The Dragon of Avalon

by T.A. Barron

  Puzzled, he peered in the only direction that wasn't crystal clear sky, at a thick wall of mist rising upward from the northernmost peaks. Then, through some gaps in the mist, he glimpsed patches of brown. Rocky cliffs!

  Gradually, the mist shredded, revealing more of the cliffs—impossibly tall, dreadfully steep. Rows of dark brown ridges climbed straight up, higher and higher, far above Basil's head. The trunk, he realized in awe. I'm looking at the trunk of the Great Tree. He craned his neck, gazing upward, but he couldn't even begin to see how high those cliffs ultimately rose. All he could tell was that, somewhere far above him, they faded into the swirling mist. He tried to imagine, much higher still, the Tree's enormous branches reaching toward the stars.

  Turning his gaze back to the realm below, he tried to guess how fast he was flying. Much faster than he'd ever flown before, that was certain! Way down on the grasslands near the southern marshes, he spied a pair of trolls—not quite as big as giants, but easily recognized by their rounded backs and hunched posture—running after a band of smaller creatures that looked like gnomes. Within seconds, Basil had left them all behind. He then spotted a herd of black oryx galloping eastward with the speed of antelope, their long straight horns stabbing the air with every bound. Barely a heartbeat later, Basil had caught up to them and flown past. Only an enormous canyon eagle, who was also riding the wind, kept pace.

  "Alas, little hhhwanderer," said Aylah. "I see no sign of Merlin, as far as I have looked across this realm. Hhhwe must look further, keep going."

  Despite the seriousness of her point, Basil didn't feel dismayed. "Yes," he agreed, "we must keep going."

  Before long, the rugged eastern edge of Stoneroot came into view. Beyond that lay a sea of shadowy mist, where strange shapes constantly arose, shifted, and vanished. Dragons' heads formed and then shrank down to nothingness; noble birds started to fly, but their wings suddenly warped into bent, crooked twigs. Soaring above the dark mist, Basil couldn't shake the feeling that those shapes were more than random images—that they were, in fact, mocking him.

  One formation, shaped tike a lizard's head, grew to enormous size, then opened its gargantuan jaws. Out of the gaping mouth poured a thin wisp of vapors that quickly coalesced into a tiny egg. The egg cracked open and started to suck into itself the lizard's ears, eyes, and snout. Before long, the entire head had disappeared. Then, all of a sudden, a long tongue of mist reached out and wrapped around the egg, squeezing tight. The tongue compressed, strangling the egg—until, at last, it exploded into thousands of vaporous teardrops.

  "Look not for long into the mists, little hhhwanderer," whispered Aylah. Her cinnamon smell grew stronger, sharper. "They reveal no future but their ohhhwn."

  With effort, Basil tore his gaze from the shifting images. Lifting his sights, he saw, beyond the mist, the first hint of a brown, rolling coastline. Mudroot! Somewhere down there lived Aelonnia, the tall, graceful, and deeply mysterious creature he'd met at Merlin and Hallia's wedding. Could she actually make living creatures out of the mud? It just didn't seem possible.

  Maybe, he suddenly wondered, the mudmakers had also made him? But no—he'd been born in Woodroot, not Mudroot. And besides, Aelonnia would surely have said something if he'd been one of her people's creations.

  As Basil, borne by the wind, flew over the coastline, what he saw erased any question that this was indeed the realm of Malóch. That name, in the language of Lost Fincayra used by bards and mapmakers, meant simply land of mud. And there could be no better name for this place. As far as he could see stretched brown plains, with no trees or rocks. And no sign of Aelonnia's people anywhere. Except for some scattered brown mounds, a few glittering springs, and some triangular holes that were surrounded by odd, intricate markings, this land consisted of nothing but mud. Unbroken expanses of mud.

  "I need to go down there," he said without much enthusiasm. "To keep my promise."

  "This realm does not hhhwelcome strangers easily," the wind sister warned, slowing their flight over the muddy expanses.

  "Oh, come on," Basil replied. "It doesn't look at all dangerous. Just, well, muddy. Very muddy."

  "You should knohhhw by nohhhw," she whispered, whooshing around him, "things are not alhhhways hhhwhat they seem. As far as the hhhwind may blow, it is not as far as the distance between hhhwhat appears and hhhwhat is real."

  Basil, strangely touched by her words, didn't reply. Perhaps, he wondered, Aylah herself was really more than she seemed.

  "Set me down anyway," he said at last. "Just for a moment."

  "Are you sure, little hhhwanderer? Perhaps hhhwe should stop at some, but not all, the realms? To save time in searching for Merlin! Besides, the realm of Airroot, hhhwhere hhhwe go next, is much safer."

  Basil ground his teeth. "No, I promised Dagda."

  "Ahhh," the wind sister sighed. "Then there is no swaying you."

  "Right. But I'll be quick, so we can get back to searching." He jabbed the air with his right wing. "Let's try over there, by that triangular hole. I want to see what those markings are."

  Wavering with uncertainty, she carried him lower. As they neared the dark opening, she slowed, then stopped, so Basil could steer himself. With a few flaps of his wings, he swooped down to the ground, landing on a low brown mound near the hole. All around him, the strange markings curled across the mud, making twisted patterns that looked almost like writing. Some parts of the patterns were as wide as deer paths; others were as slim as the tracks of snakes.

  Peering closely at the patterns, he noticed another kind of mark in the mud. Footprints! They dotted the ground, especially near the edges of the hole. Though many were only faintly visible, he could tell they were larger than bear prints, with three toes apiece. Who made these? And what's the meaning of these patterns? Glancing over at the hole, he realized it probably wasn't a good idea to wait around here to find out. Best to fulfill his promise and then leave.

  Spreading his wings, he jumped off the mound and landed on the soil beside the opening. High above his head, the wind gusted, making a sound like a worried sigh. Bur Basil didn't pay any attention. His mind was focused on the unappetizing notion of swallowing some mud.

  Gingerly, he sniffed the moist ground. Surprisingly, it didn't smell like the mud he remembered from the stream banks of Woodroot. While it held aromas of moisture and rich soil, it also smelled of . . . something else. Something fiercely wild, yet unmistakably familiar. Weighty with age, yet curiously young.

  Cautiously reaching out his tongue, he touched its tip to the ground. He took a tiny fleck of soil. And then swallowed.

  I am new as springtime and old as starlight, said a vibrant, female voice inside his head, as a veil of deep brown colored his vision. The magic of life, the miracle of birth, the serenity of death . . . they all reside in me. Along with another kind of magic—oh yes! a gift from Merlin himself—that fills me with the seven sacred elements. The essence of breath. The power of creation. The brown veil deepened, darkened. For I am mud.

  Gradually, Basil's vision cleared. Everything seemed as before—the brown soil surrounding him, the twisted patterns on the ground. Yet now the mud seemed to sparkle with its own inner magic. And in the depths of his mind he heard that voice again: the magic of life . . . the power of creation.

  With a flap of his wings, he flew back up to the mound to have a better look at the patterns. He caught his breath. The patterns, like the mud, looked different now. He could read them! Gazing down at the intricate scrawl, he read aloud, his scratchy voice adopting a strange new cadence.

  "All now must praise him, Gabbledar king! Enter his Underlands, worship the darkness. Seek only service, protect all his Gnomes. Kill those who threaten, spare nothing at all."

  Swallowing hard, he stopped. Gnomes! So it was they who dug this tunnel. Who marked the mud with this warning. Who built their society on a simple, cruel idea: Kill those who threaten, spare nothing at all.

  So engrossed in thought was he that he didn't
notice the hint of movement in the shadowy mouth of the tunnel. Nor the odor, vaguely salty, that entered the air. Nor the keening gusts of wind on high.

  All at once, shrieks and howls erupted. Three squat gnomes, wearing armbands and loincloths, burst out of the tunnel. Their jaws, wide with rage, showed jagged, flesh-tearing teeth. Though only half the height of humans, their muscular bodies exuded strength. Burly arms held stone axes and deadly spears.

  Screaming wildly, they leaped at Basil. He didn't even have time to open his wings before grimy, three-fingered hands grabbed his body. And squeezed hard.

  At that instant the mound beneath him began to quake. Its smooth brown surface rippled and bubbled—then, all at once, expanded. From the size of a tree stump it shot upward, swiftly growing to the size of the gnomes, then double that height, then double again. Four arms sprouted from its sides, each with immensely long fingers. At the top, a head emerged from rounded shoulders. Deep-set eyes, dark brown, appeared above a curving mouth.

  The mudmaker roared, scattering the gnomes. With all four arms waving, the enormous creature stepped toward the tunnel, feet squelching in the mud. Dropping Basil, the frightened gnomes plunged back into their hole, their screeches echoing from inside the tunnel.

  Gratefully, Basil gazed up at the tall being who had appeared so suddenly. Still panting with fright, he exclaimed, "Aelonnia! It's you."

  "Again we meet," she said in her rich, resonant voice. She gracefully bent lower, peering at him with her brown eyes. "No greater in size are you . . . but now, perhaps, greater in wisdom."

  Basil shook himself, nose to tail, unable to banish the feeling of muddy hands clutching him. "Not much, I'm afraid." He blinked up at her. "Thank you, Aelonnia. Always a pleasure to see you. Especially since you seem to have a knack for saving my life."

  "A life worth saving, I believe it is."

  Remembering those words from long ago, he stiffened. "That's what Aylah told me."

  "This time, perhaps, you hhhwill believe the hhhwords."

  The mudmaker's eyes turned upward. "And here now she is, that same sister of the wind."

  "Hohhhw good to be hhhwith you again, Aelonnia," her voice whispered.

  "And with yon, my restless friend." Turning back to Basil, the mudmaker warned, "Dally not, little one. The gnomes—come back soon they will, with more warriors and weapons. Leave now, you should, to avoid the danger."

  Scowling, he shook his head. "They aren't the real danger. Rhita Gawr is here in Avalon! It's true, Aelonnia. I saw him, disguised as a leech, in Stoneroot."

  The mudmaker's entire body stiffened. Only her slender fingers moved, weaving through the air. "Rhita Gawr? Here?"

  Basil nodded grimly. "Dagda told me to warn everyone. Especially Merlin."

  Her fingers froze. "Here he was, only three days ago."

  "Three days!" Basil shivered, snout to tail, with excitement. Looking upward, he asked, "Aylah, can we catch him?"

  "I am not sure, little hhhwanderer. A hhhwizard can move as fast as the hhhwind. But I hhhwill surely try."

  "Searching, he was," said Aelonnia. Her long fingers moved again, making mysterious patterns, as if tying invisible threads together. "For a terrible—"

  "Kreelix," finished the lizard. "I can't believe he was just here!"

  The mudmaker's fingers pulled an invisible knot. "Missed him just barely, you did."

  "Did he say where he was going?"

  "No, speak of that he did not."

  Basil growled from deep in his throat—a small sound, but full of intensity. "I will find him."

  Swaying from side to side, Aelonnia promised, "Spread the word, I shall! From the plains of Isenwy to the jungles of Africqua. Know will the people of this realm that Rhita Gawr has arrived! All must beware."

  Gazing down at him, she added in a gentle tone, "Seen many large things, have you, for someone so small. Wonder, I do, whether you are really—"

  A chorus of wrathful shrieks came out from the tunnel, cutting her off. "Go now we must!" declared Aelonnia. Instantly, she strode off, her enormous feet squelching noisily.

  "Wait!" Basil called. "Can't you finish . . ." But his words were lost in the powerful wind that swept across the ground, lifting him into the air.

  21: STARLIGHT

  What is starlight, anyway ? Its birthplace is the stars, to be sure. But its home, its dwelling place, is far away—across the great reaches of the sky, in the eyes of every person who gazes, in wonder, at the stars.

  Basil rose into the sky, riding the wind once more. His thoughts, though, remained in Mudroot. What had Aelonnia started to say? Was he, like the mud of that realm, harboring some secret down inside? How would he ever find out?

  He shook himself, so hard his wings slapped the wind. Right now, you've got more pressing things to think about. Merlin was near! Yet the wizard, pursuing his foe, was completely unaware of the much greater foe who wanted to destroy him—and conquer Avalon.

  "Starset hhhwill come soon, little hhhwanderer."

  Aylah's soothing voice brought him back to the present. He turned his gaze skyward. Through the tracery of brown-tinted clouds, he could almost make out the first few stars, harbingers of night. Now he waited, as he'd done so many evenings before on the rocky ridges of Stoneroot, to see the flash of golden light that would mark the day's end.

  There! Golden light burst across the sky, illuminating thousands of stars—an explosion of radiance that made Basil feel as if his whole world lay within an enormous crystal cave. An instant later, all those stars grew suddenly dimmer—and instantly more visible. For in Avalon, where the stars illuminated the sky all day, it was only at night, after they had dimmed, that their individual positions became clear.

  Why did the stars dim at the end of every day? And why did they grow bright once again every morning? These were questions that had, since the very birth of this world, filled many a stargazer's mind—and many a bard's ballad. But such questions really boiled down to one basic puzzle: What was the true nature of Avalon's stars?

  Basil worked his slim jaw. "Aylah, I may never know much about the stars, but I do know this. They're beautiful—more beautiful than anything I've ever seen."

  "Come, little hhhwanderer. I hhhwill shohhhw you more." She carried him higher, rising upward in a spiraling swell. He glanced down at Mudroot, far below. From this altitude, he could see the whole eastern coastline, all the way to the knife-edge ridge that bards called the Cliffs Perilous.

  Gazing upward again, he traced the outlines of his favorite constellations. There was the straight row of seven exceptionally bright stars that people had started to call the Wizard's Staff. And there, the Twisted Tree, whose curling branches stretched halfway across the sky. Now he could see the perfect circle of stars that lay within a larger circle, the constellation that Elen herself had named the Mysteries.

  The wind sister stopped spiraling upward and leveled out. With a whoosh of air that ruffled Basil's wings, she started to soar eastward again across the muddy plains. But her passenger barely noticed the change. He'd turned his full attention to a remarkable new sight, something he had never been high enough to see before.

  "Look there, Aylah! A line of light that cuts across the sky."

  "Hhhwell done," she breathed in his ear. "You have found something that very fehhhw mortals have seen. That is the River of Time."

  "It's a river?" He studied the luminous line that sliced through dozens of constellations. "It looks more like . . . well, a kind of seam in the sky."

  Aylah chuckled, bouncing him on bursts of wind. "The Talihhhwonn people, fabric hhhweavers who live high up in the branches, have thought the same. They call the River the seam in the tent of the sky."

  Incredulous, Basil asked, "There are people up there? On the branches?"

  "Hhhwondrous people," she replied, flying faster than ever. "And the River of Time really is a sort of seam. For it divides the halves of time, past and future, hhhwhile alhhhways flohhhwing in the presen
t."

  Though Basil didn't understand her words, he could feel her awe at the wonders above. Awe that he shared. For the first time in his life, he realized that the stars weren't really objects outside of his world. They were connected to his world, and to everyone in it. Including himself.

  Gazing up at the boundless blanket of stars, he realized something else. They made him feel small—not in the way he'd felt his whole life, from the moment he first crawled out of his egg, but in a more profound way. He felt small, not just in size, but in importance. Humbled. And yet, at the same time, he felt large. Bigger than he'd ever thought possible. For as tiny as he was, he was still connected to the stars, still touched by their light.

  How could he feel both incredibly small and amazingly large—at once? He couldn't explain it. He could only . . . feel it.

  So this is the gift of the stars, he thought. To feel humbled by the vastness of creation—and also enlarged by his living connection to it.

  "The nehhhwest realm is near," announced Aylah. Her breathy voice called Basil out of his reverie. He turned to look at the strange new vista as she started to descend, carrying him downward like a falling star.

  22: AEOLIAN HARPS

  Illusions, though completely unreal, can still be annoying. Maybe even a little troublesome. Especially when they try to kill, maim, or devour you.

  Riding the wind, Basil flew downward. Air rushed past him, fluttering his ears, whistling a windblown chorus. Lightning itself, he felt, couldn't fly any faster.

  He gazed at the strikingly different scene below. Mudroot had receded, now just a dark brown smudge on the western horizon. Another realm approached rapidly. Even in the dimmer light of this starlit evening, he could tell that he was about to encounter an entirely new landscape.

  Truth is, he thought as the wind whistled past his face, it's not a landscape at all. It's a cloudscape.

  Below him stretched Airroot, homeland of the sylphs, who were themselves essentially clouds that had come alive. He recalled again the one he'd seen floating above Merlin's wedding. And he remembered that the sylphs' name for this realm, Y Swylarna, meant mist haven.