Jahrra sat in uncomfortable silence, ignoring the dampness soaking through her clothes.
It was only a short while before the old woman spoke once again, “No worries lass,” she rasped. “I rarely receive company, and now you can tell your friends you’ve come face to face with the Witch of the Wreing. Come, you can’t sit in the mud forever.”
Jahrra looked up suddenly, forgetting her apprehension and before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Are you really a witch?”
The woman, who had her gnarled hand held out to give Jahrra a hand up, exploded in raucous laughter, lightening the atmosphere just a bit. Jahrra shrank farther into the mud.
“Well, the answer to that question really depends on who you ask,” the woman said when she had regained her breath. “To some I am a witch; to others I’m a hag. To most I’m just a crazy old woman.”
She gave a jagged smile, pulling up the timorous girl who’d finally taken her rough hand. Jahrra was surprised at how easily the woman yanked her up.
“My name is Archedenaeh, but you can call me Denaeh. I’m a Mystic and I’ve been awaiting your arrival for some time now.”
Jahrra gaped at her, pausing in the middle of her effort to wipe off as much of the mud clinging to her backside as she could.
Once she found her voice, she stammered, “How, how did you know I was coming?”
“Like I said, I’m a Mystic.”
Jahrra stood in the middle of the little clearing, her eyes wide with surprise. A million questions ran through her head, but this time she thought before speaking. In the calmest voice she could muster, she queried, “What exactly is a Mystic? Is it like a fortune teller?”
The woman laughed once again, clearly amused by these naïve questions. Normally, Jahrra would’ve been annoyed by all the laughter at her expense, but she could tell that the woman’s amusement wasn’t malicious in the least. Jahrra, slightly discomfited by her lack of knowledge, returned her focus to the ground, staring at a tiny golden mushroom that had strayed from the main crop.
The woman finished her fit of laughter and answered as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
“It is not.”
Jahrra braved a glance at the Mystic. She simply stood there grinning, the gleam of laughter lingering in her eyes.
Taking a deep breath, Jahrra pushed on. “What’s the difference, then, between a fortune teller and a Mystic?” And before she could allow the woman any more awkward pauses, quickly added, “And where do oracles come in? And if you are a Mystic, why do people say you’re a witch?”
The old woman looked pleased at these questions despite the urgency in which they were asked and simply answered serenely, “A fortune teller does mostly guess work, interpreting cards or signs they believe have significance. A fortune teller speaks in half-truths because they don’t have all of the facts and essentially don’t know the future. A fortune teller often only wishes to make a profit and will find a way to tell the listener what they want to hear, usually something vague that could be applied to any fortunate or unfortunate event in a person’s life.”
The old woman, standing hunched over with the tips of her knobby fingers pressed together, paused and looked at Jahrra to make sure she was following. Jahrra rubbed her arm and smiled in encouragement.
“A Mystic is a step above that,” the woman continued, “interpreting the spiritual signals they receive from the world around them. A Mystic tells you the part of your future they can see, but emphasizes that they can only see a small portion. Most of it is up to that particular person and what they make of it. A Mystic will feed off of what spiritual essence a person possesses and will try and make an assessment of that information.
“An Oracle, on the other hand, is a being that actually knows the past, present and future. They speak in riddles because they know the absolute truth will drive any living being mad. An Oracle will tell you enough to help you through a rough patch, but will seldom give you more.”
The old woman drew her sleeve-draped arms behind her back and began to slowly pace in front of Jahrra before continuing, “There are many fortunetellers in this world, fewer Mystics, and unfortunately, only two of the five Oracles of Ethoes remain in existence.”
Jahrra was fascinated and completely enraptured with Denaeh’s explanation. Hroombra would never tell her this much if she ever asked him.
She took advantage of this woman’s willingness to answer her questions and asked a few more, “How does someone become a fortuneteller or a Mystic? And could you tell me more about the Oracles? Why are there only two left?”
Denaeh smiled again and released a small chuckle. “Fortunetellers are everyday people who require little training compared to Mystics. Mystics require extensive training and are changed significantly before they are qualified. Mystics also require a pre-existing gift toward the art of reading the future, and they must be magical.”
Jahrra moved her mouth to form a question, but the old woman held up a withered hand to stop her. “The Oracles were created by the goddess Ethoes and are considered highly sacred. Originally there were five, like I said, but two were killed during the rise and fall of the god Ciarrohn, and another was killed by the Crimson King, Cierryon. The Oracles are the supreme power when it comes to inquiries of the future, but Mystics have exceptional powers as well.”
Suddenly, a branch snapped in the distance and Jahrra instinctively glanced in the direction the sound came from. As soon as she returned her eyes to Archedenaeh, she gasped in shock and took a quick step back, almost tripping over a decaying log. Instead of the old, haggard elderly woman that had been telling her all about Mystics and Oracles, she was looking at a young, beautiful woman standing exactly in her spot.
When she grinned, Jahrra noticed she had the same smile (but with several more teeth), the same glittering topaz eyes, and the same vibrant red hair that the older woman had.
In a much younger and more melodic voice, she said, “We Mystics also have a special power. We have the ability to take on three stages of life; infancy, youth and old age, but I rarely find use for infancy.”
She said this as if instantaneously changing from an old woman to a young one were as natural as breathing. Her smile and eyes held laughter once again and before Jahrra’s very eyes she melted back into the old woman, once more taking on the hunched posture and weathered features of age.
“Will that do for now, Jahrra?”
Jahrra started, not at the rough change in Denaeh’s voice, but at the sound of her own name being spoken.
“You know my name.”
It was more a statement than a question.
“Oh, yes lass, I know much about you. You are twelve years of age, I believe, the tallest in your age group at school, and you are unlike all of the other children you know, in more ways than you think. But don’t bother to ask how or why I know these things, because now is not the time for you to know.”
Jahrra had a sudden image of Hroombra telling a portion of one of his stories, and she began to wonder why this Mystic, living in the middle of the Wreing Florenn isolated from all of civilization, could know so much about her. But if Denaeh was what she claimed, Jahrra guessed she could tell anything about anyone who wandered into her swamp.
This feels dangerous, said a small voice in her head. Jahrra twitched and pushed the voice aside as she tried to think. This is crazy! the voice insisted. You don’t know this woman! Make some excuse and get out of there! But an overwhelming blanket of calm and safety muffled her blaring conscience. She suddenly felt at ease and was able to get back to her own thoughts.