Taminy by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

knowledge, which they used to bring them other
things. And knowledge became a spirit to them, and the people asked that spirit
for providence.”
    The
drums uttered a single word.
    “What
did they ask of Knowledge?”
    The
crowed cried: “Give-us-land. Give-us-commerce. Give-us-power!”
    The
drums issued a long roll.
    “And
the people gathered those things and set them up as spirits and asked happiness
of them and joy of them and wealth of them. And surrounded by these, their made
spirits, they could no longer hear the Voice of the Spirit of All.”
    The
drums beat a swift measure of staccato notes, while the crowd wailed a high,
ululating cry as if singing for the war-dead. Gwynet had not heard that sound
before, though she had heard of it from those who had lost loved ones to the
sea missions of the Cynes Ciarda and Colfre. It made her shiver all the way to
the marrow of her bones and pray for it to stop.
    When
it did stop, Bevol spoke again. “The Spirit of the Universe looked upon Its
silent creation and said, ‘My lovers no longer hear My Voice and they no longer
call Me Beloved. But I shall be patient. For someday they will call upon Me.’”
    The
drums spoke their turn.
    “And
when the people at last tired of praying to their made spirits for things they
had no power to give, when they longed, at last, for their God, they cried out
to It and listened for reply, but no longer did their hearts speak the same
pure tongue they had spoken at Dawn. They could not hear their God, and the
Universe was silent to them.”
    As
silent as it was now, Gwynet thought, for not a person in all that vast
assemblage stirred, not a mallet fell, not a pipe sang.
    “And
out of the silence,” said Bevol, “was born the Meri—the Spirit of the Spirit of
the Universe, Gate between God and Man, Bridge between Heaven and Earth. And
God brought Her forth from the Sea to touch man and teach him again to hear the
Voice that speaks in the heart of all things.”
    There
was a great celebratory roar then, from throats and drums and pipes alike, and
the little old Osraed, Calach (the Sweet, Gwynet called him), came forward to
give the Tell of the First Pilgrimage.
    Gwynet
knew this part—by heart, she was pleased to discover—and followed along,
mouthing the words as Calach told the tale of Ochan-a-Coille and the First
Weaving. In the swell of light and soft pipe-song, she could see the young boy
wandering storm-lost along the rocky cliffs below the mouth of the Halig-tyne,
longing for sight of the Castle Mertuile. She felt his terror as he fell into
the sea cave, shared his awe when a strange light revealed that the walls of
the cave were studded with crystals and that glittering shards lay scattered
like frost upon the rocky floor. Her heart hammered fiercely when the boy took,
in his own hands, a blue-white crystal of such clarity and beauty that he was
all but blinded by the light that pulsed through it. She cried out aloud with
mixed terror and wonder when an Eibhilin Being lifted Itself from the sea pool
in the cavern’s deep heart and glided to meet Ochan where he stood, crystal in
hand, in the star-littered shallows.
    Ochan,
just fifteen, left the Sea Cave with the Meri’s duan singing in his heart and
the knowledge of the Runeweave filling his mind to overflowing. Her Kiss glowed
upon his brow, Her mission in his soul. He carried his crystal, Osmaer, to the
stronghold of Cyne Malcuim and there gave the first Pilgrim’s Tell.
    Osraed
Calach’s sweet voice rang off on the breeze and the crowd remained silent.
Gwynet felt her cheeks. They were hot, surely putting out as much light as the
myriad light-bowls on their tall stands. She told herself, secretly, it was her
future she listened to as first Lealbhallain, then Wyth came forward to give
his Tell. The people of Nairne applauded the wonderful tales with every ounce
of exuberance they possessed. By the time Wyth retired from the Gallery’s
balustrade, every man, woman and