This old lady is crafty. But I want her to answer mine, so grudgingly I agree.
“People don’t talk of the fifth gift because it’s rare. Ether was the first of all creation, and all natural powers stemmed from it. It’s the spark of all life.” Although she has one hand holding her hunched form over the cane, she pokes a surprisingly spry finger into my sternum. “Even inside you.”
I skip back, distancing myself from the woman’s jabbing hands. “Ether is soul?”
“Not just soul. It’s energy and intelligence.” She flicks her fingers, circling in the air, her gaze clearing as she speaks. “We’re energy first, body second. Ether is in every part of the world from rocks to trees to the ocean to all animals.”
“I think I understand—”
“Good place to begin. Other people don’t try to understand.”
I turn away from her wry smile and check the door. “Why would someone call it black magic?”
Her nose wrinkles, skin bunching on her face like a sagging sock. “Ah, ignorance. It’s easy to misunderstand what you cannot see. It’s been years since a Channeler was accused of black magic. The woman used her gift to heal a small boy.”
I chew my lip, growing uneasy. I healed the dog like the woman healed the boy. “And they called that black magic?”
“No, no. Tragedy struck near the same time. The boy’s sister suffered an accident. Poor thing passed. That’s when people spoke of black magic. A life for a life.”
I frown. “Is that possible? One life for another?”
She taps her cane. “Even if it is, it goes against the code of Channelers: Never harm. Our gifts should improve life. Never take. Since Chief Auberdeen declared any act of harm by a Channeler a crime, there have been no accusations of black magic made.”
“Who was she?” I ask, need blossoming inside. “Where is she now?”
She tsks her tongue twice against her teeth and winks again. “First, you owe me.”
Seeds, there are so many more answers to be found, and little time left. If Cohen realizes I’m gone . . . “Go on.”
“Who’s your mother?” Her question is so plain, almost as if she were asking me about the weather. It catches me off-guard.
Seeing no harm in answering, I say, “Her name was Rozen.” Her brows rise, and her rheumy gaze hones in on my face. The sudden attention makes my armpits grow sweaty. I shift my weight. “I didn’t know her. She died when I was a baby. And your next question?” I push on, wanting to finish this discussion.
She shakes her head, muttering to herself. “Never mind. I suppose the first question answered the second.”
I’m not sure what to make of her cryptic comment. I’ve stayed too long, even though there’s so much more I want to ask. I force myself to thank her and walk toward the door.
“One thing before you go.” Her cane clips against the floor as she shuffles back to her table. She pulls a pinch of dried hemlock from a jar and puts it in a small satchel. As she moves on to another jar, she looks over her hunched shoulder at me. “The Spiriter who healed the little boy . . . her name is Enat.”
My body freezes in place. “Is that a common name around here?”
“Only one around these parts.” She moves on to another jar that releases a potent whiff of musk when she pulls out a pinch of the moss-green stuff. After cinching the pouch’s strings, she shakes the contents.
I watch her while my mind tosses over how to convince this old woman to give me directions to Enat’s home. She’ll think I’m crazy. Or after no good.
When the old woman looks up with the pouch in her left hand, I ignore the urge to fidget with the boy’s cap on my head. Despite my plan to share no details, I go on instinct, hoping the truth will earn Enat’s whereabouts.
“I’ve actually come a far way to find Enat,” I confess. “I don’t mean any harm. I just need answers about my father, and I believe she has them. Will you tell me how to find her?”
Her curled nails click against her cane. “She’s old and doesn’t take kindly to visitors” is all she says.
She breathes in deep and slow, thinking. “Odd as it may be, I believe you don’t mean any harm. Hopefully, Enat will see the same and not give much trouble.” I notice she doesn’t say no trouble. “Enat lives on the outskirts of the city at the southern end.” Her words paint a vision of the path I’ll need to follow from the white cliffs to Flat Rock, then east into the Skyward Forest, where goliath trees scrape the sky. Enat’s home is hidden in those woods, beyond a tree cave. To my confusion, she gives the unsubstantial explanation: “You’ll know it when you see it.”
Seeds and stars, a tree cave? I hope she’s right.