A Circle of Celebrations: The Complete Edition, page 10
Now, those boots had fresh, entire soles, and winter receded to far away in the future. Moreover, there were whole woolen blankets on the feather bed, also blessedly hers, and free of vermin, thank all gods! The three-room cottage was not merely nice, but sound, well-proportioned, and well built. It smelled of dry herbs and dust, but what of that? Half an hour’s sweeping and dusting, and some of her own herbs scattered on the air or boiled for the scent had driven away the ghost of dead parsley and sage. The headman’s wife had made her guesting gift of oats, tea, honey, salt, a new loaf, some dried meat, and a small crock of wine, with the promise of good food every day. Whatever she needed, they would give. Somewhere, they told her, there was a black and white cat for company, but he tended to go about his business as he chose. This could be a nice sinecure, all the benefits to stay with her, or go, as she chose, if only Vinory would at least stay through until spring. The people of Twin Streams had no one else to weave the spells to protect them from the storm or the spirits who rode it. Their last mage had died in the spring. Vinory was a gift to them from the gods, and they treated her as such.
The dream symbol of the sunflower kept preying at her mind. This was no ordinary bloom. It had a distinctively masculine presence, teasing at her with a faint, fresh-washed scent and the insouciant flaunting of mature sexuality. Did a god’s presence touch the house?
If such a visitation was troubling her, she wanted to see it off! Vinory needed a whole mind and a whole heart to take care of the villagers. Some of them had been saving up a list of spells and nostrums they needed against the time that this cottage would house a mage again. Vinory would be busy from morning ’til night for weeks to come.
“Good morning, Mistress Vinory,” the headman said when she came to take care of his youngest daughter, who was suffering from night terrors. Bilisa also had a head cold and was breaking out in webbing between her toes and fingers from handling an enchanted frog, but those were quietish maladies, not calculated to make her scream in the dark and wake the house.
“Now, think of something bright,” Vinory told the girl, a mite of six, with big dark eyes and long braids framing a pale, moon-shaped face. “Something that gleams. Keep it in your mind.” Vinory spun a disk of metal between her fingers, gathering sunlight from the beams that came in the window to store in the girl’s mind. “Think of yellow, like buttercups and primroses.”
And sunflowers, a quiet voice said in the back of her mind.
O O O
When the girl’s mind was eased and her other problems treated, Vinory returned to her cottage and hearth. She mustn’t start thinking of the cottage as hers, she warned herself, as she started a pot of porridge to cook. The mage-born really belonged nowhere in this world. They were only loosely tied to physical existence. Love of possessions made it more difficult to travel across the Veil to accomplish their spells and curses. But how easily she could get used to earthly comforts! Her cup and bowl, spoon and knife looked very homey on the mantel beside the goods of the departed Master Samon. The reflection the mirror showed her had silver threads showing near the scalp in the black wings of her hair; and fine lines ran in patterns on her weathered skin beside her dark blue eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her body would one day grow old. Would this not be a nice place to stay until the time came when she abandoned it? Hastily, she put the thought aside.
Next to the hearth was a wooden chest that Vinory hadn’t dared to open as yet. It was unlocked, and the hasp was flipped upward as if its owner had been about to open it when … The villagers said that the last mage had died unexpectedly. Could it have been poison, or was the latch made of a deadly metal? Vinory prayed to be shown the truth, whispering a few words to the void.
The wind howled outside suddenly, making her gasp with its ferocity. But she saw no black spots or shining, sickly greenness on or about the lock or the chest to suggest that it would do her harm. She reached for it again.
It seemed to her that a warm hand brushed hers when she pushed the heavy lid open. Cobwebs, Vinory told herself. You’re imagining things.
To her delight the chest was full of books. That made sense. It was placed handily so one could reach for a book and read by firelight. Vinory hummed with pleasure as she took the clothbound volumes out one by one and laid them on the fleece that served as a hearth mat. There was a Geographicus Mundi, a handsome herbal in Latin, and several books of charms and spells. Some of the books were handwritten, all in the same strong, beautiful hand, and peppered with tiny illuminations. Among the goods on the wall shelves were pots of paint and brushes made of twigs and hair. Had these drawings been the work of Samon? Then he was a scholar and an artist! She was sorry now not to have met him. And now these lovely things were hers to use. Vinory felt an unexpected sensation of warmth, as if the house gave her its blessing.
O O O
The dream of the sunflower came again that night. The seed-heavy head leaned closer to her; its leaves rustling, whispering. If the flower had had eyes, it would be looking deep into her soul. The image grew larger until it took up all of her mind’s eye. Vinory woke in the dark, panting with fear. It wasn’t that she disliked sunflowers, she told herself, except that the damned shells kept getting stuck between her teeth, but what was the meaning of the recurring dream? She sought peace as she concentrated on it.
Her mind had to be affected by some stimulus around her. Vinory thought again of the unseen hand that had touched her when she opened the box of books. It was almost as if someone had brushed her arm lovingly. She put her hands up into the shadows, feeling, sensing. The air was empty, as it was supposed to be.
Movement near the fire startled her. Vinory sat upright to see what had thrown that shadow against the wall. No one else was in the room with her. It must be the cat, she told herself.
No. The thought came unbidden. Vinory started.
There was a consciousness here. Who—or what—was it? Vinory crawled from her bed and flung a cloak around her, determined to learn more. From her basket, she took a thin copper ring and a thread, and crouched by the fire. She set the pendulum spinning, catching glints from the faint embers.
“Are you malevolent? Do you mean me harm?” she asked the pendulum. Without hesitation, the ring began to rock back and forth. No. Twice. And the shadow fluttered into the light again.
“Who are you?”
That question the pendulum could not answer. The intruder could have been from anywhere and any time in the beyond. Vinory reached outward with all the delicate fingers of consciousness that she used to touch the other side of the Veil. The presence seemed to have a connectedness to the place in which it was now. Was it an entity called here by the previous owner of the cottage, or an unfortunate spirit tied here by who knew what bonds? She couldn’t guess what had gone before. Perhaps in the daylight she could peruse the books and notebooks for a clue.
An unexpected rush of air flowed past her cheek and brushed her hair. Chilled, Vinory crept back to bed and tucked the blankets around her.
O O O
She treated the presence with careful reverence, in case it was the tendril of a god’s mind. When Vinory rose in the morning, she greeted it, and put the first crumbs and drops of her breakfast on a dish to one side as an offering. If it was not a god, then it had another name, and she meant to find it out. As she worked on a charm for a spinning wheel for Lenda, the village fine-weaver, they chatted idly.
“What sort of man was Samon?” Vinory asked, tying threads together through the spokes of the wheel.
“Oh, he was a fine-looking man,” Lenda said, rocking her plump self back on her three-legged stool. “Not as big as some, but with white skin like a girl’s, and dark eyes and lashes that looked painted on. I wanted to picture him as a tapestry, but he wouldn’t let me make an image of him. Said it tied him down.”
“That’s true,” Vinory said. “How did Samon die?”
“Caught a chill sitting up for six nights in a row to cure a sick child,” Lenda said. “Or at least, that’s what I thought it must be. The next day, I was bringing him food, and found him. I thought he was sleeping, but he was dead. Not a mark on him. Such a shock it was.” Lenda clicked her tongue.
“Six nights! Such devotion to healercraft,” Vinory said, impressed. “He must have been most caring.”
“Oh, well, any man would do the same, since it was his child,” Lenda said, peering at the mage-woman under her heavy lids. “The girl he got it on was too young to marry, our headman said, but plenty old enough for dalliance among the daisies at the spring planting, in Samon’s eye. Said it was the god’s doing. He shouldn’t have taken her, but what could the parents say? You can’t make a cow back into a heifer.”
“Oh,” Vinory said, disappointed. “Too true.” The wretch. Her image of a lost scholar and saint tarnished around the edges. Technically Samon had been correct. Mere mortals could not dictate whom the god said should play the spring queen in the planting dance, but one could temper his whim by leaving unwed children out of the range of choice. Had the god stayed around too long after the dance, and swept Samon away while leaving a thought-shadow in his place?
“No, indeed,” Lenda said, reminiscing. She sounded fond of him, as she stared past Vinory through the door at the bright autumn sunshine. “Couldn’t keep his hands to himself, no, not if they were tied behind him. He needed a strong woman to keep him in line. Not that women here aren’t of sound mind,” she added, warningly, in case Vinory would think they were all vow-loose, “but none wanted to say no to him.”
I could, Vinory thought.
The presence teased at her the next day as she rooted through the cottage’s storerooms. It seemed to have a courtier’s manners, going here and there with her, moving aside while she was walking, crouching close as she knelt to examine a box or basket. It certainly was not a god, since when Vinory had chosen to ward herself the night before, she was not troubled by the dreams or the mysterious touch. Instead, Vinory could feel the presence hammering unhappily at the wards she had set up, pleading to come in until she drew a veil across her thoughts so she could sleep. Who or what could the presence be?
“I don’t know whether it would have been a pleasure to know you or not, Master Samon!” Vinory said, sorting through a bag of dyed threads. “Dallying with children, though I grant you lived up to your responsibilities afterward. You stood right on the fulcrum of the Great Balance, didn’t you?” The presence said nothing, but she was beginning to feel that it might indeed be Samon lingering there.
What had taken his life? Over the years, she had sat up many nights with patients. Sometimes she’d caught what disease they had, but she always manifested the usual symptoms. The women said there were no signs at all, and yet Samon’s soul had fled. Vinory’s mind spun with unanswerable questions. Could Samon have been ripped from his body by some powerful force? A curse? Could what happened to him happen to Vinory? Should she flee this place while she could? No wonder the townsfolk were so desperately glad to have her stay.
When she went to bed that night, she surrounded herself with wards and protections so thick that the cat couldn’t find a place on the bed. He hunkered down next to it, grumbling.
The next morning, the sun poked a gleaming finger through the curtains of the cottage window and tickled Vinory’s nose until she woke up with a sneeze.
Goodness, she thought. I hope I’m not coming down with Bilisa’s cold. A few experimental sniffs proved that her nose was clear. That was a relief.
The cottage was tidied nearly to the homey stage. Vinory though that today she would ask the fuller or the blacksmith for a little polishing sand to shine up the fine metalwork that decorated the doors and cupboard fastenings. That would be the finishing touch that would make all perfect. She could perform some small service for the craftsmen in exchange, but so far everyone had been too shy to ask their due. The courtesy would pass soon enough, Vinory knew, so she would keep offering so as not to seem arrogant in her power.
Vinory thought a slice of meat and some broth boiled from the dried meat would taste nice this morning. The black and white cat wound between her feet while she put the pot onto the fire and made her toilet for the day. She gave him a piece of the meat. He gulped it down and begged for more.
“There, now,” she said, picking up a cloth to swing the hook holding the pot out of the fire, and flicked it at him. “You’ve had your bounty. Go and catch something for yourself. Fresh meat’s better for you anyhow.” The cat sat down and nonchalantly washed his shoulder to prove to her that he didn’t care. Smiling, Vinory ladled broth into her bowl and took it and the remains of the loaf to the table.
Beside her plate was a yellow flower. Vinory hadn’t noticed it before, but that did not mean it hadn’t been there when she arose. She was touched by the gesture, thinking that a villager had decided to show her a kindness by leaving her a posy of autumn flowers. Then she took a close look at the bloom. It was a daffodil. Another sunflower, not heavy with autumn, but fresh with the dew of springtime. She’d always known it as a gage of the laughing young god, in his youngest and most playful incarnation. And yet, she reminded herself that the dancer was also faithless, flitting from woman to woman, whoever would have him. There were no daffodils in the village. They withered by May. July was long past their season. Who had reached through time for this lovely thing?
I, the voice said. I would please you. The warm touch brushed her hand again and encircled her wrist with a lover’s touch.
Vinory started, afraid. Samon was still here, and not only was he tied to this place, he was now tied to her as well! Abandoning bowl, loaf, and hunger, Vinory rushed out into the sunshine.
At least the ghost didn’t follow her beyond the walls. She ran down the hill toward the fields where all the able-bodied villagers were helping to bring in the hay. The good folk greeted her gladly, offering her bread, cheese, and meat from their own breakfasts. She accepted only enough to keep her from getting lightheaded.
“Now you’re here, will you bless the coming harvest, lady?” the blacksmith said, leaning heavily on his scythe. He swept a hand around to show her a valley filled with dusty gold and dark green. Poppies of that astonishing red clustered at the edge of the cropline.
“How hard you have worked,” Vinory said, sincerely. The villagers straightened up with pride. “Of course I will give the blessing. The gods have been good to this place. It will be a bountiful year. I need a handful of each of the young produce.” Two boys ran off and came back with handfuls of grain, fruit, and tiny, perfect vegetables. Vinory exclaimed over their beauty. “Good. And now I … I need wine, salt, a small bowl, and a crust.”
There were a few odd glances exchanged, and one or two people looked up the hill at her cottage, only a few hundred yards away. Vinory was ashamed to admit she was afraid to go back for her basket, so she waited and smiled politely until somebody gathered the components of the harvest prayer for her. At least her knife was in her belt.
Beckoning the workers together, Vinory sprinkled salt in a circle around them, then advanced to the sunrise side with the wine and bread. The headman, who had witnessed many a harvest rite, came forward with a large, flat stone, which he set down at her feet. Chanting the ritual words, Vinory poured the wine into the bowl and crumbled the bread into it. She held the bowl to the sky, and let the Veil open ever so slightly.
The powers of nature were formidable, but most folk saw only the merest wisp of that influence. It was only during rituals and festivals that they had the opportunity to see what Vinory and the mage-kind saw every day. The headman and his villagers were agog as a mouth opened in the sky and drew the wine and bread up to it in a garnet stream. A beam of light issued down on Vinory and her makeshift altar. The offering was acceptable. Now she filled the bowl with the fruits of the harvest. As she continued her chat of praise and entreaty, the golden light covered the bowl. In a blinding flash, the offering was gone. The light faded into Vinory, leaving her glowing in front of the stone, ponderous with the weight of godhead. She was silent for a long time. The villagers waited respectfully until she spoke.
“The gods hear us, and they are pleased,” she said, feeling both god and goddess resounding in her chest and brain. “Blessed be this place and these people. The work that they do shall prosper.”
The villagers muttered, “thanksgiving,” and Vinory ended the ritual by touching the point of her knife down to the flat stone, earthing the gods’ power as a symbol of the unity of the planes. When she broke the circle, she drew a little of the godhead into herself to protect her as she walked back up the hill to the cottage. It was hers now. She had earned it. No ghost would dare to keep her from it.
The bread on the table was stale now, and her broth was gone from the bowl. The cat must have lapped it up as soon as it cooled. Vinory’s movements were abrupt as she prepared another meal to restore her after the drain of rending the Veil.
The spirit presence was immediately at her elbow, offering concern. She pushed away at it with her thoughts, trying to find some peace to think. The spirit kept trying to get her attention.
“Leave off!” she said, irritably. “You’re worse than the cat.” It drew back perceptibly, hovering near the book chest. Vinory ate her meal and took a little rest on the bed with her back propped up against the wool-stuffed pillow. The presence stayed at a distance from her, but she could still feel its regard.
“What do you want?” she demanded at last. Protected by the fragment of light, she let her consciousness open up to the presence. Immediately a sensation of need flowed over her. Vinory raised the godhead as a shield, and the presence withdrew a little. It continued to broadcast to her its feelings: pain, fear, frustration, and despair.
