The Spell-Bound Scholar

Chapter 18

The voice was Beri's with Rhea's and Umi's behind it:

No, Finny! You must never hurt anyone unless Mama tells you to!

Finny cried out in fright—then a bigger fright as a huge, horrible ogre seemed to stalk into her mind. She could see the hag very clearly, huge muscles bulging under dirty blouse and red plaid kilt, dark jowls and little piggy eyes under an unruly thatch of hair, club upraised in her hand, booming, / am the Hurter! Where 9 s the foolish girl who likes to hurt people?

Finny shrank down in her blankets, too frightened to cry.

Then the ogre was gone, there was only a pinkish light in her mind, and Dory was beside her, stroking her forehead and saying, "It's just a bad dream, Finny, but that's what you look like inside when you think about hurting one of us. Never even think about it again." And she crooned a lullaby, soothing the five-year-old to sleep.

Finny didn't stop being angry, of course, or stop wanting to hurt the babies who were her rivals—but she never tried to do anything about it again, especially since it was quite clear that when the older girls gave her orders, those orders really came from Mama. But Dory and the other big girls loved the tiny ones, cuddling them and singing to them and playing with them when there was time, and Finny loved Dory and Rhea and the others. She began to feel guilty about hating the babies.

"Don't worry about it, Finny," Agnes assured her as they were hoeing the pea patch. She was an eight-year-old, and Finny's favorite playmate. "I hated you when I was five and Mama was making such a fuss over you."

Finny dropped her hoe, turning to stare at the bigger girl. " You hate me? But. . . but I thought..."

"Oh, I love you now!" Agnes dropped her hoe, too, and turned to hug the younger girl. "But I didn't when I was only five. I was very angry because Mama was so busy with you that she didn't seem to have much time for me anymore. But as you grew older, you were such a happy and loving little darling that I couldn't stay angry with you, and you wound up being my favorite toy."

"Toy?" Finny stared up at the bigger girl even as she relaxed into her embrace.

"Of course, my toy, 'cause I played with you all the time. Then you got big enough to play back, and now we're playmates. Don't worry, you'll wind up liking the new one, too."

Finny did, but it took a few years and, in the meantime, she didn't want Agnes to be ashamed of her or to have the big girls scold her, so she began to learn how to hide her anger and hatred from them. Every now and then, she slipped; her anger at the babies showed enough for one of the big girls to feel it, and the Hurter would come stomping through her head, making it ache from side to side—so she learned how to hide her feelings more deeply.

At least the punishment told her that the older girls were always paying attention to her. In fact, there was always somebody to play with, somebody to talk to, and somebody to listen to her troubles—but that somebody wasn't Mama, at least not very often. Sometimes she wondered if Mama had forgotten about her and did something naughty where Mama could see. The punishment was quick, but at least she knew Mama was watching.

It worked better when Mama told her to do something; when she did it, Mama would give her a quick hug or a pat on the curls. Most of the time, though, she left Finny to the big girls, and they were even more strict than she was about making sure Finny obeyed.

Then one day when she was churning cream, she stumbled and the churn started to fall. In a panic, she reached out with her mind and pulled it upright.

"Why, Finny, how very clever!"

Finny looked up, heart pounding.

Mama stood there, beaming down at her. "Did you catch the churn with your mind? How deft you've become!" She bent to kiss Finny on the forehead. "There's my wonder girl!"

Finny's heart sang. "I could push the dasher with my mind, too, Mama."

"Yes, you could, but your arms would grow weak," Mama said, still beaming. "Besides, ordinary things like churning aren't so amazing. It's being able to think and act on the spur of the moment that's wonderful." She gave Finny a quick hug. "Extra dessert for you tonight, young lady."

It was the first time Mama had called her a young lady.

From that time onward approval was rarely given, and was generally reserved for psionic feats exceptionally well done. Doing chores was expected and not celebrated, but if she didn't do them, punishment was quick.

The older girls put the younger ones in their places beyond the slightest shred of doubt. Hair would pull itself, skirts would blow up when the boys were near, noses would tweak themselves painfully, sticks would leap up to trip you. The worst was the nightmare in which an older girl would turn into a monster and chase you and chase you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't wake up. Finny learned to obey very quickly, and though Mama and Papa couldn't hear her thoughts, there were always older sisters who could, and who took care of the punishments themselves.

Mama and Papa never knew about that, of course. She tried telling them once, but Mama only looked sad. "What did you do before your hair pulled itself, Finny?"

Finny clasped her hands behind her back and watched her toe while she made it trace circles on the floor.

"The big girls wouldn't have made your hair hurt if you hadn't made them angry," Papa said. "What did you do?"

"Agnes told me to go back along the row and hoe the weeds I'd missed," Finny said grudgingly.

"And did you do it?"

"No," Finny admitted.

"What did you do?" asked Papa.

"Told her she wasn't Mama," Finny grumbled.

"Now, that was wrong, Finny," Mama said. "When any of the older girls gives you an order, they're giving it for me—unless they order you to do something you're not supposed to do."

"The older you grow, the more people you can order," Papa agreed.

Finny decided she didn't like order very much.

"Dory gives orders to Rhea and Rhea, gives orders to Orma, and so on down the line," Mama told her. "Any of them can give orders to you, and I expect you to obey them. Do you understand?"

"Yes'm," Finny muttered, still tracing circles with her toe. Inside, a rebellious voice shouted, It's not fair!

"Don't worry, little one." Papa patted her on the shoulder. "When you grow to be big, you can give orders, too. For a year, you'll even be the oldest girl in the house, and you'll be able to give orders to any of the other girls!"

That was a nice thought. Finny looked up at Papa with adoring eyes and decided that someday she'd be the person who got to give orders to everybody else.

Little children accept what they're told is the order of the world, but as they grow, they begin to wonder about it. One day when the heat and humidity were oppressive, Finny stopped gathering berries and started to take off her dress. She might have succeeded, but Orma was in the next row and saw her. "Finny! You put that right back on!"

"But it's so much cooler without it," Finny whined.

"You'll get a sunburn without it, too," Orma said, "and it makes my heart ache to hear you crying. Put it back on, Finny."

Finny did, grumbling, "Why do we have to work, anyway?"

"Because if we don't work, we won't have anything to eat," Agnes said, proud of knowing something Finny didn't.

Finny felt a moment of pure hatred for the older girl, then a deep shame, for Agnes had said she loved Finny.

"You should feel ashamed," Orma said. "After all, you know more than the younger children, too—and she's right. If we don't help Papa plow and sow seeds, there won't be any wheat or barley. If we children don't plant potato eyes, there won't be any potatoes."

"But the hens will keep laying!"

"Only if we take care of the hens—and take care of the pigs and the sheep, too, or there won't be any meat to eat. Then we have to salt it and smoke it, and can the fruits and vegetables, or there won't be any food left to eat in the winter."

Understanding burst in Finny's mind. "That's right! We have to put seeds in the ground if we want wheat to reap in the fall!"

"And if we don't reap it and bind it and thresh it, it will rot in the fields." Orma nodded, happy that her little foster sister understood. "And if you don't go to school, you'll never learn enough to help make the King and Queen go away."

Finny had already started school, and learned about all the horrible things the King and Queen did, such as taking people's money and making laws to keep them from doing what they wanted and starting wars. She didn't understand how learning how to add and subtract was going to help get rid of the King and Queen, but she did understand that she had to learn to read if she wanted to know what people long ago had done to try to do away with crowns and how the Kings and Queens had stopped them. Of course, she'd have to learn to write if she wanted to be able to let people who came after her know what she had done for the fight in her own turn.

Somehow getting credit for what she did do seemed more important than letting other people know what didn't work. She liked it when people praised her, and since it didn't happen very often, she was trying to figure out every way she could of winning that praise.

Mama taught them in school that winning was very important, because they all had to try to win against the King and Queen, and that was very hard, because the King and Queen were very rich and had very, very many soldiers. They even had mind readers like Finny and her foster brothers and sisters helping them. Finny hated those other mind readers; they should all have been on the same side. Mama taught her a nice word for those royal mind readers: "traitors."

She also told them never to let the people in town know that they were planning to get rid of the King and Queen. Nobody had ever broken that rule, so the villagers thought Mama and Papa were fine people, generous and caring, because they took in so many unwanted children and taught them to work hard and even to read and write and cipher, which meant they would be able to earn a living without taking jobs away from anyone else.

The villagers didn't seem to have taught that to their own children, though. Finny remembered her first trip to town. She was very excited and could hardly hold still as Dory herself tied her bonnet on. "You have to remember now, Finny," she warned, "don't let those village children get you angry. Promise me that no matter what they say, you won't let them hear your thoughts or try to hurt them, no matter how badly you want to."

That took some of the excitement out of it. Finny stilled, staring up at her big sister round-eyed. "I promise, Dory."

"And you must promise me never, never to let anyone outside the house know that you can read minds or move things with your thoughts."

Finny stared. "Why not?"

"Because most people can't do it, and if they find out we can, they'll grow jealous and even afraid of us, and try to hurt us for it. Promise, now."

"I promise," Finny said, but the day seemed dimmer, somehow. She felt as though she had done something wrong already.

Then they went out and climbed into the wagon, though, and the excitement came back. Finny couldn't keep still; she found herself dancing. Dory laughed with joy to see her and drummed her heels in time to Finny's steps.

Finny had never seen so many houses so close together, and never any so tall. She clung tightly to Orma's hand as she looked about her, inhaling the mixture of strange fragrances and seeing all the bright and enticing things on the stands under the awnings along the streets. She could tell the lumpy green and yellow things were vegetables and the red and green ones were fruit, but she didn't know what to make of the stiff, colorful bundles in a third stall. "Orma. what's those?" She pointed.

"Those?" Orma followed the pointing finger. "Cloth. Finny. Many different kinds and colors of cloth."

"All that cloth?" Finny stared; it was ever so much prettier than the brown and gray homespun the big children wove at home.

"And look! The cabinetmaker!" Orma pointed and Finny looked, but it wasn't anywhere nearly as exciting—only an old man scraping curls from some sticks with a strange sort of double-handled knife, though she had to admit the chairs and tables about him were much prettier than the ones Papa made.

"Nyah-nyah! Little foundlings!"

Finny turned to stare at the four richly dressed boys who were thumbing their noses at the girls. Orma stood her straightest and turned Finny's head frontward. "Don't look, Finny. Don't pay them any attention at all!"

"Didn't have a father." two of the boys chanted in derisive singsong. "Never knew your mother!"

"If I knew theirs, they'd be in trouble quickly," Orma assured her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Finny saw Rhea and Agnes marching with their eyes stiffly ahead.

"Walk away," two more boys taunted, " 'cause your mommy couldn't stay!"

It was strange, the menace Finny felt from the boys, and the thoughts they were emitting weren't nice at all, almost like a bad smell. There were pictures with them, ugly, naked pictures that made her shiver.

Orma noticed. "Close your mind," she muttered.

Finny thought about apples. It was very hard, with those horrible thoughts coming out of the boys, but she managed to think only of apples—and maybe a pear or two.

"That's right, don't bother with us," one of the boys called, "just like your mommy didn't bother with you."

Finny felt her face growing hot even though she didn't know why. She glanced up and saw that Orma's and Agnes's faces were red.

"Hey, love child, how about a kiss for me?" one of the boys taunted.

"All right!" Orma cried, and turned toward the boys. "Come on, Agnes!"

Finny stared in surprise as the girls ran at the boys, their lips puckered grotesquely, arms reaching out. The boys made noises of disgust, but their minds leaked fright as they turned and ran.

Finny crowed with delight and clapped her hands.

Orma and Agnes came back red-faced but smiling. "It's a good thing they were young," Orma said, taking Finny's hand again. "Don't ever try that with big boys."

"Why not?" Finny asked.

"Because they might kiss back."

"Ugh!" The thought of kissing somebody with a mind like that made Finny feel sick. She decided never to try it.

"So there you are!"

She looked up and saw Papa and the boys coming toward them, grinning.

"We sold the pigs for a very good price," Papa said, "and made even more on the grain! Come along! Candy for everyone!"

The candy was sweet and the whole family was laughing and joking as the big people drank from cups that foamed while they watched the acrobats performing in the town square. After the acrobats came a puppet show, then a minstrel who sang funny songs that made them all laugh. They had so much fun that Finny almost forgot about the nasty boys.

Almost. But in the wagon on the way home, a tired little Finny sat in Dory's lap and rested her head on her big sister's shoulder. She didn't know how to feel. Town was a wonderful place, the candy had been a rare treat, and everything had been so exciting—but there were the horrible names the town children had called them. "Dory," she asked, "why do they hate us?"

"Because we're not like them, dear," Dory said. "It's us against them, and they know it."

"Maybe they'd like us if we lived in town."

"No," Dory said, "because our real mothers left us on Mama's doorstep. They were too poor to keep us, you see. Then they married rich men in the village and kept the rest of their children. That's why those children jeer at us—it makes them feel better than us."

"It's so hard not to give them tummyaches or headaches!"

"Yes, but you didn't, and I'm proud of you. If you had, the whole village would have come marching out to our farm and tried to hurt us all."

That thought made Finny feel ashamed. "Dory—is there something wrong with being mind readers?"

Dory gave a sharp gasp, then tightened her arms protectively around her little foster sister. "Of course not, darling. Mind readers are special. The others call us 'witches,' but we aren't that at all. We don't really work magic, we just have special gifts—and we certainly don't have anything to do with the Devil!"

" 'Course not," Finny said. "Papa says the Devil is just another prince, and princes always hurt people."

"The Prince of Lies, yes. No, we'd never have anything to do with that. The village people wouldn't believe us, though. Their jealousy is so sharp that it would make them hate us if they knew we were mind readers—hate us so much that they would call us witches and burn us at the stake!"

"Burn us!" Finny sat bolt upright, horrified.

"But they won't, because we won't let them know," Dory said. "Will we, Finny?"

The little girl shook her head, eyes round.

"So all in all, it's better that they call us foundlings and feel that they're better than us, isn't it?"

Finny made an "O" with her lips as she understood.

Dory smiled. "That's right, dear. That's why we just ignore them when they call us names and don't try to hurt them— because there are more unpleasant names they could call us. There are worse things than being a bastard."

"Such as a villager," Jason said, and the boys laughed.

Finny didn't laugh, but she snuggled up against Dory again. All in all, she decided, the farm was much nicer than the rest of the world.

Forever after, though, she looked at the villagers, and the rest of the nonpsi world, as strange and threatening, even though she knew she was better than they were—though deep in her heart, she would also know that she wasn't even as good as they were. After all, she was a foundling.

There were many trips to town after that; they went four times a year, and the biggest girls took turns staying home with the babies and the toddlers. The town children were always mean to them. The girls would come out wearing their prettiest dresses right where Finny and her foster sisters couldn't help see, and talk about how horrible it must be to be poor. The boys just called them names.

That changed when Finny turned twelve and her body began to change, though.