The Magickers (15 page)

He looked down at his clay, which seemed to be waiting patiently for him to decide what to make of it. From his observation of the sagging, and knowing how much water he'd added, he knew a stand-up piece was impossible. He flattened the clay in front of him, and after long moments, had a great seal or plate with the sculpture of a spread winged raven upon it, thinking of the creature which had awakened him one night, seemingly long ago.

“Know him, do you?” Freyah smiled at his elbow.

“It seems like it, but . . .” Jason shook his head. “It's a wild creature. How could I?”

“Perhaps that's why you made him flat. You know the one dimension.”

Jason looked down, then into her apple-cheeked face. “Maybe,” he agreed. He thought a moment. “Do I know you?”

She smiled. “I don't know . . . do you? Perhaps you know just the one dimension of me.”

He shook his head, his face warming slightly. “I mean, I know I don't know you, but I feel like I should.”

“Take a good look.” Aunt Freyah watched him, her expression light, and he tried not to feel uncomfortable as he took a good look at her. Take away the faint wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. Make the eyes lighter. The hair with a soft and fluffy mind of its own . . . he blinked.

“Mrs. Cowling?”

“Why, of course! How could you miss it?” She clapped her hands together softly. “You must be one of the students my niece recommended! Sarah has quite an eye for a bright mind. How wonderful to meet you.” She grasped Jason's hand warmly, her skin firm yet slightly gritty with clay not quite washed off.

“Then you are an Aunt Freyah.” How could he have missed the apple-bright cheeks, the cheery smile? The more he stared now, the more obvious the resemblance was.

She beamed. “Well, of course, I am.”

“Are you a teacher, too?”

“A developer of talent, we call it. Indeed. Sometime it skips a generation or two, but in my family, what's left of it, we appreciate discerning minds. I was very pleased when Sarah decided to follow in my footsteps.” Chairs behind them scraped impatiently across the floor, and he became aware others were waiting.

Freyah clapped her hands. “Finish up, everyone. We can leave everything out for a few days to dry. It will be in what we call the greenware stage. Then, if the kiln is working, we'll get them glazed and fired, those of you who want to save your efforts.” She laughed gently.

The sight of the clock caught his attention. He stared, his jaw dropping open. Two hours had gone by with hardly a notice. Outside, rain continued down, and now he heard it, pounding the rooftop continuously, and the sound of the dripping from the drain-pipes of the building. Everyone filed out, heading to clean up and then to their cabins for letter writing, with the sky darkening over them.

He had gotten three postcards. Two from Joanna and the Dozer, from two different ports (the Dozer's card showed building cranes and skyscrapers in a faraway city) and a scribbled message of two or three lines each, and a third one from Colorado of the camp Alicia was in. It looked nice, although he thought Ravenwyng was probably prettier and much less crowded. He read them each, carefully, three times, in case he might have missed part of a message. They might have been sent to anyone, nothing particularly personal on any of them. Sam hadn't written yet, and Jason wondered how he liked soccer camp. If it were any more . . . normal . . . than this one. With a sigh, Jason tucked them inside his folder and backpack and dutifully sat down to write his grandmother who would pass on his words to his stepparents when they called, and a second letter to Alicia who at least had an address.

He wore his backpack to dinner so that he could drop the letters off at the office. Jennifer bumped into his shoulder as she was leaving, and his backpack shifted, letters and something else tumbling out. She bent to get it, blonde hair swinging about her shoulders and handed everything back but the pack which had fallen out, still in its colorful box.

“Tarot cards! Are they yours, Jason?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

She sat back down with her tray and pushed it aside. “Do you know how to use them?”

Bailey stared, hard, over Jennifer's shoulder. Dumb-struck, Jason just shook his head.

“Ah.” She smiled slowly. “Mind if I open them? I'll read your fortune for you. There is the cutest little store in my mall, the New Cave, where they sell these. One of the ladies who works there taught me how to read them.”

“No, ummm, go ahead.” Jason shifted uncomfortably. Realizing how much Aunt Freyah reminded him of Mrs. Cowling also made him realize how much Jennifer reminded him of Alicia, tall and cool and always seeming to judge him a little.

Bailey rolled her eyes and then stubbornly stared back down at her dinner. Ting leaned forward on her elbows. She said quietly, “I use I-Ching sticks.”

“Do you?” Jennifer shuffled the deck of oversized, colorful cards carefully. “You'll have to read for us sometime. Okay, Jason. Cut the cards and think of what it is you want to know.” She selected a card and laid it on the table faceup. “This represents you. The cards I'll place around it will be the answers to your question.”

He looked at the deck as she put it in a single stack, facedown, in front of him. He wanted to know . . . what he was doing here . . . what was going to happen to him. Did he have a family or not . . . what was he supposed to do about anything. Questions whirled through his mind.

Trent chewed in his ear. “Going to finish your potatoes?”

Without turning, he answered, “No, but that apple crisp is mine. Touch it—and you die.”

Trent snorted.

Jason put his hands on the card, looking into Jennifer's pretty face. She smiled slightly. He cut the deck into three portions, and she gathered them up and prepared to deal the cards around in a pattern, the charm bracelet on her wrist giving a gentle chime as her hands moved. The first card . . . he gulped . . . as she snapped it over and said, “This covers you.”

She frowned at the picture card of the High Priestess. “Secrets,” she said. “Mystery yet to be revealed.”

She flipped another card over, placing it crosswise. “This crosses you.”

Trent sucked in his breath, choked, and coughed for a minute. Henry was so busy thumping Trent's back that Jason could study the card alone for a few moments. “The Nine of Swords.” It showed a terrified man sitting up in his bed as if awakened by a nightmare or disaster, nine sharp swords hanging over his head.

“You know,” said Jennifer, reaching for it, “we can do this some other time.”

“No.” Jason took a deep breath. “Go on.”

“Of course go on,” Jon put in smoothly. “The reading can't be done till all the cards are on the table. That may not be as bad as it looks.”

“True.” Her bracelet tinkled. “This crowns you.” The Ace of Swords, a triumphant card, went down. Jennifer's face brightened. She quickly laid out the rest of the pattern and looked over it, frowning. In the position designated to reflect himself again, showed the Seven of Wands, a young man on a hilltop with a quar terstaff in his hand, fighting off others. She tapped it. “A fight for what you want, and it may seem the odds are against you, but you have the advantage.”

“This is the most important card of the near future,” she added, and turned the final one.

Jason's heart skipped a beat.

The Four of Swords.

“Cheerful card,” cracked Trent. But he put his hand on Jason's shoulder and squeezed it.

Jason looked at a still figure lying atop a tomb. Three swords hung above him, one decorated the side of the coffin below. A stained-glass window in a corner of the card gave the scene a feeling of being in a church or mausoleum. He breathed in and out slowly, forcing nightmares from his mind. It was only a card. Only a card.

Henry squeaked out, “Jason's gonna die.”

“No, no. This is not the Death card. Although . . .” Jennifer's voice trailed off. “Difficulties,” she added.

Jonnard leaned over her shoulder then. “An interesting life of mystery and trial. And deception, perhaps. But this card,” and he tapped the High Priestess again, almost at the beginning of the whole pattern. He looked at Jason, his own expression calm and quiet. “This card tells us that all that follows may be untrue, if She does not wish to reveal your future to you.”

Jason managed to exhale, and Jennifer gave him a weak smile. “True. Very, very true.” She picked up the cards and handed them back. “I think the cards decided to have a bit of fun with us.”

Unconvinced, he put them back in their newly opened box and turned around to eat his apple crisp as everyone trailed off but Trent.

Trent watched him as he took a bite. “Just some paper and paint,” he said.

“I know.” Jason shrugged, still feeling eerie. “But weird.”

“No kidding. Maybe you should check the deck later, see if there's any good cards in it. Maybe you bought a defective deck.”

Jason laughed in spite of himself. “I can always hope.”

“Sure you can!”

Trent brightened up even more as Jason pushed the apple crisp his way, saying, “I don't feel like eating any more anyway.” He watched his friend a few moments, thinking that the cards had shown him everything he knew—and nothing he didn't know, and nothing he understood. Jason sighed.

 

After dinner, he sneaked back into the Hall's crafts room, just to look at his raven again, wondering if he'd done as good a job as he remembered doing. He felt like he had to touch it, hold it in his hands. Firing, Freyah had explained to them, sometimes cracked a clay piece beyond repair or use. Golden light gleamed from the door, and he knew the room was not empty. He froze in the hallway, ready to head back in the other direction, not wanting to be found. He could see shadows of people moving about the room, hear voices.

“Take this one. Animal spirit. Bailey went right to it, without hesitation. She's got nimble fingers, that one, to go with her brashness. And this one? The teacup? Not only indicative of her cultural background, but of her understanding of herself as a kind of cup, waiting to be filled by life. Very Zen, don't you think?” Aunt Freyah's crisp, mirthful voice spilled over, as golden as the light filling the corridor.

Jason sidled a step or two sideways and froze when the floor creaked a bit.

“Any indication of what we really need? A Gatekeeper?” He knew that voice: Gavan Rainwater.

“Alas, not yet, but that talent is rare, as you know. And it doesn't always manifest itself early or easily.”

Gavan sighed.

“Now, now!” exclaimed Freyah's chipper voice. “You can't give up, and you haven't even found the Iron Gate yet, so don't be putting the cart before the horse! Things will fall into place.”

Gavan answered quietly, his voice sounding far away as if he had moved to the other end of the room. “We are short on time. There may be a manna storm headed this way. If it is mild, we can use it to aid us. If not. . . .” His words trailed off altogether.

“What about this one? A copy?” Eleanora sounded keenly interested in something.

“Oh, no, no. No, that is not a copy of the camp logo, at all. And, it's fairly well done. But even more interesting is how he went about it . . .” Freyah's voice dropped for a moment. He could not hear the rest of what she said, although he could hear it punctured by a questioning sound from someone who sounded like Dr. Patel as well. His ears burned as they talked about his work, his art, and his hand ached.

The hair went up on the back of his neck. What were they doing looking at the clay work like that? He felt as though he'd just been put under a microscope! It was too late to make something different from the clay, but he felt as if he had somehow shown his most secrets thoughts by what he'd made.

He crept away cautiously, his throat tight, until he made it to the rainy outside and stood in it for a moment, clearing his thoughts.

Bailey sat down and slumped over her tray, eyes weary and puffed. Without a word, she looked at them, and then shook her head. She trimmed the leather scrap she worked on, shaping it into a merit badge which could be embossed later to show Swimming or Archery or Herbs or any of the other classes they were attending. Trent looked very disappointed as he laid out some hide strips to weave a belt. The thief was still on the loose in the camp. Breakfast had been dreary and dull, the rain without letup.

Outside, it drummed on the ground and against the mess hall roof. It ran in gray rivulets down the win dowpanes. Far off, thunder could still be heard, but that part of the storm never seemed to move any closer. They had run throughout yesterday dodging a downpour, and now it looked as though the drizzle would never end, although the rain itself was a summer rain and far from cool. Jason trimmed off the badge he had made and stamped, running his fingers over the raised emblem of a canoe. Rain or not, it was a neat idea to have them make their own merit badges.