by T.A. Barron
What name could fit this place better? he mused. Clouds of every size and shape drifted nearby or massed in the misty distance, forming broad plains, rumpled hills, or towering peaks that gleamed in the starlight. Crisscrossing the plains lay broad avenues, paved with pure white clouds that looked as solid as marble. Cloudcake! He'd heard about it years ago (without believing a word, since it seemed so unlikely) from a bard who explained that cloudcake came from the very bottom of the Air Falls of Silmannon, where centuries of pounding had smashed the clouds into something as hard as rock. And now . . . there it was, right before his eyes: a web of streets made entirely from clouds.
"Look!" he cried, suddenly noticing some thin, glistening strands that stretched between two clouds. He pointed his wing. "That looks like—like a bridge."
"And so it is, little hhhwanderer. Sylphs don't alhhhways fly upon the hhhwind, you knohhhw. Sometimes they prefer to roll across the clouds, hhhwrapping themselves in fresh, nehhhwly made mist. So they make bridges, hhhwoven from strands of cloudthread."
Basil watched the ethereal bridge pass beneath them. Then he spied a massive, undulating cloud whose misty slopes held thousands of spiky pinnacles that resembled trees. Each of them glittered with the light of stars, turning the whole cloud into a vast, vaporous constellation. "What's—"
"The great Forest Afloat," answered the wind sister, anticipating his question. "Those are eonia-lalo trees, hhhwhose hhhwood is lighter than air."
Shifting direction with a sudden gust, Aylah swung southward, so that Basil now faced an enormous, many-layered cloud that was streaked with bright colors. So many colors radiated from the cloud, with such intensity, that even at night it seemed to be wrapped in rainbows. Eerie blues, incandescent yellows, amber oranges, vibrant greens, haunting purples—all these and more shone from this misty palette.
"The cloud gardens," explained Aylah with a sigh of admiration. "Tended by thousands of hhhwhite mist faeries, since the very first days of Avalon. Their hhhwings are alhhhways a blur, and their heads are alhhhways adorned hhhwith silver bells."
As Aylah slowly turned back to the east, Basil caught sight of a stormy maelstrom in the distance. Its dark, lumbering clouds crackled constantly with lightning. Then, down below, he spotted a group of small, translucent clouds sailing together above the gardens. No, he realized. Those weren't clouds at all, but sylphs—a whole flock of them, barely visible in the evening light. Like living shadows, they floated across the sky.
Abruptly, Basil caught his breath. For he'd just noticed, beyond the sylphs, a misty valley that held cloudlike creatures of a different kind. These creatures didn't fly; rather, they twirled. Thin, graceful spirals of vapor rose high into the air, spun slowly in the starlight, and then melted back down into the valley—only to rise once again, spinning together in a stately circle. Never pausing, these living spirals danced to music only they could hear.
He watched, feeling the wind rush over his face, which made his ears flap against his cheeks. And he grinned, for he knew without being told that he'd come across a place made famous by bards: the Dancing Grounds of the Mist Maidens.
All at once, he heard a faint lilting sound. It came from somewhere in the deep distance of the cloudscape. Like audible starlight, it brightened and defined its surroundings. Here was a sound just as beautiful as this realm.
"Harp strings," he said dreamily, listening to the long, sweeping notes. They rippled with overtones that seemed to make harmonies with the realm itself. "Where are they?"
"Far, far ahhhway," answered Aylah. She paused as the notes swelled louder, receded, then rose again with tender sweetness. "Those are aeolian harps, made by the sylphs to sing hhhwith every breeze. Hhhwondrous threads of hhhwoven vapors are their strings, stretched bethhhween clouds so tightly that the merest breath of a baby sylph hhhwill pluck them. And hhhwhen a strong hhhwind blohhhws through them, their notes hhhwill carry across the realm. Hhhwhat is more, those magical strings hhhwill sense the emotions of hhhwhoever hears them."
"Really?"
"On my hhhword," she replied, skirting the edge of a heavy cloud. "Hhhwhatever you are feeling—joy, fear, rage, love—the strings hhhwill echo those emotions."
As if on cue, the harp strings swelled louder. A new wave of surprise and delight washed over Basil, while the harps sang exuberantly. The very air vibrated with gladness,
"Such music," he said with a sigh.
"Yes," agreed Aylah. "Those harps are the essence of magic."
Suddenly reminded of Merlin, Basil's worries abruptly returned. "Any sign of the wizard? Any sign at all?"
"No, little hhhwanderer. As far as I can see, no trace of him. I do hope he has not met some hhhwickedness."
Just at that instant, Basil glimpsed a huge, shadowy head rising out of a dark bank of clouds on the horizon. Higher the fearsome head lifted, showing immense, teeth-studded jaws. The creature's eyes, glowing red, turned toward him—and flashed angrily.
"A dragon!" he cried.
At that instant, the distant harp strings shifted to harsh, jangling tones that swelled louder by the second. Yet Aylah said nothing. She continued to fly toward the dark, brooding cloud bank—and the terrible beast rising from it. The dragon's eyes pulsed like fiery wounds, while its tongue slithered, caressing the terrible teeth.
"Aylah, can't you see?" Basil thrust both his wings to the fore, fighting to hold them against the wind. "Look where I'm pointing!" he shouted. "There!"
Ahead, the dragon's head gleamed darkly in the evening light. Now its whole neck, studded with bloodred scales, reached toward them. The gruesome jaws opened wide.
Still she said nothing.
"Aylah, look! Ahead of us!"
"I see no dragon, little hhhwanderer."
Agitated, heart pounding, Basil tried to beat his wings against the rushing wind. "How can you say that? It's—"
"Not there," she declared.
He froze. "Not . . . there? But I see it!"
"Hhhwhat you see is not a dragon, not at all. That dark bank of clouds is the Veil of Illusion, one of the strangest parts of this realm."
"But it looks . . ." he began, as harp strings twanged uncertainly in the background.
"So real," finished the wind sister, gliding heedlessly toward the cloud bank. "That is hhhwhat the Veil does. It takes the form of hhhwhatever you most fear."
Basil swallowed. "My fears made that?"
"Yes, my hhhwanderer. Fears, like dreams, can take lives of their ohhhwn."
Don't I know, he thought, recalling his dreadful dream about Merlin's death—a dream he still couldn't understand, let alone shake from his mind.
Glancing nervously at the dragon, he told himself sternly, Worry about something real, will you? Like what Rhita Gawr is doing in Avalon. Or his plans for Merlin.
Remarkably, the dragon's image started to soften. It seemed less substantial by degrees. Even its fiery red eyes now looked more like rosy mist.
Basil tried to believe it had been just an illusion. Still not completely convinced, he demanded, "All right then, tell me. What do you see up ahead?"
"Hhhwhy, I see exactly hhhwhat I always see hhhwhen I fly over the Veil—the long, bony clutches of a hhhwindtaker."
"Windtaker?"
"The only creature in Avalon hhhwho can harm a hhhwind sister." She sighed, and the harp strings plucked some somber notes. "I lost a lifelong friend to those clutches. That hhhwas ages ago, but it still aches like yesterday."
Air rushed over Basil as he nodded sympathetically. Peering at the cloud bank, he concluded she'd been right. The dragon, so frightening only seconds before, was fast melting away.
As Aylah spoke again, the harp music brightened a little. "Hhhwe have no need to fear illusions, my friend."
Sure enough, the dragon was almost entirely gone. All that remained were a few pearly white fingers of mist that seemed to grope toward the sky.
Remembering his promise to Dagda, Basil furrowed his snout. "How am I supposed
to taste the soil of this realm? Eat a chunk of cloudcake?"
"Not necessary," answered the wind sister. "Here, the soil in hhhwhich everything grohhhws is the mist itself. Just open your mouth hhhwide, and drink in its magic."
With a nod, he opened his jaws. Moisture quickly gathered on his tongue. He swallowed—and a strange inner wind blew deep inside his mind.
I move, I change, I always grow. For mine is the soul of becoming. The voice, as soft as a faraway whisper, filled his head fully—just as air fills a cavern. I shift, I blossom, I move without bounds. My breath is your breath, my body your blanket, my season your song.
The whispering voice paused—and then returned with three final gusts. I . . . am . . . air.
For some time, Basil said nothing, and Aylah didn't disturb him. Without paying much attention, he glanced again at the long fingers of mist below them. For some reason, they didn't seem to be fading away. Even now, they were reaching slowly toward them, stretching across the windblown clouds. He shrugged, knowing it was merely the image Aylah had described.
"Well now," he asked, "what realm is next?"
"Fireroot hhhwill soon—" She caught herself, rising higher to get a better view. "Merlin! I see him!"
"Where?" shouted Basil, straining to catch a glimpse. His heart pounded with excitement.
The wind sister accelerated, whooshing past the clouds. "To the east, very far ahhhway. Yes! I am certain it's him."
The lizard's eyes, opened to their widest, watered from the rush of air. Yet still he couldn't see anything but clouds and more clouds.
Aylah shuddered, jostling him on the currents. "He is chasing something! Yes—something dark."
Instinctively, Basil glanced back at the dark bank where he'd seen the dragon. But his attention was drawn to another cloud formation, one that suddenly puzzled him. "Aylah," he called, "did you say a cloud illusion can only be seen by the person who fears it?"
"Yes, but nohhhw hhhwe have more urgent—"
"Then why," he interrupted, his voice rising in fright, "do I see those bony fingers down there?"
All at once, the fingers leaped toward them. Distant harps jangled. Aylah gasped and shot forward even faster—just as a beast shaped like a monstrous hand snapped closed on the spot where they'd been an instant before. The wind sister raced ahead, battering Basil with gale-force winds.
Right behind them flew the twisted, skeletal hand. Its long white fingers opened and closed incessantly, as if they were some sort of jaws eager to crush their victims. As fast as Aylah flew, the giant, grasping hand drew closer.
Veering sharply, Aylah skimmed the edge of the cloud bank and plunged downward. But the windtaker pursued her closely. She streaked toward a pair of delicate bridges spanning the space between two clouds. Seeing the web of cloudthread ropes fast approaching, Basil guessed her plan: She would pass right through, while the huge hand would be utterly entangled.
With a resounding rush of air, Aylah swept through the bridges. They quivered, swaying between the clouds, but didn't slow her down at all. One of the ropes almost smashed into Basil, but he ducked just in time so that it merely grazed the top of his head. As soon as they had left the bridges behind, he turned around, expecting to see the windtaker's ruin.
But the monster, too, had guessed Aylah's plan. At the last possible instant it angled upward. Most of its skeletal form skimmed over the bridges, barely missing them—but one of its thin fingers caught on a single strand. The entire force of the windtaker's momentum yanked at the rope, snapping it loose. The whole bridge exploded, whipping lines in all directions.
The windtaker, tugged off balance, flipped over and careened through the air, Ropes whipped against its sides with brutal force, causing it to bellow with pain. The sound, like anguished thunder, echoed among the clouds.
Hopes rising, Basil watched their attacker spin out of control. Its bony mass slammed into one of the cloudcake pillars that had supported the bridge. The pillar collapsed, spraying shards that sparkled like miniature stars.
Then, to Basil's great dismay, the giant hand righted itself. Roaring with rage, it continued its pursuit, flying again with terrifying speed. At that moment, Basil discovered how the monster could see: At the extreme tip of each of the windtaker's six long fingers, a silver eye gleamed. Unblinking, the eyes glared angrily.
Although Aylah's maneuver had opened up some distance, the chase continued. She swerved to avoid a cloud forest, whose groves looked more like translucent spears than trees. Diving through a gauzy fabric of shredding fog, she surprised a flock of sylphs. Releasing eerie, high-pitched shrieks, the vaporous beings scattered—just as the wind sister, pursued by the groping hand, whooshed past. Magnifying the sylphs' frightened wails, the strings of the Harplands swelled in the distance.
Anxiously, Basil glanced behind. "It's gaining!" he shouted. "Gaining fast!"
Aylah veered sharply, sweeping past a long, flat cloud dotted with hundreds of sparkling blue pools. The powerful wind slapped at these cloud lakes, sending up fountains of spray. Thousands of birds—cormorants, drakes, pelicans, puffins, geese, and terns—all took flight, tilling the air with their squawks and honks and chattering cries.
Straight through them plowed the windtaker. Feathers ripped from wings; birds spun wildly. Rushing past like an immense, bony cloud, the monster bellowed again, drowning out the birds' shrill cries as well as the piercing notes of the harp strings.
Basil looked back again. The beast was almost upon them! "Aylah, do—"
He swallowed his words as the wind sister suddenly veered downward. Hurtling through the air, she plunged into a thick, frothy cloud that spread across a vast expanse of sky. Half a second later, vaporous curls surrounded them. In another half second, the cloud covered them completely, its dense vapors blocking out the starlight. Then Aylah did what Basil least expected.
She stopped. Her only movement was a slight vibration, enough to hold Basil aloft.
Hovering there in the darkness, Basil understood at once. Hiding! We're buried deep in this cloud, so deep that thing will never find us.
For what must have been hours, they waited. At times they heard the monster's angry bellowing; once they felt its body sweep past them as it tunneled through the cloud. Still Aylah did not flee.
Basil grew colder from the vapors, but that didn't bother him nearly as much as the prospect of being seized by that horrible hand. And so he said nothing, desperately hoping Aylah's plan would succeed. From outside the cloud, the bellowing grew less frequent, then finally ceased.
More hours passed, maybe even days. Basil frequently licked his thin lips, coating his tongue with moisture, so he never felt thirsty. Only cold, chilled to the marrow of his bones. And hungry. He felt the kind of hunger that gnawed steadily, chewing at his innards. But he didn't dare speak.
At last, Aylah whispered the words that he longed to hear. "Hhhwe are safe nohhhw, little hhhwanderer."
He beamed, though his teeth chattered.
The wind sister shot ahead, scattering the vapors with her breath. As they neared the surface of the cloud, starlight broke through, bright enough to assure them that night had passed into day. Droplets of water glowed all around, luminous little realms of mist. And in the warming air, Aylah's cinnamon smell expanded, wafting around her passenger.
Without warning, a wrathful roar erupted. From the swirling mist came enormous, fingerlike jaws. They slammed shut, trapping Aylah and Basil in utter darkness.
As loud as they shouted, no one could possibly hear them. Just as no one could possibly find them. For they had been swallowed by a beast whose belly could not be escaped. Not even by the wind.
23: WHATEVER THE WIND WOULD DO
People make such an unnecessary fuss about dying. It's really just part of life, as the final chapter is just part of a book. Still . . . we can always hope there might be a sequel.
No light.
No escape.
No way to find Merlin.
T
hose realities now defined the companions' days. And yet, as Basil realized the instant the bone-white jaws of the wind taker closed around them, they were negative realities. No longer was life woven from the threads of all his senses and experiences—and his overwhelming need to warn the wizard. Instead, the fabric of life was now woven from the absence of things. The missing threads.
No light. No escape. No Merlin.
The only sounds he heard now, aside from Aylah's sorrowful sighs and the thumping of his own little heart, was the occasional drip-drip of slime in the windtaker's belly. His surroundings he knew mainly by their feel: the slippery hard surface of the monster's enormous ribs, and the oozing rivers of slime that flowed between them.
Even his favorite sense—smell—had been squeezed down to nearly nothing. Try as he might, he could find only one scent—one horrible scent and the equally horrible taste that went with it. Slime. For his sole source of food—if you could call it that—was the putrid, decaying slime that dripped from the dank walls around him. So strong was its stench that Aylah's normal scent of cinnamon, and most of the smells that Basil knew how to cast, were completely overwhelmed by the odor of rotting flesh.
To eat the slime—which he did as rarely as possible, only when his hunger pangs swelled to throbbing aches he couldn't ignore any longer—Basil crawled along the monster's ribs until he found someplace moist but not too terribly gooey, since the stickiest slime would lodge in his throat for days. Trying his best to ignore the smell, he would take just enough rotting slime to coat the tip of his tongue. Then came the hardest part: swallowing. The only way he could tolerate it was to emit, just at that moment, a powerfully sweet smell, such as fresh mint or rain-washed raspberries—something strong enough to mask the putridness. For a few seconds, anyway.
Over and over again, in the darkness of their prison, he forced himself to crawl to a river of slime, take some on his tongue, and then swallow. For he needed at least some nourishment to survive. And Basil wanted desperately to survive.
