Wherein Jen loses the thread (Ch. 21)

Jen had never known what to think about the Pontiac. She’d known what to think about the office, she’d known what to think about the station. As a holy girl, these were the important aspects to form opinions about. After all, holy girls were the prospective candidates.

Only Jen didn’t know what to think about the woman herself. It helped little that there seemed to be little to know about her, though that seemed impossible to Jen. Had she been friendlier with the hexmistresses and the travelling holy women, perhaps she’d have gained a clue or two about the Pontiac’s early life. Perhaps she’d have formed a plan of attack, a strategy to take the mantle herself one day.

But Jen was surly and rude, brusque and somewhat impatient. The thought of long pointless chats with the older women was near enough to trigger convulsions. In a moment that was not quite vulnerable, she stopped to share such feelings with Aroma as they headed towards the Pontiac’s meditation station.

‘When was the last time you attended the Pontiac?’ Jen stated, in a tone conveying far too much force to be a question. Aroma, a witting pawn in games she hoped to one day take part in, made a quick calculation; should she answer truthfully and admit it had been but a week, Jen would discover that the Pontiac was acting to divide the holy girls into what Aroma could see only as factions. That Jen was doubtless to be left on the outside of that group the Pontiac wished to form seemed the best reason to tell her nothing.

But the Pontiac had been vague, had said little, had done little but gather the same girls and imprint upon them the burden of secrecy. A voice that had heard too many coming of age stories shouted in Aroma’s head that it was all part of an elaborate test, one that was perhaps prerequisite to sinking deeper into the Pontiac’s slim pool of confidants. The voice she associated with pure reason told her to reserve judgement of such elaboration. Louder than these was the silent voice of social awareness, aware that for some years yet Jen and Hailey were to be her direct superiors, aware that her standing among the girls would determine her life now, and barring extraordinary circumstances, her life to come.

Returning to her calculation, Aroma considered lying, obfuscation, a version of the truth, and the whole truth. That fact that there was some rationale for the last of these escaped Aroma, and quickly her mind turned to believable lies. Her quick calculation blossoming into a long one, Jen had chance to notice the sweat upon Aroma’s brow. The summer sun just barely past overhead, Jen thought nothing of it; she was sweating more than a bit herself. Jen was almost offended at the length of Aroma’s silence, though in truth it had not been most of a minute. Nevertheless, it had been long enough for Jen to return to speech.

“Because I haven’t attended in a very long while. Always the fear of unexpected disaster, and you taking the blame, always the maddening stench of salt, always the sense that the Pontiac sees right through you. And you think to yourself whether she’s even a person at all”

They were out in the open and walking at a pace only generously able to be described as brisk. They ought to have worried about eavesdroppers, but they simply didn’t. Unsurprisingly then, no fewer than three scholars and a hexmistress overheard Jen’s musings. Aroma glanced about nervously, both at the passing people and at anything she could fix her gaze upon. She considered picking up the pace, but for some reason no one did that when walking alongside Jen. Relieved at the conversation moving on though, Aroma blurted out the first thing on her mind.

“The Pontiac’s not that bad once you’re used to her. Enough times with her, and she just feels like another hexmistress”

Jen stared, though at what exactly Aroma was unsure. Unable or unwilling to process the direction the conversation seemed to be heading, the two trudged towards the Pontiac’s abode, the dry mountain air like a fog around the mind.

The small stone building was as dark as Jen remembered. It was as claustrophobic as recalled as well. Despite a formidable exterior, it seemed that thick stone made up for most of the interior space. A calmer Jen would’ve immediately deduced that the walls were full of secret passageways and listening spots for eyes, ears, and plain old spies. But Jen was not calm, strangely due to the familiarity. For the building was familiar, but hauntingly instead of comfortingly, like the stump of a missing digit.

“Aroma…”

Jen wanted some kind of reassurance, but quickly checked herself. They turned corridor after corridor, faint orange light guiding the way, each steeling resolve for what they knew would be an uneventful afternoon. Acrid smoke hit their noses as they searched the rooms for that which the Pontiac was currently using. The childishness of the game alongside the unfamiliar stench was just enough to put Jen back at ease. Confidence returning from its brief respite, Jen barreled through an archway and shooed away the two holy girls conferring with the Pontiac.

“Anything to report?” Jen asked, quietly, but not in the reverent hushed one would expect to be heard around a religion’s chief link to the divine. One might also not expect said link to the divine to be left for last, but one would be thinking of other religions should this have confused them. “Nothing” whispered the taller of the girls, blue eyes faintly reflecting the red glow from the ceiling. She grinned at Jen, at Aroma, the shorter of the holy girls, and finally at the Pontiac. Jen glanced around with her, before staring back at her. Perhaps her height and glittering eyes were enough to upset or frighten Jen, for she quieted further as she probed. “With five days until the summer prophecy? Nothing?”

Quiet as she may have been, Aroma was standing very close behind. Calling it overhearing would be a tad ungenerous, for surely a pure holy girls such as Aroma would never stoop to such subversion. She was just hearing that which was not meant for her ears alone. At this hearing, she squeaked. Not a mouselike squeak, but a rusty hinge squeak. The Pontiac turned her head from the far wall to Aroma, which caused a fuss between the four holy girls now standing.

A kerfuffle ensued, but thanks to the Pontiac’s wise and looming presence, all was sorted rapidly: Jen and Aroma stood with their backs to the Pontiac, and the two morning girls stood right in front of them. As the hallway was only dimly lit in orange as opposed to the faint red of the Pontiac’s room, one who knew of cinema would call the scene quite cinematic. As no one present had heard of the art form, they settled for a tense moment of staring instead. After what could only be called contemplation, the taller girl finally replied. “The goddess shall weave and unweave when she sees fit.”

With that, the two morning girls were off. Aroma and Jen set to their stations, traditionally directly in front of and behind the Pontiac. The Pontiac seemed to like the arrangement, for she kept her hood up and continued burning the unfamiliar incense.

Many thoughts might have run through the girls’ heads, but such thoughts were typically frowned upon. Holy girls were meant to accompany the Pontiac and record all she said, in case it was prophetic. Some scholars thought everything the Pontiac said was prophetic, but they were so obviously wrong no one bothered to correct them. Still, even with their thoughts to entertain them, boredom set in sooner than Aroma had expected it to. Sensing said boredom, the Pontiac whispered, as if to the stones: “Think of the incense what you will, think of the stone what you will, think of the light what you will. For here we are close to wind and sky, to heavens beyond our wildest imagining and depths beyond the deepest of the deep seas. So think and reflect, as the light reflects through the caverns of these halls and mountains.” With that, she returned to gathering the herbs strewn across the floor, examining them, and finally burning them in amounts obviously precise yet utterly bewildering.

Aroma was not surprised by the comment. Jen was shocked. So shocked, she hadn’t the opportunity to show it. She looked to Aroma; the question clear in her eyes: “What was that? Was that prophetic?”. Aroma, comforted by Jen’s worry, settled back on her heels and shrugged, clearly and unambiguously conveying “Do you think you’ll forget it? If so, then it’s obviously not prophetic. Everyone knows that prophecy has such weight that it is immediately and obviously clear to all who hear it that it is holy. Everyone knows this weight is so great that to forget even the intonation would be akin to forgetting where you placed your arm. So, when we leave at sundown, will the words yet echo in your soul? If so, then report. Check with the holy women, see if they felt anything. But otherwise, just take the advice. To do otherwise would be very disrespectful indeed”. It was a lot to convey in just one gesture, but the raised eyebrows added the punctuation and nuance necessary to get the message across.

It seemed to Jen that the Pontiac took notice of the exchange, as promptly she rose, dropping sticks of incense to the ground. They made disconcertingly little noise, disconcerting to Jen at least. Aroma was less bothered. Red light shone stronger around the stones the Pontiac paced upon, casting vague shadows in strange directions. Whether or not such behavior was to be recorded Jen didn’t know. Reports usually did include what the Pontiac was doing as she spoke, but seldom could she recall a report mentioning movement without speech.

To say the Pontiac was just as uneasy as Jen would probably be incorrect. By virtue of her position, the only thing to ever make the Pontiac truly uneasy were the moments she spoke, especially the moments she spoke in the presence of others. Still, Jen’s presence struck her as strange. From her clandestine meetings with some of the holy girls, she knew that Jen was directly under Hailey’s supervision. How exactly Hailey had seized control of the holy girls hadn’t been made clear to the Pontiac, and for all her efforts at plying him Mel had remained silent on the point.

It was considered unseemly for the Pontiac to confer with the holy girls sent to monitor her. But who would censure her, the living link to the goddess? And so, coming to stand right before Jen, who was by now sweating profusely from pores she hadn’t known she possessed, and fidgeting with a fervor befitting a medium sized rodent, the Pontiac bent to meet her eyes. As both Jen and the Pontiac were rather tall, this required some effort, though only some. Not bothering to whisper or intimidate, the Pontiac spoke plainly.

“How is it that you’ve gained Hailey’s trust? The old Griffin was sank in his world of study and games for years. Why is he suddenly in charge of the holy girls? Why are you his little tyrant? I’d think all those games ought to have sharpened his wits beyond being taken in with whatever charm you think you have”

To call Jen astonished would be an understatement. Aroma was poised to interrupt, but forming elaborate patterns with her fingers suddenly seemed more important: they were dancing across here thighs, forefinger thumb, forefinger thumb middle finger, the pitter patter of digits engrossing her. The present moment faded away, leaving room for only the romp of patterns and repetition in her mind. Perhaps it was truly fascinating, but it was probably the fumes getting to her.

“My role is administrative, and nothing more. Hailey selected me for showing promise. For showing the deepest appreciation for philosophy and prophecy.” Jen finally answered, speech and manner subdued to the point of fitting the circumstances. Aroma thought it strange to hear Jen speak in so formal a manner, then thought it stranger that Jen had anything to say at all. Aroma assumed she’d have remained silent in Jen’s place.

If the Pontiac laughed or snorted, neither girl could tell. All they could tell was the Pontiac’s whispering, ringing in their ears as it echoed with strange resonance from the glowing stone. “Then surely you’ve been teaching the girl’s to navigate The Point?”

The words echoed, around Jen’s head as well as the room. They did not strike her as particularly profound. And yet, for minutes that felt like years of silence, she pondered them. “It is not for me to teach the girls. That is for their mistresses and masters.” The Pontiac intoned. “Or maybe ‘Navigation? The Point’s not that large, I’m sure they all learn it in their first day’. No, give me a second, you’d say ‘Navigate? Navigate what exactly?’. And you’d say it a bit impatiently too, then shamefully avert your eyes as you recall who you’re talking to.”

Jen had planned on staying silent, or maybe changing the topic, but the Pontiac sounded very pleased with herself. Eyes cast downwards in what could be mistaken for contrition, silence reigned.

Hailey’s afternoon had been much more pleasant. Returning to the library, thoughts of pursuing Dolstoy intruded at only irregular intervals. There was much to study and much to analyze, and he found the familiar rhythm of argumentation relaxing. There were letters and reports from Meyrkopp, Kadyp, Tellyphill, the Gelton Isles, and Jepchy. Otis argued there had been some kind of delay in the arrivals of letters, tracing the reported positions of Orphic caravans as proof. Gard though it was nonsense, and that instead Danubian caravans had been mistaken for Orphic ones. Joining the fray himself, Hailey thought there was some merit to this idea, though how had the agents along the Kargian trade routes made such a mistake? The rangers and priests there were thought to be of the highest caliber, there in the north, where spirits and warriors of the savage wilds would at times venture.

“Here, let me pull up a chart” Otis chirped with excitement only mildly grating to the uninterested. The interested parties listened carefully; the group so crowded atop itself that the blue light of the workstation struggled to illuminate their features. Had you somehow stood atop the desk and peered up at the gathering, a nightmarish sight of ghoulish faces strangely lit would’ve greeted you. “You can clearly see a regular pattern, even in the supposedly free and unshackled Orphics. It’s supply and demand, market forces at play. Every year, around the summer prophecy, a roof and a meal become prohibitively expensive in the major cities. The Orphic caravans, either by conscious decision or long learned habit, buy cheap metal and stone in bulk just beforehand, and spend the month waiting for demand for luxuries to rise back in the cities. Then, they return to the cities, laden with whatever rarities they dare scavenge out of the central plains. This pattern has held as long as we have records. Trading up by the Danube isn’t unheard of in this context, it’s a good place to find those rarities that rich cities can afford to put on display. If we just place the timing like this…” on a second chart, a series of letter and missive titles were scattered across a jumbled timeline. The chart was of mahogany stone, a slab of logic covering a wall of the cubicle like workstations. Otis jumbled things and argued the logic of his position. Hailey was almost convinced, but it was plain as day that Otis was fitting the facts to the argument instead of vice versa. The apprentices got bored and went to ogle the rangers and the holy girls.

“Shouldn’t you do something about them? You won the vote to be light of the apprentices, so go be their light!” someone prodded Otis. Refusing to be deterred, Otis glanced at Hailey in confusion. As Hailey had not asked the question, at first he though he could only shrug, which he did, rather emphatically. Then he remembered who he’d become. “Yes, but the role is somewhat… deprecated. Vant has been in charge of the youngsters in some unofficial capacity. We’re thinking of a better system but…” Hailey was more than happy to rattle off the numerous technical and administrative restructurings in progress, but Otis was again looking at him with pained eyes. He was planning to continue the discussion with Otis, but the meaning of the blue light finally struck him; it meant it was evening. That meant meals, rituals, the setting of agendas for the night. And it meant a meeting with Jen at the crescent garden. “Many apologies, but the work of the Goddess knows no rest” Hailey excused himself “If not for the goddess and her Pontiac, who are we doing this for?” was cried. It was an old refrain, and there were a score of stock responses to give, none of which came to mind as Hailey plodded towards his meeting.

A meeting where he found a very somber Jen, interrogating an only slightly confused prepubescent pupil. She was saying something about the Pontiac, which Hailey found reassuring, for at times he worried Jen was rather lax in her religious conviction. At the sound of his approach, the girl ran off, a smile of oblivious happiness marring her otherwise elegant features. Jen’s face possessed no such flaw, though there was not much to mar either.

They talked of administration and routine. They talked of the girls and their future. They did not talk of Mel or the summer prophecy. They did not talk of strange signs in the aviary. They came close to talking about how the Pontiac did what she did. “Since when has the Pontiac only spoken at the summer and spring pilgrimages?” Jen asked, off the coattails of a subject only very vaguely connected. “You ought to know that if you’ve got the litany of days to come truly memorized” was Hailey’s unhelpful response. A familiar impatience tinting her voice, Jen tried once more. “No, I know it’s only been a couple of years. I suppose I mean… why? Why would the Pontiac seclude herself, speaking to the masses only twice a year? Wouldn’t that make her work all the harder? Why leave the rest of the year to the Holy girls and her consort alone?” “Flooded futures girl! The consort ought to know nothing of the Pontiac’s revelations!” Jen was almost taken aback by the remark. Cowed, she thought to turn the conversation to another topic. But Hailey spoke first, the steel of a man defending his convictions hardening his words.

“But why would it make her work any more difficult? It ought to change nothing, truly” the babble of a fountain punctuated his slow and deliberate tone. “The Pontiac is no soothsayer or economist. The Pontiac could be blind, deaf, and dumb, and still know the future with as much clarity.”

A Rube Goldberg machine of implications and deductions was set off in Jen’s mind. In short time, that which had concerned her in the afternoon would be resolved into crystal clear simplicity. Of course, these were not the questions that mattered so close to the end. But it kept her occupied in the four days remaining until the summer prophecy.

The Dallot Corps marched, but not much, for it had only been a day.