by T.A. Barron
I shook my head, observing the motionless form of the warrior goblin. “Come now, Rhia. You know better.”
“I do,” she declared crisply. “And I think you are denying it because you want so much for it to be true.”
Stunned, I gazed at her. “You read me, in the same way I came to read those runes on Arbassa’s walls.”
Her bell-like laughter rang out. “Some things I still can’t understand, though. Like why, instead of hiding when you saw the goblin, you charged straight at him.”
Before I could reply, a small voice spoke behind us. “You must be magical.”
Rhia and I spun around to see a short, round-faced boy, crouching on the ground. He couldn’t have been older than five. I knew at once that he was the unfortunate creature whose shriek had awakened us. His eyes, themselves glowing like little moons, seemed full of awe.
I glanced at Rhia. “That’s why.” Turning back to the boy, I beckoned. “Come here. I won’t hurt you.”
Slowly, he rose to his feet. Hesitantly, he approached, then stopped himself. “Are you good magical or bad magical?”
Rhia stifled a laugh, wrapping her leafy arms around the boy. “He is very good magical. Except when he is being very bad.”
As I growled playfully at her, the boy frowned in confusion. He wriggled away from Rhia and started backing down the shadowy slope.
“Don’t listen to her. I am an enemy of warrior goblins, just like you.” Leaning on my staff, I stood. “My name is Merlin. This is Rhia, who comes from Druma Wood. Now tell us your name.”
The boy studied me, patting his round cheek thoughtfully. “You must be good magical, to slay the goblin with only your staff.” He sucked in his breath. “I am Galwy, and I’ve lived all my life in the same village.”
I cocked my head. “The only village near here is—”
“Slantos,” finished the little fellow.
My heart raced.
Galwy looked away sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to stay outside the gates after dark. Really, I didn’t! It’s just that the squirrels were playing, and I followed them, and when I realized how late it was . . . “ He glared at the twisted form of the fallen warrior goblin. “He wanted to hurt me.”
I stepped to the small boy’s side. “He won’t hurt you now.”
Eyes shining, he tilted his head to look up at me. “I think you really are good magical.”
22: AMBROSIA BREAD
When we returned to the ravine, we found Bumbelwy still snoring. Although the explosion of flame had not been a volcano, his prediction of sleeping soundly had certainly proved true. Rhia and I carefully tucked Galwy, who was so tired he could barely stand, under a portion of the jester’s cloak. Then, feeling our own exhaustion, we joined them on the ground. Clutching my staff, I soon fell asleep.
Before long, the first fingers of morning light tickled my face. I woke to find Bumbelwy already doing his best to impress young Galwy with his skills as a jester. From the solemn expression on the boy’s round face, I could tell he hadn’t progressed very far.
“That is why,” the dour fellow was explaining, “they call me Bumbelwy the Mirthful.”
Galwy stared at him, looking as if he were about to cry.
“Let me show you another of my jesterly talents.” Bumbelwy gave his head a vigorous shake, clanging his bells, and drew his cloak tightly about him. “I will now tell you the famous riddle of the bells.”
Rhia, who was also watching, started to protest. But I held up my hand. “Let’s hear this confounded riddle. We’ve been hearing about it for weeks.”
She smirked. “I suppose so. Are you ready to eat your boots if any of us laugh?”
“Ready.” I licked my lips in mock satisfaction. “Then, with any luck, we’ll find something more tasty at the Slantos’ village.”
Bumbelwy cleared his throat, making his drooping chins quiver. “I am now ready,” he announced. He paused expectantly, almost as if he could not quite believe that he was finally being allowed to tell his riddle.
“We’re waiting,” I declared. “But not all day.”
The jester’s wide mouth opened. Then shut. Opened again. Shut again.
I leaned forward. “Well?”
Bumbelwy’s eyebrows arched in consternation. He cleared his throat once more. He stomped his foot on the dry ground, rattling his bells again. But he did not speak.
“Are you going to tell this riddle of yours or not?”
The jester bit his lip, then shook his head glumly. “It’s been . . . so long,” he grumbled. “So many people, over so many years, have stopped me from telling it. Now that I may, I can’t . . . remember it.” He heaved a sigh. “Too true, too true, too true.”
As Rhia and I rolled our eyes, Galwy smiled broadly. He turned to me. “Could you take me back to the village now? With you, I feel safe.”
I tapped Bumbelwy’s hunched shoulder. “Perhaps, one day, you’ll remember it.”
“If that ever happens,” he replied, “I’ll probably botch the delivery.”
Moments later, we were trekking toward the rising sun. As usual, Rhia and I led the way, although now I bore Galwy on my shoulders. Bumbelwy, more somber than ever, kept to the rear.
To my relief, we soon began a long, rolling descent, leaving behind the parched slopes and shadowed rock outcroppings of the Dark Hills. I could not rid myself of the uneasy feeling that the goblin we had encountered was only one of the first of Rhita Gawr’s warriors to emerge from hiding. Nor could I forget how little I had done to make this land habitable for other creatures.
Before long, we entered a wide, grassy plain. Piping birds and humming insects appeared, as clusters of trees with hand-shaped leaves grew more common. A family of foxes, bushy tails all erect, crossed our trail. Sitting in the boughs of a willow tree sat a wide-eyed squirrel who reminded me of Rhia’s friend Ixtma—and of the dying woman in his care.
The first sign of the village was the smell.
Grounded in the rich, hearty aroma of roasting grains, the smell strengthened as we crossed the grassy plain. With every step, it intensified, reminding me of how long it had been since I had eaten a crust of freshly baked bread. I could almost taste the grains. Wheat. Corn. Barley.
Other aromas, too, wove through this fragrant fabric. Something tangy, like the bright orange fruits that Rhia and I devoured long ago beneath the boughs of the shomorra tree. Something sharp and fresh, like the crushed mint that Elen often added to her tea. Something sweet, like the honey that bees made from clover blossoms. And more. Much more. The smell contained spicy flavors, robust flavors, and soothing flavors as well. It also contained, more often than not a hint of something that was not really a flavor at all. More like a feeling. An attitude. Even . . . an idea.
When at last we entered the valley of the Slantos, and their low, brown buildings came into view, the smell grew overpowering. My mouth watering, I remembered tasting the Slantos’ bread once before, in the underground den of Cairpré. What had he called it? Ambrosia bread. Food for the gods, the Greeks would have surely agreed. I remembered biting into the stiff crust, as hard as wood at first. Then, after some vigorous chewing, the bread had exploded with zesty flavor. A wave of nourishment had coursed through me, making me feel taller and sturdier. For a moment, I had even forgotten about the perpetual soreness between my shoulder blades.
Then I remembered something else. Cairpré, through a mouthful of ambrosia bread, had given me a stern warning. No one from other parts of Fincayra has ever tasted the Slantos’ most special breads, and they guard those precious recipes with their lives. I gripped my staff as a new wave of fear surged through me. If the Slantos were not even willing to part with their recipes, how in the world was I going to get them to part with something much more valuable—the soul of the Song of Naming?
At the sight of the village gates in the distance, Galwy released a whoop of joy, jumped down from my shoulders, and scampered ahead of us, his arms flapping like the wings of a young
bird. Beyond the gates, smoke poured from the hearths of many low buildings. The structures, while varied sizes, were all made from wide, brown bricks lined with yellow mortar. I almost smiled, noting that they looked like giant loaves of buttered bread themselves.
Bumbelwy, who had remained silent all morning, smacked his lips. “Do you think they’re in the habit of giving visitors a crust of bread? Or do they turn people away hungry?”
“My guess,” answered Rhia, “is that they’re not in the habit of having visitors at all. The only people on this side of Eagles’ Canyon are in—” Abruptly, she caught herself, glancing at me.
“In prison, in the caverns south of here, you were about to say.” I pushed some stray black hairs off my face. “Like Stangmar, the man who was once my father.”
Rhia eyed me sympathetically. “He’s still your father.”
I strode more briskly toward the gates. “Not anymore. I don’t have a father.”
She swallowed. “I know how you feel. I never even knew my father. Or my mother.”
“At least you have Arbassa. And the rest of Drama Wood. As you’ve said before, that’s your real family.”
She worked her tongue, but said nothing.
As we arrived at the wooden gates, which were affixed to two tremendous spruce trees, a guard stepped out of the shadows by one of the trunks. Shaking the thinning locks of sand-colored hair that fell over his ears, he scowled at each of us in turn. Though his sword remained in its scabbard, one of his hands grasped the hilt. Even more than the roasting grains that filled the air, I began to smell the likelihood of trouble.
Warily, he examined my staff. “Be that the magical staff that felled the goblin?”
I blinked in surprise. “You know about that already?”
“Half the village knows by now,” snorted the guard. “Young master Galwy has been telling everyone he can find.”
“You’ll let us pass, then?”
The guard shook his locks again. “I didn’t say that.” He pointed at the staff, eyeing it cautiously. “How do I know you won’t use that to harm any villagers?”
“Well, for the same reason I’m not using it to harm you right now.”
His face tightened, and he gave his sword an anxious tug. “You’ll have to do better than that. You could be an infiltrator, after our secrets. Or an errand boy for the goblins, for all I know.”
Rhia, bristling, stepped forward. “Then why would he have slain the goblin last night?”
“As a ruse, leafy girl.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Tell me, then. Why would a boy, a girl, and a . . . “ He paused, observing Bumbelwy. “And a beggar, of whatever kind, travel all the way to Slantos? Not by chance, I’ll wager.”
“No,” I answered carefully. “Your village is famous, far and near, for its breads. My friends and I would like to learn some of the bread maker’s art.”
His eyes bored into me. “I suspect that’s not all you’d like to learn.”
Remembering Cairpré’s warning, I swallowed. “I seek nothing that won’t be given freely.”
The guard lifted his face to the spruce boughs above him, as if somehow seeking their counsel. He drew a long, slow breath. “Well, all right. I shall let you in—not for what you’ve said, which leaves me quite suspicious, I’ll tell you. But for what you did to help master Galwy.”
With a final shake of his dangling hair, he moved aside, stepping into the shadows under one of the trees. Although I could feel his eyes watching me warily, I didn’t look back again. Nor did the others.
Immediately upon stepping through the gates, I spotted a high, spiraling structure in the middle of the common. Children squealed and jumped, playing around its base, while a steady stream of adults shuttled to and from it. Laden with buckets, baskets, and jugs, they resembled a colony of ants, hauling all the burdens of their society on their backs. Then I noticed a strange rippling on the gold-colored surface of the structure. As if it were moving somehow. As if it were alive.
Except for the few who pointed to my staff, whispering furtively, most of the villagers seemed too preoccupied with their tasks to pay any attention to us. Stepping over a cluster of children playing some sort of game with sticks, I moved cautiously closer to the structure. It seemed to be the source of at least some of the delicious smell that emanated from this village. And its surface was, indeed, moving. A thick, golden liquid flowed slowly from a spout at its highest point, down several spiraling troughs, all the way to a wide pool at its base. Out of this pool, people labored to draw the golden liquid by the bucketful, which they carried briskly into the buildings. At the same time, other people poured flour, milk, and other ingredients into the many vents that ringed the base.
“A fountain.” I stared, utterly amazed. “A fountain of bread.”
“Dough, you mean.” Rhia bent over the churning pool. “They must use the golden stuff—doesn’t it remind you of honey, but thicker?—as dough to start some of their breads.”
“All of our breads, in fact.”
We whirled around to see a plump, fair-haired man with ruddy cheeks, who was filling two large pitchers from the fountain. His ears, like other Fincayrans, were slightly pointed at the top. Yet his voice, like his face, seemed quite unusual, both scornful and mirthful at once. He was, I felt sure, one or the other. Which one I could not tell.
When the pitchers had nearly overflowed, he pulled them out of the pool. Resting them on his sizeable belly, he observed us for a moment. “Visitors, eh? We don’t like visitors.”
Unsure whether he was being unfriendly, or merely playful, I spoke up. “I would like to learn a little about bread baking. Could you help me?”
“I could,” he answered gruffly. Or teasingly. “But I’m too busy now.” He started to walk away. “Try some other day.”
“I don’t have another day!” I ran over to his side, keeping with him as he strode toward one of the buildings. “Won’t you please show me a little of your art?”
“No,” he declared. “I told you I’m—”
He tripped, tumbling over two scruffy boys, about the same age as Galwy, who were fighting over a loaf of blue-speckled bread. While only one of the pitchers fell to the ground, it smashed into dozens of pieces, all oozing with golden liquid from the fountain.
“Now see what you’ve done!” With a growl that was clearly serious, not playful, he stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Seeing me start to assist, he waved me away angrily. “Go away, boy! I don’t need your help.”
Glumly, I turned back to the bread fountain. I trudged toward it, barely noticing the rich aromas it continued to spill into the air. Rhia, having seen what happened, shook her head in dismay. She knew, as did I, that all of our efforts up to this point would be worthless unless we could find what we needed here in Slantos.
As I passed the two squabbling boys, who looked like twin brothers, I could tell that their argument was about to explode into a full-scale fight. Fists clenched, voices snarled. One boy tried to step on the blue-speckled loaf, which lay at the other one’s feet. The second boy’s nostrils flared. He roared angrily and charged at his enemy.
Slipping my staff through my belt, I stepped between them. Holding one boy by the collar of his tunic, and the other by the shoulder, I tried my best to keep them apart. Both shouted and struggled against me, kicking wildly at my legs. Finally, when my arms were about to give out, I released them and quickly snatched up the loaf of bread.
I raised the loaf, now more dirty brown than blue. “Is this what you’re fighting about?”
“It’s mine!” cried one.
“No, mine!” shouted the other.
Both of them lunged at the bread, but I held it just out of reach of their grasping hands. Ignoring their angry squeals, I waved it above them. Still warm, it smelled of sweet molasses. “Now,” I demanded, “would you like to know how you can both have some?”
One boy cocked his head skeptically. “How?”
I glanced
furtively over my shoulder. “I can tell you, but only on the condition that you keep it a secret.”
The boys considered the idea, then nodded their heads in unison.
I kneeled down, then whispered something to them. Eyes wide, they listened intently. Finally, when I had finished, I handed them the loaf. They sat down on the spot, and within seconds, both of their mouths were bulging with bread.
“Not bad.”
I looked up to find the plump man gazing at me. “Tell me, boy. How did you ever get them to share the loaf?”
Standing up, I pulled my staff from my belt. “Simple, really. I merely suggested that they each take turns having a bite.” I grinned slightly. “And I also told them that if they couldn’t manage that, I would eat the bread myself.”
The man released a deep, guttural sound that could have been either a laugh or a groan. Scrunching up his face, he appeared to regard me with new respect. Or new concern. It was hard to tell. At last he spoke, removing any doubt. “If you’d like to learn a little about bread baking, boy, follow me.”
23: NAMING
The man strode to one of the loaf-shaped buildings at the far edge of the common. Before entering, he tossed the fragments of his broken pitcher into a pail outside the door. Then he wiped his plump hand on his tan tunic, already stained by many other wipings. Laying his hand on the wall by the door, he gave the brown bricks a grateful tap.
“Ever seen bricks like this?”
“No. Are they made from a special kind of mud?”
His expression turned grumpy. Or amused. “Actually, they’re made from a special kind of flour. The ingredients give it unusual hardness, you see.” He tapped the bricks again. “Knowing your ingredients, boy, is the first principle of baking bread.”
Something about how he said knowing your ingredients made me think he meant something more than merely recognizing different grains and herbs. Tempted though I was to ask him to explain, I held my tongue for fear of pushing too hard.
“This one,” he continued, “we call brickloaf. Baked six times for extra strength.” He pressed his stubby fingers against the wall. “These bricks will outlive me by a hundred years.”
