The Seven Songs

by T.A. Barron

  “I carry her spirit within me, Trouble. I’m hoping that Dagda might still be able to save her.” I swallowed. “And also my mother.”

  Suddenly, Trouble gave a loud shriek. His talons squeezed my shoulder, even as the mist before me billowed strangely.

  “Ahhh,” said a slow, almost lazy voice from somewhere in the mist. “How nice, how terribly nice, of you to come.”

  Trouble whistled anxiously.

  “Who are you?” I called into the clouds. “Show yourself.”

  “I intend to do just that, young man, in a moment’s time.” The mist before me swirled like soup in a gently stirred bowl. “And I also have a gift for you, a terribly precious gift. Ahhh, yes.”

  Something about the voice’s slow, relaxed tones made me feel a bit more at ease. Yet a vague sensation, from someplace within me, made me feel more cautious than ever. Better, I decided, to err on the side of caution.

  I adjusted Rhia’s weight in my arms. “I haven’t time for manners right now. If you have something to give me, then show yourself.”

  “Ahhh, young man. So impatient, so terribly impatient.” The mist churned. “But you needn’t worry. I shall heed your request, in just a moment’s time. You see, I’d like to be your friend.”

  At that, Trouble gave a shrill whistle. With a powerful flap of his wings, he lifted off from his perch. He whistled again, circled me once, and flew off, disappearing in a cloud of mist.

  “You have no need to fear me,” murmured the voice. “Even though your hawk friend certainly seems to.”

  “Trouble doesn’t fear anything.”

  “Ahhh, then I must be mistaken. Why do you think he flew away?”

  I swallowed, peering into the flowing mist. “I don’t know. He must have had a good reason.” I turned back to the spot from which the voice seemed to come. “If you’d like to be my friend, then show me who you are. Quickly. I need to keep going.”

  The mist bubbled slowly. “Ahhh, so you have an important meeting, have you?”

  “Very.”

  “Well then, that is what you must do. Ahhh, yes.” The voice sounded so relaxed as to be sleepy. “I’m sure you know how to get wherever you’re going.”

  Instead of answering, I searched the billowing mist for Trouble. Where had he gone? We had only just met again! And I’d hoped that he might be able to lead me to Dagda.

  “Because if you don’t,” continued the soothing voice, “my gift may be useful to you. Terribly useful. Ahhh, I offer you the gift of serving as your guide.”

  That feeling of caution, from whatever source, rose in me again. Yet . . . perhaps this person, when he finally revealed himself, could really show me the way through the swirling clouds. It could save precious time.

  I shifted my weight on the misty step. “Before I can accept your offer, I need to know who you are.”

  “In a moment’s time, young man. In a moment’s time.” The voice yawned, then spoke as gently as the wisps of mist that brushed against my cheek. “Young people are in such a hurry, such a great hurry.”

  Despite my doubts, something about the voice made me feel increasingly relaxed. Almost . . . comfortable. Or maybe I was just feeling tired. My back ached. I wished I could set Rhia down somewhere. Just for a moment.

  “Ahhh, you bear a heavy burden, young man.” Another agonizingly slow yawn. “Would you allow me to lighten your load just a little?”

  Against my will, I too yawned. “I’m fine, thank you. But if you’d like to guide me to Dagda, I will let you.” I caught myself. “First, though, show me who you are.”

  “To Dagda, is it? Ahhh, the great and glorious Dagda. Warrior of warriors. He lives far, terribly far, from here. Still, I would be pleased to guide you.”

  I straightened my stiff back. “Can we go now? I’m running out of time.”

  “Ahhh, in a moment’s time.” Curling arms of mist swayed before my face. “It’s a pity, though, you can’t take a little rest. You look as if you could use one.”

  Still holding Rhia, I crouched down, resting her on my thighs. “I wish I could. But I must get going.”

  “Whatever you say. Ahhh, yes.” The voice gave the longest, sleepiest yawn yet. “We shall leave directly. In a moment’s time.”

  I shook my head, which felt strangely clouded. “Good. Now . . . you were going to do something first. What was it? Oh, yes. Show yourself. Before I follow you.”

  “Why, of course, young man. I am almost ready.” The voice heaved a slow, relaxed sigh. “It will be pleasing, terribly pleasing, to help you.”

  The feeling of caution nudged me again, but I ignored it. I moved the arm that had supported Rhia’s thighs, resting my hand on a damp step. I wondered how it might feel to sit down, if only briefly. Surely a little rest couldn’t hurt.

  “That’s right, young man,” purred the voice in its most soothing tone. “Just let yourself relax.”

  Relax, I thought dreamily. Just let myself relax.

  “Ahhh, yes.” The voice sighed sleepily. “You are a wise young man. So much wiser than your father.”

  I nodded, feeling half dazed. My father. Wiser than . . .

  The feeling of caution surged through me. How did he know my father?

  I yawned again. Why worry about my father now? He wasn’t anywhere near the Otherworld. My head felt foggy, as if the mist surrounding me had somehow flowed into my ears. What was I in such a hurry about, anyway? A little rest would help me remember. Crouching on the stairs, I lowered my head against my chest.

  Once again, so weakly that I could barely detect it, the feeling of caution pricked me. Wake up, Merlin! He’s not your friend. Wake up. I tried to ignore it, but couldn’t quite do so. Trust in your instincts, Merlin.

  I stirred, raising my head slightly. There was something familiar about that feeling, that voice inside me. As if I had heard it somewhere before.

  Trust in your instincts. Merlin. Trust in the berries.

  With a sudden jolt, I awoke. It was Rhia’s voice! Rhia’s wisdom! Her spirit was sensing what I was not. I shook the fog from my head. Taking my hand from the step, I wrapped it tightly around Rhia’s legs. With a grunt, I slowly stood up again.

  “Ahhh, young man.” An edge of concern had crept into the sleepy voice. “I thought you might rest a little while.”

  Clutching Rhia firmly in my arms, the leaves drying but still soft against my hands, I drew a deep breath. “I am not going to rest. I am not going to let you lull me into enchanted sleep. For I know who you are.”

  “Ahhh, you do?”

  “Yes I do, Rhita Gawr!”

  The mist started to froth like a boiling pot. It bubbled and whirled before me. Out of the swirling vapors stepped a man, as tall and broad as Balor, wearing a flowing white tunic and a thin necklace of gleaming red stones. His hair, as black as my own, lay perfectly combed on his head. Even his eyebrows looked exquisitely groomed. It was his eyes, though, that caught my attention. They seemed utterly hollow, as vacant as the void. As much as the memory of Balor’s deadly eye made me shudder, these eyes frightened me more.

  Rhita Gawr lifted one hand to his lips and licked the tips of his fingers. “I could have taken any number of forms.” His voice, harsh and snapping, held none of the lazy tones I had heard before. “The wild boar is one of my favorites, complete with the scarred foreleg. We all carry scars, you know.”

  He stroked one eyebrow with his wet fingers. “But you have seen the wild boar before, haven’t you? Once on the shore of that rock pile you call Gwynedd. And once again, in a dream.”

  “How . . . “ Perspiration formed on my brow as I recalled the dream, and the feeling of daggerlike tusks growing into my very eyes. “How do you know about that?”

  “Oh, come now. Surely a would-be sorcerer has learned at least a little about Leaping.” He licked his fingertips, as his lips curled in a smirk. “Sending dreams to people is one of my few amusements, a brief distraction from my many labors.” The smirk expanded. “Though
there is something I enjoy even more. Sending the death shadow.”

  I tensed, squeezing Rhia’s lifeless form. “What gave you the right to strike down my mother?”

  Rhita Gawr’s vacant eyes fixed on me. “What gave you the right to bring her to Fincayra?”

  “I didn’t mean . . . “

  “A little touch of hubris.” He ran his hand over his scalp, patting the hairs into place. “That was your father’s fatal flaw, and your grandfather’s as well. Did you really expect to be any different?”

  I straightened up. “I am different.”

  “Hubris again! I thought you would have learned by now.” The white tunic fluttered as he took a step toward me. “Hubris will bring your death, that is certain. It has already brought your mother’s.”

  I reeled, staggering on the misty step. “That’s why you delayed me all this time!”

  “But of course.” He licked his fingertips with care, one at a time. “And now that you know you have failed to prevent her death—the death that you yourself brought on—I shall relieve you of any further misery. I shall kill you, here and now.”

  I backed up one step, trying not to stumble.

  Rhita Gawr laughed, while he stroked his other eyebrow. “Your hero, Dagda, isn’t here to save you this time, as he did on Gwynedd. Nor is that fool bird, whose rashness prevented me from finishing you off at the Shrouded Castle. This time, I have you.”

  He took another step through the mist toward me. His enormous hands flexed, as if they were preparing to crush my skull. “Just so you know the extent of your folly, your hubris, let me explain something to you. If only you hadn’t tried to avoid your lessons, you might know that if only you had worn a mantle of mistletoe, that cursed golden bough, you could have traveled straight to Dagda’s lair. I could not have waylaid you as I have.”

  I blanched, remembering Rhia’s plea to take a bough of mistletoe with me to the Otherworld. And I had dismissed her advice out of hand!

  Once again Rhita Gawr smirked. Arms of mist, sprouting out of his head, clawed at me. “I do so love arrogance. One of humanity’s most endearing qualities.”

  His hollow eyes narrowed. “So much for your lessons. Now you shall die.”

  At that instant, a winged shape shot out of the clouds. A screech echoed across the shifting landscape of mist, even as Trouble soared straight at me. Behind him he trailed a loose, flowing bough of gold. Mistletoe. Rhita Gawr roared with rage and leaped at me.

  Only a fraction of a second before he could seize me, the golden bough fell over my shoulders like a cape. I felt his powerful hands closing on my throat. Suddenly, I became vapor, dissolving into the mist. The last thing I felt was a pair of talons grasping my shoulder. And the last thing I heard was the wrathful cry of Rhita Gawr.

  “You have escaped me once again, you runt of a wizard! You will not be so fortunate next time.”

  33: WONDROUS THINGS

  Skin, bone, and muscles dissolved. Instead, I consisted of air, water, and light. Plus something more. For now I belonged to the mist.

  Rolling like a cloud of vapor, I stretched my limitless arms before me. As the golden bough of mistletoe propelled me along the hidden pathways to Dagda’s home, I swirled and swayed, melting into the air even as I moved beyond it. Through the spiraling tunnels and twisting corridors of mist I flew. And while I couldn’t see them, I could sense that Trouble and Rhia, in whatever form, traveled with me.

  Too many times to count, I glimpsed other landscapes and creatures within the vapors. Boundless variety seemed to inhabit each and every particle of mist. Worlds within worlds, levels within levels, lives within lives! The Otherworld, in all its vastness and complexity, beckoned.

  Yet I had no time now to explore. Elen’s life, and Rhia’s as well, hung in the balance. I might have lost my chance to help one or both of them, thanks to my own supreme folly. Even so, as Rhia herself had declared when my staff vanished in Slantos, as long as you still have hope, you still have a chance. And hope remained with me, though it seemed no more substantial than the shifting clouds.

  My thoughts, rolling like the very mist, turned to Dagda. I felt a deep pang of fear at the prospect of facing the greatest of all the spirits. While I expected that he would judge me harshly for my many mistakes, would he also refuse to help? Perhaps saving my mother’s life would disturb some delicate cosmic balance that only he understood. Perhaps he would simply not have time to see me. Perhaps he would not be in his realm at all when I arrived, and instead be somewhere far away, in this misty world or another, battling the forces of Rhita Gawr.

  I wondered what so powerful a spirit would look like. Surely, like Rhita Gawr, he could assume any form he chose. When he had appeared on the day I washed ashore on the coast of Gwynedd, he had come as a stag. Immense, powerful, with a great rack of antlers. What had struck me the most, though, were his eyes. Those brown, unblinking pools had seemed as deep and mysterious as the ocean itself.

  Whatever form he might take, I knew it would be as strong and imposing as Dagda himself. A stag in human form, perhaps. What had Rhita Gawr called him? The great and glorious Dagda. Warrior of warriors.

  Like a cloud flowing into a hollow in the hills, my forward motion slowed, little by little, until finally it stopped. Then, imperceptibly at first, the mist around me started to dissipate. Slowly, very slowly, it thinned and shredded, pulling apart like a wispy veil. Gradually, I could discern the outline of a tall, towering form behind the veil. Dark and brooding, it hovered before me.

  All at once, the remaining mist melted away. The towering form, I realized, was actually an enormous, dew-coated tree. As tall and mighty as Arbassa it stood, with one prominent difference.

  This tree stood upside down. Its massive roots reached upward, disappearing into the tangled threads of mist. They curled majestically around the clouds, as if they embraced the entire world above. From these soaring roots hung countless boughs of golden mistletoe, swaying gracefully. Down below, at the base of the trunk, burly branches stretched across a wide plain of steaming mist. And the entire tree, covered with thousands upon thousands of dewdrops, sparkled like the surface of a dancing stream.

  So captivated was I by the sight of the tree that it took me a moment to realize that I, too, stood on the misty plain. My body had returned! Rhia slumped in my arms, while Trouble made soft, gurgling sounds in my ear. A bough of mistletoe, just like the ones dangling above me, draped over my shoulders. My sword hung at my side, while the staff still rode under my belt.

  I looked into Trouble’s yellow-rimmed eyes. “Thanks, my friend. You saved me once again.”

  The hawk released a high, almost embarrassed whistle and fluttered his gray wings.

  “Welcome to the Tree of Soul.”

  I spun to face the source of the weak, unsteady voice. It came from a frail, old man, whose right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Although he sat on the floor of mist, leaning against the branches, he was so small and slight that I had not noticed him at all before. His silver hair glistened like the dew-covered bark around him.

  “Thank you. Very much.” I spoke stiffly, not wanting to be fooled again. Still, with time so scarce, I had no choice but to be direct. “I am looking for Dagda.”

  Trouble’s talons pinched my shoulder. He squawked at me reproachfully.

  The old man smiled gently, soft lines crinkling his face. Laying his withered arm across his lap, he studied me intently.

  Suddenly I noticed his eyes. Deep, brown pools, full of compassion, wisdom, and sadness. I had seen them before. On the great stag.

  “Dagda.” I bit my lip, gazing at the frail, little man. “I am sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

  The elder’s smile faded. “You did, in time. Just as you may, in time, come to know the true source of my power. Or do you already?”

  I hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I know nothing, I’m afraid, about your power’s true source. But I believe that you use it to help living things take their ow
n course, whatever that may be. That’s why you helped me on the day I washed ashore.”

  “Very good, Merlin, very good.” His brown eyes sparkled with satisfaction—and a touch of annoyance. “Even if you did try to avoid one of the Songs.”

  I shifted uncomfortably.

  He examined me, as if he could see into my deepest heart of hearts. “You carry a great load, in addition to the friend in your arms. Here. Lay her down beside me.”

  “Can you—can you help her?”

  “We shall see.” His brow, already webbed with wrinkles, creased some more. “Tell me of the Songs, Merlin. Where does the soul of each lie?”

  “And my mother? If she has any time left, it isn’t much.”

  “She, too, must wait.”

  Stooping on the vaporous ground, I gently laid the body of my sister beside Dagda. Curls of mist flowed over her shoulders and across her chest, covering her like a wispy blanket. He glanced at her, looking profoundly sad, then returned his gaze to me.

  “First. Show me your staff.”

  Trouble clucked with admiration as I drew the staff out of my belt. I held the knotted top toward Dagda, twirling the shaft slowly. All of the markings, as deep blue as the dusk, gleamed before us. The butterfly, symbol of transformation. The pair of hawks, bound together in flight. The cracked stone, reminding me of the folly of trying to cage the light flyer. The sword, whose name I knew well. The star inside a circle, calling back the luminous laughter of Gwri of the Golden Hair. The dragon’s tail, which somehow reminded my tongue of the taste of soiled leather. And, last of all, the eye, so different from Balor’s, yet in its own way just as terrifying.

  Dagda nodded. “You carry a sword now, I see.”

  I patted the silver hilt.

  “Guard it well, for the destiny of that sword is to serve you until the time comes for you to place it into a scabbard of stone. Then it shall pass to a boy, no older than you are now. A boy born to be king, whose reign shall thrive in the heart long after it has withered on the land.”