Meri (16 page)

He could see it clearly now, what their evil ministrations
had wrought. The ones they had left behind, the ones who had been ordered to
think of them as dead, these creatures had, with their hideous powers, drawn
from the safety of Creiddylad into the night.

Now, he did weep. He could even hear his own voice, a thin
wail in his ears, as he watched the women embrace their men and children, climb
aboard their wagons and disappear into the sea mists. Soon those mists became
too thick to penetrate and he drifted for a time, his sorrow a blunted ache in
his nonexistent breast.

Then, at the edge of his senses, he heard it, the lapping of
water upon the sand. The whisper of waves. And he saw a lone figure detach
itself from the mists and move out upon a shore he could but dimly perceive. It
was a girl. One of the eleven, he realized. The youngest of them. She had hair
as black as a raven’s wing and eyes the color of a cloud’s belly. And she stood
upon the shore as boldly and as brazenly as she had stood before the Cyne, her
queer silver eyes fixed upon the waves as they had been fixed upon the royal
countenance.

His non-eyes blinked and the hair was burnished chestnut and
the eyes were a clear brown and he understood, in that moment, that he was
witness to a timeless sacrilege. The Wicke, smug smile on her pretty face,
waited to attain the unattainable. It was the Meri she had waited for then; it
was the Meri she would wait for only days from now. Did she know what her
sacrifice would bring upon Caraid-land?

He stared full into those dreadful eyes—silver again—and
imagined that they could see him, though there was nothing of him to see. She
must know, the young Wicke, for those eyes laughed wickedly and those lips
parted in a smile.

The shriek that woke him was his own, and he sat straight up
in his big, warm bed, suddenly chilled to the marrow. Sea-cold sweat stood out
all over his body and he clutched at himself trying to rub the terror away.

“Ealad?” His wife’s voice came to him, gentle and warming,
and her hand lighted upon his damp back. “Whatever is wrong, dear man? Have you
had a dream?”

“I have had a nightmare,” he whispered and reached a hand
out to feel the solid flesh of her good, strong arms. “Ah, Bevol,” he breathed,
“you don’t know what you are doing.”

The Spirit of the Universe is seen in a pure soul
as in a bright and shining mirror.

It is seen in the world of Heaven as clear as light.

But in this Land of Shades, It is seen only as a memory
of dreams, as a reflection in trembling waters.

— The Corah
Book I, Verses 25-27

She slept in a bed that night—or at least it passed for
one. The mattress was of fresh straw covered with a thick woolen blanket. A
wooden box-frame held the straw staunchly in place.

It did not hold Meredydd’s dreams. Those were already
outside in morning sunlight that had yet to arrive, listening to the words of
her Master, Bevol.

“I am too old,” he said. “Too tired. I cannot continue. You
must take Pov-Skeet and go on without me.”

She must have protested. She knew she must. Protested that
Skeet instead of Osraed Bevol would stand as her Weard, oversee her quest for
the Meri’s Kiss. She must have quaked with fear and uncertainty at that, for
she had not been without Osraed Bevol since he lifted her out of the mud seven
years before. He had become both her mother and her father, friend and
counselor, teacher and mentor.

But she heard herself say nothing—the crush of emotions
remained bottled in that strange, dream-ether that dimmed senses or heightened
them at a whim. She listened—the Osraed was speaking again: “I have a riddle
for you,” he said. “A riddle.”

She waited, poised, tense.

“I have a riddle,” he said again...and again, then faded into
her dream. She saw his lips move, but could no longer hear what he was saying.
She stared at those lips. “A riddle,” they said.

She woke suddenly, tumbled out of her bed of straw and
dressed herself, hurrying. She had to force herself to perform her morning
meditations, then, unable to concentrate, recited the Table of Medicinals and
Herbs to calm herself and gain composure.

With some semblance of that, she tried the meditation again
with more success. Still, as she descended the crooked stairs to the ground
floor of the wayhouse, she was already filling with dread, already cringing in
anticipation at what Bevol would say to her this morning.

She pulled the Wisdom amulet out of the collar of her shirt
and stared at it. It looked no different from yesterday, except for perhaps
being a bit more shiny from prolonged contact with her skin. But she needed
wisdom and wondered how the amulet could help her focus what little she
had...if, indeed, she had any. She remembered how Bevol had taught her to focus
her energies through a poultice of herbs while performing a Healweave. Perhaps
this worked in a similar way. Or perhaps it was more like a rune crystal and
you had to sing it a duan and focus the inyx
in
it instead of
through
it.

It was odd, she thought, how everyone thought of Osraed-hood
as having to do entirely with Runeweaving and amulets and magic potions
(especially new Prentices) but here she was, two days into her Pilgrimage,
knocking upon the very gatepost of Osraed-hood, and she knew less about that than
she did Dream Tell and Medicinals and the many ways of determining what another
was thinking by bodyspeak and eyetell. Bevol had concentrated her education on
prayer and meditation and growing and selecting herbs that healed. He
emphasized the power inherent in honesty, fidelity, charity and wisdom and
spent little time discussing the totems and tokens of his station, myriad
though they were. She had used crystals, of course, but this—

She had been worrying the little midge of silver in
searching fingers. Now the worry became a caress. A totem. A rune. A
thing
. Wisdom lay in how one
used
a thing. She tucked the amulet into her
shirt and went down to the dining room.

The house-keep’s wife was there, working behind the long
table where food and drink were served. A little girl played on the floor at
one end of the table, galloping a small, carved wooden horse along the rutted
wood-grain trails. Meredydd smiled at them.

“Daeges-eage, Moireach. Is the Osraed Bevol out?”

“Not as yet, mistress.” She smiled shyly in return and wiped
her hands on her apron. “I’m layin’ on breakfast now, though.”

She studied Meredydd for a moment, then asked, “You his
daughter?”

“No. Well, that is, he’s raised me as a daughter. My parents
are dead. I’m his Prentice.”

The woman’s eyes grew round as coins. “But ye’re cailin! Oh,
beg pardon, I meant—well, I didn’t think—”

“Neither did I,” said Meredydd, “but Osraed Bevol brought me
up and taught me and took me to Halig-liath to study. I’m very grateful to him.”

The woman’s smile was back. “Oh, and so’m I. Grateful y’all
come here.” She glanced at her daughter fondly. “Yer Osraed Bevol’s a saint,
Prentice. I thought we’d be buryin’ our little Ambre ’fore the week was out,
but now—well, ye can see.”

Aware of the scrutiny from above, the little girl suspended
play and favored Meredydd with a gap-toothed grin.

“What was wrong with her?”

“She fell two day back. Off the fence ’round goat y’rd. Hit
her head and went into this awful sleep. My husband was sure it was some
Runeweave that old Wicke-woman threw—a magical sleep-like. But Diarmaid, tha’s
my husband, he’d not go to Mam Lufu t’ask, for he figured she’s the cause of it
all. But your Master, he looked down into Ambre’s eyes and listened t’her heart
and says it’s just the ’fects of falling and hittin’ ’er head. Con-somethin’.
An’ he had us leave the room an’ he sat with her. I could hear him prayin’ and
talkin’ to the Meri an singin’ duans. And when he come out she was just sleepin’.
Quiet-like, natural-like. Not...charmed, y’know.”

Meredydd marveled, wondering if she’d ever know how to do
something that miraculous. She had healed wounds, diagnosed ailments and
treated them under Bevol’s careful supervision. She knew the correct herbs to
administer for the colic, the croup and the mild pox. She’d drawn aches out of
bodies and heads, but never done so much as restoring a comatose child to
consciousness. She found herself fingering the small lump beneath the fabric of
her shirt and tunic.

“There was one other, wasn’t there?” asked the woman.

“Pardon?” said Meredydd.

“Girl Prentice. I’ve heerd tales from Grampus, I think. Oh,
it’d be ages back, then. Wrought terrible things, Grampus said.”

Meredydd’s throat tightened and her heart hung, cold and
still, in her chest. “What terrible things?” she asked, without really wanting
to know.

“They say the sea boiled,” said the house-keep’s wife,
giving complete conviction to something she’d struggled to recall only moments
before. “And the winds blew havoc o’er the land and dead fish and men floated
ashore. And no new Osraed came out of Halig-liath for many a year. Osraed said
it were proof the Meri’d changed.”

“Changed?”

“Well, She must have done. To stir up such grief. Something
must have angered Her powerful to put Her off being so loving and gentle.
They
say She changed.” She nodded, certain that “they”
must be right. “It happens from time to time,” she added. “But then, you’d know
that, bein’ Prentice.”

“Yes,” said Meredydd automatically, “once every century, my
Master says.”

And was it a coincidence that Taminy-a-Cuinn had gone on
Pilgrimage the year the Meri had last changed? Osraed Ealad-hach didn’t think
so, of that she was sure. Was he right? Had the Meri’s anger been directed at
the sheer heresy of a female Pilgrim? Had Taminy walked into the sea or had she
been dragged?

A chill of cold deeper than any she had ever known sliced
through Meredydd’s soul. She pressed her hand flat against the amulet and
excused herself, seeking the warmth of the summer morning. She smothered the
suspicion in prayers, immersed the fear in contemplation.

She was still sitting under the wayhouse’s battered wooden
awning, her worn prayer book in her hand, when Skeet came out in search of her.

“Maister’s out, Mistress Meredydd,” he told her, his dark
eyes glittering. He seemed always on the edge of smiling, and she always on the
verge of asking why. This morning she did.

“Skeet, you have smiled knowingly and secretly and
mysteriously since I’ve known you. Why are you smiling?”

“Why, ’cause I’m knowing and secret and mysterious.”

“And what do you know?”

“That I know naught.”

“And what’s your secret?”

“Something only I know.”

“And what’s your mystery?”

“That I know a secret and yet know naught.”

“Meaning, you have no secret.”

“Or meaning I’ve a secret, but I’ve not the wisdom to understand
what it is.” He held open the thick wooden door of the house and ushered
Meredydd inside.

“You’re posing me,” she accused him.

“Everyone has a secret and every secret poses a riddle.”

It was Osraed Bevol’s riddle that Meredydd wanted to hear,
but he made her wait through breakfast, uttering no word of her Pilgrimage
until he had sat back with his tea and closed his eyes.

“I am tired,” he said. “Too tired to continue on this
journey with you.”

She said nothing.

“You must take Pov as your Weard and continue without me.”

Still, she said nothing.

“You must next find...” He opened his eyes and looked at
her. “What must you find, Prentice Meredydd?”

“The Gwenwyvar.” She said the name, only just realizing that
she knew it and that it was connected somehow with the place she had dreamed of
and forgotten.

“The Gwenwyvar,” said Bevol nodding. “The White Wave. She is
a being as pure as air...as pure as thought. She will guide you. Now, how will
you find her?”

“You have a riddle for me. I dreamed last night that you had
a riddle for me, but... I’m ashamed, Master. I’ve forgotten what it was.” She
felt the clammy hand of failure lay itself over hers again.

“How could you forget, anwyl, what you never knew?” asked
Bevol, eyes failing to mask his amusement. “Listen to me. Near the village is
that which runs, but which neither rests nor sleeps. Find it. It will take you
to a place where there are many white houses, each with a single pillar, and
where children dance while their mother dances not. There, maidens rise from
water without wetting their white gowns. In this place you will find the
Gwenwyvar.”

“When will I see you again, Master?”

“When you have completed your Pilgrimage and come home to
me.”

“Then I will come home?”

“You will always come home, anwyl. Everyone comes home
eventually. And when you do, I will be waiting for you. Now, when you are
ready, go. Pack food enough for several days—you see to that, Pov.”

The boy nodded, already rising from his chair. Bevol turned
his attention back to Meredydd.

“Listen to me carefully, Meredydd. The goal is the purpose
of Pilgrimage. Let nothing distract you from your goal.”

She pondered that exhortation as she and Skeet headed out of
the village later that morning. She had not cried at their leave-taking, much
as she wanted to. She comforted herself that Bevol would be waiting for her at
home and that Skeet was beside her on the trail as their Master’s surrogate.
She was not, then, without family on her journey.

As they passed by the sloping meadow just beyond the village’s
sparse jumble of buildings, Meredydd wondered what Mam Lufu would do if she
went to her for help. She combed the stand of alder and fir with her eyes, but
the big/little cave/hut was completely obscured. She wondered whimsically if it
moved about the countryside, appearing here and there, wherever people needed
healing or comforting or had crops to be blessed.