Meri Read online

  The Meri

  Book One of the Mer Cycle

  Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  Book View Café Edition

  December 18, 2012

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-233-4

  Copyright © 1992 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  Dedication:

  To my father, who fed my imagination much rich food.

  Special thanks:

  To my mother, whose only reaction was, “Oh, Hank! You didn’t!” And to the makers of those keen little nightlights that keep bug-eyed monsters at bay.

  To my family: my husband Jeff Vader, All-Powerful God of Biscuits and Toast; my children — Alex, Kristine, and Amanda... and newest daughter, Nura Itzel (way to go, Alex!). To my God-family: Vern, Jan, Kaathlyn and Andrew, Zee, Chi, Erik ... and Heather who has gone on ahead. And to all those who believe in me even when I don’t.

  To Stan Schmidt of Analog magazine for being my angel.

  To Marc Scott Zicree for being an inspiration.

  To Bill Evans for giving me an extra push.

  And to Himself, for putting the love of writing in my soul.

  Detailed Map

  Chapter 1

  There is a bridge between the finite and the Infinite. This Bridge is the Meri, the Spirit of the Spirit of the Universe, which men call God. Nothing may cross that Bridge: neither day nor night, nor old age, nor death nor sorrow nor evil nor sin.

  Only the pure of heart may cross that Bridge, because the world of the Spirit is pure. In the crossing of this Bridge, the eyes of the blind will see, the wounds of the ailing will be healed, and the sick Man will become whole.

  To the crosser of the Bridge, the night becomes day, because in the world of Spirit there is everlasting Light.

  — The Book of the Meri

  Chapter I, Verses 34-36

  It was not lost on Meredydd-a-Lagan that she was the only girl at Halig-liath. It was brought home to her every morning at Assemblage where she stood, front and center in the huge cobbled yard, Surrounded by the other Prentices—boys, all of them.

  It hadn’t been so bad when she was younger; she had been almost indistinguishable then—cropped chestnut hair, tunic hung loosely on a slender, angular frame. But she was fifteen now, and in the last year, many things had grown apace with height and hair.

  This morning was particularly bad; she felt completely alien, awkward and unwelcome. In the warmth of a fine spring morning, she stood out from the others like a briar among roses—her bare arms hairless, her light tunic betraying mounds and bends and curves no other Prentice possessed. She sensed eyes on her as they murmured their congregational prayers and prepared for a day of lessons.

  She dared to glance up at the Osraed in their gallery high up on the imposing stone wall of the Academy. They were looking at her too—Ealad-hach, Calach and her guardian, Osraed Bevol. She got Osraed Bevol to meet her eyes and he smiled. She forgot her awkwardness in an instant and filed away with the others for classwork.

  “She’s gotten to be such a tall girl,” said Osraed Calach. “Taller than some of the boys.”

  “She’s still a girl,” Ealad-hach reminded him, and glanced at the silent, smiling Bevol. “She will always be a girl. She should be training in the domestic arts. Training to be the wife of an Osraed and the mother of Prentices.”

  “And why,” asked Bevol, “should she do that when she could become Osraed, herself? She has absolutely no talent for the domestic arts, Ealad. None. But she is already practicing the Divine Arts with some skill.”

  “You should not let her practice.”

  “Why not? You let your personal favorite practice and Meredydd has shown far more natural talent and inclination than he has.”

  Ealad-hach wrinkled his knife-blade nose.

  “Ah?” Bevol pressed, pointing a finger at that oversized feature. “Ah now, admit what you cannot deny. Meredydd is second to none in her class.”

  “And it goes to her head. A bad condition for a girl.”

  “If it went to her head and if she were an ordinary child—of either sex—I would agree, but neither is true.”

  “The Meri will not accept a female Prentice, you know that.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. There is nothing in the Books that denies Prentice-ship to girls.”

  “There is tradition—”

  “Pah! Old folk tales, hearsay—”

  Osraed Calach cleared his throat. “Do you intend to abandon your students in favor of this ancient argument?”

  Osraed Bevol smiled and wagged his head. Snow-streaked copper, his hair and beard rippled with the motion, cascading over the azure of his robe. “I will never abandon my student,” he said pointedly, and led the way from the gallery into the Academy.

  o0o

  Meredydd was not watching Aelder Prentice Wyth scratching illustrations of aislinn symbology on the whitewall. She was watching a spider apply warp and woof to the corner of an open window. The web had been taking shape for the entire morning and was nearly complete. Sunlight ran like blazing golden liquid down its pristine fibers—more delicate, more gleaming, more glorious than the finest silk. Meredydd imaged herself in a robe of the stuff—so fine and light.

  She could see herself upon the sill, the size of a butterfly, lying back in the sleek, shining hammock, where bees would bring her nectar and ambrosia and the spider would play duans for her upon a harp of his own design. She could almost hear its song—light as down, shimmering, whispers of melody.

  It was a shame, she thought, that the Arts didn’t run to miniaturization. Then again, maybe they did and it just wasn’t something the Prentices were permitted to know. After all, it wouldn’t do to have them practicing Shrinkweaves on each other. The thought made her grin.

  “Prentice Meredydd. Could you tell me what you are studying that you find my lesson beneath your notice?”

  She jumped quite nearly from her skin and blinked up into the Aelder’s stern face. “Why—aislinn symbols, Aelder.”

  “Aye, that is what the rest of us were studying, cailin. But you, I think, were not.” He straightened and turned toward the whitewall, and Meredydd thought how spiteful he was to remind her (and everyone else) that she was a girl.

  Cailin, he called her—but only when Osraed Bevol was out of earshot. He had used the word once in the Osraed’s presence and Bevol had referred to him as “boy” for a fortnight, refusing to dignify him by using either his name or his title.

  At the whitewall, now, stood Aelder Prentice Wyth and lifted a bony, linen-clad arm to point at the group of symbols rendered there in blue oilstick. They were very well drawn, Meredydd had to allow. “Meaning, Prentice Meredydd. Give this aislinn meaning.”

  That was easy. “The horse,” she said, “is life, events. Strong emotions. The rearing horse especially connotes difficulty in maintaining control of one’s destiny.”

  Wyth’s lips pursed. “And this?” His finger tapped a set of wavy lines.

  “Water in motion,” she replied. “Emotions, such as love or great passion are symbolized thusly. A stormy sea would indicate violent emotions or a fear of them—especially, a fear of passion.”

  “At least you studied.”

  “I always study, Aelder Wyth.”

  He peered at her, narrow-eyed. “A man dreamed,” he said, “that he went upon Pilgrimage. And when he reached the shore of the Western Sea, he lay upon the sand and slept. When he awoke, a beautiful cailin urged him to rise up and follow her into the sea. He rose and walked after her and entered the water and did not get wet.” He emphasized the last words with a smile and folded his arms across his chest. “Interpret this aislinn.”

  Meredydd glanced quickly about the semi-circle of Prentices and wriggled uncomfortably on her bench�
��not because she couldn’t interpret the dream, but because she could interpret it and suspected it was the Aelder’s own.

  “Are you certain, Aelder Wyth, that you wish me to interpret this dream?”

  “Why else would I have directed you to do so?” he asked sarcastically and drew a snicker from the other Prentices.

  Meredydd set her shoulders and sat stiffly upright, steeling herself. “Pilgrimage—”

  Wyth held out the bluestick. “Come to the wall and illustrate your Tell for the class.”

  She swallowed and gave the teasing spider web a last, longing glance, then rose and went forward. She took the bluestick, erased the existing symbols with the blotter and began her illustration.

  “Pilgrimage,” she said, drawing the symbol:

  “—is the journey toward the heart’s desire. The Sea () is where the journey leads, to the Pilgrim’s Post from which the true seeker awaits the Meri (). The Sea is also symbolic of deep emotion; love, devotion, faith, passion. Sleep () is forgetfulness or a lack of acceptance. The maiden who wakes the sleeping Pilgrim () is someone or something which provides the catalyst for the continuance of the quest — a prodder, such as the conscience. The conscience wakes the sleeper and he enters the relationship () with the Object of Pilgrimage but...”

  “But?”

  The classroom was so silent, Meredydd was certain she could hear the wind pass through the spider web. At last, she could have if the breathing of the ten other Prentices was not so deafeningly loud.

  “But,” she continued, “no effect is obtained.” There. It didn’t sound so bad when you cloaked it in academic terms.

  “Sum up.”

  She turned the bluestick in her fingers and watched it go round and round, then she pretended to study the group of figures on the wall. “The Pilgrim attains his heart’s desire, but it has no effect upon him. He...enters the Water of Life, but remains dry. I would read this as a fear dream. Perhaps the dreamer is afraid he will not be able to...absorb the bounties of the Meri or perhaps he believes he does not need to absorb them.”

  Aelder Wyth’s face was whiter than his fine linen robe. That he had not so interpreted the aislinn was obvious.

  “Terrible,” he finally managed to say. “Prentice Meredydd, you obviously need to improve your understanding of the aislinn symbology. Therefore, you will read Aelfraed’s treatises on the Water Signs and present a written summation of your findings to me for tomorrow’s lesson. Then, I’ll give you another dream to Tell.”

  Meredydd’s numb fingers nearly dropped the bluestick. Aelder Wyth had always been difficult to please, but he had never shown such ego, nor had she ever known him to be vindictive. She was about to protest his out-of-hand rejection of her Tell, but his attention was already elsewhere. He swiveled his head, his eyes leaping lightly over the class. They landed on Brys-a-Lach, known, in chatter circles, as “Aelder’s Pet.” He was a big, handsome boy—a man at sixteen—and he was almost as impressed with himself as Wyth was.

  The Aelder Prentice smiled at his favorite student and said, “Now, Prentice Brys, will you kindly interpret this dream? I will allow that Meredydd’s illustrations are correct; you needn’t repeat them.”

  Brys stood, broad-shouldered and impressive, and Meredydd sighed inwardly. It was so much easier for a comely young man to succeed in second level classes at Halig-liath than it was for a homely or undersized youth or—Heaven’s help!—a girl. It was the system, of course. The first level classes were taught by the Divine Counselors themselves, the second level by Aelders—Prentices like Wyth who had not yet been accepted to become Osraed, and who most likely never would. The Osraed knew that good looks and physical charm had naught to do with prowess in the Art, but the Aelders were so fresh from the classroom themselves—

  “It is clear,” said Brys-a-Lach in a voice that would ring well from the gallery, “that the vision pertains to spiritual greatness. So devoted is the Pilgrim that he spends his last dregs of energy on the Path to the Quintessential Ocean and falls asleep, heedless of his own needs. Now, we also know that it is in sleep that an Osraed often receives instruction from the Meri, so this may also be interpreted as the Pilgrim opening himself to Her will. So spiritual is this Pilgrim that a special envoy is sent to awaken him to his destiny. So pure is he that he walks directly into the Ocean itself, without even having seen the Meri. So transcendent is he that the waters fail to discomfit him—even as the Book of Pilgrimages says: ‘a knower is he who is dry in the sea.’ This Pilgrim overcomes even the Ocean.”

  “But the whole point of Pilgrimage,” blurted Meredydd, “is to see the Meri. Sleep does not symbolize greatness in any other context, why should it be any different here? Traditionally, it symbolizes lack of vigilance, lack of ardor, perhaps an inability to face reality. The ardorous Pilgrim would be wakeful and vigilant against the Meri’s appearance. This poor fellow would lose his chance—the Meri could rise up and dance all about him while he snored in the sand.”

  The class found this a humorous image and burst into laughter. Red-faced, Aelder Wyth silenced them.

  “A spurious interpretation—” he began.

  “Nonsense,” said Meredydd, forgetting all but the problem of interpretation. “A rational interpretation according to the texts. Furthermore, the Pilgrim is presumptuous; he enters the Sea of the Meri without the Meri’s permission. He immerses himself in the Waters of Life and doesn’t even allow himself to be touched by them or absorb their influences. This can mean only one thing: This Pilgrim misses the entire point of his own

  Pilgrimage. Extrapolating on that, I would say that the dream expresses the spirit’s fear that this Pilgrim is drawing no spiritual benefit from his quest.”

  “Sagacious!” exclaimed one of Wyth’s homely, undersized students—a freckled red-head named Lealbhallain. He applauded lightly and alone. Aelder Wyth and Brys-a-Lach both glared at him while the other boys ogled.

  “So this Pilgrim has missed the point, has he?” asked the Aelder Prentice after a long, rending pause.

  Meredydd shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, wishing Wyth hadn’t left her standing, exposed, at the front of the class. “That is my Tell.”

  “This pointless Pilgrim is considerably chastened. The dream is mine.”

  There were a few gasps from those who hadn’t already guessed this.

  Aelder Prentice Wyth narrowed his eyes. “Do you wish to rethink your interpretation, Prentice Meredydd?”

  If he sought to humiliate her, he did an admirable job, notwithstanding he had caught himself in the backwash. She felt very small and alone. She could take it all back, she supposed—wanted to with all those eyes on her. She glanced at

  Lealbhallain. His green eyes were enormous in his elfin face and he had caught his lower lip between his teeth.

  He’s probably holding his breath, too, she thought, and if I wait too much longer, he’ll faint.

  “No, Aelder Prentice Wyth,” she said finally, “I do not. I stand by my Tell. To do otherwise would be cowardly and self-serving.”

  He did not commend her for her integrity. She ended up with a triple reading assignment and the onerous task of sorting organic medicinals for the Apothecary. Poor Lealbhallain was commissioned to help her.

  “You’re very brave,” he told her while they were up to their wrists in lakeweed. “I would have cried to have Aelder Prentice Wyth so furious at me.”

  “I’m not brave, Leal, just stupid and querulous. I should have....” She pulled lake weed from the pail silently for a moment, trying to think of what she should have done. It would have been disobedient to refuse to interpret the aislinn outright. It would have been lying to Tell the dream as Brys had. Not that Brys was lying, of course. His Tell was different, that was all. But if she had given his interpretation instead of her own....

  She sighed volubly. “I don’t know what I should have done. Apologized to Wyth, I suppose. My Tell wasn’t very flattering.”

  Lealbhallain g
ave her an innocently penetrating glance. “Was that the purpose of the Tell? To flatter Aelder Prentice Wyth?”

  Meredydd chuckled. “No, Leal. It was not. But I suppose I could have apologized all the same. I’ll have to ask Osraed Bevol what the correct course would have been.”

  Lealbhallain gave her a look of deep, admiring envy. “You are so fortunate, Meredydd, to have your own Osraed to ask.”

  She glanced down at the little piles of lakeweed that lay in puddles on the white crystal counter. “I know, Leal. And I wonder why that is, when I am so undeserving.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, Meredydd! I didn’t mean — Why, you’re a prodigy! You have so much natural talent —”

  “No, Leal,” she said, laughing a little at his zeal. “I have Osraed Bevol. That is what I have.”

  o0o

  “And you said what, then?” asked Osraed Bevol, sipping his broth.

  Meredydd laid the baps out on the table and glanced back toward the kitchen. “Bring the butter pot, won’t you, Skeet?

  Then I said that there was only one thing it could mean and that — “What?” she asked, seeing that the Osraed was shaking his head.

  He set down his broth bowl. “How many times, Meredydd, must I tell you: There is never but one interpretation for any aislinn. Hm?” His crooked finger pointed at a spot in the air as if she might look there for the exact number.

  She reddened. “Many times, Master.”

  “Correct. And this is a condition which also applies to other realities—to all things—whether spoken or unspoken. Even Pov knows this. Isn’t that so, Pov?”

  Skeet responded slowly to the use of his given name under most circumstances, but the Osraed Bevol was proof to his stubbornness. The boy let his great Master use the homely name that meant simply, “Earth,” though everyone else, Meredydd included, must acknowledge him as fleet Skeet if they didn’t wish to be completely ignored. Now, he smiled sweetly and set out the butter bowl.

  “Aye, Maister. I do so know. Seventy times seventy meanings do a’ things hae.”