So Nolar made the long journey into the sparsely settled hills, being received at last by a stolid family of farmers. Unfortunately, the hill folk, if anything, seemed more offended by Nolar's birthmark than the town children had been. Perhaps it had something to do with the sour nature of Thanta, the local Wise Woman. The first time Nolar encountered her at the village shop, Thanta flourished her gnarled staff at Nolar and growled, “Mark of evil on your face—avaunt you from honest folk!”
Stung by the words, Nolar abandoned her usual polite silence and blurted, “I am no more evil than you! It is not my fault that I look this way.” Thanta turned her back ostentatiously, and everyone else in the shop edged away from the child.
Nolar quickly learned to wear a loose scarf to cover as much of her facial mark as she could. No matter how hard she tried to be friendly, she was always rebuffed or actively driven away. She worked hard to accomplish the many chores she was assigned on the farm, but she was seldom thanked or praised. The weary months stretched into years. When Nolar wasn't required to be working at the farm, she often wandered alone in the hills. Her nurse was right in one respect—the animals and plants of the mountains did become Nolar's companions. She longed to learn more about all living things, and watched and listened to anyone who seemed to know about such matters.
After much thought, Nolar even dared to seek out Thanta at her hut in the hills. As she had feared, the Wise Woman was not at all pleased to see her. Nolar haltingly explained that she wanted to learn about the uses of plants for healing.
Thanta squinted suspiciously through the smoke rising from a squat brazier near the door. “Who sent you?” she demanded.
Nolar had taken a steadying breath. “No one sent me. I have heard several of the farmers say that no one hereabouts knows more about plants than you do. I hoped that you might let me help you gather them, or just watch you at work. I would not trouble you.”
Thanta seemed to consider for a moment, then shook her head decisively. “No. I have suffered much to learn the secrets I have mastered. I will not gift them to an outlander— especially not to one marked as you are. Go away—do not come here again.”
Nolar trudged back to the farm, her cheeks burning as much from keen disappointment as from the icy north wind.
Although they did not welcome Nolar, some of the hill farmers would at times let her watch them tend to sick animals and accept her shy offers to fetch things or help care for the beasts. In that way, she accumulated scraps of lore and practical healing methods, but in an unsatisfactory, fragmentary way.
She was almost eight-years-old when she stumbled—literally—upon her singular experience of good fortune. She was walking slowly along a forest path, her eyes focused high in the branches seeking the plump green leaves of mistletoe, when her boot caught against an unexpected irregularity. Nolar pitched forward, hands thrust out to break her fall. When she sat up on the soft drift of leaves and shed evergreen needles, she rubbed an abraded knee and uncovered the cause of her stumble. It was not a misplaced rock, as she expected, but instead a smoothed section of tree branch, capped at both ends by age-darkened metal. Nolar's interest soared—it had to be a scholar's carrier for scrolls or parchments. She had seen only a few such at her father's house, for he was not a scholarly man by nature, preferring to keep his written records at his trading house. As Nolar turned the wooden cylinder in her hands, she saw regular scratches on the flat metal surface of one end, probably the name of the owner. Unfortunately, the marks had been meaningless to her since she had never been taught to read. She decided that the carrier was too clean and unweathered to have been lost or discarded for very long. She had not walked along this path before, so it was possible that the owner was still nearby. The early winter afternoon quickly darkened toward dusk, so Nolar immediately noticed the warm spark of candlelight farther up the path to the left. It belonged, she found, to a ramshackle hut much built onto, with oddly shaped rooms branching off in several directions. Nolar tapped at the door, and when she heard no response, she pushed it open a crack.
“Confound that draft,” a peevish voice complained from some interior room. “If you're a bear, go away. If you're a visitor, shut the door … if it is the door that's open. How can I be expected to keep my scrolls in order with a gale blowing through the house?”
Nolar stepped inside cautiously, shutting the door behind her. A pale light preceded its bearer around a shadowy corner. Nolar's first impression was of a long, thin nose flanked by piercing eyes beneath white tufted brows. The figure then resolved into a tall old gentleman muffled in countless layers of antiquated clothing.
“And who are you, hmm?” he inquired in a voice unexpectedly deep for a man of such a gangling frame. “I haven't seen you before.” Nolar shrank back when he extended his candle toward her. “No, don't run away,” he added hastily. “Is that—have you found—oh, do let me see. I have been searching everywhere for my scrolls on the House of Inscof.”
Nolar held out her find. “It was in the leaves on the path. I fell over it.”
The old man, who was happily rummaging inside the cylinder, paused to gaze at her with obvious concern. “I do hope that you didn't hurt yourself. You must have something warm to drink. Where did I put that kettle? For that matter, where did I put the cups? But I forget the proper customs. I am Ostbor. Some call me ‘Ostbor the Scholar,’ which is kind of them, I'm sure. As you may be aware,” he continued with an air of one sharing a great confidence, “it is true that I spent some considerable time at Lormt.” He stopped, courteously awaiting her reaction.
“Forgive me, sir,” Nolar said, unsure of what she was expected to say. “I have been sent here to the mountains by my family because of my face.”
Ostbor blinked, looking rather like a curiously featherless owl. “Face? Face? What about your face? You have one, I have one. What is so unusual in that?”
“The mark, sir,” Nolar admitted in a low voice.
“Hmm—that.” Ostbor dismissed the mark with a negligent wave. “Think nothing of that, child. It is no more than a minor stain on a new parchment. So long as the writing is clear, what matters the appearance of the material? Speaking of writing, I presume you brought my scroll carrier to me because you saw my name on the cap. I engraved it myself,” he added, proudly fingering the scratches that Nolar had noticed.
Nolar cringed inwardly. “I cannot read, sir. No one ever thought to teach me.”
Ostbor was momentarily speechless. “What! Can't read—of course you can read, and write. I shall show you how. It is really quite simple. Hmm—to be truthful, some folk find it easier to master than do others, but it requires no great wit, and I can see from your eyes that you have sufficient spark. Here, sit down—wait, let me move some of these records. There are those who call me ‘Ostbor the Pack Rat,’ which I think entirely unfair.” As he made an expansive gesture to emphasize his words, Ostbor precipitated a cascade of loose parchment strips and scraps. “Hmm—perhaps not altogether unfair. I do tend to accumulate things—chiefly written things, you see. It's because of my interest in families. Who was whose great-grandfather? Did they come from here or there, and who married whom? Which reminds me, who are you?”
Nolar straightened up from retrieving parchments from the floor. “I am Nolar, sir, of the House of Meroney—that is, Meroney is my mother's House.”
Ostbor had given an encouraging nod. “And a fine House it is. I am more familiar with the branch that settled near Pethel, but I have certainly read of Meroney. See here—we are still standing in this cold room with nothing to drink. Come back by the fire and tell me about yourself while I look for that kettle. I know I had it out yesterday, but where did I leave it?” He swept Nolar ahead of him down a twisting passageway into an even more cluttered room, which was comfortably warmed by a brisk fire. The area around the rough stone hearth was surprisingly clean and orderly. As if noticing her appraisal, Ostbor explained, “One can never be too careful about fires, especially when it com
es to manuscripts. One must keep them well away from any flames. Some of the older scholars at Lormt, now—I can remember one who would let his candles drip on his work—most unsafe. He lost an entire scroll one day when it ignited. Dreadful.”
“Was he hurt?” Nolar asked.
“No, no, silly fellow—although I do believe he did scorch his sleeve in putting out the fire. I had told him a dozen times to be more careful. And you must be equally wary. When one is handling parchments, particularly old ones, the material is nearly always dry and very fragile. A mere spark can set it off. That's why I take such care to keep my hearth clear and place my candles securely out of drafts. Which I must say,” he added as he triumphantly excavated a small kettle from beneath a mound of scholarly debris, “can be a problem in this house. I cannot imagine how the wind penetrates the way it does. Let me fetch some water. You will, of course, stay the night.” Before Nolar was able to protest that she had to get back to the farm, Ostbor bustled away down another narrow passage.
That was the first of many nights there for Nolar. In retrospect, those few precious years with Ostbor were the happiest that Nolar had ever known. On long winter evenings, the snow-hush was broken only by the snapping of the fire and Ostbor's muttering as he pored over his records. As a special treat, he occasionally let Nolar mull some wine. Later, there were exhilarating spring afternoons striding through the mountain meadows trying to match flowers and plants to the curious old drawings that Ostbor had collected. He insisted that someday he would write and illustrate his own catalogue of plants. “For then, you see, the people could have an organized record and not have to depend on the scattered memories of Wise Women. Not that some of them aren't very well informed, but some of their lore is mistaken, and they do persist in teaching it unchanged to their apprentices, so errors aren't corrected.”
Ostbor's true interest, however, was bound in his genealogical researches. He spent countless hours sorting through dusty records, forgetting to eat, and often sitting so long that his bones would creak when he finally did rise. He was scrupulously honest, always attempting to consider objectively all the facts in a dispute, and speaking the truth as fairly as he could. He primarily bartered for his supplies, trading decorated scrolls commemorating events in the family lives of the hill folk. Although unschooled themselves, the hill folk respected learning, and prized Ostbor's work. He was also paid in gold and silver for his researches for wealthier families from the distant towns who sent kinship queries in letters delivered by servants.
Nolar awakened her first morning at Ostbor's under a mountain-sewn down quilt far warmer than the threadbare blanket she was accustomed to at the farm. She found Ostbor by following a discordant clanging that had led her to the kitchen. Ostbor somewhat sheepishly confessed that his household affairs were not perhaps as well organized as his scholarly work, and from a rapid survey of the deplorable state of his pots and pans, Nolar heartily agreed. Having spent some time in the kitchen run with ferocious efficiency by her father's cook, Nolar knew how a kitchen was supposed to look. She hesitantly suggested that she might help clean a few pots for Ostbor, if he had any fine sand for the polishing. He appeared much relieved to encounter anyone at all familiar with such matters, and showed her as best he could where everything was stored before retreating to his researches. Nolar scraped, scoured, washed, and polished most of the morning. When Ostbor had appeared at the door just after midday, absentmindedly assembling a platter of bread and cheese, he suddenly stopped, amazed by the progress she had achieved.
“This is splendid!” Ostbor exclaimed. “You are a treasure—but I have left you laboring away here for too long. Let us divide this bread—I think I have some sausage tucked away over here—and after we've eaten, I must show you how to read. Then you can be my assistant, and not merely a cleaner of pots, which I must say you have improved significantly. I had no idea that one was copper—fancy that.”
Although often distracted from the point at hand, Ostbor proved to be a fine teacher. He was delighted to find that Nolar could distinguish the tiniest letters, for he confessed that his eyesight was not so keen as it had once been. “It is an advantage to a scholar to see better those things close by,” he suggested. “One is scarcely diverted by grand views when all one sees is a blur. Give me a nice crisp list of descendants—now that is worth examining. Look at this one. See that large letter? Yes, quite so, and what about that one?”
Nolar absorbed his intermittent teaching like a thirsty man long denied the very sight of water, who beyond all hope was allowed free access to a flowing brook. Every minute that she wasn't trying to bring some order to the house, Nolar immersed herself in mastering the intricacies of reading and writing. Soon she was able to puzzle out the crabbed and faded letters on stacks of scrolls that Ostbor had set aside as unreadable. He was enchanted when she found a fragment that filled a gap in a lineage that he had reluctantly abandoned as forever flawed. For the first time in her life, Nolar felt that she was contributing something useful—that she was needed. It gave her a sense of contentment unlike anything else she had ever experienced.
That first day they were together, Ostbor at once sent word to the farmer fostering Nolar so that he would not think her lost in the mountains. Ostbor then prompted Nolar to describe her life at the hill farm. Slowly at first, and then with more fluency, Nolar detailed the grinding work that had occupied most of her waking hours. Almost incidentally, she related her experiences of being actively scorned and more recently, being simply ignored and isolated. When she finished, Ostbor sat thinking in his big chair, then he began work on a new decorated scroll. As he assembled the bright colors he used to ornament prominent letters, Ostbor explained that it was only fair to offer the farmer something in exchange for Nolar's services.
“I trust that you would prefer to stay here, if that were possible? I thought so. I know that farm, by the way—they have ample helpers without you, whereas I do not. I must, however, write to your father to request that you be allowed to stay here as my apprentice. That is the proper thing to do, as well as the polite thing.”
Some weeks later, a passing hunter had delivered Nolar's father's brusque reply. He had starkly assented, with the clear assertion that he did not intend to pay Ostbor; if Ostbor chose to keep the child, then he could support her as he pleased. Ostbor chuckled at this rather cold dismissal. “Hmm—the hill folk bring me far more food than I need for myself, and your assistance with my records will speed my work considerably. Ordinarily,” he confided, “I do not consider myself a keen tradesman by nature, but in this matter, I am obviously getting the better end of the bargain. Let us celebrate with a little wine. Now where did I put that flask? I'm sure it was on that middle shelf yesterday … or was it last week?”
Among all of the many subjects that Ostbor talked about, the one that intrigued Nolar the most was Lormt. She was fascinated by his tales of his studies there. Once the world of writing was revealed to her, Nolar felt a burning desire to learn, and the notion of a place where ancient knowledge was preserved and cared for spurred her to ask Ostbor about Lormt again and again. Lormt took on fantastic dimensions in her imagination. Finally, one early spring day when buds were beginning to swell on the trees and the icy ground was softening in the first thawing of the season, she dared to ask Ostbor if he would take her to see Lormt—the vast towers, the great buildings he had described, the walls within stacked with scrolls.
Ostbor was taken aback. “Hmm … perhaps I have conveyed to you too grand a conception of Lormt,” he had confessed. “No doubt in former years, the edifices were most impressive; but I must tell you that these latter years have not been kind ones to Lormt. There is so little appreciation for the value of preservation, you see—most people don't really care about old manuscripts, peculiar though that is to those of us who know how priceless they are. Of course, I can understand that writing is difficult to appreciate if one does not read—even you, my dear, were once in that unhappy state, and you have obser
ved that some common folk would as soon burn scrolls for fuel as not.” He shuddered at that awful thought. “And one must accept the attitude of the Council.” Ostbor sighed and fell silent. Nolar begged him to continue. “Hmm … yes, the Witches, you see—they don't—that is, they prize their own knowledge, as well they might, but they don't much esteem knowledge from other sources, especially that compiled by men. The scholars at Lormt are nearly all men, so there is practically no communication between them and the Council. My own work, of course, has been chiefly involved in kinship records, but Lormt contains vast stores of scrolls on magic and healing and tales of the past. Lormt is a treasure house, as you have surmised. What you must know, however, is that Lormt is isolated far from most people and ordinary affairs. A few good folk have settled nearby, to farm and provide the scholars with all the necessities, but life at Lormt is extremely austere. Over the years, too, there have been occasional floods and quakes of the earth which have damaged the buildings. Indeed, no man knows when or how the massive stones were set to raise the great enclosing wall and the four corner towers. To my mind, though, the worst of it has always been the deplorable lack of order. Yes, I see you smile, and it is true that I am not the most orderly of household arrangers. You will concede, I trust, that I do keep my records in good order. I know where every single scroll is … hmm … almost every scroll. At Lormt, I regret to say, many of the scholars are less serious than they should be. Why, some of them even try to order what should be copied from the fragments before they become unreadable. There is a certain disregard for priorities and details, and from what I have heard since I was last there, I fear that conditions have become even more lax and disorderly.” Ostbor shook his head. “I wish I could assure you that Lormt was the esteemed center of learning that it should be, but … Still, I can say that it does persist, and even the little that is accomplished there is valuable. Perhaps one day, some more energetic scholars may demand that purpose and direction be instilled—much as you have succeeded in doing here in my house!” And with this wish, Ostbor smiled, and turned back to his parchments.