by T.A. Barron
“True enough.” She glanced up and smiled, more with her eyes than with her lips. “She can’t, after all, run like a deer.”
Something about her words, her tone, her smile, made my anger vanish like mist in the morning sun. Even my shoulders seemed to relax. How, I couldn’t begin to explain. Yet all at once, I recalled the secrets she had shown me of transforming myself into a deer, as well as the joys of running beside her—with hooves instead of feet, four legs instead of two; with keen sight, and keener smell; with the ability to hear not just through my ears, but through my very bones.
“It’s . . . well, it’s—ahhh . . .,” I stammered. “Nice, I suppose. To be here. With you, I mean. Just—well, just you.”
Her doelike eyes, suddenly shy, turned aside.
Emboldened, I climbed down from the rock. “Even in these days, these weeks, we’ve been traveling together, we haven’t had much time alone.” Tentatively, I reached for her hand. “If it hasn’t been one of your deer people, or some old friend, it’s been—”
She jerked her hand away. “So you haven’t liked what I’ve shown you?”
“No. I mean yes. That’s . . . oh, that’s not what I’m saying! You know how much I’ve loved being here—seeing your people’s Summer Lands: those high meadows, the birthing hollow, all the hidden trails through the trees. It’s just that, well, the best part has been . . .”
As my voice faltered, she cocked her head. “Yes?”
I glanced her way, meeting her gaze for barely an instant. But it was enough to make me forget what I had wanted to say.
“Yes?” she coaxed. “Tell me, young hawk.”
“It’s, well, been . . . Fumblefeathers, I don’t know!” My brow furrowed. “Sometimes I envy old Cairpré, tossing off poems whenever he likes.”
She half grinned. “These days, it’s mostly love poems to your mother.”
More flustered than ever, I exclaimed, “That’s not what I meant!” Then, seeing her face fall, I realized my gaffe. “I mean . . . when I said that, what I meant was—not, well, not what I meant to say.”
She merely shook her head.
Again, I stretched my hand toward her. “Please, Hallia. Don’t judge me by my words.”
“Hmfff,” she grunted. “Then how should I judge you?”
“By something else.”
“Like what?”
A sudden inspiration seized me. I grasped her hand, pulling her across the grass. Together we ran, our feet pounding in unison. As we neared the edge of the stream, our backs lowered, our necks lengthened, our arms stretched down to the ground. The bright green reeds by the water’s edge, glistening with dew, bent before us. In one motion, one body it seemed, we sprang into the air, flowing as smoothly as the stream below us.
We landed on the opposite bank, fully transformed into deer. Swinging about, I reared back on my haunches and drew a deep breath, filling my nostrils with the rich aromas of the meadow—and the full-hearted freedom of a stag. Hallia’s foreleg brushed against my own; I replied with a stroke of an antler along her graceful neck. An instant later we were bounding together through the grass, prancing with hooves high, listening to the whispering reeds and the many secret murmurs of the meadow. For a time measured not in minutes but in magic, we cavorted.
When, at last, we stopped, our tan coats shone with sweat. We trotted to the stream, browsed for a while on the shoots by the bank, then stepped lightly into the shallows. As we walked upstream, our backs lifted higher, our heads taller. Soon we were no longer wading with our hooves, but with our feet—mine booted, Hallia’s bare.
In silence, we clambered up the muddy bank and stepped through the rushes. When we reached the boulder, scene of my unsuccessful shadow-working, Hallia faced me, her doe’s eyes still alight. “I have something to tell you, young hawk. Something important.”
I watched her, my heart pounding like a great hoof within my chest.
She started to speak, then caught herself. “It’s—oh, it’s so hard to put into words.”
“I understand, believe me.” Gently, I ran my finger down her arm. “Later perhaps.”
Hesitantly, she tried again. “No, now. I’ve been wanting to say this for a while. And the feeling has grown stronger with every day we’ve spent in the Summer Lands.”
“Yes?” I paused, trying to swallow. “What is it?”
She edged a bit closer. “I want you to, to . . . know something, young hawk.”
“Know what?”
“That I . . . no, that you—”
Suddenly a heavy object rammed into me, knocking me over backward. I rolled across the grass, stopping only at the edge of the stream. After untangling myself from my tunic, which had somehow wrapped itself around my head and shoulders, I leaped to my feet with a spray of mud. Grimacing, I grasped the hilt of my sword and faced my attacker.
But instead of lunging forward, I groaned. “Not you. Not now.”
A young dragon, her purple and scarlet scales aglow, sat beside us. She was tucking her leathery wings, still quivering from flight, against her back. Her immense, gangly form obscured the boulder, as well as a fair portion of the meadow, which is why she had sent me sprawling when she landed. Only Hallia’s quick instincts had spared her the same fate.
The dragon drew a deep, ponderous breath. Her head, nearly as large as my entire body, hung remorsefully from her huge shoulders. Even her wings drooped sadly, as did one of her blue, bannerlike ears. The other ear, as always, stuck straight out from the side of her head—looking less like an ear than a misplaced horn.
Hallia, seeing my angry expression, moved protectively to the dragon’s side. She placed her hand on the end of the protruding ear. “Gwynnia’s sorry, can’t you see? She didn’t mean any harm.”
The dragon scrunched her nose and gave a deep, throaty whimper.
Hallia peered into her orange, triangular eyes. “She’s only just learned to fly. Her landings are still a little clumsy.”
“Little clumsy!” I fumed. “She might have killed me!”
I paced over to my staff, lying on the grass, and brandished it before the dragon’s face. “You’re as bad as a drunken giant. No, worse! At least he’d pass out eventually. You just keep getting bigger and clumsier by the day.”
Gwynnia’s eyes, glowing like lava, narrowed slightly. From deep within her chest, a rumble gathered, swelling steadily. The dragon suddenly stiffened and cocked her head, as if puzzled by the sound. Then, as the rumble faded away, she opened her gargantuan, teeth-studded jaws in a prolonged yawn.
“Be glad she hasn’t learned yet how to breathe fire,” cautioned Hallia. Quickly, she added, “Though I’m sure she’d never use it on a friend.” She scratched the edge of the rebellious ear. “Would you, Gwynnia?”
The dragon gave a loud snort. Then, from the other end of the meadow, the barbed end of her tail lifted, curled, and moved swiftly closer. With the grace of a butterfly, the remotest tip of the tail alighted on Hallia’s shoulder. There it rested, purple scales upon purple cloth, squeezing her gently.
Brushing some of the mud from my tunic, I gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s hard to stay angry at either of you for long.” I gazed into one of the dragon’s bright eyes. “Forgive me, will you? I forgot—just for a moment—that you’re never far from Hallia’s side.”
The young woman turned toward me. “For just a moment,” she said softly, “I, too, forgot.”
I nodded sadly. “It’s no fault of yours.”
“Oh, but it is.” She stroked the golden scales of the barbed tail. “When I started singing to her in the evenings, all those songs I learned as a child, I had no idea she would grow so attached.”
“Or so large.”
Hallia nearly smiled. “I suppose we should never have let Cairpré give her such a weighty name, out of ancient dragon-lore, unless we expected her to live up to it someday.”
“That’s right—the name of the first queen of the dragons, mother of all their race.” I chewe
d my lip, recalling the old legend. “The one who risked her own life to swallow the fire from a great lava mountain, so that she, and all her descendants, might also breathe flames.”
At that, Gwynnia opened wide her jaws and gave another yawn, this time so loud that we both had to cover our ears. When at last the yawn ended, I observed, “Seems like the queen may need a nap.” In a hopeful whisper, I added, “We may get to finish our conversation yet.”
Hallia nodded, even as she shifted uneasily. But before she could say anything, a new sound sliced through the air. It was a high, mournful keening—the kind of sound that could only come from someone in the throes of death. Or, more accurately, someone for whom death itself would be a reprieve.
2: THE BALLYMAG
The anguished cries, from somewhere near the stream, continued. Grabbing my staff, I dashed across the grass, followed by Hallia. The young dragon merely watched us sleepily, nuzzling her wing with her enormous nose. Even before I reached the bank, I realized that the wailing—so loud that it drowned out the tumble and splatter of water on the stones—was coming from a bend upstream. Hallia and I rushed to the spot, pushing aside some yellow gorse that grew by the water’s edge.
There, struggling to pull itself onto the muddy bank, was the oddest-looking creature I had ever seen. His body was dark, rounded, and sleek, much like the seals of Fincayra’s western coast, though smaller in size. Too, he possessed a seal’s long whiskers and deep, sorrowful eyes. But instead of fins, this creature had arms, three on each side. Thin and bony, the arms each ended with a pair of opposing claws resembling a crab’s. From his well-padded belly hung a net of greenish webbing—a pouch, perhaps—while his back held a row of long, delicate tails, each one coiled tightly into a spiral.
Then I noticed the jagged cut, caked with mud, that ran down his right flank. As the creature flopped against the bank, moaning piteously, I knelt beside him. Quickly, splashing him with stream water, I tried to clean the wound. At first the poor beast, thoroughly consumed by his own suffering, didn’t seem to notice me. After a moment, though, he gave a sudden, violent shudder.
“Oh, terribulous painodeath! Horribulous bloodyhurt!” he bellowed. “My endafinish, so soon, so soon . . . And I so littleyoung, almost a barebaby.”
“Don’t worry,” I answered soothingly, hopeful that my own dialect sounded less strange to him than his did to me. “I’m sure that cut hurts, but it’s really not too deep.” I reached into my satchel and pulled out a handful of healing herbs. “These herbs—”
“Are for killocooking little mepoorme, of course! Such a dreadfulous, woefulous endafinish.” His whole body trembled, especially the thick rolls of fat under his chin. “How I soverymuch sufferfled—only to be cookpotted by a cruelous manmonster.”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand. Try to relax.” Dripping some water on the herbs, I patted them into a poultice. “This will help you heal faster, that’s all.”
The creature shrieked and tried to wriggle free. “Manmonster! You want to fattenchew me up lightningfast. Oh, agony woe! My painodeath so nearupon, my—”
“No,” I decided. “Calm down, will you?”
“You’ll imprisoncage me, then. Touroshow me, as your odditious beast! So more manmonsters can hurlastones at my cage, or pinchasqueal me through bars. Terribulous fate, horribulous end . . .”
“No!” I tried my best to work the poultice into the wound, but the creature’s constant thrashing made it nearly impossible. Several times he nearly slid off my lap into the water—or into the gorse bushes. “I’m here to help you, don’t you understand?”
“You? Manmonster? Whenevernever did manmonster do thingany punybit helpfulous for ballymag?”
“Ballymag?” repeated Hallia, bending lower. “Why, indeed he could be.” Catching my puzzled look, she explained, “One of the rarest beings on the island. I’ve only heard stories—but, yes, this surely looks like one. Though what he’s doing here, I don’t understand. I thought they lived only in the remotest marshes.”
“In Haunted Marsh itselfcertain,” wailed the ballymag. “Outstraighten your factsattacks! Before you imprisoncage me, crunchabeat me, and cookscald me with a hundreddozen stale potatoes. Oh, woefulous world, disheartenous distress!”
Shaking my head, I examined the gash again. “Trusting fellow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, most certainously,” bawled the creature, tears brimming in his round eyes. “My natureborn, that is. Too quicktrusting, too foolgullible. Always eagerready to find happyhope in any situation, I am! Which is why it’s my sorrowfate to shriekadie with stale potatoes. An assnasty turn!”
The ballymag drew a slow, unsteady breath. “Well, go ahead and killascream me. I’ll crumplego honorously.” For a full two seconds, he kept silent. Then, all at once, he bellowed, “Oh, terrorwoe crampymess! To be cookpotted now! So littleyoung. So bravelystrong. So—”
“Quiet!” I commanded, working myself into a sitting position on the bank. Baring my teeth, I glared at him fiercely. “The louder you protest, the more terrible your death will be.”
Hallia looked at me with surprise, but I ignored her. “Yes, oh yes.” I cackled murderously. “The only question is just how to kill you. But this much is certain: The more you fuss, the more painful I shall make it for you.”
“Trulyreally?” whimpered the ballymag.
“Yes! Now stop your wailing.”
“Oh, horribulous . . .”
“This instant!”
The beast fell silent. But for the occasional shiver, which made him jiggle from the top of his throat down to the bottom of his belly, he lay utterly still on my lap.
Gently, I placed my hands over the wound. I began concentrating on the deepest layers of flesh, where the tissue was most badly torn. At the same time, I inhaled deeply. I imagined that my lungs were filling not with air, but with light—the warm, soothing light of summer sun. Here, in the cherished lands of the deer people, where Hallia and I had romped so freely—and would again, I felt certain. In time, the light overflowed into the rest of me, brimming in my shoulders, running down my arms, flowing through my fingertips.
As the healing light poured into the ballymag’s wound, his body, even his whiskers, began to relax. All at once he moaned again. But this moan was different, sounding less pained and more surprised—even, perhaps, pleased. But knowing how much delicate work lay ahead, I shot him a wrathful glare. Instantly, he quieted.
I began directing the light into the severed flesh. Like a bard restringing a broken harp, I turned from one strand of tissue to the next, binding and tightening with care, testing the strength of each before moving on. At one spot, I found a tangle of ripped sinews, cut almost to the bone. These I bathed in light for some time just to separate them from each other. At length, I loosened them, then gently reconnected the tissues, coaxing them back to strength, back to wholeness. Layer by layer, I worked higher in the wound, slowly drawing nearer to the surface.
Several minutes later, I lifted my hands. The ballymag’s black skin shone smooth and unbroken. Feeling drained, I leaned back against the stream bank, resting my head against a gorse root. Blue sky shone through the yellow blossoms above my head.
At last I sat up. Lightly, I tapped the ballymag’s flank. “Well,” I sighed, “you’re in luck. I’ve decided not to boil you after all.”
The creature’s eyes, already wide, swelled some more. But he said nothing.
“It’s true, poor fellow. I never was going to harm you, but that was the only way I could get you to stay still.”
“You’re just toyannoying with me,” he groaned, squirming in my lap. “Laugholously playfooling me.”
Hallia looked at me warmly. “He doesn’t believe you now. But he will, in time.”
“Nowoe chancehappen of that!” The ballymag suddenly uncoiled several of his tails, wrapped them around a rock protruding from the bank, and wrenched himself free from my grip. He landed with a splash in the shallows at my feet. Spinning h
is six arms, he swam downstream at terrific speed. In a flash, he had rounded the bend and disappeared.
Hallia stroked her slender chin. “It’s safe to say you healed him, young hawk.”
I glanced over at my shadow, crouching beside me on the mud, whose pose seemed hopelessly insolent. “Glad I can get something right.”
She ducked under a branch and moved to my side, as gracefully as an unfurling flower. “Healing, I think, is different from other magic.”
“How so?”
Pensively, she rolled a twig between her fingers, then tossed it into the flowing water. “I’m not sure, exactly. But more of healing magic seems to come from within—from your heart, perhaps, or someplace even deeper.”
“And other kinds of magic?”
“From, well, outside of ourselves.” She waved at the azure sky. “From out there somewhere. Those powers reach us, and sometimes flow through us, but don’t really belong to us. Using them is more like using a tool—like a hammer or a saw.”
I pulled a mud-encrusted stick out of my hair. “I understand, but what about the magic we use to change ourselves into deer? Doesn’t that come from within?”
“No, not really.” Pondering her hand, she squeezed it into the shape of a hoof. “At the beginning, when I will myself to change, I can feel my inner magic—but only as a spark, a sort of invitation, that connects me with the greater magic out there. That’s the magic that brings change in all its forms: night into day, fawn into doe, seed into flower. The magic that promises . . .” She paused to stroke a curling shaft of fern sprouting beside her on the bank. “That every meadow, buried in snow all winter long, will spring into life once again.”
I nodded, listening to the splatter and spray of the stream. A snake, thin and green, emerged from a tangle of reeds by my feet and slipped into the water. “Sometimes I feel those outer powers—cosmic powers—so strongly they seem to be using me, wielding me like their own little tool. Or writing me like a story—a story whose ending I can’t do anything to change.”
Hallia leaned closer, rubbing her shoulder against mine. “It’s all this talk, isn’t it? Oh yes, young hawk, I’ve heard it, even from some of my clan who ought to know better. All about your future, your destiny, to be a wizard.”
