by T.A. Barron
I felt suddenly weak. For I knew in my bones that the death shadow had not been meant for my mother. It had been meant for me. Yet because of me—my own stupidity—it had struck her down instead. I should have listened to Cairpré! I should never have brought her here.
“Rhita Gawr saves this method only for those whose death he truly relishes,” intoned Bumbelwy. “For it is slow, painfully slow. And horrible beyond anything words can describe. The person afflicted suffers one whole month—through four phases of the moon—before finally dying. But the final moments of dying, I have heard, hold more agony, more torment, more excruciating pain, than the entire month before.”
Once again, Elen groaned, drawing her knees into her chest.
“Enough!” I waved my arms at the dour jester. “Stop saying such things! Do you want to kill her sooner? Better not to talk at all—unless you know the cure.”
Bumbelwy turned away, shaking his head. “There is no cure.”
I started to open my satchel of herbs. “Maybe something in here—”
“There is no cure,” he repeated mournfully.
“Oh, but there must be,” objected Rhia, kneeling beside my mother and stroking her forehead. “There is a cure for every ailment, no matter how horrible. You just have to know the language of the wound.”
For a flickering instant, Elen’s face brightened. “She is right. There might be a cure.” She studied Rhia for a long moment. Then, her voice weak, she asked, “What is your name, young one? And how do you come to know so much about the art of healing?”
Rhia patted her suit of woven vines. “The trees of the Druma taught me. They are my family.”
“And your name?”
“Most people call me Rhia. Except for the wood elves, who still use my full name, Rhiannon.”
My mother’s face creased in pain—but not, it seemed to me, from her ailing body. It might have been a different kind of pain, felt in another kind of place. Yet she said nothing. She merely turned her face toward the billowing mist beyond the beach.
Rhia moved nearer. “Please tell me your name.”
“Elen.” She glanced my way. “Though I am also called Mother.”
I felt a stab of pain in my heart. She still had no idea that this was all my fault. That I had brought her here against Cairpré’s strongest advice. That I had tried, in my ignorance—no, my arrogance—to act like a wizard.
Rhia continued stroking Elen’s brow. “You feel hot already. I think it will get worse.”
“It will get worse,” declared Bumbelwy. “Everything always gets worse. Far worse.”
Rhia shot me an urgent look. “We must find the cure before it’s too late.”
Bumbelwy began pacing across the sand, swishing his sleeves. “It’s already too late. With this kind of thing, even too early is too late.”
“Maybe there’s a cure that nobody has found yet,” retorted Rhia. “We must try.”
“Try all you want. It won’t help. No, it’s too late. Far too late.”
My mind spun in circles, torn between the urgent hopefulness of Rhia and the gloominess of Bumbelwy. Both could not be true. Yet both seemed plausible. I wanted to believe one, but I feared the other was right. A pair of gulls screeched, swooping overhead to land on a bed of sea stars and mussels. I bit my lip. Even if there were a cure how could we possibly find it in time? Here on this remote beach, with nothing but sand dunes and rolling waves, there was no one to turn to. No one to help.
I straightened suddenly. There was someone to turn to! I jumped up and sprinted across the beach to the mist-shrouded peninsula. Ignoring the waves on the slippery rocks, I stumbled several times. Worse yet, in the swirling vapors, I found no sign whatsoever of the pile of driftwood where I had left the wise old shell. Had a powerful wave washed it away? My heart sank. I might never find it again!
Painstakingly, on hands and knees, I combed the wet rocks, turning over slippery jellyfish and examining tide pools. At last, soaked with spray, I spied a shard of driftwood. And there, with it, rested a little shell. Was it the same one? Quickly, I placed the sand-colored cone against my ear.
“Washamballa, is it you?”
No answer came.
“Washamballa,” I pleaded. “Answer me if it’s you! Is there any cure for the death shadow? Any cure at all?”
Finally, I heard a long, watery sigh, like the sound of a wave breaking very slowly. “You have learned, sploshhh, a most painful lesson.”
“Yes, yes! But can you help me now? Tell me if there is any cure. My mother is dying.”
“Do you still, splashhh, have the Galator?”
I grimaced. “No. I . . . gave it away.”
“Can you get it back, splishhh, very quickly?”
“No. It’s with Domnu.”
I could feel the shell’s despairing breath in my ear. “Then you are beyond any help. Splashhh. For there is a cure. But to find it, splashhh, you must travel to the Otherworld.”
“The Otherworld? The land of the spirits? But the only way to go there is to die!” I shook my head, spraying drops of water from my black hair. “I would do even that if it would save her, I really would. But even if I took the Long Journey I’ve heard about, the one that leads to the Otherworld, I could never get back here again with the cure.”
“True. The Long Journey takes the dead, splashhh, to the Otherworld, but it does not send them back again to the land of the living.”
A new thought struck me. “Wait! Tuatha—my grandfather—found some way to travel alive to the Otherworld. To consult with the great Dagda, I believe. Could I possibly follow Tuatha’s path?”
“That was the path that finally killed him. Sploshhh. Do not forget that. For he was slain by Balor, the ogre who answers only to Rhita Gawr. Even now Balor guards the secret entrance, a place called splashhh, the Otherworld Well. And he has sworn to stop any ally of Dagda who tries to pass that way.”
“The Otherworld Well? Is it some sort of stairwell, leading up to the land of the spirits?”
“Whatever it is,” sloshed the voice of the shell, “to find it is your splashhh, only hope. For the cure you seek is the Elixir of Dagda, and only Dagda himself can give it to you.”
A cold wave washed over my legs. The salt stung the scrapes from my falls on the rocks. Yet I barely noticed.
“The Elixir of Dagda,” I said slowly. “Well, ogre or no ogre, I must get it. How do I find this stairway to the Otherworld?”
Once again the shell sighed with the breath of despair. “To find it you must come to hear a strange, enchanted music. Splashhh. The music, Merlin, of wizardry.”
“Wizardry?” I nearly dropped the little cone. “I can’t possibly do that.”
“Then you are, indeed, lost. For the only way to find Tuatha’s path is to master, splashhh, the Seven Songs of Wizardry.”
“What in the world are they?”
The wind leaned against me, fluttering my tunic, as I waited for the shell’s reply. At last I heard again the small voice in my ear. “Even I, the wisest of the shells, do not know. All I can say is that, splishhh, the Seven Songs were inscribed by Tuatha himself on a great tree in Druma Wood.”
“Not . . . Arbassa?”
“Yes.”
“I know that tree! It’s Rhia’s house.” I furrowed my brow, recalling the strange writing that I had found there. “But that writing is impossible! I couldn’t read a word of it.”
“Then you must try again, Merlin. It is your only chance, splashhh, to save your mother. Though it is a very small chance indeed.”
I thought of my mother, lying in the shadow of the dune, afflicted with the death shadow, her breath growing shorter and shorter. I had done this to her. Now I must try to undo it, whatever the risks. Even so, I shuddered to recall Cairpré’s description of the qualities of a true wizard. Qualities that I surely lacked. Whatever the Seven Songs might be, I had almost no chance of mastering them—certainly not in the brief time before the death shadow completed its terrible work.
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br /> “It’s too much,” I said despondently. “I am no wizard! Even if I somehow succeed at the Seven Songs, how can I possibly find this Otherworld Well, elude Balor, and climb up to the realm of Dagda, all within four phases of the moon?”
“I should never, sploshhh, have helped you.”
I thought about the faint new moon that I had glimpsed last night. Only the barest sliver, it had been nearly impossible for my second sight to find. That meant I had until the end of this moon, and not a day beyond, to find the Elixir of Dagda. On the day the moon died, my mother would die as well.
As the moon grew full, my time would be half gone.
As it waned, my time would be almost ended. And when it disappeared at last, so would my hopes.
“I wish you all the luck, splashhh, in Fincayra,” said the shell. “You will need it, splashhh, and more.”
9: ROSEMARY
Since my mother was already too weak to walk, Rhia and I made a rough-hewn stretcher by weaving some vines from the dune between my staff and the branch of a dead hawthorn tree. As we worked, threading the vines from one side to the other, I explained some of what I had learned from the shell, and asked her to lead us through the forest to Arbassa. Yet even as I said the name of the great tree, I felt a strong sense of foreboding at the thought of returning there. I had no idea why.
Rhia, by contrast, didn’t seem concerned or surprised to learn that the writing on Arbassa’s walls held the secrets I would need to find the Otherworld Well. Perhaps because she had seen Arbassa give so many answers to so many questions before, she merely nodded, continuing to tie off the vines. At last, we finished the stretcher and helped my mother slide into place. Laying my hand on her brow, I could tell that she had grown hotter. Yet despite her worsening condition, she did not knowingly complain.
The same could not be said about Bumbelwy. We had barely started walking, with him taking the rear of the stretcher, when he began doing his own imitation of a speaking shell. When at last he realized that his audience did not find this at all amusing, he switched to describing the intricacies of his bell-laden hat, as if it were some sort of royal crown. When that, too, failed, he began complaining that carrying such a heavy load might strain his delicate back, hampering his abilities as a jester. I didn’t respond, although I was tempted to silence both him and his jangling bells by stuffing his hat into his mouth.
Rhia led the way, with the Flowering Harp slung over her leafy shoulder. I took the front of the stretcher, but the weight of my own guilt seemed the heaviest burden of all. Even crossing the dune, passing beside the bell-shaped flower, felt like a strenuous march.
Before entering Druma Wood, we passed through a verdant meadow. Ribbed with streams, the grasses of the meadow moved in waves like the surface of the sea. Every rivulet splashed and rippled, lining the plants along the banks with sparkling ribbons of water. I thought how full of beauty this spot might have seemed to me under different circumstances, beauty not caused by a magical instrument or a great wizard. Beauty that was simply there.
Finally, with a crackling of twigs and needles underfoot, we entered the ancient forest. The bright meadow disappeared, and all went dark. Powerful resins, sometimes pungent, sometimes sweet, spiced the air. Branches whispered and clacked overhead. Shadows seemed to drift, silently behind the trees.
Once again, I felt the eeriness of this forest. It was more than a collection of living beings of varied kinds. It was, in truth, a living being itself. Once it had given me my hemlock staff. But now, I felt certain, it was watching me, regarding me with suspicion.
I stubbed my toe on a root. Though I winced with pain, I held tight to the stretcher. My second sight had grown stronger since I was last here, but the dim light still hampered my vision. Sunlight struck just the topmost layers of these dense groves, while only a few rare beams reached all the way to the forest floor. Yet I was not about to slow down to get my bearings. I didn’t have time. Nor did my mother.
Following Rhia, we pushed deeper into the forest, bearing the stretcher of vines. The strange sensation that the trees themselves were watching, following our every move, grew stronger with every step. The clacking branches sounded agitated as we passed beneath them. Other creatures seemed aware of us, as well. Every so often I glimpsed a bushy tail or pair of yellow eyes. Squeals and howls often echoed among the darkened boughs. And once, from somewhere very near, I heard a loud, prolonged scraping sound, like sharp claws ripping at a layer of bark. Or skin.
My arms and shoulders ached, but hearing the swelling groans of my mother hurt more. Bumbelwy, at least, seemed moved enough by her suffering to contain his grumbling, although his bells continued to jangle. And while Rhia moved through the woods with the lightness of a breeze, she often glanced back worriedly at the stretcher.
After hours of marching through the dark glades draped with mosses and ferns, my shoulders throbbed as if they were about to burst. My hands, nearly numb, couldn’t hold on any longer. Was there no shorter route? Was it possible that Rhia had lost her way? I cleared my dry throat, ready to call out to her.
Then, up ahead, I glimpsed a new light in the branches. As we pushed through a tangle of ferns, which clung to my ankles and thighs, the light grew stronger. The spaces between the trunks widened. A cool breeze, as fragrant as fresh mint, slapped the sweaty skin of my brow.
We entered a grassy clearing. In the center, rising from a web to burly roots, stood a majestic oak tree. Arbassa. Older than old it looked, and taller than any other tree we had seen. Its massive trunk, as wide as five or six trees fused into one, lifted several times my height before its first branches emerged. From there it soared up, up, until at length it merged with the clouds.
Set in the midst of its lower branches, made from the limbs of the oak itself, sat Rhia’s aerial cottage. Branches curled and twisted to form its walls, floor, and roof. Shimmering curtains of green leaves draped every window. I remembered first seeing the cottage at night, when it had been lit from within and glowed like an exploding star.
Rhia lifted her arms like rising branches. “Arbassa.”
The great tree quivered, raining dew on all of us. With a pang, I recalled my clumsy attempt to make the beech tree in the Dark Hills bend down to me. On that day, Rhia had called me a fool for trying such a thing. Whether or not she had been right, I knew, as I gently lowered my mother’s stretcher onto the grass, that I had been far more of a fool on this day for trying something else.
“Rosemary,” said Elen, her voice hoarse from moaning. She pointed at a shrub, decked with leafy spires, that was growing near the edge of the clearing. “Get me some of that. Please.”
In a flash, Rhia plucked a sprig and offered it to her. “Here you are. It’s so fragrant, it reminds me of pine needles in the sun. What did you call it?”
“Rosemary.” My mother rolled it between her palms, filling the air with its striking scent. She brought the crushed leaves to her face and inhaled deeply.
Her face relaxed a bit. She lowered her hands. “The Greeks called it starlight of the land. Isn’t that lovely?”
Rhia nodded, her curls bouncing on her shoulders. “And it’s good for rheumatism, isn’t it?”
Elen gazed at her in surprise. “How in the world did you know that?”
“Cwen, my friend, used it to help her hands.” A shadow crossed Rhia’s face. “At least she used to be my friend.”
“She made a pact with the goblins,” I explained. “And almost killed us in the bargain. She was a tr— Rhia, what did you call her?”
“A treeling. Half tree, half person. The very last one of her kind.” Rhia listened for a moment to the whispering oak leaves above us. “She took care of me ever since I was a baby, after she found me abandoned in the forest.”
My mother winced in pain, though her eyes remained fixed on Rhia. “Do you . . . do you miss your real family, child?”
Rhia waved her hand lightly. “Oh, no. Not at all. The trees are my family. Especially Arbassa
.”
Again the branches quivered, showering us with dew. And yet I couldn’t help but notice that, despite Rhia’s carefree words, her gray-blue eyes seemed sad. Sadder than I had ever seen them.
Bumbelwy, frowning with his eyebrows, mouth, and chins, bent down next to the stretcher and touched my mother’s forehead. “You are hot,” he said grimly. “Hotter than before. This is just the occasion for my riddle about my bells. It’s one of my funniest—especially since I don’t know any others. Shall I tell it?’
“No.” I pushed him roughly aside. “Your riddles and songs will only make her feel worse!”
He pouted, all of his chins wobbling above the clasp of his cloak. “Too true, too true, too true.” Then he drew himself up a little straighten “But someday, mark my words, I will make somebody laugh.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. It might even be you.”
“Right. And the day you do that, I’ll eat my boots.” I scowled at him. “Get away, now. You’re worse than a curse, a plague, and a typhoon combined.”
Elen moaned, shifting her weight on the stretcher. She started to say something to Rhia, her blue eyes wide with anxiety. Then, for some reason, she caught herself. Instead, she took another sniff of rosemary. Turning to me, she asked, “Fetch me some lemon balm, will you? It will help calm this headache. Do you know where any grows?”
“I’m not sure. Rhia might know.”
Rhia, her eyes still darkened, nodded.
“And some chamomile, child, if you can find it. It often sprouts near pine trees, alongside a little white mushroom with red hairs on the stem.”
“The trees will guide me to it.” Rhia glanced up at Arbassa’s mighty boughs. “But first we’ll bring you inside.”
She peeled off her snug shoes, made from some kind of bark, and stepped into a small hollow in the roots. Then she spoke a long, swishing phrase in the language of an oak. The roots closed over her feet, so that she stood like a young sapling at Arbassa’s side. As she opened her arms to embrace the huge trunk, a leafy branch lowered and laid itself across her back. All at once the branch lifted, the roots parted, and the trunk creased and cracked open, revealing a small, bark-edged doorway. Rhia entered, beckoning us to follow.
