Wild Magic

› › ‹ ‹

Faan dug in her shoulderbag, brought out a stub of candle and worked it into a crack in the cave floor. She poked at the wick with her finger, drew her hand back at a word from the Sibyl.

The Sibyl sang a note and the candle lit. “Focus on the flame,” she said, “that’s your lesson this week, that and nothing else.”

Focus on the flame.

Be one with it.

Understand it.

Tease out the currents in it and see how they clash and meld to make the light take shape.

Faan fixed her eyes on the fire, reached within, and found the means.

Slowly, painfully, it began to come apart; thread by thread she combed the light and separated the twisted strands…

Abruptly it broke away from her, expanded enormously and whooshed at her.

The Sibyl spoke-a word that shattered air, but made no sound.

The fire was gone. Banished.

Faan brushed ash from her face and scowled. “What did I do wrong this time?”

The Sibyl laughed. “Honey, honey, you’ve learned your lessons too well. Loosen up, be flexible-or barbecued.”

Faan rubbed irritably at her nose. “But you said…

“That was then when you needed it. This is now, when you need something else.”

“Vema. Let’s try it again.”

“Next lesson, honey. For now, we’re going to do wind. Let’s see you catch the wind.”

Faan squeezed one hand inside the other. “Tell me about my mother first; you know who she is, where she is, I know you do.”

“The answer is the same now as it was yesterday and the day and the day before that. I cannot speak to you of your mother.”

“Then tell me where I get this…” She snapped her fingers and tiny blue flames danced on the backs of her hands. “Tell me why!”

The Sibyl sighed. “The answer is the same now as it was yesterday and the day and the day before that. Consider, Honeychild. The wind blows and has power, but you can’t see it. It has layers and eddies like the river. Consider them. Touch them. Turn them this way and that. Consider the wind.”

Chapter 6. One Night And The Morning After

With Ailiki running in circles about them and chittering with excitement, Faan, Dossan and Ma’teesee slapped hands and hopped in a rocking, tail-switching dance, giggled, linked arms, and went strutting down the lane. “Wascra girls,” they caroled. “We are the Wascra girls.” They zigged and zagged and jigged along, broke apart to clap hands, linked elbows again. “Waste the wonkers, paste the ponkers,” they chanted, “Wascra Wascra Wascra we.”

A sailor off one of the coasters whistled at them, grabbed at Ma’teesee; he was soaked in mulimuli or high on bhagg, but he hadn’t lost his sure hand and he was strong as a bull saisai. Ma’teesee clawed at him; Faan and Dossan kicked and scratched, but he wouldn’t let go.

Peshalla the Ilivemer came roaring out, brought a heavy rungo down on the Mulehead’s wrist and broke his grip, then grabbed his collar and the seat of his pants and threw him down the nearest wynd, speeding him on his way with a heavy boot. He came back, dusting his hands and looking satisfied. “Get outta here, you scraps.” He chuckled, shook his head. “Wascra girls. Hunh!”

Two habatrizes leaned from an upper window, applauding loudly and Louok the Nimble tossed a copper moju to the girls as he went into Peshalla’s for his evening meal.

“Ahsan ahsan ahsan,” they chanted. “O Great

Pe ha, mighty Hand of Mercy. Ahsan ahsan ahsan, Louok the Generous.” They giggled and went switching on down the Trade Strip. “Wascra, Wascra, Wascra girls.”

Ancient Thamman leaned from her window. “Eh! Tchi’kas, get your tails home. Got no business out after sun’s gone. Tsah tsah, what the Land is coming to.”

“Mama Thamma,” they chanted, danced in a circle, whistled mockeries at her. “So old she forgot what’s fun.”

Other women and sometimes old men leaned out of upper windows,-yelling at them to shut their mouths and get where they belonged, threatening them with Shinda guards. According to whim they ignored these shouts or stopped their strut, screamed taunts at the person interfering in their lives.