by T.A. Barron
Ector started to speak, but the old man shook his head, setting loose a small yellow butterfly that had perched above his ear. “An English phrase, that that—I mean, what what. Not Celtic in the least, you understand. With no linguistic logic behind it whatsoever! Like so much else about the English: strictly incomprehensible, and at times, incoherent. I picked it up, you see, in my days in the royal courts of Gramarye, what what.”
He drew his prominent brows together. “Now then, what was I saying? And . . . was I saying it now? Or then?” His bewildered look deepened. He grasped a fistful of beard hairs, thrust them into his mouth, chewed for a moment, then spat them out. “So tell me now, where were we?”
I cocked my head, wondering more and more about this old babbler.
“We were saying,” answered Ector, “that my friend here almost died.” Grimly, he observed me. “You were drawing your last breath, young hawk. I’m sure of it. I don’t know how he did it, but my master pulled that bloodnoose clean out of you.” His eyes glowed with compassion, then narrowed. “It was thicker than a rope, soaked through with blood.”
With a shudder, I placed my hand upon my chest. The skin felt tender, as if my rib cage had been roughly chafed. Everything beneath my bones felt tender, as well—though my chest seemed whole again, more whole than it had for a long time.
Ector glanced proudly at the elder fellow, who was busy pulling some beard hairs out of his mouth. “I told you he was a healer.”
“You mean,” I asked in disbelief, “that he is the one who did it?”
The boy nodded.
“This fellow is your master?”
He watched me with a wry grin. “The same fellow you said had the courage of a newborn hare and the wisdom of a jackass.”
I cringed. To my relief, the old man, still occupied with his beard, seemed not to have heard Ector’s comment. With effort, I propped myself up on my elbows. I could feel my heart beating strongly beneath my ribs. Then, doing my best to look more thankful than surprised, I faced the elder squarely. “You saved my life, and I am grateful.”
Casually, he scratched his nose. “Think nothing of it, my lad. I’ve always had some difficulty with people who try to die on my floor. Positively indecorous, you know—even indecent. Nothing personal, mind you . . . but I’m certain you can understand. Such a beastly mess, what what.”
Still unsure about him, I gave a respectful nod. “I, ah, understand.”
“Good,” he declared, scratching the tip of his long nose. “That is a good deal more than I can say for myself most of the time.” He clasped his weathered hands together and looked expectantly at Ector. “Now then.” Briefly, another wave of confusion crossed his face. “No, no. Let’s just say now. Less disorienting. So then, now. Maggots and mushrooms! Dear me. Just tell me, please, one thing—one very important thing.” The bewildered look vanished, replaced by one of great anticipation. “Where, lad, is the key?”
Ector’s shoulders drooped. Clearly, if he could have slinked away between the cracks in the stones, he would have done so. His words, though merely a whisper, seemed to shout out loud: “I have failed you, Master.”
For a long interlude, the old man didn’t move. I thought, at first, that he had not understood. At last I noticed a slight mistiness in his eyes. “You mean. . .”
“I don’t have it.”
My stomach clenched. I managed to sit all the way up, placing myself between the two of them. “It wasn’t his fault,” I explained. “If anyone failed you, it wasn’t him. It was me.”
The elder studied me. He did not stir except to lift, very slowly, one of his tangled brows.
Feeling the weight of his gaze, I turned away. “He . . . he tried to tell me. And I should have listened better.”
With his wrinkled hand, he tapped the floor. The sound reverberated in the shadowy chamber, finally dying away. “I see,” he said at last. “Don’t fret too much, lad. There have been too many times in my life when I should have listened better, for me to blame you now.” He heaved a sigh. “Far too many.”
His noble words lifted my spirits a notch. Yet, at the same time, the genuine anguish written upon his face made my throat swell.
With one hand, he tugged on the collar of his tunic—deep blue, it seemed, though I couldn’t be certain. “Ah, listening. Most difficult of all the arts.” He forced a half grin. “The only thing harder, I suppose, is trying to tame one’s own shadow.”
Sadly, I nodded. “Believe me, I know what you mean.”
He straightened himself, making the joints in his back pop. “Well then. Or now. Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?”
He shot a quizzical glance at Ector. “We haven’t yet, have we?”
“No, Master.” He waved at me. “This is young hawk.”
From somewhere in the room, there came a small screech and a flutter. The old man didn’t seem to notice, and went back to watching me. The spare light rippled across his features and the stray hairs of his beard. “An odd name, that. What other names are you called?”
I peered at the dark eyes. “Most people just say Merlin.”
Again, a screech echoed—much louder this time. The old man grew agitated. “No, my lad. I wanted your name, not mine!”
I stiffened. “It is my name.”
“Merlin?” He leaned closer, drumming his bony fingers on the floor. “That’s impossible. No, inconceivable.”
Ector, reaching a hand from under his tattered robes, touched my knee. “Are you . . . really Merlin?”
Taken aback, I declared, “Of course! Why shouldn’t I be? And why did he say his name was Merlin?”
“Because it is.” Suddenly the boy’s face lit up like a torch. “Why, of course. That must be it! He shares your name because he—my own good master—is really you.”
“Me?” I asked, dumfounded.
“Your older self.”
My jaw dropped.
The old fellow stared at me, aghast.
The boy, meanwhile, eyed us both with wonder. “Don’t you see? You’re both Merlin, but from different times.” He laughed. “I knew there was something strange about you, young hawk. Strangely like my master! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you anything, not even my real name. He—I mean you, the older you—told me not to trust anyone I met in the marsh.”
My head whirled. “You mean to say your name isn’t Ector?”
He ran a hand through his curls. “No. It’s my father, you see, whose name is Ector—Sir Ector, of the Forest Sauvage. My real name . . . is Arthur.”
Though I had not heard the name before, I felt an unaccountable stirring down inside myself. “And why do you call him—er, me—your master?”
“Because it sounds better than tutor, or teacher. But teach me he does—all sorts of things, some of them rather, well, unusual. Even bizarre.” He gave an embarrassed grin. “Why, he’s even told me that one day he’ll show me how to pull a sword out of a . . . well, you’d never believe it.”
I gasped, as an ancient hand clutched my thigh. “Don’t say any more,” came the elder’s stern command. “The lad doesn’t know a particle about his future, all that lies ahead.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “In that regard, I suppose, he’s rather like you.”
23: DANCE OF LIGHT
With surprising agility, the old man rose to his feet. At the same time, he swept his arm through the air, fingers splayed wide. His tunic’s sleeve slapped the air; the sound reverberated in the darkened chamber like a clap of thunder. Could that really be myself, I wondered, however many years in the future?
The grand sweep of his arm, however, stopped short: He had caught several fingers in the knots of his beard. Still, that fact—and the fact that he created several more knots while trying to extract his hand—did not seem to bother him. Nor did it do anything to diminish the new illumination in his face.
At last, having untangled himself, he gazed at me. “Now, my lad, before we speak of things future—or is it things past?—let us have a
meal, a genuine repast. Shall we? One doesn’t often join oneself for dinner, after all.”
“Yes, oh yes!” exclaimed Arthur, clapping his hands. “Except for that, well . . .” He waved a hand at me. “That whatever-it-was you gave me under the trees, I haven’t eaten for three days.”
“Which, to a boy your age feels like three centuries.” The elder snapped a pair of bony fingers. “And which, to a man my age, feels like next to nothing. Oh, but it’s a lovely way to gain perspective on life, this living on endlessly! Interminably, I should say. Only a fossil could tell you more—if, indeed, a fossil could speak.”
“Fossil?”
“Why yes, my lad. You’ll learn to think not in terms of life spans, or centuries even, but geologic time. Truly! Periods so vast that even the present era, Cenozoic, started sixty-five million years ago.” Seeing my puzzled expression, he went on: “Of course, I agree, it can be unnerving, and confusing at times. Especially when you add in the living backward part.”
I caught my breath. “The what?”
“Later, my lad, later.” He stroked the forested knob of his chin. “We must have a bite to eat. But first, we need some light, what what?”
Once again he waved his arm, this time keeping clear of his beard. Light suddenly flashed, filling the entire chamber. All around us, assorted objects glittered (despite the layers of dust covering many of them)—whether they rested on the stone floor, the high wooden cupboard whose shelves sagged with leather-bound volumes, the lavishly decorated walls, or the ceiling itself. Some of the objects I recognized immediately, such as the strings of drying roots, herbs, and bark shavings—tied in bundles with a sprig of cedar, just as my mother always did to keep her ingredients fresh—that dangled above our heads. Other objects, though, remained utterly obscure: a silver chalice, whose two handles seemed to quiver restlessly; a shallow bowl holding two twirling red arrows; and a ragged manuscript on the oaken table beside us whose pages were busily turning themselves. Even the many rows of bottles and pots, which at first glance seemed unremarkable, bubbled with strange and colorful chemicals that I couldn’t possibly identify.
Suddenly my attention turned from the objects within the chamber to the chamber itself. The walls, the ceiling, the nooks—all glowed with a powerful, pulsing radiance. Awestruck, I clambered to my feet, nearly tripping over my staff that lay on the floor. Slowly, I moved closer to the nearest wall. As I pushed aside a silken drapery, decorated with intertwining blue snakes and silver-green leaves, my heart raced. For I had already guessed what lit the drapery from behind.
Crystals. Thousands upon thousands of them. Utterly different from the crystals of the ballymag’s underground home, this was an immensely varied array, in more colors, shapes, and sizes than I had ever seen. Gently, I ran my fingers over the facets. Some, sharply angled, pricked my skin; others gently arched, felt as smooth as icicles. Each crystal glowed with color—sometimes several colors at once—and all of them sparkled and shimmered continuously. The walls themselves danced with light and movement, as luminous as rainbows, as ever-changing as waterfalls.
Always, crystals had moved me, kindling a light within me as bright as themselves. Yet here radiated crystals beyond even my greatest imaginings. So many of them surrounded me—each one so deep, so rich, worth a lifetime of pondering. And each one blessed with a light, as well as a mystery, of its own.
“Well now,” announced the old man, observing me. “How do you like it?”
He stood by the nearest wall of the chamber, his flowing hair and beard aglow, no less than the crystals. He leaned on a staff, much like my own but far more gnarled and scarred. With a start, I realized that it was my own staff, covered with dozens of additional runes, emblems—and what appeared to be teeth marks. Underneath all the new markings, however, I could still recognize the seven symbols of wisdom that I had struggled so hard to gain.
“How do you like it?” he repeated, with a wave of his hand. “A bit cluttered, perhaps, but not altogether uncomfortable.”
“It’s magnificent.” I gave the hint of a grin. “One might even say . . . incomparable.”
He gave a slight bow, swishing the folds of the dark blue cape, sparkling with embroidered stars, that overlay his tunic. But far more impressive than the movement of his cape was the movement of the great, dark form behind him: his shadow. Majestically, it swept across the opposite wall, rising almost to the very ceiling. Even more striking to me, the shadow seemed perfectly obedient, bowing precisely in time with the man.
With the wizard. For that, I now knew, was what he truly was—and what I could one day become. I glanced at my own shadow, so much smaller than his. To my chagrin, it was waving its hand at me in a mocking gesture. My eyes narrowed vengefully, but I could do no more. My day would have to wait. Still, I now had hope that the wait, while it could be very long, might someday be rewarded.
“So,” declared the wizard, “let the feast begin.”
As Arthur nodded eagerly, the old man pressed together the palms of his hands and whispered some secret command. An instant later, a pinewood table—shaped like a circle, of all things—appeared in the middle of the floor. Beside it rested three polished stools. Viewing his new furniture with approval, he pressed his palms again. A bouquet of blue, bell-shaped flowers appeared on one side of the table, with a basket of plump, golden apples on the other. He repeated the motion, producing a sudden burst of aromas. I smelled roasted chicken, mince pie, buttered river trout, steaming hot loaves, and even my childhood favorite, bread pudding. I smelled them, but couldn’t see them. For nothing but the smells had arrived.
“Pigs and paddlewheels!” My elder self growled in frustration and pressed his hands together again, this time so forcefully that his shoulders started shaking and his cheeks took on a crimson hue. Seeing no result, he stopped. Then, breathing hard, he snarled, “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just cook things up the traditional way.”
Arthur, looking famished, glowered. “You can’t cook, that’s why.”
“Er . . . yes, well, you have a point.” He shook himself. “I never was much for tradition anyway.” His brows came together. Staring hard at the table, he muttered a few phrases and pressed his palms yet again.
This time food erupted on the slab of pinewood. All the delights I had smelled appeared, along with many more. There were tall flasks of water and wine (plus some dark, foaming brew that I couldn’t imagine swallowing). A wooden platter held several loaves of steaming hot bread, all baked in the Slantos style; ambrosia bread was the first one I broke apart. Nut cakes and bowls of vegetable soup, honeyed chestnuts and strawberries with cream, mashed beetroot and cheese wrapped in dill, baked turnips and assorted greens—all crowded the table. Immediately, Arthur and I leaped to the stools and fell upon the feast.
The old man watched us approvingly for a while, then pulled up his own stool. He reached for the flask of foaming liquid, poured himself a mug, and—to my amazement—drank deeply. As he lowered the mug, his gaze met my own. With a knowing look, he offered me a swallow.
“No thank you,” I replied, wiping some gravy off my cheek. “It doesn’t look, well, right for me.”
He took another sip. Foam clung to his whiskers as he tilted the mug. “Ahhh. Are you certain, my lad? I like it ever so much.”
I shook my head. “No. But the rest of this feast is extraordinary.”
“It’s an acquired taste, I suppose, one of those inexplicable phenomena.” He laid down the mug, almost toppling the plate of beetroot. “Takes a few centuries of getting used to, that’s all.”
Arthur, chewing on some cheese while holding a chicken leg in one hand and a large carrot in the other, nodded. “It’s your best banquet ever, Master.” He tilted his head imploringly. “Could we, perhaps, have a little of that. . . mmm, what did you call it? Cold cream?”
The old mage grinned. “Ah, you mean ice cream. Next to helicopters, the most remarkable invention of the twentieth century.” He tugged on his ear
thoughtfully. “Even so, a helicopter is still nothing compared to a hummingbird! Did you know their little wings can beat the air more than fifty times per second? And that the Rufous, while no bigger than the palm of my hand, can migrate over seven thousand miles every year?”
“Errr . . . no,” I answered truthfully, having absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
“Well then,” he declared. “What about that ice cream?” He winked, and three wooden bowls appeared. A soft, tan sort of pudding filled them, topped with sauce—light brown for us and amber yellow for him. Arthur dropped the chicken leg and plunged straight into his bowl, lifting it to his face. Cautiously, I touched mine first with my finger. So cold! It seemed more like snow than food. I drew back my hand, frowning uncertainly.
“Coffee flavor,” said the elder as he downed a spoonful. “With honeycomb topping on yours.” His grin widened. “And a touch of Armenian cognac on mine.”
“Armenian . . . what did you say?”
“Cognac, my lad. You’ll find out in another millennium. And believe me, it’s worth the wait. It’s even worth the wretched all-day bus ride to that vineyard.”
I frowned. “Bus ride?”
Before he could reply, Arthur lowered his bowl. The honeycomb sauce smeared his chin, cheeks, and nose. He looked ever so much more serene than the frightened boy who had accosted me in the marsh.
“Fumblefeathers!” cried the wizard. “How could I forget? We can’t dine without music, what what?”
With a flourish, he pointed at an elegant harp that hung from the wall above a small bed, or nest perhaps, strewn with downy feathers. Instantly, the harp lifted higher on the wall, revealing its glittering strings. But for the oaken sound box, inlaid with bands of ash, its heart-shaped frame was made from living vines, twined securely around each other. Slender leaves from the vines, vibrant green, draped over the harp’s edges. As the wizard’s fingers snapped, the leaves curled downward—and began to pluck the strings. A soft, drifting melody, as soothing as a splashing stream, filled the crystal cave.
