Hozier Bogman's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Isa pushed the cart down the ridge toward the arbor. The crow flew ahead. Florence walked beside the wheels with one hand on the brass. Hozier followed a step behind. The lesson was over. Something else had started, and he did not yet know its shape. While the cart rolled, Florence broke off toward her drying garden. She said she needed dry wort for the water. Isa nodded and kept pushing. Hozier watched Florence go. Her shoulders were tight. She had been like that since the hags. In the garden, Florence pulled bundles of yellow flower from the shed rail. Her hands were quick and hard. A shadow crossed the row. Isa stood at the gate with her coat over one arm. "You've been afraid," Isa said. "Unsure. Leaning on him for every step. That isn't you." Florence did not look up. "He knows the ground here." "He knows his ground. Not yours." Isa came in and took a bundle from the rail. "I watched you channel through wet peat. That was you. Not him. You've been small on purpose. Stop." Florence's hands stopped. She set the wort down. "He is trying to teach me something that lasts past me. He is careful with it." "Careful is not the same as right." Isa held her gaze. "You will burn out before it takes root. I've seen it." Florence did not answer. She picked the bundle back up. But her hands were steadier now. On the far side of the bog, Hozier knelt by dark water. He had not meant to stop. His hands had found clay at the bank and started working it. He watched them do it. A shape rose under his palms. A wide bowl on thick roots. A hollow shaped for holding weight. He did not know the word for what it was. He knew only that it was for a birth, and that the birth was old, and that he had never been taught this. He sat back. Fear moved in him. He could shape a thing and not know its name. If he taught Florence like this, by feel alone, he would spend her. "You are earth magic," a voice said behind him. "That is why the shape came. But you need words." He turned. A small figure stood at the water's edge, flower crown, green robe, bare feet on the moss. Danu. She had chosen Florence and him as witnesses once. She had not spoken to him alone before. "I have no teacher," he said. "You do now." She stepped onto the moss without sinking. "I will give you the names. You will give her the craft. That is the trade." He bowed his head. "Yes." "Begin tomorrow," Danu said. "Bring her here. Not the arbor." She was gone before he stood. The clay bowl held rainwater already. He pressed his palm to its rim. The obstacle he had carried since the first lesson had lifted. He had a teacher. Florence would have hers.