Fate Caster

Fate Caster

Chapter 4

Mave

My training isn’t at all what I thought it would be. I imagined I would be staring into a crystal ball, or learning to read the stars. Turns out, a lot of this fate caster stuff is about sitting around and just watching.

I do enjoy a good vapid stare; don’t get me wrong, my mind can wander all over creation if I let it. But I thought after the first month we would at least be reading tea leaves or something. Instead, my training consists of staring at a candle and imagining I’m the flame. Or sitting by the river and pretending that I’m a bird, swooping up and flying down. I must also sit and examine my thoughts. Matilda says I must be the shepherd of my thoughts, for they shape the world.

I go to my training every afternoon and spend a couple of hours in the Hall of Spirits. Today I’m bringing Matilda a gift—it’s a book I’ve managed to save called The Impersonal Life. While not exactly extinct, books that aren’t considered to be “helpful” have found their way more often than not into the fire on a cold winter’s night. But I managed to save this one by keeping it under my bed with my other favorites—War and Peace, A Girl of the Limberlost, and Pride and Prejudice.

As I enter the Spirit Hall, I see Matilda sitting cross-legged on her pillows on the stage that takes up one end of the hall. She has one corner of the stage screened off that makes up her living quarters and includes her own private bathroom. I’m not sure if she’s dozed off or is meditating. When I’m about 20 feet away she says, “You’ve brought me something,” without lifting her head. How does she do that?

I place the book into her hands. “Ah, one of my favorites,” she says smiling. I hear movement from the right corner of the stage and look up to see Plotkin, staring at us with a look that’s hard to read. I can only describe it as interested. But he looks away quickly when he sees I’ve noticed him.

To call Plotkin Matilda’s servant would be a most apt description, however he has no such official title. He was never given a coming of age ceremony because of his hunched back which causes him to lean slightly and forces his head into an awkward sideways position when he walks. He rarely speaks, and when he does, he stutters. He has a thin, smooth face, a large beaky nose and small dark-rimmed eyes that dart about, but I wouldn’t call him ugly.

I know most of the clan thinks he is simple-minded, but I don’t think he is. When I look in his eyes, I see a frightened animal, but not a stupid one.

“A present Plotkin.” Matilda raises the book for him to see and Plotkin smiles from his berth in the corner. He’s here most of the time, but honestly I usually overlook him. He has a way of blending into the background.

“Make yourself useful and get me a snack from the mess,” says Matilda, turning towards Plotkin. He gets up and shambles off quickly, heading out the back door.

“Matilda?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you don’t mind me asking this…”

“Well spit it out.”

“I was just wondering about Plotkin. Folk say he has a simple mind, but I don’t think he does.”

“You are quite correct, very observant. He’s actually quite cunning, in his own way. And his reticence is a gift, one that I very much appreciate.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Plotkin can see without being seen and can hear without being heard. Haven’t you noticed the way people ignore him? We all have a certain presence when we walk into a room, but Plotkin has grown up hiding and wishing not to be seen. And the practice has paid off.”

“But how did he?..”

“Come to be here taking orders from me?” Matilda finishes.

“Yes.”

“The simple answer is, he had nowhere else to go. After he was denied a coming of age ceremony, a decision I disagreed with by the way, he didn’t have anywhere to go. So I asked him to come help me, a choice I do not regret. He protects me and I protect him. Now enough about Plotkin. It’s time to resume your training. Today we are going to try something new I like to call “Beholding the Beholder.” First you must clear your mind. Focus on your breath, like I taught you.”

I still my mind and focus on taking slow, deep breaths, in and out, in and out. After a few minutes I hear Matilda’s voice.

“Now take your point of focus and move it behind you. Tell me what you see. Describe the back of your head, neck, shoulders, and the rest. What do you see?”

So I begin describing, as I pretend that I am standing behind myself. But something strange happens as the picture becomes very real.

“I see a girl sitting cross-legged. A long, red braid runs down her back. She wears a cream colored sweater that’s slightly bunched around her waist. The tag is sticking out the back of the neck. I can’t see her right hand, but I can see her left. It’s small, like a baby hand..” I continue to describe what I see—the color of my skirt, my hair tie and anything else I notice. Then Matilda asks me to change my focus to above my head, then my side, then the front. The feeling of moving around myself produces the oddest sensation, and a slight tingling in my fingers and toes.

Finally, Matilda asks, “Return your focus to a place behind yourself. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?” I still my mind and focus.

“Three.”

“Very good,” says Matilda, with a hint of pride in her voice. “Now how many?”

I focus again. I see her holding up five fingers now.

“Five.”

“Impressive,” she purrs. “You’ve begun to enter the state of the beholder, no mean feat.” She asks me how many fingers she’s holding up one more time, but I’m thinking about her compliment, inwardly thrilled—so my concentration is lost and I get it wrong. Matilda says, “Time for a break. You’ve made good progress today. Now rub my shoulders and I’ll explain more about what you’ve been doing. In order to broaden your vision, you must behold the beholder.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you must be patient while I gather my thoughts,” Matilda snaps. Then she adds, “Sorry dear, I have a lot weighing on my mind.. but to continue, you’ve known limited focus throughout your life. You’ve identified yourself as an individual, a body, but true prescience comes from an identity of oneness with all that lives. Up until now, you have seen mere glimpses of your gift, which is a remarkable ability. It means you are waking up. But that doesn’t mean you are better than someone else. It just means you are more awake. The moment you start to get a big head you lose your grip on at-one-ment.” She paused, coughed, then continued. “That is why I have asked you to imagine what it’s like to be a bird, a tree, or a blade of grass. You truly are all these things. As you accept this, the greater picture will reveal more of itself to you.”

It’s hard to imagine myself this way so I ask, “But how can I be a tree, or a bird?”

“It’s difficult to put into words. As you continue your meditation exercises, you will begin to understand more.”

Plotkin has returned with Matilda’s snack, so I lead her over to a settee and bring her a drink of water. At 65, she is one of the oldest members of our clan.

“Put that pillow behind my back and I’ll tell you about the Golden Times,” she says. I smile and grab the pillow, arranging her until she is comfortable. Plotkin and I both sit on old pillows on the floor before her. He hands me a honey oat cake, but looks away shyly before I can meet his gaze.

“When I was a little girl,” Matilda begins, “We made special trips to beautiful places and we called them vacations. One summer my family took a month long trip to Europe. I still remember what we ate the first night: fish and chips. The outside of the fish was crispy and slightly oily and the inside was soft and delicious. In those days we thought nothing of eating meat at every meal. It wasn’t the luxury it is today.”

As Matilda describes swimming in the crystal clear waters off the coast of Greece, eating ice cream and pastries, and walking the chilly halls of old castles, I can almost imagine I’m there. And even though I’m bursting with questions, I know Matilda doesn’t like to be interrupted in the midst of a good reminiscence.

I look over at Plotkin. His eyes are wide and he is absolutely transfixed, like a child who’s just found a huge stash of hard candy. I’ve never seen him look so unafraid. For a moment, I see past the hunched back, the brooding features, the stuttering, and see a beautiful soul, the soul of a child. And I wonder if this is what Matilda meant by at-one-ment.