. On the far side of the tower a white spire peeked above the treetops. Off in the distance, an old gardener pulled weeds. A brown dog stood halfway between them and barked. Nearby, a wooden bridge spanned the river that she’d heard earlier.

  The Green Man turned to Vlenar. “Mistress Yarina thanks you for delivering Goodmiss AnDone in a timely manner. The other candidates will arrive soon. Please escort them to the grounds.”

  Vlenar inclined his head and left. His slitted, golden eyes briefly met Pomella’s as he walked past.

  “He doesn’t like to talk much, does he?” Pomella said before she could stop herself.

  The Green Man shook with deep laughter. “Vlenar, like most rangers, finds his place in solitude. It is their job to listen, and observe, not to comment. Come, I will escort you to your dwelling. While you are here for the Trials, you may call me by my given name, Oxillian.”

  He walked away on long, powerful legs. Behind him, dirt and grass pushed up to fill the gaping hole he’d risen from. Pomella stared at the ground before running to catch up. “Can I call you Ox?”

  Again the strange chuckling sound. “You may.”

  She crossed the wooden bridge, which spanned a steadily flowing river about eight feet wide. Ox walked beside the bridge, his long legs needing only two strides to cross the stream. The smell of fresh soil filled Pomella’s lungs, reminding her of home, and working in the garden with Grandmhathir. Pomella gawked at everything from the Green Man to the nearby tower. Several times she dug her nails into her palm just to prove she was really here, walking with a figure of legend.