by T.A. Barron
Something is happening. But what?
All at once, a great bolt of lightning exploded, searing the sky. A powerful blast of thunder erupted at the same time, strong enough to make Merlin stumble and nearly fall over. The lightning flashed downward, but it didn't strike the tallest tree around. In fact, it didn't strike any tree.
The lightning struck Basil.
With a brilliant flash of light, the potent bolt hit the little fellow on the back, right between his ragged wings. The green scales on his shoulders sizzled and briefly burst into flame. Basil's eyes glowed brighter than ever before.
Simultaneously, the sky above opened, illuminating the forest. Heavy clouds melted into mist and then disappeared. The trees ceased quaking, as did the ground. Air moved freely once more, freshening the grove.
Basil, however, didn't move.
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the United States of America as Merlin’s Dragon by Philomel Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2010
Published as The Dragon of Avalon by Puffin Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011
Text copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2010
Map of Fincayra copyright © Ian Schoenherr, 1996
Map of Avalon copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2004
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
ISBN: 978-0-399-24750 (hc)
Barron, T. A. Merlin’s dragon / T. A. Barron.
p. cm.
Summary: Basil, a small, flying lizard who is searching for others like himself, discovers that there is more to him than he knows, as he becomes engaged in Avalon’s great war between the evil Rhita Gawr and the forces of good.
[1. Dragons—Fiction. 2. Identity—Fiction 3. Magic—Fiction. 4. Fantasy.]
I. Title.
PZ7.B27567 Mf 2008 [Fic]—dc22 2008002469
Puffin Books ISBN 978-0-14-241924-3
Design by Semadar Megged
Text set in 11.25 point Galliard
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out , or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Dedicated to my children, Ben and Larkin,
and their friend Lucile—
who asked two simple questions:
“What really happened between The Lost Years of Merlin and The Great Tree of Avalon?”
and
“Who was Merlin’s most bizarre friend?”
PROLOGUE: THE PEBBLE
Look here, I know it sounds far-fetched—impossible, even—that such a huge story could have such a tiny, unremarkable beginning. Call me a liar if you like.
But that's how it was. I know, believe me. Just as I know more than most about the surprising nature of beginnings. For I just happened to be right there, at the start.
THREE YEARS BEFORE THE BIRTH OF AVALON
A pebble, half buried by other pebbles, sat beside the river. Even though it was surrounded by thousands of bland, forgettable pebbles, this one was more forgettable than most. There was nothing at all special about it.
Nothing.
Except, perhaps, that this pebble attracted plenty of abuse. Much more than its share. Even before the unfortunate seagull incident, it seemed to be a magnet for all sorts of indignities.
More than any other pebble on the shore, this one had been scraped by claws, poked by beaks, and squeezed by jaws of hungry creatures who had mistaken it for an egg and then spat it out in disgust. One small beetle, attracted by the pebble's mottled green color (which nearly matched its own), had tried to lay its eggs right on top of it. But the beetle's body kept slipping off the smooth surface. Finally, with an angry hiss, the beetle kicked the pebble hard—several times—and scurried off.
On this particular morning, a rather chubby seagull with splayed wingfeathers waddled along the bank of the River Unceasing, looking for something. His beady black eyes flitted about, scanning the tumbled mass of pebbles that lined the water's edge. Heavy mist clung to the river and its banks, making visibility difficult. But one particular pebble—mottled green in color—caught the gull's attention.
With a clack of his beak, the seagull waddled over. He studied the pebble, inspecting its rounded shape, polished contours, and greenish hue. Squawking with approval, the bird moved closer, sat his plump bottom on the pebble . . . and dumped a large, gooey mass of guano.
Without so much as a backward glance, the bird rustled his wings and waddled off. Meanwhile, the reeking gray excrement oozed across the pebble.
TWO YEARS BEFORE THE BIRTH OF AVALON
Darker than the heavy mist along the river, a shadow formed on the opposite bank. Slowly, the blurry shape approached, slogging through the chill water. As it drew closer to the pebble's side of the river, the shadow hardened into a thin, two-legged figure. It seemed to be an old man, bent with age, not at all frightening—except for the huge, curved blade he carried. And the look of grim, messianic certitude on his face.
Reaching the bank, he stepped onto the water-washed stones. But he didn't pause to notice their glistening colors or varied shapes. His boot crunched hard on them, though his toe only grazed the side of the green pebble.
He grasped his deadly weapon with both hands. Even in the swirling mist, the blade gleamed ominously. Stealthily, without a sound, he raised it high above his head—
And swung.
The blade slashed deep into an enormous egg, as large as a boulder, which rested a few paces away from the pebble. The egg had only just started to crack open. At the instant of impact, there was an explosive craaack! as shards of shell and drops of thick, silvery liquid scattered across the riverside. From inside the egg came a painful whimper, more a whisper than a cry. The strange orange glow that had been radiating through the jagged cracks suddenly went dark.
The baby dragon within the egg released another whimper, then died.
Giving a grunt of satisfaction, the old man pulled out his blade, still dripping with the newborn dragon's silvery blood. He squinted, scanning the shore: There were, in all, nine of these enormous eggs here by the river—the only offspring of Fincayra's last dragon.
"An' now there
be only eight," he said with a quiet cackle. "Evil creatures ye be, as evil as yer festerin' father." He spat on a broken bit of shell by his feet. "That's what I say to yer mis'rable face, Wings o' Fire!"
For a moment he glowered at the severed egg, where one lifeless claw protruded from an opening. He knew that this egg, like the others, had rested here by the river, undisturbed for centuries. Many centuries. For though he understood very little about magical creatures, he did know this much: The more magical the being, the longer it took to be born. And nowhere on this island of Fincayra was there any creature more magical than a dragon.
Yet this glimmer of knowledge—that he'd just killed something that had taken so long in its quiet incubation, its preparation for life—didn't trouble him in the least. Quite the opposite.
"No hope for ye now, ye wicked little beast," he growled. "When yer scaly body dies, yer wicked magic also dies! An' soon, this island will be rid o' yer kind forever."
Lifting the blade again, he strode over to the next egg. Even as he neared, a hole opened in the shell. Through it pushed a twisted, gangly arm, covered with iridescent purple scales. Then came a bony shoulder, dripping with lavender-colored ooze, and a crumpled fold of skin that vaguely resembled a wing. Finally, a head poked out, supported by a thin neck flecked with scarlet scales.
The newborn dragon blinked her two triangular eyes, adjusting to the misty brightness. Orange light poured from them, as if they glowed hotter than fire coals. Then, raising one of her claws, she tried to scratch the bright yellow bump on her forehead. But she missed and poked her tender nose instead. Whimpering, she shook her head, making her long blue ears flap against her face. Strangely, when she stopped, her right ear didn't droop down again. Instead, it stuck out sideways—more like a horn than an ear.
Suddenly, sensing danger, she froze. Right beside her stood another creature, whose own eyes flashed menacingly. Above the creature's head, something sharp glinted.
The blade slashed down. Another agonized whimper, almost a screech, echoed along the bank. The river continued to flow, its surface now tinted with thin streams of silver.
Not far away, down by the water's edge, the small green pebble quivered slightly—almost as if it had somehow sensed the baby dragons' agony. From deep beneath its hard surface came a thin, plaintive cry.
For it, too, was a kind of egg.
1: A LIVING BRIDGE
Memory can be hot as molten lava, or cold as a frozen glacier. But it's rarely reliable. Even when it comes back to you, clear and true, it can vanish on the next gust of wind.
Sometimes, it's not really even a memory. Just a hint, or a glimpse, or a mirage. Yet strange as it sounds, that sort of memory can be the truest of all.
ONE YEAR BEFORE THE BIRTH OF AVALON
Spring rains drenched Fincayra's western hills. Torrents poured down for weeks without end. The skies rained relentlessly, soaking every field and forest, every cliff and valley, until the very island seemed ready to drown.
Water tumbled down gulleys, streams, and rivulets. Once-green valleys started to resemble muddy lakes. Birds fluttered helplessly in the downpour, searching for safe places to build their soggy nests. What became of smaller, more delicate creatures—the fragile mist faeries, the lavender-winged butterflies, and the mysteriously glowing light flyers—no one could guess.
So powerful was the ongoing storm that the giants' ancient city of Varigal, nestled high in the hills, flooded completely. As the ground shook from the pounding footsteps of displaced giants, herds of wild unicorns galloped away from the rising waters that now filled their cherished glades. Spirited men and women who lived in the Town of the Bards, so recently restored after the brutal reign of King Stangmar, tried to organize a water-themed opera—but even the most passionate performers finally gave up when the whole stage (together with a good part of the town) washed away. Even the immense white spider known as the Grand Elusa was forced to abandon her underground cave that glowed with magical crystals.
The River Unceasing swelled, rising higher than anyone could remember. Waves roared down the river channel, ripping out trees by their roots, rolling along boulders, carrying the remains of bridges and fisherpeople's huts—along with a few young giants who whooped with delight at their exciting ride. The muddy waters raced seaward, toward the Shore of the Speaking Shells: the spot where, not long before, someone called Merlin had washed ashore.
The little green egg, swept up in the flood, rolled far downriver, By the time the floodwaters finally diminished, it had traveled many leagues from the place where the baby dragons had been slaughtered. At last, it came to a stop in the tangled grasses under a rowan tree whose graceful branches still sagged from all the rains.
Just as the egg ceased rolling, a gray-streaked river otter spied it. Sensing that it was, indeed, an egg, the old otter scampered over, Anticipating a small but tasty meal, his long whiskers quivered with excitement. In these days of theft, murder, and gathering armies—when an invasion by the wicked warlord from the spirit realm, Rhita Gawr, had grown increasingly likely—any morsels of food were highly prized.
Just as he grabbed the egg in his furry paws, a falcon shrieked and plunged from the sky. The otter spun around, losing his balance and dropping the egg. He rolled down the slippery bank, landing in the water. Two seconds later he lifted his face above the surface, just in time to see the falcon rising swiftly skyward, talons clutching the precious egg.
Westward flew the falcon, over the enchanted trees of Druma Wood. She sailed just above the branches of the forest's tallest tree, the ancient oak Arbassa, where the young woman Rhia—famous for her ability to talk with trees, rivers, and even living stones—had long made her home. Without warning, one of those gnarled branches lashed out, clawing at the falcon's wing. She screeched angrily, nearly dropping the egg. But she held on, beating her wings furiously to gain altitude. As she flew off, the oaken branch swiped at the air, crackling in frustration.
Veering south to avoid the forest, the falcon rounded the coast of Fincayra, then flew over the lost homeland of the treelings, strange people who lived now only in legends. Ahead, across the water, she spied the long, rugged peninsula whose cliffs held her nest. She clucked with glee: Nearly home now, she'd soon be feeding this egg to her brood of hungry chicks. Five of them, to be exact—always crowded in her nest upon the ledge, always squawking at each other, and always hungry.
All that remained of her journey was the simple crossing of the channel that divided her peninsula from the main island. She'd done it hundreds of times before with ease. Nothing could interrupt her flight now. Even when ocean currents roiled the waters of the channel, no waves could reach as high as that cursed branch!
Glancing down at the channel, she noticed something odd. An extraordinary boat, looking for all the world like a huge upside-down hat, bobbed on the water. How had it come to float there? If some giant had tossed his enormous hat into the sea, he was nowhere in sight now.
The bird noticed that the great vessel was drifting toward an immense wall of waves that bordered the only island in the channel—a place so remote and hostile that it was called the Forgotten Island. Here, as every seabird knew, no people had walked for centuries. For the island's sheer cliffs held untold dangers and many mysteries—including the truth of why Fincayran men and women had lost their wings long ago.
Battered by the churning wall of waves, the floating hat started breaking apart. Its sides, made from woven boughs, started to collapse; its hull groaned and split apart. The vessel began to sink, dropping lower and lower in the water.
Suddenly the falcon heard a terrible shrieking sound. Fearing attack from another bird of prey, she banked sharply to the side, diving lower to evade her pursuer. At once she realized her mistake. That sound was coming not from above, but from below. And it wasn't the sound of any bird. No, it came from children. Human children!
Above the din of bursting boughs and splintering wood, many children wailed in fear. They
climbed out of the rupturing bowl of the hat and onto the rim, trying desperately to cling to wood, rope, each other—anything that might float. Many of them toppled into the sea, shouting in terror as they fought to keep their heads above water.
As a mother herself, the falcon shuddered at this ghastly scene. Yet she couldn't do anything to help. All she could do was continue her flight across the channel, bearing some food for her own children. She beat her wings faster, squeezing the green egg in her talons.
Just then another strange sight caught her eye—this one so astonishing that she almost dropped the egg. With all her concentration, she peered at the water below to make sure this wasn't an illusion. But no. This was real.
Mer folk! From far beneath the waves, their sleek, glistening forms broke the surface. The falcon circled overhead, amazed to see them—creatures so rare and secretive that even the sharpest-eyed hawk might only see, in a lifetime, one fleeting glimpse of an iridescent tail fin or shoulder. And the mer folk's numbers continued to swell. Several of them appeared, then dozens more, rising out of the deepest sea. Here, a scarlet-scaled torso twirled, flashing bright. There, a graceful fishtail slapped the waves, creating a luminous veil of spray. And there, a pair of muscular bodies leaped high, breaching, before falling back into the sea with a double splash.
The mer folk swam toward a single spot, where a new, enormous wave was steadily lifting out of the sea. Higher it rose, water streaming off its colorful crest. Watching from above, the falcon clacked her beak in surprise when she realized that this wasn't a wave at all—but a bridge. A luminous, living bridge.
The mer folk had entwined themselves together! Interlocking tails and fins and arms, they were forming a great, radiant archway. Swiftly it rose higher, gleaming with watery hues. Part solid, part liquid, it vaulted out of the depths.
