The Lost Years

by T.A. Barron

  As the wind swelled, my tree started to sway. Almost like a human body it swung back and around, gently at first, then more and more wildly. While the swaying intensified, so did my fears that the trunk might snap and hurl me to the ground. But in time my confidence returned. Amazed at how the tree could be at once so flexible and so sturdy, I held on tight as it bent and waved, twisted and swirled, slicing curves and arcs through the air. With each graceful swing, I felt less a creature of the land and more a part of the wind itself.

  The rain began falling, its sound merging with the splashing river and the singing trees. Branches streamed like waterfalls of green. Tiny rivers cascaded down every trunk, twisting through moss meadows and bark canyons. All the while, I rode out the gale. I could not have felt wetter. I could not have felt freer.

  When, at last, the storm subsided, the entire world seemed newly born. Sunbeams danced on rain-washed leaves. Curling columns of mist rose from every glade. The forest’s colors shone more vivid, its smells struck more fresh. And I understood, for the first time in my life, that the Earth was always being remade, that life was always being renewed. That it may have been the afternoon of this particular day, but it was still the very morning of Creation.

  4: THE RAG PILE

  Late afternoon light heightened the hues and deepened the shadows before I felt a subtle pang in my abdomen. Quickly the pang grew. I was hungry. Hungry as a wolf.

  Taking a last look at the vista, I could see a golden web of light creeping across the hills. Then I began to climb down from my perch. When at last I reached the bottommost branch, still wet from rain, I wrapped my hands around the bark and let myself drop over the side. For a moment I hung there, swaying like the tree in the gale. For some reason, I realized, the usual ache between my shoulder blades had not bothered me since I had first ascended the branches. I let go, falling into the bed of needles.

  Gently, I placed my hand upon the ridged trunk of the old tree. I could almost feel the resins moving through the tall, columnar body, even as the blood moved through my own. With a simple pat of my hand, I gave thanks.

  My gaze fell to a bouquet of tan mushrooms wearing shaggy manes, nestled among the needles at the base of the pine. From my forages with Branwen, I knew them to be good eating. I pounced. In short order, I had consumed every one—as well as the roots of a purple-leafed plant growing nearby.

  I found the deer trail and followed it back to the rivulet. Cupping my hands, I drank some of the cold water. It chilled my teeth and awakened my tongue. A new lightness in my step, I returned to the towpath leading to the village.

  I crossed the bridge. Beyond the mill, the thatched roofs of Caer Vedwyd clustered like so many bundles of dry grass. In one of them, the woman who called herself my mother was probably mixing her potions or tending to someone’s wound, ever secretive and silent. To my own surprise, I found myself hoping that, one day, this place might yet feel like home.

  Entering the village, I heard the playful shouts of other boys. My first impulse was to seek out one of my usual hideaways. Yet . . . I felt a new surge of confidence. This was a day to join in their games!

  I hesitated. What if Dinatius was about? I would need to keep a wary eye on the smith’s shop. Still, perhaps even Dinatius might soften in time.

  Slowly, I approached. Beneath the great oak tree, where the three main pathways converged, I saw farmers and merchants gathered, peddling their goods. Horses and donkeys stood tethered to posts, their tails swishing at flies. Nearby, a bard with a somber face was entertaining a few listeners with a ballad—until one of the swishing tails slapped him right in the mouth. By the time he quit gagging and composed himself again, he had lost his audience.

  Four boys stood at the far side of the square, practicing their aim by throwing rocks and sticks at a target—a pile of torn rags stuffed against the base of the oak. When I saw that Dinatius was not among them, I breathed easier. Soon I drew near enough to call out to one of the boys.

  “How is your throw today, Lud?”

  A squat, sandy-haired boy turned to me. His round face and small eyes gave him the look of being perpetually puzzled. Although he had not been unfriendly to me in the past, today he seemed cautious. I could not tell whether he was worried about Dinatius—or about me.

  I stepped nearer. “Don’t worry. No birds are going to empty themselves on your head.”

  Lud watched me for an instant, then started to laugh. “A good shot, that was!”

  I grinned back. “A very good shot.”

  He tossed me a small stone. “Why not try your aim?”

  “Are you sure?” one of the other boys asked. “Dinatius won’t like it.”

  Lud gave a shrug. “Go ahead, Emrys. Let’s see you throw.”

  The boys traded glances as I hefted the stone in my palm. With a snap of my arm, I threw at the rag pile. The stone flew high and wide, hitting the goose pen and causing a great commotion of honking and flapping.

  I muttered sheepishly, “Not too good.”

  “Maybe you should get closer,” ridiculed one of the boys. “Like right under the tree.”

  The others laughed.

  Lud waved them quiet and tossed me another stone. “Try again. Some practice is what you need.”

  Something about his tone restored my confidence. As they all watched, I took aim again. This time, as I positioned myself, I took a moment to gauge the distance to the target and the weight of the stone in my hand. Keeping an eye on the pile of rags, I wound back my arm and released.

  The stone made a direct hit. Lud clucked in satisfaction. I could not keep from smiling proudly.

  Then something odd caught my attention. Instead of sailing through the rags and hitting the trunk of the tree behind, my stone had bounced away, as if the rags themselves were made of something solid. As I looked more closely, my heart missed a beat. For as I watched, the rag pile shifted. From it came a piteous groan.

  “It’s a person!” I cried in disbelief.

  Lud shook his head. “That’s no person.” He waved carelessly at the rag pile. “That’s a Jew.”

  “A filthy Jew,” echoed one of the other boys. He hurled his own stone at the rags. Another hit. Another groan.

  “But—but you can’t.” I started to say more, then caught myself. That would risk losing any chance I might have to be accepted by the group.

  “Why not?” Lud reared back to throw a weighty stick. “The Jew should never have come through here. They are Hell born, like demons, with horns and tails. They carry diseases. Bring bad luck.”

  The rag pile whimpered.

  I swallowed hard. “I don’t believe it. Why don’t we let the beggar go and aim at something else instead?”

  Lud eyed me strangely. “You’d best not defend the Jew. People might wonder whether . . .” He paused, picking his words. “Whether you come from the same stock.”

  Before I could reply, Lud let fly the heavy stick.

  With a sweep of my arm, I cried out. “No! Don’t hit him!”

  The stick abruptly stopped its flight in midair and fell to the ground.

  It was as if the stick had slammed into an invisible wall of air. The boys stood astonished. My jaw dropped. I was no less amazed than they were.

  “A spell,” whispered one boy.

  “Sorcery,” said another.

  Lud’s round face whitened. Slowly, he backed away from me. “Get away, you—you—”

  “Demon’s child,” finished another voice.

  I turned to find myself face-to-face with Dinatius, his tunic ripped and splattered with mud from his long trek through the forest. Despite his grimace, he looked satisfied at having cornered his prey at last.

  I straightened my back, which only made me more aware of his considerable size advantage. “Let’s not be enemies.”

  He spat on my cheek. “You think I would be the friend of a demon’s whelp like you?”

  My dark eyes narrowed as I wiped my face clean. It was all I could do to c
ontain my anger enough to try again. My voice shaking, I declared, “I am no demon. I am a boy just like you.”

  “I know what you are.” Dinatius’ voice rolled down on me like a rock slide. “Your father was a demon. And your mother does the wicked work of demons. Either way, you are a child of the devil!”

  With a shout, I lunged at him.

  Deftly, Dinatius stepped to one side, swung me into the air, and threw me hard to the ground. He kicked me in the side for good measure, sending me rolling in the dirt.

  I could barely sit up for the pain in my ribs. Above me towered Dinatius, his bushy head thrown back in laughter. The other boys laughed, too, even as they urged him on.

  “What’s your trouble, demon’s child?” taunted Dinatius.

  Though my pain was great, my rage was greater. Clutching my side, I struggled to roll onto my knees, then rise to my feet. I growled like a wounded beast, then charged again, arms flailing.

  An instant later, I found myself facedown in the grass, barely able to breathe. I could taste blood in my mouth. The thought of playing dead crossed my mind, in the hope that my tormentor would lose interest. But I knew better.

  Dinatius’ laughter ceased as I forced myself to stand, blood trickling down my chin. I planted my unsteady feet and looked into his eyes. What I found there caught me off guard.

  Beneath his belligerence, he was clearly surprised. “God’s sweet death, but you’re stubborn.”

  “Stubborn enough to stand up to you,” I replied hoarsely. My hands clenched into fists.

  At that moment, another figure swept out of nowhere to stand between us. The boys, except for Dinatius, fell back. And I gasped in surprise.

  It was Branwen.

  Though a shadow of fear crossed his face, Dinatius spat at her feet. “Move aside, she-demon.”

  Eyes alight, she glared at him. “Leave us.”

  “Go to the devil,” he retorted. “That’s where you both belong.”

  “Is that so? Then it is you who had better flee.” She raised her arms menacingly. “Or I will bring the fires of Hell down on you.”

  Dinatius shook his head. “You will be the one to burn. Not me.”

  “But I am not afraid of fire! I cannot be burned!”

  Lud, watching Branwen nervously, pulled on Dinatius’ shoulder. “What if she speaks the truth? Let’s go.”

  “Not until I finish with her whelp.”

  Branwen’s blue eyes flashed. “Leave now. Or you shall burn.”

  He stepped backward.

  She leaned toward him, then spoke a single word of command. “Now.”

  The other boys turned and ran. Dinatius, seeing their flight, looked uncertain. With both hands, he made the sign to protect himself from the evil eye.

  “Now!” repeated Branwen.

  Dinatius glowered at her for a moment, then retreated.

  I took Branwen’s arm. Together, we walked in slow procession back to our hut.

  5: SACRED TIME

  Stretched out on my pallet, I winced as Branwen massaged my bruised ribs. Odd patches of light, streaming through the holes in the thatched roof, fell on her left shoulder and hand. Her brow wrinkled in concern. Those blue eyes studied me so intensely that I could almost feel them boring into my skin.

  “Thank you for helping me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You were wonderful. Really wonderful! And you appeared just in time, out of empty air. Like one of your Greek gods—Athena or somebody.”

  Branwen’s wrinkles deepened. “More like Zeus, I’m afraid.”

  I laughed, which I regretted because it made my side hurt. “You mean you showered them with thunder and lightning.”

  “Instead of wisdom.” She gave a sullen sigh. “I only did what any mother would do. Even if you never . . .”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She rose to prepare a poultice that smelled of smoke and cedar. I heard her chopping and grinding for several minutes before returning to my side. Then, placing the poultice against my ribs, she laid her hands on top, pressing gently. Gradually I felt a steady warmth flowing into my bones, as if the marrow itself had turned into fire coals.

  In time she closed her eyes and began to sing a low, slow chant that I had heard her use before in her healing work. In the past, I had never been sure whether she sang it to heal the person in her care or, in some way I could not understand, to heal herself. This time, studying her face, I had no doubt: The chant was for her, not for me.

  Hy gododin catann hue

  Hud a lledrith mat wyddan

  Gaunce ae bellawn wen cabri

  Varigal don Fincayra

  Dravia, dravia Fincayra.

  The words, I felt, came from another world, an ocean away. I waited until she opened her eyes, then asked what I had wondered so often before, not expecting to receive any answer.

  “What does it mean?”

  Again she examined me with eyes that seemed to pierce my very soul. Then, choosing her words with care, she replied, “It is about a place, a magical place. A land of allurement. And also illusion. A land called Fincayra.”

  “What do those words at the end say? Dravia, dravia Fincayra.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Live long, live long Fincayra.” She lowered her eyes. “Fincayra. A place of many wonders, celebrated by bards of many tongues. They say it lies halfway between our world and the world of the spirit—neither wholly of Earth nor wholly of Heaven, but a bridge connecting both. Oh, the stories I could tell you! Its colors are more bright than the brightest sunrise; its air more fragrant than the richest garden. Many mysterious creatures are found there—including, legend has it, the very first giants.”

  Shifting my hips on the straw, I rolled so that my face was closer to hers. “You make it sound like a real place.”

  Her hands tightened against my ribs. “No more than any other place I’ve told you stories about. Stories may not be real in the same way as this poultice, my son, but they are real nonetheless! Real enough to help me live. And work. And find the meaning hidden in every dream, every leaf, every drop of dew.”

  “You don’t mean that stories—like the ones about the Greek gods—are true?”

  “Oh, yes.” She thought for a moment. “Stories require faith, not facts. Don’t you see? They dwell in sacred time, which flows in a circle. Not historical time, which runs in a line. Yet they are true, my son. Truer in many ways than the daily life of this pitiful little village.”

  Puzzled, I frowned. “But surely the Greeks’ mountain Olympus is not the same as our mountain Y Wyddfa.”

  Her fingers relaxed slightly. “They’re not so different as you think. Mount Olympus exists on land, and in story. In historical time, and in sacred time. Either way, Zeus and Athena and the others can be found there. It is an in between place—not quite our world and not quite the Otherworld, but something in between. In the same way that mist is not really air and not really water, but something of both. Another place like that is the Isle of Delos, the Greek island where Apollo was born and makes his home.”

  “In story, sure. But not in reality.”

  She eyed me strangely. “Are you sure?”

  “Well . . . no, I guess not. I’ve never been to Greece. But I’ve seen Y Wyddfa a hundred times, right out that window. There are no Apollos walking around here! Not on that mountain, and not in this village.”

  Again she eyed me strangely. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” I grasped a handful of straw from my pallet and threw it in the air. “This is the stuff of this village! Dirty straw, broken walls, angry people. Ignorant, too. Why, half of them think you really are a sorceress!”

  Lifting the poultice, she examined the bruise running down my ribs. “Yet they still come here to be healed.” She reached for a wooden bowl containing a greenish brown paste that smelled pungent, like overripe berries. Tenderly, using two fingers of her left
hand, she began to apply the paste to my bruise.

  “Tell me this,” she said without taking her eyes off my wound. “Have you ever been out walking, away from the clatter of the village, when you felt the presence of a spirit, of something you couldn’t quite see? Down by the river, perhaps, or somewhere in the forest?”

  My thoughts drifted back to the great pine tree swaying in the storm. I could almost hear the swishing of branches, the wafting of resins, the feeling of bark on my hands. “Well, sometimes, in the forest . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve felt as if the trees, the oldest trees especially, were alive. Not just like a plant, but like a person. With a face. With a spirit.”

  Branwen nodded. “Like the dryads and hamadryads.” She gazed at me wistfully. “I wish I could read to you some of the stories about them, in the Greeks’ own words. They tell them so much better than I can! And those books . . . Emrys, I have seen a room full of books so thick and musty and inviting that I would sit down with one on my lap and do nothing but read all day long. I would keep on reading late into the night until I fell asleep. And then, as I slept, I might be visited by the dryads, or by Apollo himself.”

  She stopped short. “Have I never told you any stories about Dagda?”

  I shook my head. “What does that have to do with Apollo?”

  “Patience.” Taking another scoop of the paste, she continued working. “The Celts, who have lived in Gwynedd long enough to know about sacred time, have many Apollos of their own. I heard about them as a child, long before I learned to read.”

  I jolted. “You are Celtic? I thought you came from . . . wherever I came from, over the sea.”

  Her hands tensed. “I did. But before I went there, I lived here, in Gwynedd. Not in this village but in Caer Myrddin, which was not so crowded as it is today. Now let me continue.”

  I nodded obediently, feeling buoyed by what she had said. It wasn’t much, but it was the first time she had ever told me anything about her childhood.

  She resumed both her work and her story. “Dagda is one of those Apollos. He is one of the most powerful Celtic spirits, the god of complete knowledge.”