Ignition Read online

  “Thanks very much. It was very enlightening.” Jen grabs my elbow with strong fingers and pulls me away to the door. The woman stares after us, looking pensive. I echo Jen’s thanks and follow her.

  Once outside and three stores down the road, Jen lets out her breath with a whoosh and laughs. I try to shake the lingering questions I have about the truth of the shopkeeper’s warning. Normally, I would never take the word of a fortune-teller seriously—I’ve seen too many charlatans in my day. But that necklace makes me wonder, especially when she told me I was waiting for someone. And then the warnings about portents—what did she mean? I clench my teeth in frustration. Stupid fortune-tellers—always telling you just enough to be curious, but not enough to be useful.

  “Well! Now I’ve got to wait for my one true love to come sweep me off my feet.” Jen holds out her arms and mimes running in slow-motion. I laugh and try to forget the comments of doom.

  “Yeah, that was pretty bog-standard palm reading tripe. Are you happy now? You’ve had the best of the stereotypical fortune-telling visit.”

  “Oh, it was fun anyway. She was so serious about it, too. But your fortune was weird—she was trying to branch out a bit with you. Maybe she was trying to distract you from looking down her shirt.”

  “Is that why you kicked me? What you must think of me! I was checking out her necklace, that’s all.”

  “Sure, sure. That’s okay, I don’t judge. If you prefer elderly women, that’s your prerogative.” I mime pushing her shoulder and she ducks away.

  “That’s not the wisest way of needling an ice cream out of me, just so you know.”

  ***

  The sun is low in the sky, even with the ever-lengthening days of approaching summer. I’m cooling my heels in my office, biding time until my obligations here are done. I offered office hours for any last-minute questions before final essays are due for my classes. Two students came right at the start, but since then I’ve been swiveling in my office chair, lost to the world. I descend into this state at times—I faze out and hardly anything attracts my attention. A by-product of endless life, I suppose. I have to make it pass somehow.

  A sharp knock wakes me from my reverie, and a young man peeks his head around the door.

  “Dr. Lytton?”

  “Come on in.” I stop my twirling with a solid planting of my feet on the floor. “You’re just in time. What can I help you with?”

  “I’m writing my essay on the Taming of the Shrew. Shakespeare, you know.”

  “I’m familiar with it, yes,” I say drily. He doesn’t notice my tone, which is just as well.

  “I’m confused about the part when Petruchio acts annoyed and angry in front of Katherina. He yells something about being choleric. What’s that about? Shouldn’t that be a bigger deal if they’ve all got cholera?”

  I try not to laugh. He’s referring to the part in which Petruchio berates the servants for serving “choleric” mutton to two “choleric” people.

  “Petruchio is referring to the four humors, a popular medicinal belief during that period. The theory goes that there are four fluids within each person that regulate their health and moods—blood, phlegm, and black and yellow bile. Lovely, I know. Too much black bile and a person grows melancholic. Too much yellow bile and they become choleric, or irritable and quick to anger. Often certain foods associated with each humor were fed to the afflicted person in the hopes that they would address the imbalance.”

  I remember when my wife, Maria, died in 1553. We were living in Italy at the time and I grieved as I tend to do, by shutting myself in and sleeping for weeks on end. My landlady was certain I’d fallen prey to the worst case of melancholy she’d ever seen. She tried for weeks to get me to call the doctor for treatment, and eventually resorted to feeding me her own concoction of garlic-infused milk. I moved away quickly after that, so perhaps her treatment worked after all.

  “So Petruchio is saying that they’ve got too much yellow bile? That’s kind of disgusting.”

  “It was a different time, certainly. It’s all about creating a balance in the body. If one aspect is out of sync and is overpowering the others, then the body cannot keep a straight course. A balance of power is essential. Without balance of the parts, the whole will be sick.” Although I agree with the principles of balance, it’s less to do with fluids in the body and more to do with the lauvan. I can see if someone is sick through a gathering of their lauvan in different places than in their center. Sometimes, I can even help fix it by manipulating the lauvan. Sometimes.

  “Okay,” he says. “I guess I’ll write about how Petruchio is trying to show Katherina how irritating she is.”

  “Sure. But you’d better write quickly. The essay is due the day after tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Dr. Lytton.” He swings his backpack over one shoulder and hustles to the door.

  “But not too quickly! I want it understandable,” I say to his back.

  His retreating footsteps patter distantly before the door in the far hall slams shut. The clock tells me it’s definitely time to go home. I gather my coat and a stack of papers to mark from another class and move quickly to the door. I don’t want to be waylaid by a tardy student.

  Once home, I settle myself onto the couch and rifle through the pile to find an essay by one of my better students. It’s too late to start reading a terrible essay. Even so, it’s slow progress. At every page, I look at my watch and am surprised anew. Time never seems to pass so slowly as when marking.

  CHAPTER IV

  Dreaming

  Arthur’s father Uther places his drinking bowl on the table with a definite thud. His white hair glows orange in the light from the fire, and his eyes appear sunken in the shadows. I was welcomed as a novelty and news-bearer as Arthur predicted, and I spent most of the meal telling tales of events in the south where I passed the summer. Uther is keen to hear of developments in the east, where Saxons made a large raiding forage into the southwest in the spring and killed many people. Arthur keeps quiet but his eyes mostly stay on my face.

  I use the brief silence to thank Uther for his hospitality.

  “No need, no need. News is a valuable commodity, and I thank you for your tales.” Uther pours himself more wine and offers some to me. I reach forward to give him my bowl, a handsome—and likely very valuable—vessel of pottery with distinctive markings indicating its origin in faraway Aquitania. My sleeve snags on the edge of the table and exposes my forearm. On the inner skin of my arm is a blue tattoo of an oak leaf. Uther finishes pouring and frowns. “Is that…”

  I hold up my arms to display the tattoo and its twin on my other forearm.

  “Initiate of the first order of the druids of Eire.” I shrug my sleeves back down. Arthur gapes, and I suppress a smile. “I would have carried on further, but my wanderlust is strong. Besides, experience is the best teacher.”

  “The druids are renowned for their learning and wisdom, even from across the sea. You were fortunate to have an opportunity to study with them.” Uther takes a sip of his wine and considers me.

  “Indeed. And one of the most useful things I learned was music. It’s how I make my way in the world—there’s always someone willing to take in a bard for a time. Would you care for a song or two in exchange for your generous hospitality?” I pick up my case and open it to reveal my harp, fashioned out of wild cherry and carved with delicate knots. It’s not my work—sadly my carving skills are minimal—but another initiate’s, in exchange for introductions to a particular girl he had his eye on. I think I got the better end of the deal, since the girl was shrill with a very annoying laugh, whereas the harp is perfection itself.

  “Please. It would be a gift to our ears.” Uther settles himself lower in his chair. Arthur wriggles a little and leans forward to watch my fingers.

  I sing a song I learned this summer from another traveling bard, about the exploits of the warlord Vortigern. Arthur remains fascinated throughout. Uther looks as if he ponders a weighty
decision.

  Near the end of the last verse, light footsteps echo in the hall and the door opens. I expect the cook or a slave to clear the empty platters, but instead am greeted with the sight of a girl—young woman, really—of about sixteen. Her long black hair runs down her back in a thick braided rope. Delicate features surround sharp and lively eyes of deepest brown, and her robes only partly hide a body just beginning to fill out into womanhood. Her lauvan glow with a ruby-red gleam. She pauses at the doorway, obviously wondering what she interrupted. Her eyes light on my face at the end of my song.

  “Wonderful!” Uther claps his hands and Arthur jumps from his chair to examine my harp. I hand it to him. Uther spies the girl and beckons her forward.

  “Morgan, my dear, come meet our guest. Merlin, this is my daughter Morgan. She takes very long walks and tends to miss dinner. It is something I like to discourage, especially at this time of year.” He frowns at his daughter in a resigned way, and she bows her head in a gesture that somehow does not indicate contrition.

  I stand and sweep my hand out in a bow.

  “It’s a pleasure, Morgan.”

  She nods back but maintains eye contact. When she speaks, her voice is light and self-assured.

  “Likewise. Please, don’t let me interrupt you.”

  Uther raises his hand.

  “Actually, I want to ask you something, Merlin. Although I have lands and a place on the war council, I am a simple man without much learning. I want more for my son. I want him respected, not only for his fighting prowess, but also for his mind. I have a proposition for you—stay with us for the winter and tutor Arthur, and in return I will provide you with comfortable living quarters and meals. What do you say?”

  This is a development I wasn’t expecting. I look at Uther, whose frank and open face seems to hide no ulterior motives. Arthur looks ecstatic and bounces slightly in his chair, his lauvan bobbing along with him. My gaze travels briefly to Morgan, who looks both amused and exasperated at her father’s hasty decision. I look to the fire. If I leave, I travel through the coming winter in the lessening hope that a lord or chieftain will want a bard for the winter. If I stay, I take on the new and strange role of tutor—what am I supposed to teach him?—but I also have room and board for the worst of the cold. I can move on in the spring. Who knows what the winter will hold, but with this opportunity at least I’ll be warm and well-fed.

  “Add in two ounces of silver in the spring if you’re satisfied with my work, and it’s a deal.” I hold out my hand.

  Uther laughs.

  “You’re a man who knows what he wants. I like that.” He grasps my forearm and we shake. I wonder what I’ve got myself into.

  ***

  Arthur and I stare at each other. Uther’s departing footsteps echo on the tiled floor in the hall. Tutoring seemed like a wonderful idea by the dim of the fire last night, but in the pale morning chill I am dubious.

  “So, what exactly does your father want me to teach you?” I ask Arthur.

  He squeezes his lips around and wriggles his nose in a show of thinking.

  “Stuff,” he says. I continue to stare at him. “Lots of stuff. What do you know? Teach me that.”

  I aim a gentle swat at his head which he ducks, grinning.

  “Very helpful, little squirt.”

  Morgan pipes up from the other end of the table.

  “He only hired you because Lord Aelius has a tutor for his sons, and Father doesn’t want to look inferior.” She piles the breakfast dishes together. “Just teach him what the druids taught you, or whatever you think is useful. Father isn’t going to care too much exactly what you’re teaching him.”

  “Whatever I want? Maybe this could be interesting after all.”

  Arthur leans toward me.

  “You could teach me how to fish,” he says.

  I tousle the little squirt’s hair. He’s beginning to grow on me.

  CHAPTER V

  Late in the morning, feeling bleary and out of focus, I brew a strong pot of coffee to fuel my essay-marking. I plow through the first one doggedly, claw and scratch my way through the second, then give the third one up as a bad job and toss the pile onto my coffee table. I throw on some jeans and give my hair a cursory comb. Ten minutes later I’m driving down the quiet weekend road, and half an hour after that the car purrs to the top of Cypress Mountain. In the winter it’s crawling with skiers and snowboarders, but by this time the snow has mostly melted. I pull into the empty parking lot and strike out onto a familiar trail.

  A vigorous hike straight up rewards me with a spectacular view—the cloudless sky reveals a vista spanning muted farmland on the left, glistening ocean on the right, and the glittering city nestled in the center. The air is unusually still. It’s the perfect conditions to test a few lauvan.

  I like to come up here and feel the pulse of the world. It keeps my lauvan-manipulation skills fresh—here I can focus on them without distraction. But it also connects me to the intense energies of the Earth.

  There’s nothing quite like the rush from touching the very spirit of Earth itself. The immense power from the vast energies of this planet, the explosive strength of its molten core, the whipping winds that howl across its surface, the might of its swirling oceans—these all add up to a potent conglomeration of energy. The Earth is much like a living human being, surrounded by its own swirling lauvan.

  But the immensity of energies involved means that the Earth is surrounded by an enormous network of lauvan. Different cultures have intuited the presence of this network. Some have called them ley lines, some feng shui, these invisible lines of power across the Earth.

  But if you’re me, that network can be seen and felt.

  Stretching across the city, and up the mountain to the peak where I stand, lies a solid path of lauvan. To my eyes it appears as a vast electrical cord, lauvan upon lauvan bundled together to create a massive cable. As with all lauvan, their otherness lends them a semi-transparent appearance, but their sheer volume makes the ground below difficult for me to see.

  The cable weaves its way up the mountainside and meanders beside the promontory on which I stand. Its pulsating twists snake their way over the peak, and flow beside the path to disappear behind a swath of trees, the diameter of the cable taller than I am. It lies along the Earth as much as possible, since the Earth is what sustains it, connects it, and gives it form.

  But a cable that size cannot contain itself. A mist spreads, resolving itself near me as a fine network of loose lauvan fanning out from the cable. They twist and wind their way slowly across the land, becoming less dense further away from the cable.

  I crouch down and reach into the fine filigree of silvery-brown threads. It can be a jolt connecting to the Earth’s network deliberately—the absolute power contained in the network is awe-inspiring—but when prepared, it is a pleasurable one. I remember the first time I worked up the nerve to approach a lauvan-cable. I was sixteen, walking along a path high on a barren ridge, and I plunged my hands straight into the cable there. I must have flown twenty paces through the air and was dazed for half an hour after, but it was an incredible rush. Now that I know what I’m doing and approach cables with more caution and preparation, I’m not blasted through the air.

  It’s still a rush, though.

  “Ahh.” I lift my chin and close my eyes involuntarily as the sensation takes over. It’s a mixture of immense power flowing through me and filling me up, making me more than I am. It’s intoxicating. I let myself revel in the feeling for a moment and allow my mind to go blissfully blank.

  Then I pull myself together and start to examine the pulse of the Earth under my hands.

  This examination keeps my lauvan-sensing skills sharp. In the nineteen seventies, after Josephine died, I spent the end of the decade sleeping through my grief and then experimenting with all the drugs I could find in order to escape from my memories. When I pulled myself out of the haze, I was horrified to discover that my control and sensiti
vity had degraded. I’ve been making these little practice expeditions ever since.

  The lauvan in my grasp slide through my fingers, each one hitting my skin with a small zing. The corners of my mouth turn up slowly as I connect with the power of the Earth, even in such a small way.

  I open my eyes and search the mountain below me. A large boulder rests on the slope a hundred paces away, perhaps an arm-span from the streaming flow of the cable. I let the translucent threads in my hand fall out, one by one, until I find what I’m looking for. With a short, sharp contraction of my fingers, I tweak the last lauvan in my grasp.

  There’s a crack like a gunshot. A small fragment of the boulder flings high into the air, twisting wildly, and drops to tumble down the slope between pine trees.

  I lean back on my heels, grinning, and plunge my hands again into the writhing mass.

  I pull them out again just as quickly when a sense of vileness hits me. My heart pounds with the feeling that something is terribly wrong. More cautiously I slide my fingers through the flowing lauvan, searching. After a minute, I find it—a lauvan buzzing with the same uneasy energy that I felt before.

  My stomach protests at the sensation, and I carefully lift it out of the mass to examine it better.

  The usual silvery-brown of the Earth’s lauvan is muted on this strand. Its pale shade is tinged with a sickly yellow, repulsive to my eyes. I grit my teeth and close my eyes to sense more.

  I follow the lauvan with my mind, tracing its path back to the main cable and into the stream. It travels behind me, away from the city. I follow it, the sensation less a visual one than a sense of knowledge of where on the Earth this lauvan leads. I swoop down valleys and climb up precipitous slopes, following the repulsive sick lauvan.