by T.A. Barron
“Like those seeds over there,” I observed, still trying to work my way down through the tissues. “The same is true for them.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Or like children. I’m always amazed by all they hold inside.”
Even as I probed deeper in the old man’s heart, her words made me shudder.
T’eilean groaned, loud and long. At the same time, another wave of nausea washed through me, this time so powerfully that I needed to lean back against the knotted trunk of the tree to steady myself. Trembling, I lifted my hand from his chest.
“It’s just too deep.” Glancing down at my shadow, I saw it nodding its head somberly. “Something is broken, or ripped, in there. But I just don’t know how to heal it.”
The old man’s eyes flicked toward the hut. “Same as . . . the harp,” he muttered.
“The Flowering Harp?” I turned to Garlatha, who was clutching her husband’s hand. “Is it broken?”
“It is,” she whispered, never taking her eyes off her mate. “This morning, without any warning, it fell off its peg, where it’s rested safely for so long. Such a clatter and clang it made! When we went to fetch it, all the strings but one had snapped. And when T’eilean reached down to lift the instrument, that last string broke. It curled itself up to the soundbox, making a cry like a tortured, wailing babe.”
A tear slid slowly over the folds of Garlatha’s wrinkled cheek. At first I thought she was thinking of the harp, and perhaps of her garden, that would no longer feel its magic. Then, seeing her quivering hand stroking T’eilean’s, I knew better.
“It’s not so much,” he said to her, “that I don’t . . . want to die.” His face contorted as another spasm of pain coursed through him. “I just don’t . . . want to leave you . . . alone.” The dark eyes shone as he added, “Who will be left . . . to quarrel with you?”
She nodded solemnly. “Our life together is like a precious bulb, holding whatever we need to last the seasons.”
“No, no, not really,” he countered. “More like a windblown seed . . . that can land . . . anywhere, and survive.”
I thought of Hallia, now so far away, who wore around her wrist the string of another broken instrument. “It seems to me,” I offered, “that your life together is more like something else.”
Surprised, Garlatha glanced over at me. “What’s that?”
“A pair of trees, grown so closely together that their branches have intertwined. They are still independent trees, you see, standing on their own roots. But now they are more than that, as well—a new being altogether. For they support each other, shelter each other, and hold each other every day.”
For a long interval, both of the elders stared at me. Finally, Garlatha broke the silence. With a breaking voice, she asked, “But how does one tree go on living without the other?”
I shook my head, looking up into the boughs of the cherry tree, speckled with dark red fruit.
“Do you remember,” asked T’eilean, “on that day . . . you first came here, you told us a tale from another land, about two people . . . who had lived a long life together? When it came time . . . for one of them to die, the gods . . .”
“Turned them both into trees!” exclaimed Garlatha. “Can you, Merlin? Can you do that for us?”
“Please,” asked her husband, wriggling higher against the trunk. “That . . . is my desire . . . also.”
I raised my hand. “Wait now. I’m not sure I can do such a thing. And even if I could, I’m not sure you really want that.”
“Oh, but we do,” implored the old woman. “More than you can imagine.” She looked into T’eilean’s eyes. “Much more.”
“It would be risky,” I protested, my tone grave. “Transformations like that involve your spirits as well as your bodies. It could end up damaging both, maybe severely.”
“Please,” they begged in unison.
“No, no. I really shouldn’t.”
“Please, Merlin.”
I gazed at them for some time, feeling the strength of their desire. At last, I nodded. They deserved the chance to choose their own risks—and their own fates.
Slowly, I stood up. Taking hold of my staff, I moved back a few paces, careful not to trip over a hedge bulging with blackberries. Drawing a deep breath, I concentrated all my strength. At the same time, with hopeful looks, T’eilean and Garlatha gripped each other’s hands more tightly than ever. After a moment, I began reciting to myself the various chants that could, I knew, release the magic that filled every seed, that powered every spring: the magic of Changing.
A new warmth flowed through my body, from my innermost chest right down to my fingertips. The wind stirred, rustling the tree’s branches and causing a few cherries to fall to the ground. Leaves and twigs and scattered seeds lifted into the air, circling around me and the white-haired couple, shining with a light that came not from the lowering sun.
A flash of white light exploded. I stumbled backward from the force of it, falling in a heap. When I looked again at the spot where my friends had been, I saw that they had disappeared. Vanished entirely.
In puzzlement, I looked around me. Nothing else had changed. The trees stood as before, as did the gray stone hut. Even the sack of seeds lay on the ground, undisturbed.
My mind reeled. What had I done? Something had gone wrong—terribly wrong. I had meant to transform them, not . . . Groping for some sort of answer, I crawled to the base of the cherry tree, studying the ground where my friends had been only seconds before. There was no sign of them, no hint of an explanation, except for the one possibility too terrible to grasp.
I had eliminated them. Body, spirit, everything.
Overcome with grief, I clambered to my feet. Dazedly, I picked up the russet bag of seeds, along with my staff, and began to shuffle to the front of the hut. I couldn’t speak, nor think, nor feel. I was numb. The garden that had, not long ago, seemed so full of life, now felt utterly empty.
As I came around to the other side, I moved somberly along the wall toward the swinging gate. When I reached it, I started to go through, when something made me turn around for a last look at the hut. As soon as I did, I dropped the seed bag in astonishment.
For there, before the entrance, stood a pair of majestic larkon trees, their boughs dappled with fruit. Their leafy branches wrapped around each other securely. And I knew, as I studied them, that they would stand together for a wondrously long time.
My gaze fell to the open sack of seeds. Many of them had spilled onto the garden’s rich soil. Some were as tiny as specks of dirt, others much larger than the special one in my satchel. They glinted at me, aflame in the last golden light of the day.
Seeds, Garlatha had said, were like children, holding all the hopes and possibilities of the future. All at once, an idea struck me. I knew, in that instant, how to stop the swordarmed warrior from doing more harm. I had barely enough time, but still, it might be done. With a final glance at the spreading pair of trees, I strode out of the garden.
18: GATHERING
As the garden gate swung closed behind me, I entered winter again. A frigid gust of wind swept off the bare hillside above the hut, slapping my face and chilling me instantly. I felt as if I’d plunged into a mountain tarn, its water as cold as the surrounding snowfields. My hands stiffened, as did my toes. And no more luscious aromas tickled my nostrils. Instead, all I could smell was cold dirt, cold grass, and cold air.
Breathing frosty breaths, I buttoned my mother’s vest with my numbing fingers. On the ground, my shadow looked as thin as a frozen sapling. Its long body seemed to shiver as I stepped away from the gate.
High above, the scudding clouds shone deep red and purple, as did the wings of a lone sparrow swooping past. The swollen sun dropped lower in the sky, almost ready to disappear behind the wide stretch of plains. Seven days, come the next sunset. Those words of Urnalda rang in my ears, hastening my heartbeat as before.
Now, though, I had a plan. Rather than trying to defeat the sword-armed warrior, whic
h seemed impossible—or waste valuable time searching for him again—I would change my tactics. Instead of battling Slayer, I would throw all my zeal into keeping him from doing any more harm.
I glanced over my shoulder at the verdant garden of my friends, and the sack of seeds on the ground. Just as they had gathered all those seeds, so would I gather all the unprotected children! Yes, I’d find as many as I could and remove them from danger—whether they were orphaned or otherwise separated from their families. That way, at least Fincayra’s most vulnerable children could escape Slayer’s attacks. There couldn’t be more than a few dozen of them on this island—a manageable number to gather. And if I could somehow do it within a week, I’d still be able to join Rhia before the longest night.
But how? I started pacing back and forth on the hillside, my mind churning. On the frozen ground, my shadow paced as well, its form growing longer as the sun drew closer to the horizon.
To be sure, I’d need some help. There simply wasn’t enough time left for one person to assemble all the unprotected children of the land. Now more than ever, I wished that I’d mastered the power of Leaping!
Stamping hard as I paced to keep myself warm, my mind turned to another problem: where to take the children after I’d gathered them. It should be someplace far removed, where they would remain out of danger. Someplace where even Slayer, with all his power, couldn’t find them. I ground my teeth, even as they chattered. My plan was really no plan at all! Unless I could find someplace to hide them, the children would be just as endangered as before.
Pacing up the slope, I watched the scudding clouds overhead. Bathed in such deep colors, they looked almost solid, like islands of soil and stone. They seemed so unreachable, floating on high, so entirely separate from the rest of the world.
I halted, leaning against my staff. Unreachable. Separate. Removed. Those were the qualities of islands—and of one island in particular.
The Forgotten Island.
I exhaled, blowing a white puff of air on my staff, frosting the image of a butterfly that had been etched into the wood. To get there, I knew, I’d have to break through the thick web of spells that separated the island from the rest of Fincayra. That would not be easy. Yet that very obstacle, if I could somehow surmount it, would give true protection to the children.
Still, I wondered what we’d find once we arrived there. I really knew almost nothing about the place. Once, long ago, a wise spirit named Gwri of the Golden Hair had said a wreath of golden mistletoe, the emblem of the Otherworld, grew on the island. She had, alas, revealed nothing more. But if mistletoe, the golden bough, bloomed there, the land must at least be habitable.
I shook my head. These were problems for later. Besides, I still hadn’t solved my original problem—how to find the children, and somehow gather them, in the days that remained. Unless I found help, and soon, nothing else would matter.
Deep in thought, I stared at the ground, following the line of my shadow. With the sun nearly on the horizon, the dark form now stretched most of the way up the hillside, looking much like a slender giant. In a flash, I knew both the person who could help, and the best way to reach him.
“Shadow!” I called. “I need you.”
On the crimson-colored hill, my shadow’s head tilted skeptically.
“Hear me now,” I beseeched, using my most dramatic tones. “Your homeland, and mine, are in grave danger, as you know well. So are those innocent young ones, who have no one but themselves to rely upon. I have a plan to protect them, but it can only work with your help.”
As I’d hoped, the shadow’s head lifted and its chest seemed to swell with pride.
“You must go find Shim. Now, stop shaking your head! He’s up north, with the giants of Varigal. And it’s up to you to locate him. Stop that shaking, I say! I need you to convince him to seek out all the orphan children he can find, as well as any other children wandering around unguarded. He must bring them to me at the Shore of the Speaking Shells, by the dunes where the great river enters the sea. You know the spot. Since I’ll need the better part of three days to walk there, let’s meet three days from now.”
Though its head shaking ceased, the shadow placed its hands on its hips obstinately. I could feel, even in the bitter wind, the icy stare it was sending me.
“Please, now. Your help could make all the difference.”
The obstinate pose didn’t change.
“Please,” I implored.
The shadow stepped a few paces away, then turned back to face me.
“What?” I exclaimed. “You want what? No, no, I can’t do that! Out of the question.”
Sternly, the shadow folded its arms.
“Outrageous,” I declared. “Completely outrageous.”
The shadow simply glared at me, as I glared back.
The sun sank lower, dimming the light as well as my shadow. I knew that only a few more minutes remained when I could see the dark form, and talk with it. Following sunset, I would have to wait until dawn to continue. After all, I didn’t even know where it spent its nights! Some mornings I half expected to find it hadn’t returned, though that had never happened yet.
“Oh, all right then,” I growled. “Your condition is unjust. Undignified. And unacceptable!” I glared at the insolent shadow. “But I agree to it anyway. Find Shim, and help him collect the children—including Lleu, back at that village. If you do that, I will . . .”
The words seemed to vanish like the white vapors of my breath. I glanced over my shoulder at the setting sun, then turned back to the shadow. “I will grant you a full week off every year, to go wherever you choose and do whatever mischief you like.”
Gloatingly, the long head nodded. Then my shadow strode down from the hillside and past me on the frozen turf. Breaking into a loping run, it headed northwest with surprising speed, fading swiftly with the sun.
19: THE MIND OF THE MIST
As I trekked to the southern shore for my meeting with Shim, I passed many leafless trees creaking in the wind, and several frozen ponds—but precious few living creatures moving about. Once I watched a fox, bushy tail erect, padding across a snowy field; once I spotted a pair of tiny light flyers darting behind a boulder. But that was all. Near the ford of the River Unceasing, I found some strange tracks, deep ruts gouged like claw marks in the soil, heading toward the east. I had no idea what they could be, nor time to find out.
Under the swelling moon, I kept walking late into the night. All the while, I pondered my plan. Could Shim gather the children in time? And assuming he succeeded, how would we get to the Forgotten Island? We could probably build some sort of vessel to cross the water, though that wouldn’t be easy. Then, of course, we’d still have to pass through the barrier of spells. Yet I preferred all these uncertainties to the thought of Slayer’s attacks continuing—and to the thought of battling him again myself.
On the second day of my trek, I veered south, following the River Unceasing. Even in winter, its waters pounded and sprayed. Sometimes I glimpsed vague movements within the spray, and wondered if I’d seen river sprites on the move, but I couldn’t be certain. As I moved southward, the cold grew less bitter and snow vanished from the banks. Yet winter’s grip never loosened on the land. Even as I passed through the floodplains, where the river widened into marshes that teemed with animals and birds in other seasons, I saw nothing but a snake sliding over a web of dried vines on the ground.
Just before I reached the coast, I caught sight of Drama Wood to the west. Viewing its vibrant greens again, I felt a yearning, as sweet as hemlock, to live among those trees with my dearest friends again. Yet that, I felt certain somehow, was impossible.
In the pale light of early afternoon, I approached the row of dunes lining the southern shore. I’d reached my destination, almost a day ahead of Shim. If, that is, he was coming. I could only wait and wonder how all this would end.
I started climbing the highest of the dunes, my boots and staff sinking into the sand. Like the
shell of a great turtle, the dune rose steeply at first, then more gradually toward the top. Marching higher, I heard the surf crashing against the other side. The barest whiff of salt enlivened the air. I disturbed a black cormorant who flapped angrily and flew, neck outstretched, to a neighboring mound.
At last I reached the top. Breathing hard, I sat down to empty my boots of sand. Beside me rested a large, tightly curled shell, its purple point jutting upward like a spiraling spear. Turning toward the water, I saw nothing but a rolling wall of mist, so dense that it obscured the waves beyond. This was the mist that encircled all the lands of Fincayra. The mist that made the storied threads that were woven, Hallia’s people believed, into the Carpet Caerlochlann. The mist that moved according to its own mysterious mind.
Hidden though they were, the waves announced themselves. For a long moment, I listened to them heave and slosh, slap and pound. With its own unending rhythm, the sea itself was breathing, drawing watery breaths as it had for ages upon ages. Somewhere out there, I knew, swam the glistening bodies of the legendary people of the mer. So elusive were they that in all my travels, I had only seen them twice, and even then for just an instant. Yet their voices had long called to me silently, fascinating me.
Mer people . . . they seemed somehow near, even now, when the mist obscured their watery realm. Perhaps there was some truth to the tale that my own grandmother—Olwen, wife of the powerful wizard Tuatha—had emerged from the sea, forever binding her people to the race of men and women.
What, I brooded, would Tuatha do? Surely he could have found some way to transport the children to the island. Absently, I tapped the wood of my staff, which had long ago been touched by his power. A gentle scent of hemlock wafted to me, mixing with the briny breeze.
Slowly, the wall of mist before me shifted, forming strange shapes within its depths. None of them could I recognize, yet all of them felt disturbing, as if they had been stolen from my most hideous dreams. Then, for a flicker, I glimpsed an eye, dark and mysterious. Watching me—I felt sure of it! Tuatha? I stared at the eye, even as it melted away. No, it couldn’t be him. Dagda, perhaps. Or perhaps . . . Rhita Gawr.
