A Wizard's Wings

by T.A. Barron

  One whole section slammed into a column of light and instantly burst into flames, showering the churning waters with sparks and fiery embers. Blazing resins, glowing orange, bubbled out of the joints and dribbled down into the sea. Great columns of steam rose upward, hissing noisily, wherever fire and water met.

  All around me, little heads bobbed and limbs flailed, grasping for floating bits of wood. “Elen!” I shouted. “Lleu! Cuwenna!” But I couldn’t find them. Beyond the roaring and crashing of waves, and the ominous hum in the background, the sound that pierced me most deeply were the terrified screams—screams I knew I’d caused myself.

  Spotting a boy sinking nearby, I reached out to help him. His sand-colored curls floated on the water like a mesh of yellowing kelp. Grabbing hold of his locks, I lifted his head. It was Lleu! Sputtering, he hugged my neck in panic, squeezing like a noose—so tight I couldn’t breathe.

  As I twisted to break free, both of us sank beneath the surface. The boy released me, flailing wildly. I grabbed the shoulder of his tunic and hauled him upward, kicking furiously. But the surface seemed so far away, my arms so much heavier than before. My lungs ached for air! I struggled to swim, but felt myself sinking rather than rising. I couldn’t lift Lleu’s body, nor even my own.

  My mind started darkening. From somewhere, I dimly heard my mother’s words: One day you will stir the very depths of the sea. What bitter irony! The words rang in my memory, laughing raucously.

  Stir the very depths . . . From somewhere else, somewhere deeper, another memory arose. It was not a memory of thought, nor of the mind at all. Rather, this was a memory of the blood.

  “Mer!” I heard myself crying aloud, emptying my last shreds of breath into the surging sea.

  Vaguely, I felt something brush my chin. Then my hands, chest, and thighs. Bubbles! All around me, by the thousands, so tiny I couldn’t see them but only feel them. The bubbles surrounded me like a net, pressing against my body, supporting my weight. Gently, they caressed me, held me, then guided me upward. At last, I broke through the surface.

  The sea had answered my call.

  Beside me, Lleu bobbed in the water, held by his own net of bubbles. He gasped for air, coughing, as did I. Yet I felt no more terror, only an uncanny sense of well-being. Reaching for his outstretched arm, I drew him close, holding him as securely as the surrounding waters held us both. Despite the churning currents, we floated on the surface, along with everyone else from our vessel.

  Suddenly, I caught sight of a sleek, glistening form rising above the water. Not far away, an enormous fish tail broke the surface with a shimmering veil of spray. Then another tail appeared, and beside it, a silver-scaled torso. More shapes, glowing pink and green, purple and yellow, burst into view.

  All at once, a new wave lifted out of the sea. Higher it rose, streaming water off its colorful crest. In a flash I realized that it wasn’t a wave at all, but a bridge. A luminous, living bridge.

  Merfolk—dozens and dozens of them—had interlocked their tails and fins, arms and heads, to form an enormous, radiant archway. Vaulting out of the depths, the bridge of bodies swelled higher. Finally it reached completely over the wall of waves, all the way to the shore of the Forgotten Island. Like a rainbow rising out of the ocean, whose colors came from sea instead of sky, the archway gleamed in the light of the rising sun.

  Voices, deep and fluid, poured forth as the mer people started to sing. Some sounded as ancient as the ocean, others as new and fragile as a single drop of spray. Their voices combined in a complex, interwoven chant, with sounds that reminded me of whales breaching, seabirds wailing, waves colliding, and so much more. Beneath it all ran a great, rolling rhythm, echoing like an undertone of time.

  Carrying Lleu in my arms, I started to climb. My sopping boots stepped first upon a purple fin; then a long, muscular back; then a pair of linked arms. With every step, I spoke words of thanks, for my gratitude ran as deep as the sea. After me followed the children, one by one. They looked thoroughly bedraggled, but amazed and relieved to be alive. Despite their wet shivers, their arms swayed playfully. Last of all came my mother, her face shining with awe, holding my staff in her hand.

  And so I led them all, at last, out of the waves and into a new day.

  26: A GOLDEN CROWN

  The mer people continued chanting as we stepped off the glistening bridge and onto a cove of black sand that ran beneath the island’s rugged cliffs. As soon as I came ashore, I set down Lleu, who smiled up at me, his face aglow. Together, his small hand within mine, we turned around to view the awesome spectacle.

  The mer people’s bridge, luminous in the morning light, arched high over the terrible barrier of waves that ringed the island. Across the bridge, in single file, strode our companions—more than eighty boys and girls, followed by my mother. As they stepped ashore, one by one, they joined us on the beach, gazing back at the swelling waves threaded with mist and spray. Cuwenna, wearing my vest as if it were a great yellow cloak, plopped down by my feet, shaking her small head in wonder.

  Tasting the salt on my lips, I studied the channel that separated the Forgotten Island from the western shore of Fincayra. Through the middle of the channel ran the churning wall of waves, studded with bars of light, that had kept anyone from setting foot on this spot for countless ages. Suddenly, as I watched, the entire barrier collapsed in on itself. The wall of waves tumbled into the surface of the sea, sending up great towers of spray, as the glowing bars of light melted into the waters. They had only receded, I felt sure, waiting for the next voyager who dared to try this passage. Moments later, the sunlit sea, rippled with golden-tipped waves, looked deceptively calm.

  Then, as my mother finally set foot on the sand, the mer people’s bridge also collapsed. A thunderous splash echoed across the channel, punctuated by the din of hundreds of tails and arms slapping the water. In a few brief seconds, the merfolk vanished beneath the surface. For a while, after the other sounds had faded away, the soulful notes of their chant hung in the air. Finally that, too, disappeared.

  We stood, dripping seawater in the warming rays of the rising sun, looking out to sea in silence. Even the smallest of the children seemed transfixed. We knew that we had been saved by a miracle. A miracle from the deepest heart of the sea.

  I glanced down again at Lleu. He watched me with his thoughtful eyes, then slowly curled his mouth into a grin. “You saved me,” he said, brushing a trickle of brine off his cheek.

  “No,” I gently replied. “The sea saved us both.”

  He tilted his head, thinking. “So the sea’s magic is stronger than yers?”

  “Much stronger, lad.”

  My mother strode over, her countenance serene. She glanced again out to sea, shook her head, and turned back to me. “They’re gone,” she whispered.

  I nodded, feeling the wet locks of hair slap my brow. “Not completely, though.”

  She sighed. “Yes, we’ll always hear their voices.” After a long pause, she added, “I counted all the children. They’re here, every last one.” She winked at the boy by my side. “Including you.”

  “An’ you, too, Mama Elen.” Angling his face upward, he looked at her probingly. “Is it . . . all right I calls ye that?”

  She smiled down at him. “Yes, Lleu, quite all right.”

  He brightened, then bent to retrieve a speckled brown conch shell. My mother watched him for a moment, then handed me my staff. “I found this, or perhaps it found me. It kept me afloat until the bridge appeared.”

  Gladly, I wrapped my hand around the shaft. The smell of wet hemlock wafted over me, as did another scent, one I couldn’t quite identify. It smelled of magic, powerful magic, unlike any I’d encountered before. It might have come from the mer people. Or perhaps . . . from the island itself.

  Spinning around, I scanned the cliff rising from the back of the cove. It rose sharply, like a shark’s fin jutting out of the sea. Its craggy face, with no trace of shrubs or grasses, showed not even the slightes
t softening from wind or water, as if it had just been severed from another wall of rock. Above the cliff, set back some distance, I spied the upper rim of the crown-shaped hill I had seen from afar. The hilltop looked strange somehow—unnatural. Yet I couldn’t put my finger on why.

  No plants, no green, anywhere. Not even any sign of the golden mistletoe that my friend Gwri had long ago promised grew on this isle.

  With a sudden pang, I wondered how the children would fare here after I left. They were safe now from Slayer, that was assured. But if the island held no fresh water and no firewood, they couldn’t long survive. For food, they could always dig for mussels and clams, and find stalks of kelp, but that alone wouldn’t be enough. Even if my mother chose to stay and help them for a while, as I suspected she would, they would need lots more supplies than this beach could provide.

  My gaze followed the narrow stretch of black sand. Most of the children had already started inventing games and challenges for themselves. Thanks to the sun, and the lack of wind, only a few seemed cold. Several, including Lleu, were busily erecting towers out of colorful shells. One red-haired girl had built a glistening bridge from wet sand, and was pretending to walk an orange starfish across its span.

  Other children, meanwhile, waded in the shallows, splashing and cavorting. Still others reached their bare arms into tide pools, trying to catch the tiny fish living there. A knot of boys had just run a race across the cove, and were panting heavily, slapping each other boisterously. Several older girls, led by Medba, performed somersaults and headstands on the sand, while Cuwenna walked hand in hand with my mother, stopping frequently to examine a snail, crab claw, or sea cucumber carried ashore by the tide.

  I turned back to the cliff towering over us. Somehow I must get to the top. The only way to judge whether this island was livable was to explore up there. Pacing back and forth on the sand, I examined the sheer face from several angles. It looked impossibly steep.

  At last, I spotted a jagged, diagonal cleft running almost to the top: a possible climbing route. Cautiously, I tapped the rock face with my staff. Several chunks broke off—not a good sign. Nevertheless, I had to try. Thrusting my staff into my belt, I called to my mother that I’d return soon. She knew better than to try to dissuade me, but I couldn’t miss the concern in her eyes.

  I started to climb. The rock wall was slick with spray, making it difficult to find a reliable grip. Worse, the stone sometimes crumbled without warning, pulling apart in my hands. Even so, I managed to climb gradually, wedging my body into the cleft for support as I moved higher. When I reached three times my height above the cove, I paused to rest my bruised fingers and shake some of the chips of rock out of my hair. I pretended not to notice Elen’s pacing below the cliff.

  A moment later, I continued, working my way higher. Every so often my knee or foot would slip on the wet rock, or a hold would break off, but I managed to keep myself from falling. At length, my head bumped against a fiat lip of stone that protruded slightly from the wall. There seemed no way around it. Judging from my height above the sand, I felt sure I was very close to the top. Wrapping one hand, then the other, around the edge, I put as much weight as I dared on the outcropping. A few shards broke loose, but it held. Gingerly, I threw one leg over and started pulling myself up.

  My heart raced, less from the strain than from eagerness. At last, I’d learn the truth about this island—whether it held anything that resembled food. And, less likely, anything that justified those old myths about wings.

  Rolling onto the flat stone, I gasped. Before me lay nothing but wreckage and ruin. The crown-shaped hill was, in fact, the remains of an enormous mound. Ripped apart, its contents scattered everywhere, the mound now resembled some sort of immense, violated grave.

  All across the steep, grassless slopes, mixed together with the dirt, broken timbers, and huge blocks of granite, lay an endless array of iron cauldrons, brightly painted masks, silver-handled drinking vessels, sounding horns, and shards of pottery. I could see bejeweled swords, several of which had been snapped in two, plus the pieces of an ox’s yoke. Strewn among the wreckage were broken bowls, beaded necklaces, shoe ornaments, neck rings, golden belt covers, numerous crushed shields, armored plates, and daggers darkened with rust. Smashed statues lay among the debris, along with at least two upturned wagons—and more than a few twisted skeletons, some still draped with armor.

  I stepped closer, avoiding the fragment of a skull, and lay my hand on the side of a block of stone more than twice my height. By the deep scoring on the granite, I could tell that it had served as the lintel stone of an entryway. To what, though? An underground fortress, perhaps. Or a community of some kind, where many people once lived, together with all their prized possessions.

  A community that had been utterly destroyed.

  Studying the block of granite, I noticed something. Its shape resembled the sarsen stones that people in ancient times placed at the entrances of burial mounds! Imbued with magic of their own, sarsen stones acted as sentries to guard the spirits of whoever lay buried within the barrows. Was it conceivable that this whole hill had been a burial mound? No, that was absurd. The largest barrow I’d ever seen or heard described was less than one hundredth this size.

  I slid my fingers along the stone, leaving tracks in the dirt that had settled on its face. To my surprise, I felt some subtle depressions. I blew away the dirt—and found rows of carved runes, as intricate as spiders’ webs. I bent closer and read aloud:

  Enter ye and worship here:

  Lords divine dwell deep entombed.

  Ever more their lives revered,

  Never cursed with mortal doom.

  My gaze fastened on a single word: entombed. So this had been a barrow after all! And yet, given its size, it could easily have served other purposes, as well.

  I pursed my lips, wondering. Lords divine . . . their lives revered. Perhaps this place was also some sort of sacred monument. A place for worship. But of whom?

  Lords divine surely sounded like they were gods. Perhaps this was a monument to Dagda and his chieftains. But no, great spirit though he was, Dagda wasn’t the kind to encourage, or even allow, such heavy-handed worship. He was far too humble. And besides, if the old legends were indeed true, it was he who destroyed this place and set it forever apart. Surely he wouldn’t have done that to a monument in his own honor.

  I turned again to the skull fragment lying on the ground. With the toe of my boot, I nudged it. The sun, rising high overhead, glinted on part of the bone, giving it an eerie gleam.

  All at once, a new puzzle occurred to me: If the beings this monument glorified were indeed gods, and thereby immortal, why had they been entombed? Never cursed with mortal doom, claimed the inscription. Yet . . . either they were truly divine and only their mortal forms had been buried here, or they weren’t really gods at all.

  Pulling my staff from my belt, I started to climb up the side of the mound. As I ascended, I searched for any more clues that might help explain the origins of this place. Surely the answer lay around here somewhere! At one point I paused to glance behind me, following the line of my footprints, the only ones to mark this slope. Below me, I viewed the edge of the cliff I had scaled, and beyond, a wide expanse of whitecaps that stretched all the way to Fincayra’s western shore.

  I continued tramping up the slope, stepping over broken pottery, a cauldron full of dirt, and a crumbling thigh bone. Frowning, I imagined what my shadow would be doing if it were here right now: creeping cautiously ahead of me, shrinking to avoid any skeletons. Bravery was not one of its virtues. Nor was dependability. Even so, I had to admit that I felt strangely alone without its company.

  At last I reached the top of the mound. As I approached the gap between two great piles of earth, rock, and splintered wood, the ground under my boots shifted. I edged closer to the gap, and found myself staring down into a steep-walled pit. It seemed almost bottomless. It was perfectly rectangular, except for a long, narrow passage w
hich bisected it on a north-south axis. Protruding from the walls were numerous timbers and jutting stones, all that remained of the chambers—several floors of them—that had once filled the pit. Around the edges, mostly covered by debris, stood several more sarsen stones, along with scattered uprights and capstones that might have lined the entries. But I still didn’t know what it all meant.

  Then, near the edge of the pit, I noticed the first living plant I’d seen since arriving on this island. Its leaves, quivering in the breeze off the sea, were not green, but glittering gold. Mistletoe! Cautiously, testing my weight on the loose earth, I drew nearer. It was, indeed, the golden bough, emblem of the spirit world. Strangely, it lay not on the soil, but wrapped around a shiny black stone.

  Something crunched under my boot. I leaped backward, sending a tremor through the unstable soil that caused a blue-painted shield to slide over the edge of the pit. In disbelief, I listened to the long silence before the shield finally hit bottom.

  I stooped down, looking for whatever had struck my boot. More bones—this time the remains of someone’s hand. Bleached white by time, the hand wore an emerald ring upon one of its lifeless fingers. Lightly, I touched the bones, wondering who had moved them, and for what purposes.

  In a few more steps, I reached the mistletoe. I halted in surprise. The black stone around which it curled was actually the head of a statue! Painstakingly carved from black obsidian, the life-size statue depicted a man—who now lay facedown in the dirt. Even so, he carried an unmistakable air of power and wealth. He stood regally, wearing flowing robes, a mantle studded with rubies and flecks of copper, and a belt made from spun gold. I could see, even from the back, that he wore a wide, thick beard, the kind I dreamed of growing myself one day.

  Something about this man seemed appealing. Familiar, almost. Crowned by the shimmering wreath of mistletoe, he seemed both strong and frail, dignified and humiliated. Then I noticed a strange, chipped point emerging from his back, almost like a spear shaft between his shoulder blades.