by T.A. Barron
Scree cut a wide arc through some smoky clouds, his yellow-rimmed eyes gleaming. Then he arched one wing and veered again, streaking across the sky. He knew he was tied to this staff, no less than a boat was tied to its anchor. But now . . . he knew something more.
As he approached the jagged edge of the crater where he made his home, he caught a glimpse of some movement far below. Clambering up the rocky face of the cliffs were a pair of figures. One looked tall and slender, and moved nimbly over the rocks, while the other looked very short, oddly proportioned, and rather clumsy. No matter—they were two-leggeds, climbing toward his cave. Intruders!
A powerful screech—part eagle, part human—echoed across the cliffs. Scree drew his great wings tight against his body. Downward he plunged to make the kill.
27 • Prosperity
Tamwyn awoke in bright daylight. He was lying on his back upon something soft. There was a strange taste, like licorice, on his tongue. The gray mist had gone—though a different kind of mist filled his brain, clogging his thoughts.
He sat up. He was on a couch with fat green pillows. Inside a room!
Indeed, it was the largest room he’d ever seen, larger than the whole house that he’d helped thatch in Lott’s village. Windows, with fitted wooden shutters open wide, were on every wall. An immense hearth, glowing with still-warm coals, sat in one corner. Judging from the intricate stonework—deftly fitted slabs of pink granite—it had been built by a master stonemason. On one wall, between the windows, hung a richly woven tapestry of a garden overflowing with colorful vegetables. Beneath it sat a great oaken table, surrounded by a dozen chairs, on a thick woolen rug of azure blue.
Seated on two of the chairs were Llynia and Elli, joined by Nuic, who seemed quite content to sit on top of the table itself. They were listening to an old, white-haired man who wore a gray robe with long, wide sleeves, and several hooks and pockets that held spades, clippers, plant bulbs, and seedlings. So much dirt was smudged on the robe that Tamwyn wondered for an instant whether some of the seedlings had taken root inside the pockets.
As Tamwyn cleared his throat to speak, the old man turned his way. He smiled and nodded in greeting, bouncing his necklace of garlic bulbs. “Ah, then, you’ve awakened.”
“Have I . . . been asleep long?” Tamwyn asked groggily. “And where are we? Is everyone all right? That mist . . .”
“Yes, yes, all in time.” The old fellow got up and stepped lightly over to his side. His face, round and friendly, creased in a web of wrinkles as he smiled again. “To start with your first question, you’ve been asleep quite some time. All last night, since I found you, and most of the morning, in fact. But don’t worry,” he said with a glance toward Llynia, who brightened visibly, “we’ve been having a lovely conversation.”
“It’s good you stayed asleep,” said Elli with a toss of her curls. “If you’d been up walking around, you’d probably have broken some furniture.”
Despite Tamwyn’s scowl, the old man seemed to take this as just a good-natured jest. “Ah, but there is very little here that could break, unless he can crack oaken tables and break stones.”
“You’d be surprised,” muttered Nuic, his small body now a radiant golden brown.
Elli giggled at this.
The old man stretched out his hand and placed it gently on Tamwyn’s shoulder. The hand, like his robe, was smudged with dirt. Every wrinkle of his knuckles and palms, and every black-lined fingernail, announced that this was the hand of a gardener. One of his thumbnails was broken, perhaps by a digging tool.
“I am Hanwan Belamir,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “Welcome to my humble school and garden.”
“Come now, Hanwan,” interjected Llynia. “No need for modesty, especially to my . . . er, porter here. This is no mere school! This is the Academy of Prosperity.”
“Yes, well . . .” said the old man quietly. “So it is.”
“And this,” continued Llynia, with a dramatic wave in his direction, “is no mere gardener. You are speaking to the Academy’s founder, the man many have dubbed Olo Belamir, the first person to bear that name since Merlin himself ages ago became Olo Eopia.”
Now the fellow was looking positively embarrassed. “Such names are meaningless,” he protested. “Mere distractions.” He turned back to Tamwyn. “All you need to know is that I am an old man who loves nothing better than to dig around in my garden. And whose school is built upon a few useful principles.”
“Hmmmpff,” said Nuic, his color reddening. “Arrogant principles, if you ask me.”
“Nuic!” scolded Elli, her own face reddening. “I’m surprised at you. You heard this man’s letter to the Council of Elders, didn’t you? You told me yourself that it helped. And besides, we’re his guests! He saved us, if you recall.”
Belamir just waved aside the praise. “Actually, that was just good luck that I happened to be out on my afternoon stroll.”
“The mist,” asked Tamwyn with a shake of his head to wake himself fully. “What was it?”
The teacher’s face darkened. “A terrible thing, that! One of the hazards of the untamed forest—a kind of gas produced by mountain ash trees. To ward off animals who might covet their berries, I believe. Although it merely induces sleep, it can in time prove fatal. Those who succumb to it may never wake up again, unless they are removed from the spot and given the antidote, a special blend of licorice root and clover honey.”
Tamwyn licked his lips, tasting again the hint of licorice. “So you did save our lives.”
Belamir bowed slightly. “My pleasure. Although,” he added with a wry grin, “it wasn’t so easy to give the antidote to that, well, creature inside your pocket! It finally drank a bit, then flew off, babbling at me in a language I couldn’t understand.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Tamwyn. He patted his robe pocket to confirm that Batty Lad wasn’t there. “I’m sure he’s all right, thanks to you. He’s probably out hunting for insects, or just napping somewhere else.”
“As I said, it was my pleasure to help you. And also my good fortune.” He turned back to Llynia. “How else would I have ever met the Chosen One—the next leader—of the Society of the Whole?”
Llynia blushed.
“Who promises,” Belamir added in a lower voice, “to be a distinct improvement.”
As Llynia beamed with pride, Elli frowned. “I thought you and the High Priestess got along just fine.”
“We do.” He looked at her kindly. “But there are certain . . . shall we say, limitations in Coerria, which someone of your youth may not have noticed.”
Llynia, looking quite pleased with herself, gave a smirk.
But Elli, who was sure she had noticed everything about the High Priestess, shook her head. “I don’t understand you. High Priestess Coerria is the very best—”
“Person for her time,” finished Belamir. “But the times have changed. Dramatically, I should add. And the Society deserves better.” He pinched his lips together. “As does Avalon.”
His words, and worried tone, suddenly reminded Tamwyn of the warning from the old cherry tree. And that strange white lake at the canyon of the moaning wind. He wanted to tell Belamir about these things, and ask his advice. But something held him back, something he couldn’t quite put into words.
“And I suppose,” grumbled Nuic, “that you know exactly what Avalon needs.”
Belamir looked down at his dirty hands, turning them in the light from the windows. “I know only what I’ve learned from my garden. If that is helpful to Avalon, I am grateful.”
Elli, who still felt offended for Coerria, started to speak again, but the old man cut her off. “Come now, you must be famished! I’m sorry your other two friends aren’t here to join us for a meal.”
“Don’t be,” answered Llynia. “My maryth wouldn’t eat anyway, and she’s happier just being outside. And as for the hoolah . . .” She scowled. “Meals are always more pleasant without him.”
“M
ore plentiful, too,” added Nuic. “But I’m sure that even now he’s helping himself to some of your fresh produce.”
“He’s welcome to it,” said Belamir. “We have plenty.” He picked up a copper bell and rang it twice.
A door opened by the tapestry of the garden, and a very old servant hobbled in. He looked like an ancient, wind-blown tree, with scraggly hair sprouting from his chin and both sides of his head above his ears. One eye, irritated somehow, was so bloodshot that it looked entirely pink. The old man bowed, pressing together his hands, which were as black with dirt as Belamir’s. “You called, Master?”
“Yes, Morrigon. Please have food prepared for our guests.”
“Of course, Master.” The servant bowed, then hobbled back through the door.
Seconds later, they heard a loud bustle and clatter from the next room. Tamwyn guessed it was the sound of platters, trays, and heavy containers. Feeling fully awake at last, he stood up and walked over to one of the windows—but not without stumbling against the corner of the couch. He cast a sheepish glance at Elli, but fortunately she hadn’t noticed.
What he saw out the window was more than just a school . . . or even a full-blown Academy. It was an entire village, complete with houses, buildings for various trades, and farmed fields. But this village looked very different from those he’d seen in Stoneroot. It wasn’t just the absence of bells on rooftops, weather vanes, doorways, plows, and animal collars—something he’d come to expect in every village. No, the biggest difference was the sheer bounty of everything.
The houses, all painted in crisp, bright colors, had walls built of sturdy wooden planks. No thatched roofs anywhere, Tamwyn was glad to see: The roofs, too, were made of wood. Expansive vegetable gardens, with wire fences and signs labeling what had been planted in every row, flanked every house. From the look of it, the people who lived here had plenty of tools, seeds, and bulbs. And, it seemed, plenty of fruits and vegetables to show for it. Grape arbors hung with heavy purple bunches; squashes, pumpkins, and melons covered the ground; people were filling baskets with lettuce, carrots, radishes, beans, and more. Fruit trees—apples, pears, and plums mostly—grew in most every garden. And in the branches of one of them, Tamwyn saw the unmistakable shape of a hoolah, eating apples as fast as he could pick them.
In the courtyard in front of the school building, Tamwyn counted sixteen children (and several adults) playing on swings and a seesaw, running after balls, or jumping rope. Nearby, a forge echoed with the rhythmic sounds of blacksmiths’ hammers and bellows, a village trading center displayed a wide variety of farming tools and handmade furniture, and a communal stable housed dozens of well-fed sheep, goats, and pigs. Surrounding the settlement were enormous cultivated fields, with corn and various grains, that ran all the way to the high wooden fences that bordered the village, separating it from the forestlands beyond.
Everything about this village felt productive. And prosperous. And bountiful, beyond anything Tamwyn had experienced. Whatever ideas Belamir had developed, they certainly seemed to be working.
The door by the tapestry opened again, and old Morrigon entered. He was followed by four men and women, all wearing brown robes covered with pockets. They carried trays, bowls, and platters full of food: melons, all sliced and dripping with juices; piping hot pies filled with roasted lamb, barley, almonds, and apricots; overflowing salads; five different kinds of grainy bread; strawberry and pear puddings; honey-glazed tarts and crusty apple pastries. To drink they brought mint, orange, and clove teas; tall beakers of freshly squeezed plum and apple juice; and a large bottle of crimson mead, which Belamir placed right in front of Llynia.
The travelers, all hungry, plunged right in. Nuic, who had sat himself in a large bowl which he’d filled with water, stuffed himself with fresh salad. Llynia and Elli both began with big slices of lamb-and-barley pie, and then had seconds. Tamwyn, meanwhile, consumed enough juicy melons to make up for several months of drought.
Their feasting continued for quite some time before anyone said a word. It was Llynia, sipping her third glass of mead, who spoke first. “Hanwan, such a fabulous meal! Tell us now, what is your secret to producing all this delicious food?”
The old gardener smiled modestly. “Simple, really. I’ve just never forgotten one basic rule: It is the job of humans to take care of this world, to help and protect all other creatures. That is our responsibility, and why we were created in the image of Dagda and Lorilanda.”
A nice ring to those words, thought Tamwyn as he started on another slice of melon.
Llynia nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re saying that humans are special—both in our gifts and our responsibilities.”
Belamir beamed at her. “My brightest students could not have put it better.”
Elli, though, felt puzzled. “Just what do you mean, that humans are special?”
“What she means,” answered Nuic, who was munching on a carrot so big, he needed both hands to hold it, “is that humans are superior.” He bit into the carrot again. “A view that is so wrong-headed that only a human would suggest it.”
Llynia glared at the sprite. “Show some manners, Nuic! You are speaking to Olo Belamir.”
The old fellow raised a hand. “It’s quite all right, Llynia. Perhaps I didn’t explain my view clearly enough.” He gazed thoughtfully out the nearest window for a moment before continuing. “Humans have great gifts, as Llynia said. And also great potential—not always realized, mind you, but there nonetheless—for helping other creatures less fortunate than ourselves. That means we need to apply our wisdom, inventiveness, and hard work to making the world a better place for all to live.”
“Even if that means deciding what’s best for other creatures? Making them do whatever humans want?”
“Nuic!” scolded Llynia. “How can you be so rude?”
“Wait,” demanded Elli, “that’s a fair question.”
“What would you know about any of this, you apprentice third class?” Llynia’s face looked as crimson as the mead in her glass—except, of course, the dark green mark on her chin.
Tamwyn wiped a dribble of melon juice off his chin. He was at least half listening to this conversation, and he thought maybe Elli had a point. He might have spoken up . . . but there was that next slice of melon, just waiting to be eaten. Besides, the last thing he felt like doing was siding with Elli on anything.
Belamir, like a practiced teacher, waved his hands for silence. He turned to Nuic. “You put it rather harshly, pinnacle sprite, but there is some truth in what you say. Humans do know what’s best for the other creatures of Avalon. And for the landscape, as well. That is why we should always try to do what’s best for the world.”
“Best for humans, you mean,” said Nuic icily. His color was now bloodred.
“What’s best for humans is, by definition, best for everyone else.” Belamir smiled graciously. “That is why so many creatures—not just humans, but creatures of all kinds—have adopted my teachings. And are living more comfortably because of it.”
He stretched his arm toward the window. “You needn’t look any farther than my little village of Prosperity, which has given us all this food. In a time that some are calling a drought, I might add!”
The gardener’s round face became wistful. “There is no limit to human ingenuity, none at all. We can make gardens, tools, vehicles, whatever we need. Even buildings! Why, someday I predict our buildings will be so large, and so comfortable, that people won’t even need to go outside.”
Tamwyn stopped chewing, midslice. Not go outside?
“All things are possible,” Belamir went on, “if humans just make use of their gifts. And their surroundings.”
Nuic put down the rest of his carrot. “By which you mean all the world’s lands—and creatures.”
“That’s correct, my good sprite.”
“So does that mean . . . if you think it’s best to keep a goat locked up, even if the goat would rather be running free, you have the
right to do that?”
“Yes.”
“Or to cut down an ancient tree, even the last of its kind, if you think it could be useful?”
“Yes.”
“But those things are against the Drumadians’—” began Elli.
“Hush, apprentice!” hissed Llynia. “I told you that you know nothing of these matters!” She gave a sarcastic wink to Belamir. “This girl believes that even a moth could qualify as a priestess.”
The old man raised an eyebrow. “Does she, now? Well, well, we were all young once, weren’t we?”
“And some of us never grow up,” said Llynia smugly, chortling into her glass.
Elli suddenly stood. “I think, Nuic, it’s time for us to go. Don’t ask me where, but away from here.”
As the sprite nodded, she placed him on her shoulder. Facing Belamir, she said curtly, “Thank you for the meal.” She glanced over at Tamwyn, who just looked down at his melon. Then she strode out of the room.
Llynia looked across the table at her host. “Oh, I do apologize for her impudence. She is hopeless, Hanwan, truly hopeless.”
The old teacher shook his head in sympathy. “Your burdens are great, Llynia.” He reached for the bottle and poured her some more mead. “Tell me, now. Just where are you going? I am sure that the Chosen One does not travel so far from the Great Temple without good reason.”
“Very good.” She took a slow sip of mead. Then, to Tamwyn’s surprise, she said, “We are going to the Lady of the Lake. To seek her counsel.”
Belamir studied her intently. “About the changes in the stars, no doubt.”
“And other troubles.”
“Of which I am well aware.” His brow creased, like a freshly plowed field. “The Lady will not be easy to find. She works in mysterious ways.”
Llynia drained her glass. “At least I’ve had a vision to guide us.”
“A vision!” He gazed at her with admiration. “You are most talented.”
She tried not to show her pleasure at his words, but her blush told all. Then, all of a sudden, her expression darkened. She leaned across the table and said anxiously, “Except for seeing the Lady, my visions haven’t been... what they were. For quite some time now. They’re clouded, unclear—if they come at all. Do you have any words of advice for me?”
