by T.A. Barron
I shrugged. “Just as I thought. More good intentions worth a handful of dust.”
“Hear me out,” he declared, his eyes gleaming anew. “There is still this: A kingdom that is banished from the land may yet find a home in the heart.” His back straightened, and he seemed to grow larger as I watched. “And a life—whether wizard or king, poet or gardener, seamstress or smith—is measured not by its length, but by the worth of its deeds, and the power of its dreams.”
Absently, I scanned the glittering facets surrounding us. “Dreams can’t make you free.”
His hand, so deeply wrinkled, reached over and clasped my forearm. “Ah, dear lad, but they can.” He looked not at me but through me, at something far distant. “Most surely, they can.”
I studied his face: the dark eyes, almost laughing while at the same time almost crying; the wide mouth, so old and yet so young; the wrinkled brow, marked by ideas and experiences I couldn’t begin to fathom; and, of course, the great beard—tangled in places, luminous throughout. Yet for all that face made me want to hope, I still felt defeated.
“Know this as well, young wizard,” he said kindly. “Everything I have taught and will teach my pupil Arthur boils down to this: Find your true self, your true image, and you shall tap into the greater good—the higher power that breathes life into all things. Most assuredly! And while you may not prevail in your own time and place, your efforts will flow outward as ripples on a pond. Powered by that greater good, they may touch faraway shores, altering their destinies long after you have gone.”
“But destiny can’t be changed,” I protested. “Because of my folly, you—and therefore I—will be trapped in this cave forever.”
The old man considered my words for a moment before speaking. “You have a destiny, lad. That much is true. But you also have choices. Yes—and choices are nothing less than the power of creation. Through them, you can create your own life, your own future, your own destiny.”
I merely looked at him in disbelief.
Pensively, he rubbed a few leaves between his thumb and forefinger. At the same time, the harp-strings seemed to pluck slightly more rapidly, their notes echoing from the walls with a lighter lilt.
“By your choices,” he continued, “you might even create an entirely new world, one that will spring into being from the ruins of the old.” He smiled to himself in a secretive way, as if he knew much more than he was revealing. “There is a poet called Tennyson, from a time yet to come, who describes such a world: Avalon is its name. That is a land, he says,
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea.”
The words fell upon me like a warm summer rain, yet still I could not bring myself to believe him. “I can’t even move my own scrawny shadow, no matter how hard I try. So how can my choices make any real difference to the outside world?”
“Well,” said the mage with a sigh, scanning the boughs that supported him. “With regard to your shadow, you might stop trying and simply start being.”
“Being? Being what?’
“And with regard to your choices,” he went on, “you have already affected the world because of them. Indelibly, I might add. Think of it, lad! In your brief time on Fincayra:—what has it been? Three years?—you have roused the hidden giants, found a new way of seeing, toppled an entire castle, answered an oracle’s riddle, defeated those wicked beasts who devour magic, taken your sister’s spirit into yourself, healed a wounded dragon, and so much more. And that is but the beginning! You have (if I recall correctly) become a deer, a stone, a feathered hawk, a tree, a puff of wind—and even a fish.”
He paused, glancing over at Arthur, who was finishing one fruit pie and moving on to another. “A fish,” he muttered to himself. “Yes, yes, that might be just the right thing for him at this stage.”
His bright eyes swung back to me. “You have choices, my lad. And with choices, power. Inestimable power.”
Despite myself, I felt a faint glimmer of renewal somewhere down inside. Had I really done all those things? Though I knew that Nimue’s treachery had defeated me, forever it seemed, I still found myself feeling curiously different. Stronger, somehow. I shifted my weight, sitting a bit more erect on the stool.
Then a wave of doubts washed over me. “I may have done those things on Fincayra. But . . . what about here? This place called Gramarye? This is the land you wanted to save—but now cannot.”
As the old mage regarded me, the crystals lining the walls and ceiling seemed to grow a little brighter. “Whatever happens to me, or to you, my lad, we will have forever changed this place, this island, just as you have forever changed that island that is now your home.’ Most certainly! I have even heard some people cease to call it Gramarye—or even that modern term, Britain—at all, preferring instead to say Merlin’s Isle.”
Almost imperceptibly, he smiled. “You doubt me? Then hear these words, penned by a poet named White who will not even be born for more than a thousand years:
She is not any common earth
Water or wood or air.
But Merlin’s Isle of Gramarye
Where you and I will fare.”
He pointed a knobby finger toward the far end of the cave. From within its depths, a small clay cup came floating toward him. Carefully, he plucked it from the air, reached inside, and pulled out a tiny sphere. Though the sphere was dark brown, it gleamed with an eerie sheen that seemed to pulse like a living heart. It was, I knew at once, a seed.
“The wonders of this seed,” pronounced the wizard, “are both too subtle and too immense to name, though in years to come many a bard will try.”
Slowly, he rolled it between his fingers. “Its history, too, is immense, so I will share but a little with you now. This seed was discovered in ancient Logres, at the bottom of a deep tarn, possibly by Rheged of Sagremor; transported in secret by an unknown Druid elder to the Isle of Ineen, where it stayed many years; stolen by the stern queen Unwen of the realm of Powyss; lost eventually; found; lost again; and found again by a young page after the terrible battle of Camlann right here in Gramarye.”
He smiled briefly, but whether it was smile of pleasure or of sadness, I couldn’t tell. “Ah, lad,” he continued, rolling the little sphere in his palm. “I could say so much more—yet nothing is more important than this: This seed carries the power to grow into something magnificent. Truly magnificent.”
I leaned closer on the stool. “Can’t you tell me what that will be?”
“No, I cannot.”
I frowned at him. “And you will say nothing, either, about the lost wings?”
He shook his white head. “I will, however, say one thing more about this seed. If you succeed in finding just the right place for the planting, it will, one day, come to bear fruit more remarkable than you can guess. And yet it will take, even in the finest of soils, many centuries just to begin to sprout.”
He handed me the seed, pressing my fingers over it. I could feel, through my palm, a hint of motion, a vague beating against my skin. Gently, I placed it inside my leather pouch.
Then, lifting my face, I looked upon my elder self. “If, as you say, it will take centuries to sprout, and time before that to find where it should be planted, then . . .”
“Yes?”
“Then I had better begin soon, don’t you think?”
As he nodded, the stars embroidering his cape seemed to sparkle. “As soon as you like, my lad.”
He plucked a crumpled leaf out of his beard and cast it aside. “Remember this about seeds—and also about wizards. They can transform the world, oh yes. But only to the degree, and in the way, that the bearer of those seeds is himself transformed.”
His eyebrows bunched together. “And there is one thing more you should know.” He bent his head close to mine, dropping his voice to a mere whisper. “F
or all her plotting, for all her treachery, Nimue did not count on this turn of events: We have met, you and I! And since we have met, we have been warned.”
“I don’t understand.”
He moistened his lips. “You have a very long life ahead of you, my lad. Not even considering the years you’ll add when you learn to live backward! That gives you the one weapon that could yet triumph somehow over Nimue—over any spell, no matter how powerful. It’s a weapon that can dissolve any knot, destroy any monument, burn away any realm . . . or build a new one out of the ashes.”
I glanced at the battle-ax leaning against the wall, glinting in the shifting light. “What weapon do you mean?”
“Time.” He tapped the tree trunk beneath him. “Time gives you—us—a chance. Nothing more, yet nothing less. My fate, you see, may not be yours! You still have freedom of choice, as did I. But now you know some things I did not. So perhaps, just perhaps, you will choose more wisely than I did—and avoid Nimue’s traps, no matter how alluring, when the time finally comes.”
Feeling a flicker of hope, I took his outstretched hand. My fingers, so much smoother and rounder, wrapped around his own. Our hands seemed very different, and yet very much the same. I felt the vibrant passion, along with the uncertainty, of youth—and the deep wisdom, and different uncertainty, of years. I felt the weight of tragedy, and the anguish of loss, that awaited me.
And I felt something more, as well: the barest breath of a chance.
The mage’s grip suddenly tightened. His head jerked, then stayed fixed, as if he were listening to a faraway voice, hoping to catch a few words or phrases. At length, he released my hand. “It is time, sad to say, for you to leave.”
I studied his troubled brow. “What’s wrong?”
“Hallia,” he whispered. “She is in danger.” He winced, rubbing his temple. “Grave danger.”
I leaped off my stool. “Send me back, then.”
“I will try,” he answered, sliding down from his perch. “But it’s not as simple as that. To succeed, I will need your help. For to get there in time, you must go back into the Mirror’s living mists, and confront whatever you may find there.”
My legs felt as rooted to the floor as the beech tree. “The mists? I . . . I can’t go back there. Those faces—you don’t know what they’re like.”
“Ah, but I do.” He beckoned to my staff, which flew to my side. Hesitantly, I grasped its shaft, striking its base on the stone floor. At the same time, my shadow reached for the shadow of the staff—then seemed to change its mind and pulled away.
“Those faces,” warned the wizard, “will be no less terrifying this time. More so, perhaps. Only you, though, can find your way through them. Only you.” His gaze bored into me. “It’s nothing that you—that is, we—can’t handle, lad.”
Anxiously, I swallowed. “I like the sound of we better.”
His own hand squeezed the gnarled top of my staff. “So shall it be, always.”
I gave a nod. “Always.”
Removing his hand, he flicked a finger against my pouch. “Remember the seed, now.”
“I will.”
“And as for those rumors about lost wings . . .”
“Yes?”
His eye seemed to twitch. “You never can tell about those beastly rumors. So much speculation, what what.”
I ground my teeth. “Are you sure you can’t say something?”
“No, my lad. For the same reason you didn’t tell Arthur about his sword. He’ll find out, in the proper way, soon enough.” He released a grunt that might have been a laugh. “As will you.”
“Oh, but you can’t—”
“Can’t what?”
“Leave me wondering!”
The bushy brows lifted. “About what?”
For a few seconds I glared at him, while he gazed innocently back at me. Then, with a grand flourish, he waved at the banquet table. It completely disappeared, food and all, leaving the goose to fall to the floor with a squawk. Arthur, however, fared better: He merely bit into the air where, an instant before, a juicy plum had been. Stepping over the goose, the boy strode over to us, a satisfied grin on his face. He paused briefly to admire the beech tree, stroking one of its roots, before joining us. Seeing me holding my staff, he wiped some plum juice from his chin.
“You are leaving?” he asked.
“I am,” I replied. “I must go to help Hallia.”
He stiffened. “Then I will come with you,” he declared resolutely.
“No, no,” I replied, placing my hand upon his shoulder. “Your work is here.” I scrutinized him for a moment. “And your work, I am certain, will bring many moments of greatness.”
His jaw tightened. “Will I ever meet you again, young hawk?”
I shook my head. “Not for a very, very long time.” Then, tilting my head toward his master, I added, “From my own perspective, that is. From yours, why—you already have.”
He grinned once more, the light playing on his golden curls. “I suppose that’s true.” He extended his hand to me. “Though we didn’t meet for long, I am glad, very glad, we did.”
My hand clasped his. “Yes, my friend. Well met.” I cocked my head at the old mage, who was watching us closely. “Take care of him, now. Whether he deserves it or not.”
Though he seemed perplexed momentarily, the boy bobbed his head. “I will, I promise.”
All of a sudden, thick mist started swirling about me. Swiftly it blotted out the crystalline walls and ceiling of the cave. I watched the last flickering of the facets, knowing that I would not view them again for the span of several lifetimes. An instant later, the beech tree vanished, followed by Arthur himself. Soon only the dark, blurry shape of the elder wizard remained. He lifted his hand, waving to me across so much mist, so much time. Then, abruptly, he disappeared.
25: TUNNELS
Rigid I stood, like a pillar of stone in the middle of a swelling sea—a sea of mist. Clouds, darkening swiftly, pressed close, so close that for an instant I feared they would smother me. Yet somehow I continued to breathe. And also to watch, with growing trepidation, the endlessly churning billows that surrounded me.
As before, the swirling vapors formed intricate patterns—worlds within worlds—that stretched without limit in every direction. But unlike before, those patterns were utterly unrecognizable: not just as places or settings that I knew, but as any sort of places at all. No valleys, no forests, no villages emerged from the folds of mist. No hints of secret dreams or hidden fears tugged at my memory. No shape or feeling that I could in any way recall sprang forth.
Only mist.
And one thing more: my fear, swelling like a burgeoning cloud within myself. I feared for Hallia, in danger from some unknown source. Could I reach her in time? Even if I could, would I be able to help? And I feared for myself, as well—in ways as profoundly unrecognizable as the mist itself. Even my shadow, cowering at my feet, seemed overcome by fright.
In time, the clouds began to gather in a different kind of pattern. I watched, the drumbeat of terror growing louder in my head, as the vapors before me coalesced into a circle—a hole, tunneling deep into the darkness beyond where I stood. Then, to my left, another hole appeared. Yet another hole opened above my head; two more to my right; several more in front of me. Within moments, I was surrounded by a honeycomb of tunnels that dropped endlessly away.
All at once, a movement stirred within one of the tunnels. An edge of light glinted on a shadowy form that emerged slowly into view. It was, I saw with a shudder, a face. My face! There were the eyes, darker than the tunnel itself; the hair, all askew; the scars, rutting my cheeks and brow. The face, a perfect image of my own, gazed at me intently.
Then, within other tunnels, more faces started to appear. One after another they hardened out of the vapors—all staring at me, all waiting, it seemed, for something to happen. And all the faces were my own. On every side, above me as well as below, I saw the image of myself. Watching in silence,
the faces confronted me, each one identical to the rest. Now I looked out not on a limitless sea of mist, but on a many-faceted crystal, with each facet a mirror that reflected myself back to me.
Suddenly one of the faces spoke, its voice precisely my own: “Come, young wizard. Enter my tunnel, for it is the only path that will lead you home.”
Before I could reply, another face called from above: “You are not a wizard, but a good son. And this is the pathway you seek! Are you not the brave boy who saved his mother’s life on a rocky shore many years ago? Come, follow me now—before your time runs out.”
Another face objected: “Heed not their words! I know who you truly are: not a wizard, nor a son, but a spirit of nature—brother of the streams and sky, fields and forest. Come with me now. Home lies this way!”
“Tell the truth,” sneered another face. “You have aspired to be all those things and more. But you have failed at all of them, and down inside you know you forever will. For you are a bungler, whose frailties will always corrupt your best intentions. Tell me now, do I speak the truth?”
Regretfully, I nodded.
“Then you must follow me,” the face demanded. “Only the true path will take you home. Hurry now, while you still have time!”
“No,” objected the face who had spoken first. “You are a wizard, and someday you will be a great one. You know that now! Come this way.”
“Beneath that,” came the counter, “you are still a bungler. Come now. Follow the deeper truth! Don’t be fooled by your own vanity, your own wishful thinking.”
Other faces cried out to me—all in my own voice. One appealed to me as a healer, a mender of torn sinews and sliced tissues; another called to me as an explorer, a lone adventurer who had built a raft of driftwood and found the uncharted route to Fincayra long ago; still another hailed me as a champion, a rescuer of those in need. The chorus rose, pounding in my ears. I was, to different faces, a sower of seeds; a master of many languages; a passionate young man who longed to spend endless days beside Hallia; a trickster, who savored any chance to surprise; and many more things besides.
