The Maelstrom

Tom’s chimes sounded. The notes were barely audible above the wind, but when they’d finished, the ogre opened his eyes. His hand stopped trembling.

“Bob will not let you down.”

~ 4 ~ Dregs and Driftwood

Three days later, the cottage on Crofter’s Hill was filled to capacity. Its doors were propped open, a cool breeze skimming across as dozens of children sat silent as church mice, their attention fixed upon the ogre’s pale eyes and knuckled skull. Hunched upon his stool, Bob recited a poem in a voice that rumbled like old millstones:

“We know not the MakerBut we know his worksWe smell the badger in his burrow and see old troll on his mountainWe fear the giants on their isles, wild as the stormWe envy men and their warm firesWe scorn the goblins and their low housesWarm blood our wine; winter’s heart our homeWhere stones crack and rivers freeze and woods grow quietYou will find the ogreAnd when all is dust and the lands bled dryYou will find him still”When his slow verse was finished, the ogre blinked as though waking from a dream. Tapping his chin, he frowned. “There is more, I think, but Bob remembers not.”

“Tell us another, then,” pleaded Claudia, a thickset twelve-year-old with shiny black braids. Among the orphans Max had met in Blys, Claudia was the natural leader—a bold and gregarious child who was always inventing new games and activities. Following his previous visit to Bob, Max had sought her out and asked if she might like to meet a real ogre. The girl had nearly fainted with excitement. Within the hour, she had recruited an entire troop of fellow refugees eager to make the trek up Crofter’s Hill.

Bob smiled as Claudia clambered onto his knee across from a toddler who was busy drooling on the ogre’s flannel shirt. “You can tell us a story about Max!” she proclaimed.

“It is almost suppertime,” the ogre observed, his eyes tracing the hazy sunlight that streamed through the windows. “And Bob knows not the verse for him.”

“But Max should have a song,” she insisted. “We can sing about the time he fought Skeedle’s troll on Broadbrim Mountain.”

“Or when he saved Mina from the monster,” suggested a skinny youth named Paolo.

“How about when he rode off with a demon in a fiery carriage?” chimed a cheerful lump nicknamed Porcellino. “We could write a verse about that!”

“Bob believes you could,” replied the ogre solemnly. “But it is unwise to sing songs of the living. The Fates might think their tale is finished. And our Max’s tale is not finished yet, is it, malyenki?”

“Not yet.” Max smiled, giving Mina’s hand a squeeze. Scooting her off his lap, Max stood and stretched. “In fact, I’m running late to train with Sarah. Would you mind walking them back to Wainwright Lane? It’s by the dunes.”

Bob nodded and turned to Isabella, a dark-haired woman knitting by the hearth.

“Would you like to stay for supper?” he inquired. “Bob can cook and after he can see you and the little ones safe to your doors. He would not mind.”

At this, the children erupted in such howls of delight that Isabella had no choice but to accept. Bidding Max farewell, Bob turned his attention to the matter of supper, lumbering about the kitchen and issuing slow, patient orders to his many eager helpers. Within minutes, they were boiling water, emptying the pantry, mixing dough, and picking tomatoes off the vine. When Porcellino dropped a sack of flour, Max skirted the mess to slip outside. Mina followed.

“Don’t you want to stay and cook?” he asked. Shaking her head, she stopped to pet the billy goat, which bleated amiably and lay down on the grass.

“I have lessons with David.”

“Ah. Are you enjoying them?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, leaving the goat to go trotting down the hill, jumping from rock to rock. Max trotted after. “David’s a very good teacher,” she chattered. “So patient and wicked. I should not care to cross words with him.”

“Cross swords,” Max clarified.

“Words,” she laughed. “I should not cross words with patient, wicked David. He’s as patient and even wickeder than Uncle ’Lias.”

“Speaking of words,” Max reflected. “I don’t believe wickeder is one of them.”

“It is within the circles,” she remarked, “and if it’s not, it should be.”

“What circles?” asked Max.

“You know the ones I mean,” she said knowingly. The girl chased after a butterfly at the base of the hill. It flew to Mina’s finger as though obeying a silent command. She stared at its golden brilliance, her eyes shining like opals.

“Mina, are you talking about summoning circles?” asked Max, his smile fading as he came up beside her. Astaroth had forbidden summoning spirits and demons. Even if one was willing to risk such a transgression, it was a profoundly hazardous exercise—one that had cost David Menlo his hand. David had been thirteen when he attempted such dangerous activities; Mina was but seven. Ignoring Max’s question, she merely blew the butterfly a kiss and watched it flutter away.

“Mina,” pressed Max. “What have they been teaching you?”

“Rules.” Mina shrugged, squatting to investigate a chipmunk hole. “How some spirits fear iron and running streams and others special words. They have to answer David when he calls, but they want to see me.”

Max’s mouth went dry.

“Who does?” he croaked. “Who wants to see you?”

“Outsiders,” she replied, peering down the hole. “Scary ones with fiery crowns and faceless ones made of blue smoke and faerie queens so pretty you could stare at them for days! There are others, too—others who call out from places only I can see. Not even Uncle ’Lias can see them.”

“So he’s there, too,” Max remarked. “The Archmage is showing you these things?”

But Mina didn’t appear to have heard him.

“You have to look deep in the circle’s center,” she continued dreamily, taking his fingers once again. “And you can’t look too hard or you won’t see it. I try to picture the skinniest space between the chalk and the floor and then—oh, Max! There are so many places! Some are like a forest of shimmering towers so tall they make Old Tom look like a toadstool. Others are smaller than my thumb and close like a flower as soon as I look at them. But they’re not flowers—they’re little worlds made of water and mist and light. When I look deep down in the circle, everything’s bending and moving and overlapping. It’s like seeing all the places at once through a curvy glass that won’t stay still. It makes my head ache, but they’re so very pretty and thin and far, far away. And everyone in them wants to see me, Max. They all hurry out to see little Mina!”

Max pressed Mina on exactly who wanted to see her, but her only response was to laugh and repeat the statement with a shy but unmistakable pride. Throughout their conversation, Max kept his voice and manner calm, but inwardly he was reeling. It was unconscionable to involve a child—even one so obviously gifted—in such risky endeavors. He needed to speak with David.

“What if I asked you to stop taking these lessons?” he said quietly. “What if you went back to living with Isabella and Claudia and the rest?”

Mina’s smile vanished. Letting go of his hand, she stopped to stare up at him. “We must be what we will be.” There was a Rowan seal embroidered on Max’s shirt, and Mina reached up to touch each of the sigil’s symbols with her finger. “Wild Max must be Rowan’s sun and wise David her magical moon, and Mina must be a bright little star that shines far above all.”

Max gazed down at the standard. For years it had seemed little more than a charming bit of heraldry. But did the celestial symbols above the Rowan tree represent something else? Did the sun, moon, and star stand for three