by T.A. Barron
Bending toward him, I tried to pull a twig, sticky with sap, out of one of his tails. He shrank away from me, cowering. “You’ve no reason to fear now,” I coaxed. “The dragon isn’t here.”
“But manmonster is!” He lifted his nose and sniffed, as his eyes grew wider still. “And worsemuch, verilously worsemuch, this is terrorplace I leastcringe wantbe!” He fell into a fit of shudders and groans. “Terrorp-p-p-place.”
Hallia caught her breath. “So you know where we are?”
“Certainously,” wailed the ballymag. “C-c-can’t you smelloscent flavorous puddlemuck?”
“No, I can’t!” I declared. “Whatever mucklescent means.”
“Puddlemuck!” The ballymag shut his eyes, muttering, “Manmonsters! So verilously dumbilythick.”
I shook him until his eyes reopened. “Where do you think we are, then?”
Balefully, he looked up at us. “The darkendous wood, edgesouth of Haunted Marsh.”
I started. “The marsh? Are you sure?”
“Certainously!” His whiskers bristled. “Thinkyou I not smellknow my own puddlemuck?”
Hallia shook her head. “That can’t be right. The forest I remember was in the hills a long way south of the marshlands—practically a full day’s run.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive. I never forget a forest, certainly not an ancient one like this. And it wasn’t even close to the Haunted Marsh.”
“Ohwoe, but it verilously is!” squealed the ballymag, his whole body shaking. Waves of jiggly fat rolled down his belly. “Manmonster, please . . . hurtpinch mepoorme if you choosemust. Tearpull out these whiskerhairs, oneshriek by oneshriek. But takeget me hereaway!”
Scowling, I studied the quivering creature. “You’re not making sense. Even if we were near the swamp, why don’t you want to go back? I thought it was your home.”
“Was, absolutously. But not nowlonger. Not safehome.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”
He twisted, trying to push his head under one of the roots. “Can’t talkexplain! Too horribulous.”
Staring down at him, I wondered what could possibly be more horrible than the Haunted Marsh I well remembered. The putrid air, the gripping muck—and, worst of all, the marsh ghouls. I had seen their eerie, flickering eyes, and much more than that. I never wanted to feel their rage, their madness, again. Hallia, I knew, had been right: That swamp was the least known—and most feared—place on Fincayra. And for good reason.
The ballymag, raising his head again, sighed through his shivers. “Oh, how I achemiss that homeplace, with its glorifous underwonders! Such a sweetlygush homeplace, for such timelong.”
I traded disbelieving glances with Hallia.
“Ah, those putridous pools,” he continued, his eyes glistening. “Those bafflingous bogs! All so mooshlovely and wetsecret.” He cringed. “Until . . .”
“Until what?”
“Ickstick!” cried the ballymag suddenly, pointing all his claws at my feet. “A dangerscream!”
I glanced down at the thick, crooked stick beside my boot, then back at him. “No more hysterics, now. I’ve had enough! I’m not running from sticks—nor should you.”
“Butayou don’t . . .”
“Enough!” I commanded, drawing my sword. A shaft of light, slicing through the branches overhead, caught the blade. It flashed brightly. “This will save us from deadly sticks. Or wailing ballymags.”
Hallia frowned. “Come. Let’s find our way back to—aaaghhh.”
Both hands flew to her neck, tearing at the writhing, sinuous snake that had wrapped itself around her throat. Her face lost its color; her eyes bulged with terror. Raising my sword, I leaped to her aid.
“Painodeath!” shrieked the ballymag.
All of a sudden, something heavy struck my lower back. It slid with incredible speed up my spine to my shoulders. Before I could even cry out, powerful muscles clamped around my neck.
Another snake! My breath cut short. I barely caught sight of Hallia collapsing to her knees, wrestling with her own strangling snake, when things started spinning. I tripped on something, kept myself from falling—but dropped my sword. Clumsily, I stumbled toward Hallia. I had to reach her. Had to!
My fingers dug deep into the cold flesh closing around my neck. It felt hard, like a collar of stone. Even as I tugged, the snake squeezed relentlessly, drawing itself tighter and tighter. My head seemed about to explode, my arms and legs weaker by the second. Bolts of pain shot through my neck, head, and chest. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe. Air—I needed air!
Stumbling, I crashed to the ground, rolling on the needles. I struggled to stand. But I fell again, facedown, still pulling at the serpent. Meanwhile, a strange darkness crept over me—and through me. I felt no more spinning, no more motion.
Magic. I must use my magic! Yet I lacked the strength.
Something sharp jabbed my shoulder. I felt the cut, saw the blood. My sword—had I rolled on it? Vaguely, an idea glimmered in my mind. Using all my remaining strength, I tried to wriggle higher on the blade. Weakly I twisted, but the world grew darker. I felt the blade slicing my flesh . . . and possibly something else.
Too weak to fight any longer, I ceased moving. A final wish flashed through my thoughts: Forgive me, Hallia. Please.
Suddenly—the snake’s hold loosened. I drew a ragged, halting breath. My arms started tingling; my vision began clearing. Wrathfully, I tore the severed body of the snake from my neck. Hallia, I could see, lay so near. And so still.
Grasping the hilt of the sword, I crawled to her side. The snake that had attacked her uncoiled slightly, raising its head from under her chin. It hissed angrily, yellow eyes sizzling. It shot toward me—
Just as I swung the sword. With a slap, the blade connected. The snake’s head sailed into the air, thudding into the trunk of a tree. It fell to the forest floor.
I dropped the sword and pulled myself to her side. Please, Hallia! Breathe again. I held her bruised neck, almost as purple as her robe, and shook her head. But she didn’t stir. I stroked her cheeks; I squeezed her chilled hand.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
“Hallia!” I cried, tears dampening my cheeks. “Come back now. Come back!”
She made no movement. She showed no life, not even the faintest breath.
Crumpling in despair, I fell upon her, my face pressed against her own. “Don’t die,” I whispered. “Not here, not now.”
Something brushed against my cheek. Another tear? No . . . an eyelid!
I lifted my face, looking into her own, even as she drew a struggling breath. And another. And another.
In a moment, she sat up. She coughed, rubbing her sore neck. Her eyes, so wide and brown and deep, caressed me for several seconds. Then they moved to the bloodstained sword by my side, and the headless snake lying among the pine needles.
Her lips quivered in a fleeting smile. “Maybe,” she said hoarsely, “your aim isn’t so bad after all.”
5: FLAMES NOW ARISE
It took a full hour for us to regain our strength, and for Hallia to clean the slice on my shoulder so that I could will the tissues to heal. And it took nearly another hour for the ballymag to speak again, having been frightened completely out of his voice. Finally, we sat among the needles and gnarled roots, grateful to be alive—and entirely alert for any more snakes.
“You bravelysave,” rasped the ballymag, leaning against a bulging root. He clawed anxiously at his whiskers. “Muchously more bravelysave than me.”
I tossed a pinecone into the boughs of a sapling. “At least you spotted that one before it attacked. How did you know it wasn’t really a stick?”
“The angryeyes. Almostously closed, but peekingstill yellowbright. Many terrortimes I findenhide themsame before.”
“In the marsh?” I leaned closer, peering at his round face. “Those snakes came from there?”
“Verilutously.”
I scowled. “The
place you called your wonderful homeplace.”
Hallia rubbed her neck gingerly. “Your word, I think, was mooshlovely.”
“Well . . .” The ballymag made an effort to clear his throat, while his row of tails twitched nervously. “I mightcould exaggersillied a bitlittle.”
“A bitlittle.” Puzzled, I shook my head. “What’s happening with the marsh? Even if it’s not so far from here, as you believe, why did those snakes leave it?”
His round eyes closed tightly, then popped open. “Probabously for dreadfulsame reason as Iself.”
“Which is?”
“Too terribulous to tell, even whispersay.” The ballymag shook his head, along with his six arms and most of his tails. “Whatever my worstshriek dreamfears, this be worsefulous. Bigamuch worsefulous.”
“Tell us.”
He shrunk down into the roots. “Nowoewoe.”
Lightly, Hallia touched my arm. “He still doesn’t trust you.”
I growled with exasperation. “How many times do I have to save his life before he does? Well, no matter. He won’t be with us much longer anyway.”
The ballymag gasped. His claws started to clatter with his shaking. “Manmonster plangoing to . . . chopochew me?”
“Tempting, but no.” I clambered to my feet and studied him ruefully. “We’re going to find our way, somehow, back to the Summer Lands. But since I brought you here, it’s my responsibility to get you safely to water somewhere. No, don’t worry, not your mooshlovely marsh! But we’re bound to pass some watery place before long. And that’s where I’ll be leaving you, whether you like it or not. I don’t care if it’s a stream, a tarn—or a puddle.”
The ballymag’s eyes narrowed and he snapped a claw at me.
With a sigh, I tore off a strip from the bottom of my tunic, tied the ends together, and draped it around my neck like a saggy sling. Then, despite his constant wriggling, I gathered him in my arms and placed him inside. Though one of his tails protruded, coiling and uncoiling in time to his nervous moans, the rest of him disappeared in the folds of cloth.
Lightly, Hallia touched the moaning bundle on my chest—causing the ballymag to shriek and curl himself into a huddled ball. She studied the bulging sling. “He may not appreciate that you saved our lives, young hawk, but I do.”
I tapped the hilt of my sword. “This is what really saved us.”
She stamped her foot on the ground like an angry doe. “Come now. You sound as if you had nothing to do with it.”
I gazed at the shadowed trees. “That’s not what I mean. But we came close, too close, to dying right there. If I really have all the powers that Cairpré and the others think I have—expect me to have—then I shouldn’t have been fooled by those snakes to begin with.”
“Hmfff. Why can’t you make mistakes sometimes, like anyone else?”
“Because I’m supposed to be a wizard!”
She placed her hands on her hips. “All right then, great wizard, why don’t you tell me something? Such as how are we going to get back to Gwynnia before she frets herself to death, or tears up the countryside looking for me?”
“Well, unless you’d like me to try Leaping . . .”
“No!”
“Then we’ll have to walk.” I patted the sling—and jerked away my hand just as a claw nearly snapped it. “With our friendly companion here.”
Turning to the aged cedar by my side, I laid my hand upon its deep-rutted trunk. A waft of sweet resins came to me; I could almost feel them flowing beneath the bark. “I wish I could find some way to help you, old one. And the rest of this place, as well. But there just isn’t time.”
The branches above me stirred slightly, sending down a shower of dead needles. I glanced at Hallia, who had already strode off into the forest, following the slanting beams of the afternoon sun. I pressed my palm into the tree’s bark for another few seconds, and whispered, “Someday, perhaps, I’ll return.”
Catching up with Hallia wasn’t easy, since she was trotting speedily through the woods. No doubt she would have suggested that we change ourselves into deer, but for her awareness that I needed to transport the ballymag. Yet even with two legs, she leaped with ease over roots and fallen trunks, while I seemed to snag my tunic on every passing branch. The ballymag’s heavy sling didn’t help—nor did the occasional claw that would reach out and snap at me.
Panting, I finally caught up with her. “Do you,” I huffed, “know where you’re leading us?”
She ducked beneath a fragrant bough of hemlock. “If this is the forest I remember, the Summer Lands lie to the west. I’m hoping to find a landmark I recognize before long.”
“And I’m hoping to find some water. To rid myself of this—” I slapped away the roving claw. “This baggage.”
For a long while we trekked through the trees, hearing only the crunching of our footsteps or the occasional scurrying of a squirrel on a branch. Then, from a ravine below us, we heard a sharp thud, repeated several times. A sword. Or an axe, hacking and chopping. Suddenly, a tormented wind swept through the branches, rising to a cacophonous moan.
Both of us froze. I took Hallia’s arm. “We can’t do anything to save this forest, but maybe we can save at least one tree.”
She nodded.
Following the chopping sound, we flew down the ravine, crashing through the thicket of blackberry bushes that covered the hillside. Though I tried my best to keep up with Hallia, she soon left me behind. Once I tripped on a fallen limb, landing with a thud on my chest. And on the ballymag, whose shrieks nearly deafened me. I regained my feet and again plunged down the hill.
A few moments later, the ground leveled out. I burst into a narrow, grassy clearing. There stood Hallia, arms crossed against her chest, facing a man holding a rough-hewn axe. His ears, like those of most Fincayrans, were slightly pointed at the top. But it was his eyes that commanded attention: They glowered angrily at the young woman who dared to stand between him and the tall, gnarled pine whose trunk bore a ragged gash in its side.
“Away with ye, girl!” His tattered tunic swirling about him, he waved his axe at Hallia. Behind him stood a woman, her expression as frayed as her uncombed hair. In her arms she held a baby who cried piteously while her thin legs thrashed the air.
“Away!” shouted the exasperated man. “It’s only a wee bit o’ firewood we be wantin’.” He lifted his axe threateningly. “And soon shall be gettin’.”
“For that you don’t need to cut down a whole tree,” objected Hallia, not budging. “Certainly not an old one like this. Besides, there’s plenty of wood on the ground. Here, I’ll help you gather some.”
“Not dry enough for kindlin’,” retorted the man. “Now stand ye aside.”
“I will not,” declared Hallia.
Panting from my run, I stepped to her side. “Nor will I.”
The man glared at us, eyes smoldering. He raised his axe higher.
“Our babe, she needs warmth,” wailed the woman. “And a morsel o’ cooked food. She hasn’t eaten a scrap since yesterday morn.”
Hallia, her face softening, tilted her head in puzzlement. “Why not? Where is your home?”
The woman hesitated, trading glances with her husband. “A village,” she said cautiously. “Near the swamp.”
“The Haunted Marsh?” I asked, with a quick look at Hallia. “Isn’t that a long way from here?”
The woman eyed me strangely, but said nothing.
“Wherever your village is,” Hallia pressed, “why aren’t you there now?”
Ignoring the man’s gesture to stay silent, the woman started to sob. “Because . . . it be invaded. By them.”
“By who?”
The man swung his axe in the air. “By the marsh ghouls,” he answered gruffly. “Now move yeselves aside.”
At that moment, the ballymag lifted his whiskered head above the edge of the sling. Then, at the sight of the axe, he whimpered loudly and promptly buried himself again in the folds.
“In
vaded?” I repeated. “I’ve never heard of marsh ghouls doing such a thing before.”
The woman tried to give her little girl a finger to suck, but the child pushed it away. “Our village be borderin’ the swamp for a hundred and fifty years, and we never heard of such a thing, neither. Their screeches and wails, of course, we hear every night. Louder than battlin’ cats! But if we be leavin’ them alone, they do the same for us. Until . . . that all changed.”
Her husband took a step toward us, brandishing his axe. “Enough talkin’,” he barked.
“Wait,” I commanded. “If it’s fire you want, I know another way.”
Before he could object, I raised my staff high. Beneath my fingertips, I could feel one of the engravings on the shaft, the carved shape of a butterfly. With my free hand, I pointed at a tangle of needles and sticks near the man’s feet. Silently, I called upon the powers of Changing, wherever they might be found. Though I felt no wind, my tunic suddenly billowed, sleeves flapping. Seeing this, the man gasped, while his wife drew back several steps.
In a slow, rhythmic cadence, I spoke the ancient words of the fire-bringer:
Flames now arise
From forest or fen;
Brighter than eyes,
Beyond mortal ken.
Father of heat
For anvil and pyre;
Mother of light,
O infinite fire.
A sizzling sound erupted from the wood. Brown needles curled downward, while bark split open and began to snap and pop. A thin trail of smoke rose upward, steadily swelling, until—flash! The sticks, bark, and needles burst into flames.
The man shouted and leaped aside. Even so, the hem of his torn tunic caught a spark and started to burn. Hastily grabbing a tuft of long grass, he swatted at the flames. His wife, holding tight to their child, backed farther away.
At last, the fire on his tunic extinguished, the man turned to face me. For a long moment, he stared in silence. “Sorcery,” he growled at last. “Cursed sorcery.”
