The Finding (35 page)

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried desperately to repeat the words of meditation that Viornen had taught her, but all she could hear was Kaihmen’s voice echoing in her head,
“The witch came from the far east, fleeing from the Crimson King. It is said that she double-crossed the evil king and is now hiding out in fear of him . . .”

Jahrra shuddered. The idea of someone double-crossing the Crimson King terrified her; he sounded bad enough as it was without being angry.
I’m just being paranoid
, she told herself,
there’s no one in this swamp except maybe some frogs and leeches
. But no matter how hard she tried, Jahrra couldn’t get her mind off of the terror that had settled inside of her like heavy silt settling in a riverbed. Her hands were clammy and she could feel sweat trickling down her back, despite the cold.

Phrym nickered lightly, and Jahrra pulled him to a stop, hoping to recover her bearings and calm her mind. They’d been walking for about a half hour, and so far Jahrra hadn’t seen anything to make her feel so nervous. She blinked and looked around at the surrounding scenery to distract herself. The swamp was tangled with a variety of plants ranging from tiny, almost luminescent toadstools of multiple colors, to the giant, dominating oaks that choked out everything else but the dark poison ivy that wrapped tightly around their trunks. The moss that hung from the twisting branches looked like thick, matted hair and was a dark, dry olive color.

Jahrra pulled her eyes from the thick canopy and glanced down at the path she and Phrym were following. The black tendril of soil stretched thinly above the bank of the wetlands before disappearing into the obscure, thick fog in the immediate distance. After several minutes, Jahrra took a deep breath and decided it was time to move on.

Regardless of the quiet atmosphere and the fact that nothing horrible had happened after an hour of walking, Jahrra still couldn’t settle down. Phrym jerked back his head at the screech of a bird followed by a vigorous flapping of wings, and Jahrra had to take a few breaths to calm her racing heart. This was the first thing she’d heard since entering the swamp besides Phrym’s horsey comments and the retreating turtle.

Phrym came to a stop once again and Jahrra took a few more deep breaths, the taste of the cool, mossy air calming her nerves a bit. The fog was thicker now; a result, Jahrra thought, of some dark, evil magic brewing in the hidden corners of the Belloughs. They had to be close now, she could
feel
it.

Jahrra shuddered and swallowed thickly. The Belloughs of the Black Swamp. Her stomach took another plunge at the very thought of the name.

“Phrym, you have to make sure I stay focused,” she whispered nervously down to her strangely calm semequin.

Phrym merely turned his ears back towards her and kept on walking carefully past the brown ferns and oily green liverworts. A few minutes later the trail began to decline into the chill air of the belly of the swamp. The atmosphere not only grew colder and mistier, but darker as well, as if a premature twilight had begun to set in.
It’s only because of the cover of the oaks; they’re growing closer together here
, Jahrra told herself, trying really hard not to let the heavy atmosphere smother her.

A loud, sudden CRACK cut through the silence when Phrym stepped on a dead branch.

“Whoa!” Jahrra shouted, her entire body tensing out of instinct.

Phrym tossed his head and started to canter.

“Stop Phrym, slow down!” Jahrra pleaded as she pulled back on the reins which were easily slipping through her sweaty palms. She was trying hard not to panic and give in to her raw nerves as the cool air caressed her hot face. Phrym slowed after a few dozen yards and Jahrra slumped limply up against his strong neck.

“It’s alright, Phrym, you only spooked yourself!” she breathed nervously, a little more loudly than she ought to.

She scratched his neck once more and his nervous snorting gradually calmed. But Phrym wasn’t paying attention to her. He was standing stark still; his ears cocked forward, his stance tense. Jahrra froze. She was afraid to look up, but she forced herself to. She hadn’t noticed the tall hills closing in on either side of them. She suddenly felt like a panicked insect rushing into a funnel spider’s trap.

Jahrra blinked through Phrym’s tangled mane, her blood freezing as she recognized the scene before her. The parallel rows of hills met up not too far ahead, forming the unmistakable crook of the Belloughs. She had made it, and she was still alive and in one piece.

Well, here goes.

Jahrra drew on every ounce of courage she possessed as she gently led Phrym down into the Belloughs of the Black Swamp.

-
Chapter Twenty-One
-

The Witch of the Wreing

Phrym released a small snort, his breath steaming in the chill air, letting Jahrra know in his own way that he was beginning to have second thoughts about this venture. Jahrra ignored him and surveyed the surrounding scenery, her senses on high alert. She squinted through the dense, gray mist, her heart thudding erratically when she realized the dark blotches against the base of the hills were caves.

Jahrra tightened her fingers around Phrym’s reins, her knuckles growing white from the pressure, and tried to stop her mind from imagining what might live in those dark caverns. The cavern entrances themselves made her think of gaping, black mouths crying out in pain, and the ropes of moss clinging and streaming from their edges like the bedraggled beards of men long dead. The very thought sent chills down her spine, and she knew if a witch did live in this dank swamp, she would most definitely reside here.

Jahrra took a deep breath, inhaling the unpleasant scents of sulfur, stale dampness and old ashes. It was eerily quiet here, even more so than the stretch of swamp they had already passed. Nevertheless, Jahrra thought that if she strained her ears enough she might hear the strange whispering of a magical language or the black words of a terrible spell.

After surveying nervously for several minutes, Jahrra looked down at Phrym, trying to gauge his judgment. The semequin must have found the place safe enough after all, for he continued to look straight ahead, almost in curiosity.
Strange
, she thought,
how can he be so calm while I’m ready to turn and bolt?

Terrified but unwilling to give up after coming this far, Jahrra grudgingly eased Phrym forward, her heart rate steadily rising until it pounded in her ears. The pair delicately wove their way around gnarled tree roots and through tangles of vegetation, coming to a stop when they reached the point where the land flattened out and became dry.

From this new vantage point Jahrra was able to see the Belloughs a little more clearly. There was life here, and not just the grim, depressed life she’d come to expect in a place without regular sunlight or fertile soil, but life that had been coaxed and pampered into existence.

Jahrra stopped Phrym and gazed around in wonder at the sight before her. There were strange plants that she’d never seen before, not even in Hroombra’s books on botany: leafy plants with crinkled, bruise-purple foliage and woody plants with alien-like flowers. Jahrra was dumbfounded at this discovery. Of all the things she expected to find here, she had not expected to find a garden.

Jahrra continued to brush her eyes over the well-tended rows of plants, gasping when her eyes fell upon a huge colony of mushrooms. These were even more intriguing than the rest of the plants growing hodgepodge around the caves, and Jahrra soon forgot her overwhelming trepidation.

Fungi of all shapes and sizes, colors and patterns dotted the dark section of earth like the diverse buildings of a tiny city. There were mushrooms that appeared to be as tall as Phrym, some so tiny that hundreds of them together looked like a small blotch of blue or red or yellow paint spilled upon the ground. Jahrra noted red mushrooms with white spots and brown mushrooms with yellow stalks. There were even mushrooms that were covered in what appeared to be tiny taste buds, and others that looked like umbrellas turned inside out. She even spotted some of the incandescent toadstools she’d seen at the swamp’s entrance.

Jahrra climbed down from Phrym and led him over to the edge of the strange garden. She stalked, wide-eyed, towards the mushroom patch, blocking out all other sights, sounds, smells and sensations. She dropped Phrym’s reins as if in a daze and squatted down to get a closer look at the glowing toadstools. She reached out her hand to touch one of the more peculiar large mushrooms, a pale, creamy green thing that had short, nubby branches and tiny hair-like appendages all over it, when the silence was abruptly broken.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Jahrra screamed and fell awkwardly to the ground at the sound of the unfamiliar, crackling voice. Phrym panicked and backed up nervously, snorting and whinnying aggressively. He would’ve bolted, but Jahrra was on the ground in a vulnerable position and he wouldn’t leave her. Jahrra quickly righted herself, putting her hands behind her to prop herself up. While still sitting in the soft, damp soil, she stared up at a much disheveled, very old woman.

Oh no,
she thought with impending dread,
the Witch of the Wreing! I’m done for!
She tried to stand up, but her legs and arms were useless and her entire body felt like it had been drained of blood, leaving a sick, acidic feeling in her muscles. The woman rocked forward, and Jahrra desperately began crawling backwards, smearing black muck all over herself.

“Don’t worry, I’m no witch, and I’m no hag,” the haggard woman rasped. “Unless you think me a goblin or a troll, you have nothing to fear.”

Jahrra would have sworn the woman was smiling, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at her face. It was hard enough looking at any part of her at all. Jahrra decided to focus on her feet, which were actually hidden by a patched and worn skirt.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” the woman asked again, gesturing stiffly towards the mushrooms.

The pounding in Jahrra’s ears had subsided enough to allow her to take notice of her voice. It wasn’t gruff, but was worn and friendly, not at all threatening.

“It’s quite alright, I won’t harm you,” the woman insisted.

Jahrra didn’t know whether to be frightened or friendly. She breathed deeply and slowly like Viornen and Yaraa had taught her to do when faced with a potential enemy.

She then swallowed her fear and took a good, long look at the strange person in front of her. Jahrra blinked; the old woman wasn’t overly impressive or frightening after all. In fact, she looked like she had risen right out of the swamp itself and Jahrra, after traveling through this strange landscape, wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. She wasn’t tall, maybe just a few inches over five feet at the most, and had flaming red hair unlike any color Jahrra had ever seen before.

Reluctantly, Jahrra forced herself to look at the woman’s face, relief flooding through her when she didn’t find the expected sallow features with hollow eyes and rotten skin. The woman did look quite old, however, and very haggard, with crooked teeth and wrinkled skin, and her heavy clothes were filthy and patched. Jahrra wondered again if this was the witch everyone feared, and understood why they would think that. If anyone had seen her from a distance wandering these misty woods, they would’ve run away in fear. But up close, she didn’t seem frightening at all, and her voice, although scratchy and tired, was actually warm and welcoming.

Jahrra continued to stare as the woman took a few more steps forward, moving gracefully for someone who looked so fragile and weathered. As she drew closer, the woman’s face became more visible in the dim light of the swamp. It was an old and bent face, and the lines were deeper than Jahrra had noticed at first, easily putting Hroombra and his wrinkles to shame. The old woman smiled once again, revealing missing teeth, but her topaz eyes overflowed with strength, fire, and a deep wisdom.

“You’re a quiet one, not what I expected. Not what I expected at all.”

She cackled softly, looking not at all deterred by Jahrra’s rude staring.

Jahrra hadn’t realized just how frightened she still was until a wave of calm washed over her, pushing away the feeling of faintness. Miraculously, she heard her own voice, although the words she tried to speak got caught in her throat, “Wh-who, wha-what . . .?”

The old woman’s face cracked into another smile. Jahrra swallowed and tried again, doing a much better job this time.

“I, I’m so sorry,” she managed lamely, stammering slightly in embarrassment.

After gaping like a suffocating fish for a few seconds, she continued, “I was mesmerized by your collection of plants, they’re quite amazing.”

Jahrra tried to smile, but realized it was a weak effort.  She bit her bottom lip instead and allowed her gaze to falter, watching her hand sink into the black soil beside her instead.

“Ah yes,” croaked the ancient woman, sounding not at all offended. “I’ve worked many hours keeping it happy.”

“I’m terribly sorry to intrude,” Jahrra repeated abashedly. She wondered why the woman hadn’t yet questioned why a young girl had been trespassing and poking around in her yard.

She continued on, her face growing hot, “My classmates challenged me to come to the Belloughs. I had no idea anyone really lived here or I wouldn’t have been so intrusive.”

The old woman looked at Jahrra with her head cocked slightly to the side, as if trying to read her mind.

Jahrra suddenly wished she was a turtle so she could retreat within her shell, but unfortunately she didn’t have that luxury.

After a few more moments of her scrutinizing stare, the woman spoke more quietly, “Most people avoid this part of Oescienne, so there was no way you could know anyone lived here. But I’m sure you’ve heard stories of a monster or a hag, and thus wished to see for yourself if such tales were true?”

The woman’s golden eyes twinkled, revealing a startling youthfulness, and Jahrra turned from pink to crimson. The old woman was exactly right, of course. Yes, Jahrra had ideas of a vile creature lurking in the caves, but she’d never stopped to think that there just might be someone living here trying to avoid the very outsiders who persecuted them.

Jahrra sat in uncomfortable silence, ignoring the dampness soaking through her clothes.

It was only a short while before the old woman spoke once again, “No worries lass,” she rasped. “I rarely receive company, and now you can tell your friends you’ve come face to face with the Witch of the Wreing. Come, you can’t sit in the mud forever.”

Jahrra looked up suddenly, forgetting her apprehension and before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Are you really a witch?”

The woman, who had her gnarled hand held out to give Jahrra a hand up, exploded in raucous laughter, lightening the atmosphere just a bit. Jahrra shrank farther into the mud.

“Well, the answer to that question really depends on who you ask,” the woman said when she had regained her breath. “To some I am a witch; to others I’m a hag. To most I’m just a crazy old woman.”

She gave a jagged smile, pulling up the timorous girl who’d finally taken her rough hand. Jahrra was surprised at how easily the woman yanked her up.

“My name is Archedenaeh, but you can call me Denaeh. I’m a Mystic and I’ve been awaiting your arrival for some time now.”

Jahrra gaped at her, pausing in the middle of her effort to wipe off as much of the mud clinging to her backside as she could.

Once she found her voice, she stammered, “How, how did you know I was coming?”

“Like I said, I’m a Mystic.”

Jahrra stood in the middle of the little clearing, her eyes wide with surprise. A million questions ran through her head, but this time she thought before speaking. In the calmest voice she could muster, she queried, “What exactly is a Mystic? Is it like a fortune teller?”

The woman laughed once again, clearly amused by these naïve questions. Normally, Jahrra would’ve been annoyed by all the laughter at her expense, but she could tell that the woman’s amusement wasn’t malicious in the least. Jahrra, slightly discomfited by her lack of knowledge, returned her focus to the ground, staring at a tiny golden mushroom that had strayed from the main crop.

The woman finished her fit of laughter and answered as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

“It is not.”

Jahrra braved a glance at the Mystic. She simply stood there grinning, the gleam of laughter lingering in her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Jahrra pushed on. “What’s the difference, then, between a fortune teller and a Mystic?” And before she could allow the woman any more awkward pauses, quickly added, “And where do oracles come in? And if you are a Mystic, why do people say you’re a witch?”

The old woman looked pleased at these questions despite the urgency in which they were asked and simply answered serenely, “A fortune teller does mostly guess work, interpreting cards or signs they believe have significance. A fortune teller speaks in half-truths because they don’t have all of the facts and essentially don’t know the future. A fortune teller often only wishes to make a profit and will find a way to tell the listener what they want to hear, usually something vague that could be applied to any fortunate or unfortunate event in a person’s life.”

The old woman, standing hunched over with the tips of her knobby fingers pressed together, paused and looked at Jahrra to make sure she was following. Jahrra rubbed her arm and smiled in encouragement.

“A Mystic is a step above that,” the woman continued, “interpreting the spiritual signals they receive from the world around them. A Mystic tells you the part of your future they can see, but emphasizes that they can only see a small portion. Most of it is up to that particular person and what they make of it. A Mystic will feed off of what spiritual essence a person possesses and will try and make an assessment of that information.

“An Oracle, on the other hand, is a being that actually knows the past, present and future. They speak in riddles because they know the absolute truth will drive any living being mad. An Oracle will tell you enough to help you through a rough patch, but will seldom give you more.”