by T.A. Barron
Coerria’s eyes brightened like prisms. “When the Lady came to me, she glowed with light—blue light. And she began by reminding me of the Dark Prophecy that she’d uttered so long ago:
“A year shall come when stars go dark,
And faith will fail anon—
For born shall be a child who spells
The end of Avalon.
“The only hope beneath the stars
To save that world so fair
Will be the Merlin then alive:
The wizard’s own true heir.”
Elli swallowed, then asked, “And the secret?”
The Elder’s voice grew softer than the splash of the waterfall. “That when Merlin finally departed Avalon, at the end of the Age of Storms, he left something behind. Something precious.”
“What?”
“A way to find the true heir of Merlin.”
“Really?”
Coerria pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You see, when the Lady finished reciting the Prophecy, she added these words:
“So find the staff of Merlin true
And you shall find the heir:
Like a brother to the darkened child,
The light of stars shall bear.”
Elli’s brow furrowed. “That’s it? That’s all?”
“It isn’t much, child. Just an idea. But a whole world could change because of one idea.” The wrinkles around her eyes deepened. “Or one person.”
The young priestess twirled one of her curls with her finger, coiling it like a bit of twine. “What do you make of that line about the brother? I mean, the true heir couldn’t be the brother of the child of the Dark Prophecy. They’re enemies, aren’t they?”
“The word brother could mean more than one thing.”
“All of them confusing!” exclaimed Elli. “And what does the light of stars have to do with anything? By the elbows of the Elders! What good is this secret if we can’t understand it?”
“Patience, child.” Coerria leaned a bit closer. “Like you, I have no idea what the last part means. But the beginning couldn’t be more clear. Find the staff of Merlin true. Merlin’s original staff must be somewhere in Avalon! If you can find it, you’ll find Merlin’s heir.”
Elli wagged her head. “But where do we look? Or even begin? It could be anywhere in the Great Tree!”
“Anywhere,” agreed the Elder. “But I can tell you this, from my studies of Merlin’s years in Avalon. If he really did leave his staff behind, it was no idle gesture. That staff, you see, is more than just an object. Much more. Its magic—some would say its wisdom—is beyond our knowing. Merlin even gave it a name of its own: Ohnyalei, which means spirit of grace in the Fincayran Old Tongue.”
She squeezed Elli’s hand. “And I can tell you this, too. If he wanted to hide the staff, he would have made the sacred runes on its shaft disappear—as he did once before, when he had to hide it from Rhita Gawr. Those runes, you see, are the staff’s essential markings. Hide them, and you have just an ordinary-looking walking stick. The runes glowed blue during the years the staff was in Lost Fincayra, but turned green when Merlin brought it to Avalon. So, to keep the staff safe, he made them vanish completely. And they didn’t reappear until Merlin himself held the staff again—and said the words I am Merlin.”
Elli twisted another of her curls. “So if the runes are hidden the same way, they might also reappear the same way.”
“Exactly.”
“Then if the right person holds the staff and says, I am the true heir of Merlin, the runes could return.” Elli paused, her mind racing. “That gives us a way to tell an impostor— say, the child of the Dark Prophecy—from the real heir.”
“That’s right, my dear. And that could be especially useful if they seem a lot alike.”
Elli nodded slowly. “Enough, maybe, to be brothers.”
The High Priestess gave a hint of a smile. “I don’t think you’ve missed much by skipping Formal Prayers.”
Suddenly her face turned grim. “You must remember, Elliryanna, that our troubles have all deepened in the seventeenth year after the Year of Darkness—the seventeenth year of the prophesied child. If he or she lives, this would be the year of coming into power.”
“It doesn’t seem like an accident.”
“No, my dear, it doesn’t.” The old woman squeezed her hand again. “Now, you must promise me something.”
“Anything, High Priestess.”
“You must beware of the child of the Dark Prophecy. And more than that. If you should ever meet him or her . . . you must break the Drumadians’ first law.”
Elli’s jaw went slack. “You mean . . . kill the Dark one?”
“That’s right,” answered Coerria. “Kill the Dark one.” She peered at the young apprentice. “Now promise.”
Though her throat felt like a dry riverbed, Elli said, “I promise.” Then her expression darkened further. “I’m worried, High Priestess.”
“As am I.”
“It won’t be easy to find the Lady. Or Merlin’s true heir.”
“That’s right.”
“And . . . well, there’s something else. I’m still not . . .” She licked her lips. “I’m still not sure why you asked me to go.”
“Ah, then perhaps you will discover that, as well.” She studied Elli thoughtfully. “But I think it would be fair to tell you . . . that I have an instinct about you. That someday, somehow, you will make a difference to the Society of the Whole. Perhaps a lasting difference.”
The young woman stared at her in disbelief.
“And you should also know,” Coerria went on, “that you remind me of myself, a very long time ago.”
Elli blushed.
The old woman stood, her gown shimmering. Elli rose and offered her arm. But at that moment, they heard a loud “Hmmmpff” from over by the waterfall.
As they turned to Nuic, he demanded, “Aren’t you going to ask my opinion? After all, it looks like I’m going to be part of this madness.”
The High Priestess bent her head in assent. “But of course, Nuic. So tell us, what do you think?”
Nuic’s colors brightened slightly. “I think . . . if you’re giving Elliryanna here permission to kill the Dark child, I’d like permission to do the same thing to Llynia.”
11 • Tracks
Tamwyn found the hoolah’s tracks easily. No mistaking those flat, four-toed feet, even in the dry soil of the fields outside the village.
And no mistaking what the hoolah had done after he’d finished heckling—and making sure that Tamwyn was banished in disgrace. No, even a much less experienced tracker could have followed the hoolah’s path from the side of the partly thatched house, to the nearest cornfield, to a corn row where he’d stolen some husks. (He’d even left a row of broken stalks, like trampled signposts, to show beyond any doubt that he’d been there.)
Tamwyn looked at the cornstalks and shook his head. By the time Lott’s finished telling the whole village how I wrecked his house, smashed his foot, broke his ladder, and then klonked his sweet little girl with a bucket . . . they’ll probably blame this on me, too.
He stamped his bare foot on the hoolah’s print. Which, I’ll wager, that little menace also planned.
With that, he started following the tracks northward, toward the foothills that rose—after many, many leagues—into the high peaks of Stoneroot. I’ll find that blasted pest, even if I have to track him over the Dun Tara snowfields. Or to the top of Hallia’s Peak!
As he hiked along, he thought back over the past hour. He’d woken an instant before dawn, at the very moment when the stars began to brighten—a habit he’d learned over years of sleeping outside. Bells on the weather vanes of the village’s stone houses, struck by the first breeze of the new day, had just begun to chime. Their slow, sleepy voices called to the bells around the necks of goats, cows, horses, and geese, rousing them also to sound. The jangling bells of a farmer’s old wheelbarrow joined in, as did the deep-bonging iron bell o
n the door of the communal barn. Soon the very air of the village vibrated with clinks, dongs, rattles, and rings.
Right then the hoolah wasn’t on Tamwyn’s mind. Nor even the dung heap where he’d spent the night. Instead, as he first opened his eyes, he heard again in his mind the magical voices of the museo and the bard with the sideways-growing beard. And saw again the graceful dance of the tree spirits.
And then, with a pang, he’d remembered what had happened to the Wizard’s Staff. And how the hoolah had humiliated him—and laughed uncontrollably as Tamwyn was driven from the village.
Now, as he tracked the hoolah, he took a whiff of his own sleeve, streaked with goat droppings and rotten fruit. He scrunched his nose in dismay. “After I finish with that hoolah,” he proclaimed out loud, “I’ll get myself a bath. Clothes, hair, everything.” Under his breath, he added, “If I can find a stream with enough water.”
Northward he hiked, following the four-toed tracks. Before long he left behind the last, distant chimes of the village bells. As he crossed a sloping field choked with gorse, whose yellow flowers seemed paler than usual, Tamwyn felt glad that the hoolah—like himself—preferred to make his own trails. There were too many other tracks and wheel ruts in the hard dirt of the established roads, making it harder to follow someone. And besides, the prettiest countryside began where the roads, and even the ancient footpaths that few people used any more, ended.
He hopped over a fallen spruce tree, and strode through a meadow whose grass had been chewed down by a flock of woolly brown sheep. He glanced up at the sky, and the morning-bright stars. Still no seventh star in the Staff! It had just vanished, like a doused coal in a campfire.
What in the name of Avalon happened? The problem gnawed at his mind as he left the meadow and passed through a stand of alders and maples. Whatever, it can’t be good.
He picked a long stem of grass and chewed it thoughtfully. There was nothing that he—or anyone else, for that matter—could do about the stars. Why, no one even knew what they really were, let alone how to reach them! And yet . . .
He bit through the stem. I’d really like to do something. If only I knew what.
Spying a broken stick on the ground, he bent down to study it. Sure enough, he found the depression left by a hoolah’s foot. He nodded grimly. Maybe he couldn’t do anything about the stars. But that hoolah . . . that he could do something about.
He pulled a pair of plump tubers from the soil and ate them quickly. They were at least juicy, if not very filling. That was all he’d have for breakfast this day. But for dinner, he’d dine on revenge.
Tamwyn started to run, with an easy, loping stride. He kept his eyes trained on the footprints—or, since the dirt was often too dry to hold a print, to broken blades of grass, bruised leaves, or disturbed pebbles that revealed the hoolah’s path. With every stride, the tiny bell at his hip chimed rhythmically. He ran with ease, moving as lightly as a fawn.
How he loved to run, just run! To feel the wind blowing back his hair, the ground compressing ever so slightly under the weight of his feet, the tension building in his thighs before every stride. And the rhythm, most of all: He loved the endless, constant rhythm of his feet pounding the turf, his lungs drawing new air, and his arms slicing up and down, up and down, up and down.
On and on Tamwyn ran. He leaped across several dry gullies that had once been streams. He loped past a circle of still-sleeping daffodil fairies, whose golden wings he glimpsed through a hole in the trunk of a beech tree. And once, in midstride, he swerved to avoid a huge, triangular stone that he recognized. A few years before, hidden by a bramble bush, he had watched a band of black-bearded dwarves move that stone to open a secret passage to their underground home.
As he ran, he couldn’t help but notice that the farther north he went, the dryer the landscape grew. This drought had been going on for months now, since early summer. And it was only getting worse, especially here in the hills of upper Stoneroot.
But that didn’t make sense! He’d seen dry spells before, but always in the southern parts of the realm. Up here, in the foothills of the high peaks, rivers ran full all summer long. In addition to melting snow, they carried water all the way from High Brynchilla, part of Waterroot—through deep underground channels. At least that’s what he’d been told by a bard he’d once met, who had studied at the Eopia College of Mapmakers. The bard had even said that some of that water might actually come from the legendary White Geyser of Crystillia.
He ran across a bed of moss, so brittle that it crackled under his bare feet. What’s going on here? And could it be related somehow to that star going out?
Whatever was going on, this much was certain: Water was scarce. More scarce than he’d ever seen in his years of wandering through the wilds of this realm. Why, even the lakes at Footsteps of the Giants were almost dry. He hated seeing such drought, hated hearing the snap of dry grass and dead leaves underfoot. As thirsty as he was, and had been for weeks, he knew that he was still faring better than the land itself. For he, at least, could run freely, seek out water, and move on. The land, and the trees that were rooted there, didn’t have that choice.
Tamwyn slowed his running pace to look at an old rowan tree whose berries should have been bright red at this time of year, but were a faded pink instead. Even the stones like keljade and mica, which changed to bright gold in the autumn, were just dingy yellow. These lands weren’t just dryer, but they were also grayer. Blander, as if their colors were being slowly sapped right out of them.
Through a once-green valley, now brown and brittle, and past a string of dried-up ponds, he followed the tracks. The footprints, running right through the middle of a muddy stretch between what was left of the ponds, couldn’t have been more obvious. It was almost as if this hoolah wanted to get caught.
But Tamwyn knew better. This hoolah—like every other hoolah—just didn’t care.
Foolish beasts! No matter what their age, their sex, or the color of their circular eyebrows, hoolahs all shared one quality. They treated life as nothing more than a game, a chance to make mischief—as much mischief as possible.
Truth? Honor? Purpose? Those ideas held no meaning for hoolahs. They just loved to spit in the face of danger, which was why they were so often in trouble. Who cared, if they lived to laugh about it afterward? And they really couldn’t understand why other people, especially humans, got so worked up about little things like droughts, plagues, and wars. To hoolahs, these just added to the fun.
All of which made them probably the least loved creatures in the whole of Avalon. Right down there with gnomes, ogres, and trolls. A wandering hoolah had about as many friends as a double-jawed dragon with a toothache.
Tamwyn loped along, climbing through steep-sided hills ribbed with high cliffs. Even as he passed through a tall grove of balloonberry trees, his fists clenched. Pretty soon there’ll be one hoolah who won’t cause any more trouble.
Suddenly he stopped. The hoolah’s tracks had disappeared!
He bent down, examining the last footprint. Set in the dry soil between the tree roots, it seemed perfectly normal. All the toes, all the edges, were clear. No sign of a scuffle. Then he noticed a slight depression, deeper than usual, just behind the toes. As if the hoolah had jumped on that final step.
Jumped. But where? He turned his face upward to scan the boughs of the trees.
Splaaat!
A balloonberry, very large and very juicy, exploded right on his forehead. The force of the berry—the size of a man’s fist—knocked him over onto his back. Juice, a lighter shade than usual but still quite purple, oozed into his eyes and hair, sticking like sap. He opened his mouth to shout when—
Splaaat. Right into his mouth!
Splaaat. Splaaat. Balloonberries splattered on his chest and thigh.
“Hungry now, clumsy man?” called a voice from the branches. “Missed your supper, did you? Eehee, eehee, hoohooya-ha-ha! Here. Have some more berries!”
Whizzz, splaaat.<
br />
Just in time, Tamwyn rolled to the side. The berry smacked into a tree trunk, spraying purple juice everywhere.
“You, you . . . blaaaghh!” Tamwyn spat out the berry skin that was sticking to his tongue. “You pail of spit! You underaged, undersized, underbrained worm!”
He leaped up, caught the lowest branch of the hoolah’s tree, and started to climb. Just as he reached for the next branch, he ducked to avoid another whizzing berry. Despite all the purple goo on his hands, tunic, and leggings that made him stick to the bark of the tree, he moved up rapidly. Years of living in the wilderness had made him a skilled tree-climber.
But the hoolah was just as skilled. His large hands gave him strong holds, while his long arms gave him extra reach. For every branch Tamwyn scaled, the hoolah did the same.
“Better be careful, clumsy man! Eehee, eehee oohoohooha. Might fall and break yourself like that bale of thatch!”
Tamwyn peered upward, forced to squint because of the berry juice that had clotted over one eye. “I’ll break you, you bag of dung! Just wait!”
“Hoohooheehee,” laughed the hoolah over his shoulder. “Smells to me like you’re the one who’s full of dung.”
Up, up, they raced, until Tamwyn saw the hoolah reach the tree’s uppermost limb. He slowed down, knowing that now the hoolah was trapped. Finally, his moment of revenge had come.
But the hoolah merely glanced down at him and cracked a wide smile. “Bye-bye, clumsy man!”
To Tamwyn’s amazement, the hoolah stepped out onto the limb, steadied himself, then started to walk away from the trunk. The branch sagged dangerously under his weight, but he didn’t seem to care. Chuckling to himself, the hoolah stuffed his slingshot securely into his belt, bounced hard on the branch—then leaped right into the air.
“Yeeheeeee!” cried the flying hoolah. He sailed across the grove, then flung out his arms and grabbed onto the branch of another tree. Pulling himself up onto the new branch, he looked back at Tamwyn. “Guess you’ll have to try harder, clumsy man! Hoohoohahahahaha, eehee, hoho.”
