by T.A. Barron
“A little,” I replied, tying a knot in the satchel’s severed cord. “But I still have a long way—a very long way—to go. Making small objects go where I want is one thing. Making myself go where I want is quite another, believe me.”
Hallia started combing her hair with her slender fingers. “I believe you! The last time you tried to send someone by Leaping, the two of us ended up in the middle of the Haunted Marsh.”
“Hecha-hecha-hech-ch-ch,” cackled Scullyrumpus. “A lovely placeyplace, that is.”
I frowned. “Perhaps you’d like to go there now?”
For the first time, I saw a genuine glimmer of fear in his face. The lopsided grin vanished, and his ears wiggled nervously. He looked so frightened that I almost felt sorry for the little fellow. Then, without warning, he burst into howls of laughter. “Hakacha-cha-cha, cheechee. Clumsy manman fooled again! Haka, haka, ho-ho-hee, ho-ho-hee, hoo hoo.”
Seething, I started to speak, when Hallia cut me off. “Shouldn’t we be going, young hawk?” Her eyes gleamed, as she shook her hair playfully. “You said you had something to show me.”
“That’s right,” I replied, sending a sharp glance at the bothersome beast. Then, turning back to Hallia, I added, “And something to give you, as well.”
“Where are you going?” asked Rhia.
“To the stargazing stone. You know the place—on the hill north of the old stringfruit tree.”
She nodded. “Perfect place to camp, I agree.”
My face fell. “You mean . . . you’re coming?” I waved at her sharp-tongued passenger. “Him, too?”
Rhia leaned closer, placing her hand on the gnarled top of my staff. “A little company will do you good. You two have been spending so much time by yourselves recently, the trees are full of whispers.”
Hallia cocked her head to one side. “Really? What do they say?”
“Oh, just whispers.”
“What do they say?” pressed Hallia.
Rhia almost grinned. “Well . . . that you two are as close as honey on a leaf.”
Scullyrumpus rolled his eyes. “Lovesicky whispers. Aagghh! Makes me want to stuff ears with mud.”
“Good idea,” I suggested. “You should try it.”
“Anyway,” Rhia went on, “we’re heading that direction. We’re meeting Mother the day after tomorrow. She’s traveling with Cairpré, as you know, and invited me to join them for a night.” With more than a touch of mischief, she added, “Care to come along?”
“Er, no. Much as I miss her, and also Cairpré, these days I have . . . other plans.”
“So I noticed,” she said knowingly. “Oh well. It looks like tonight will be my last chance to see you for a while.”
I blew a sigh and turned to Hallia. “It seems we’re stuck.”
Gently, she brushed the back of my hand. “Like honey on a leaf.”
The branches above us stirred, slapping themselves together as if they were applauding. Beams of light shimmered on the roots, leaves, and strips of bark that lined the forest floor. A round hedgehog, nestled at the base of a scarlet maple, lifted its head at the touch of warm light. Its small, black eyes examined us, calmly passing from one face to the next, until it apparently concluded that we weren’t worth interrupting a nap for. Replacing its head upon its bristly back, the creature closed its eyes and returned to slumber.
Rhia tapped the head of my staff. “In case you’re worried, I’ll be taking the faster route to the stargazing stone. That will give you two a little more time for, well, whatever.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Just remember, the trees are watching.”
I shifted, suddenly feeling rather warm in my tunic.
Clearly enjoying my discomfort, she whispered in my ear, “You two deserve some time alone.”
In her sleeve, Scullyrumpus snorted. “Clumsy manman not know what to do, anyway.”
Before I could respond, Rhia reached up and seized the lowest branch of the hemlock towering above us. Swinging herself onto the limb, she waved down at us. “See you there for supper.”
“Wait,” I protested. “There isn’t any faster route to the stargazing stone. This path is the way.”
“It’s one way,” she called back, “but not the fastest.”
With that, she swished three times in succession. The hemlock’s limb bent low, almost down to the ground. Rhia, her face alight, gave her curls a shake. Scullyrumpus did the same, flapping his ears against his furry cheeks. Another swishing sound—and the branch whipped upward, hurling them high into the air.
“Whee-hee-heeee,” cried Rhia, spreading her arms and legs wide. Before she even started to descend, an oak branch, completely bare of leaves, reached out to catch her. That branch cradled her momentarily, carried her higher, then pitched her across the canopy to the waiting boughs of a cedar. Spraying cones in all directions, the cedar tossed her affectionately several times before finally flinging her onward. Seconds later, Rhia’s cries of delight had faded into the whispering and clacking of the trees around us.
Watching her disappear, I smiled. “She is part eagle, part tree.”
“Yes,” agreed Hallia. “And she loves you as much as she loves this forest.”
“What makes you say that?”
She merely bent down to gather a few sap-dusted cones in her hands. Bringing them to her face, she inhaled deeply. After a moment, she offered them to me. Like her, I savored their aromas, so fresh and full.
“Because Rhia knows,” she said softly, “that for us, a little time alone is the best gift of all.”
3: RASPBERRY SYRUP
Before we reached the edge of the forest, the smell of Rhia’s cooking fire reached us. Wrapping around Hallia and me like a long scarf, the savory smoke drew us out of the intertwining boughs and into a grassy clearing. A small but steep hill lifted above us, crowned with the great flat boulder that was my stargazing stone. From atop the stone, smoke curled upward, branching out like a wispy tree before merging with the twilight sky.
We paused in the knee-high grasses, a few more seconds with only ourselves. She watched me as I watched her, the two of us breathing in unison. I reached over and stroked her chin with my finger. Shyly, she turned away, though not completely. Leaning closer, I turned her face back toward mine, and gently kissed her on the lips.
“He knew,” she whispered. “My brother, Eremon, knew. Do you remember what he said before he left us for the Otherworld of the spirits?”
I nodded. “That a day would come when you would be happy again.”
She swallowed, and brushed the moistness from her cheek. “When I would overflow with joy, he said, as the river in spring overflows with water.” After a long pause, she said quietly, “I can’t imagine living without you, young hawk.”
“Nor I without you, Eo-Lahallia.” I cleared my throat. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to give you. I planned to do it tonight, under the stars, but I’d rather give it to you now, while we’re still alone.”
“What more could you give me?”
“This.” Without looking away, I reached into my leather satchel. Slowly, I drew out my psaltery string, bent and blackened. “It’s for you.”
Her doe’s eyes blinked. Slowly, a smile spread across her face. I knew she was remembering how this very string had once saved our lives—as well as the life of her friend, the dragon Gwynnia.
“For me?” she asked.
“For you.” I placed the string in her hand. Despite its charred exterior, it bent with surprising suppleness, curling easily inside her palm.
She swallowed. “I shall never look at this without thinking of how much your power has grown.”
Softly, I replied, “Even as something else has grown.”
“Do you remember the old riddle? About the origins of music—and magic?”
I studied her open hand, and the precious item that it held. “How could I not? So where, indeed, does the source of music lie?”
She nodded, then completed the passage: �
�Is it in the strings themselves? Or in the hand that plucks them?”
I placed my hand over hers, covering the gift. “It lies in both places, but in your hand most of all.”
“No,” she replied. “The greater music lies in the place where both our hands are touching.”
I could only smile.
In time, our hands released. With care, she started to place the precious item into the pocket of her purple robe.
I caught her arm. “Wait. I have a better idea.” Swiftly, I wrapped the string around her wrist and tied the ends together with a wizard’s knot. “There now. A bracelet.”
She studied the gift, then me. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome, my love.”
Hand in hand, we walked up the slope, stiff stalks of grass brushing against our legs. As we advanced, the smell of smoke grew stronger—along with traces of other smells, both tangy and sweet. Near to the top, we halted, huffing from the climb. For a moment we looked at each other’s faces, darkened by the onset of evening, which came so early at this time of year. Then, wordlessly, we started climbing again.
Just as we topped the hill, a cloud of smoke blew over us, so dense it seared our eyes and throats. We darted to the side, waving away the dark cloud, coughing uncontrollably. When, at last, the air cleared and I could breathe normally, I spotted Rhia, looking down on us from the stargazing stone. She sat cross-legged, tending a snapping fire.
“Welcome,” she said placidly, tossing another branch onto the flames.
“Some welcome,” I replied, coughing again to clear my throat. “You know just how to make someone feel at home.”
Scullyrumpus hopped hearer to the fire and added a twig of his own. In his usual rapid delivery, he piped, “In my home clumsy man not asked for supper, nonono.”
My eyes narrowed. “In my home, you’d be eaten for supper.”
“Stop, you two,” said Hallia, wiping her eyes. “It’s just a little smoke, that’s all.”
Together, we climbed up the side of the boulder—Hallia much more gracefully than I. When we reached the flat surface on top, she reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a long, slender fruit that glowed pink in the firelight. She offered it to Rhia. “Here. The very last stringfruit from the tree over there. Are we too late to cook it?”
“Not at all.” Rhia took it, peeled its skin quickly, and plucked out several triangular seeds. Handing the seeds back to Hallia, she dropped the milky white flesh into a pot made from an immense black nutshell. “There’s plenty more cooking right now.”
Plenty, indeed. Surrounding her on the stone were the husks of four different types of beans; remnants of sweet sassafras, beetroot, and turnip; cracked shells of walnuts, chestnuts, and almonds; as well as dicings of onion shoots, mushrooms yellow and brown, fir cones, pepperbulb, and a few late sprigs of mint. From the three interlocking sticks that served as her tripod over the fire, Rhia had dangled the simmering pot, as well as some strips of linden bark, frosted with resins. On a mat of woven rye grass behind her sat a thick slab of honeycomb, an assortment of herbs and spices, plus a cupped leaf that I knew contained sweet butterfly milk.
Hallia sat down and started cracking the seeds, using an almond shell and a stick as her mortar and pestle. Soon, she had ground them into a fine, pink-tinted powder. With care, she sprinkled the powder into the pot. Rhia gave a grateful nod as she continued to stir the contents, now bubbling vigorously.
Rich aromas filled the air, especially since the smoke had died down substantially. Glowing pine branches, sizzling with sap, popped and hissed beneath the pot. Seating myself between (lie others, I reached for Rhia’s flask, made from goat’s bladder and embroidered with a web of vines that seemed as fresh and vibrant as those on her gown. Using two halves of walnut shells as miniature cups, I poured some deep purple liquid into each.
“Raspberry syrup, anyone?” I asked, offering the tiny cups to Rhia and Hallia.
“Wonderful,” said Hallia with a sigh, as she leaned back against an outcropping of stone. “It’s truly a gift to have a little taste of spring even now, more than a month after the first frost.”
“Mmm,” agreed Rhia with a smack of her lips. “I’m so glad, Merlin, you remembered. I got so caught up with supper that I forgot the flask was there.”
I nudged her. “If you’re there, something sweet to drink is also there. I’ve learned that by now.”
“Notnot learned how to count, though,” groused the furry fellow on her thigh. His bright green eyes watched me expectantly.
Grudgingly, I poured him a shell of his own. As I handed it to him, his little paws snatched it away and lifted the contents to his face. Whiskers trembling, he swallowed it speedily, not even pausing to take a breath. When finally he lowered the cup, his three teeth had been stained purple.
I knew better than to wait for a word of thanks. Pouring myself a cup, I capped the flask and set it aside. My first sip exploded with flavor, filling my mouth with the sweetness of spring—and my heart with gratitude for the fields and forests and shores of Fincayra, where every taste seemed sharper, every scent stronger, and every color richer.
“I’m wishing,” I said wistfully, “that we could stay here, in this time and place, forever.”
Hallia glanced at me, her expression as warm as the fire.
“As long as we don’t run out of raspberry syrup,” replied Rhia. She reached for some thick, waxy leaves that she had molded into bowls and dipped out some stew for each of us. She set Scullyrumpus’ bowl on the ground, since it was too heavy for him to hold. Grumpily, he crawled down from her leg and started lapping at the steaming contents. Meanwhile, Rhia handed Hallia and me each a strip of linden bark for use as a spoon (or, if crunched into bits, as additional seasoning).
As we savored the rich, nutty flavor of the stew, the last touches of daylight, lavender as the petals of flowers, vanished from the sweeping forest that stretched outward from the base of our hill. Though the light had dimmed, no stars had yet appeared. I looked upward, appraising our chances for stargazing later on. To my dismay, lumbering clouds were massing to the north. Already, they were starting to spread across the darkening sky, like ships of war sailing into a tranquil harbor.
In time, Rhia produced a pair of golden biscuits apiece. Topped with cream from the butterfly milk, and a scattering of mint, they made the perfect dessert—if, that is, Rhia hadn’t already had another dessert in mind. In fact, she had two. First, she passed around fresh slices of honeycomb for us all, flavored with the subtle tartness of rose-hip blossoms. Then, from underneath the coals of the fire, she retrieved the very last apple of the season, the gift of one of the Drama’s late-blooming fruit trees, baked with lavish amounts of honey and cinnamon.
As we split the steaming, juicy bits of apple among ourselves, Rhia removed the tripod and cooking pot, then threw a few more pine boughs on the fire. Instantly, the flames spurted higher. I noticed my shadow swaying in the flickering light, and it gave me an idea. Tapping the shadow lightly with my finger, I nodded at the flames.
Instantly, my shadow leaped closer to the fire. Throwing itself upon the shelf of rock behind Rhia, it started to dance, spinning and twirling wildly. Seeing this, Scullyrumpus shrieked in fear, dropped his apple slice, and scurried up Rhia’s arm to his hiding place. As the rest of us grinned, my shadow continued to cavort in the light of the fire, showing its best leaps and twists, rolls and spins.
Rhia’s bell-like laughter rose into the night air. “It looks like a fledgling jumping around in the nest, trying to find some way to fly.”
“No,” I answered. “More like you jumping around, trying to find some way to fly.”
At that, we all laughed. Except, of course, for Scullyrumpus, who remained buried in Rhia’s leafy pocket.
Finally, I motioned to the shadow with my hand. The antics ceased abruptly. “Excellent, most excellent. All right now, come back to me.”
But the shadow did not follow my
command. Sulkily, it placed its hands upon its hips, glared at me for a moment, and sat down at the opposite side of the fire. Knowing my shadow well, I merely shook my head.
“As you can see,” I muttered, “it’s still as obedient as ever.”
“Actually,” said Hallia, licking some honey off her wrist, “it’s just about as obedient as its master.”
“Right,” chimed in Rhia. “And besides, maybe it simply loves to dance. How can you blame it for that?”
“I can’t.” Looking upward again, I scowled at the thick clouds moving over us, already obscuring Pegasus, the first constellation to show. “Fumblefeathers!” I exclaimed. “We may not have any stargazing at all tonight.”
Hallia placed her hand on my knee. “Don’t fret, young hawk. It’s still been a beautiful evening.” She touched her bracelet, glittering in the firelight. “Truly beautiful.”
A chill wind, driving the clouds overhead, swept through the trees below us, making them moan and clatter. Dead leaves swirled in the night air as the wind rushed across our hilltop. Quickly, Rhia reached to catch a walnut shell and two linden strips before they blew over the edge of the stone. The fire sputtered, and Hallia slid closer to my side for warmth. Defiantly, I threw another branch onto the coals. But the wind blew stronger, and the wood barely smoldered.
Slapping her hands against her sides, Rhia said, “Feels like winter all of a sudden.”
“It does,” agreed Hallia. “But the truth is, winter’s been with us for a while already. Even the Drama is much less lively now. No amount of baked apples and raspberry syrup can change that. The longest night of the year is just two weeks away.”
I nodded, feeling more glum than I could explain. “Summer doesn’t last forever,” I mused. “Nothing does—not even our time in Fincayra.”
At my words, Hallia tensed and withdrew her hand. “Please, not now. I don’t want to think about that.”
“Sorry. I only meant . . .”
She frowned. “And I don’t give a hoofprint about that sword of yours, either.”
