The Spell-Bound Scholar (27 page)

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 wonder-

ful 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.

By the time she was fourteen, Finny had begun to take her turn disciplining and teaching the younger children. She had also developed some very pronounced curves and a face that made the town boys whistle when they saw her, but there was still something threatening about them. When they called for kisses, she didn't go chasing them anymore. Instead, she and the other girls scolded them, refusing to be treated with disrespect, but the attention gave her a glow and made her feel special. More than that, it made her feel powerful in a strange way. When that feeling came upon her, the boys stared, then began to talk to her in admiration, and her foster sisters began to be envious—but when the boys crowded close to try to fondle, the girls drove them away with slaps, the power of which was increased by telekinesis.

At home, she would catch her foster brothers watching her with open admiration now and then, though most of the time they only talked with her as they always had—after all, she was only Finny and they'd known her all her life. But there was a new note of respect in their tones now, something notably absent from the town boys' voices, and it kindled that warm, powerful feeling again.

Finister found that remembering that feeling and letting it build made her foster brothers vie with one another to help her with her chores.

"That bucket must be too heavy for you, Finny!"

"
Oh, no, Jason. I can manage it easily."

"Nonsense. Here, I'll carry it. Aren't Mama's flowers beautiful this year?"

Then there would be a nice, close conversation that made her feel even more special. Finally she decided to try the

effect of that feeling on her foster father. She waited until they were alone in the keeping room at the end of one cold winter day. Papa sat down by the fire and she said, "Here, Papa, let me pull your boots off!" She bent to tug at his boot, then smiled up at him, letting the special feeling grow.

'That's good of you, Finny," he said, then looked at her a second time, staring. "Why, Finny!" he exclaimed, "you're a projective empath!"

"A what?" Finny asked, confused, and the special feeling went away.

"Mama!" Papa leaped to his feet and went to the kitchen door. "Mama, come here! Our little girl is growing into a projective empath!"

"Really?" Mama came bustling out, wiping her hands on her apron. "You must mean Finny! We've known for a long time that she's good at making people think she doesn't look like her real self. You mean she can project emotions, too?"

"Project them and raise them in another person!" Papa turned to her. "Show Mama what you just did, Finny!"

Finny wasn't at all sure she wanted Mama to know how she had charmed Papa—but the older woman was looking at her with such hope that it made her remember the few times Mama had been delighted when she'd been particularly deft with telekinesis and, hoping to receive that kind of approval again, she tried to remember the feeling the boys raised in her. She managed to recall it and let it grow—and grow, and grow.

Orly came in with a load of firewood in his arms. He turned toward the fireplace and saw Finny. The wood clattered on the floor as his jaw dropped.

"Yes, I see." Mama beamed, lit by a glow of her own. "How wonderful, Finny! But I think that's enough now." She looked up at Papa and said, "I think our little girl will go far."

"Even to high places," Papa agreed, one arm around Mama's shoulders. "Congratulations, Finny! An ability like that is rare, very rare indeed!"

"Unfair, too," Orly grumbled as he bent to pick up the wood.

"Oh here, let me help you!" Finny cried, all contrition. She knelt to pick up the logs, but Orly's breath hissed in and she straightened, staring. "I—I'm sorry, Orly."

"Don't be," the teenager said. "It's been a horrible day, but you just made it a good one."

His eyes were warm with admiration, but also with amusement. Finny smiled and helped him finish with the wood.