The Lost Years

by T.A. Barron

  Cwen scoffed. “Nonssssense.”

  As the darkness closed in, I didn’t feel at all hopeful. “It will never work.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  I shook my head. “I suppose, if I am going to try to tame him—and I would have better luck taming a dragon, I think—then I should first give him a name.”

  “Right,” agreed Rhia. “But the name will be tricky. It must be something fitting.”

  I groaned. “That part is easy. You just said it yourself. The name for him is Trouble. Nothing but Trouble.”

  “Good. Now you can start his training.”

  Dejectedly, I turned to the dark form on my shoulder.

  “Come then,” said Rhia as she took Cwen’s thin arm. “We are only a few hundred paces from my house.”

  I brightened a bit. “Really?”

  “Yes. You are welcome there, so long as that bird is not too much—”

  “Trouble,” finished Cwen.

  16: ARBASSA’S DOOR

  As Rhia led us out of the deep forest into a nearby clearing, I noticed the sudden brightness of the night sky. Then, as the web of branches fell away, I wondered whether a star might be exploding above us, filling the sky with light. At once I realized that the light came not from a star, nor even from the sky.

  It came from Rhia’s house. From the center of the clearing rose a great oak, mightier than any tree I had ever seen. Its burly branches reached outward and upward from the trunk, so thick that it seemed to be made of several trunks fused together. Set in the midst of those branches, glowing like a giant torch, was an aerial cottage whose beams and walls and windows curled with the twisting limbs. Layers of leaves overlaid the tree house, so that the light radiating from its windows shone through multiple curtains of green.

  “Arbassa.” Rhia lifted her arms high as she spoke the name.

  In response, the branches above her head shimmered just enough to drop a light rain of dew on her upturned face.

  I watched, my chest feeling warm again, as Rhia approached the base of the tree. Peeling off her snug shoes, which appeared to be made of a leathery type of bark, she stepped into a cup-shaped portion of the massive roots. As she spoke a quiet, swishing phrase, the root gradually closed around her feet, so that she and the tree stood planted together as one single being. Rhia stretched her arms wide and embraced the great trunk, even though she could only reach a tiny portion of the way around. At the same time, one of the tree’s enormous branches unfurled like the frond of a fern, wrapping itself over her back to return the embrace.

  A few moments later, the branch lifted and the root parted. With a creaking sound, the trunk creased, cracked, and opened into a small doorway. Rhia ducked her head and entered. Cwen, walking stiffly, slipped in beside her.

  “Come.” Rhia motioned to me to join her.

  As I stepped toward the cavern, however, the tree shuddered. The bark-edged doorway began to close. Rhia shouted a sharp command, but the tree ignored her and continued to seal itself. I called out to her, while Trouble fluttered his wings nervously. Despite Rhia’s protests, the doorway shut tight.

  Helpless, I stood before the tree. I knew as little about what this meant as I knew what to do about it. But one thing was clear. I had been rejected—no doubt thanks to the troublesome bird on my shoulder.

  Just then the trunk creased again. The door reopened. Rhia, her face red from shouting, beckoned to me to come. Glancing uncertainly at the fidgeting bird, I entered the dark cavern.

  Rhia said nothing. She merely turned and started to climb the spiraling stairway within the trunk. I followed, hoping that Trouble would not cause any.

  The gnarled platforms of the stairs grew right out of the inner walls of the trunk, so that the whole stairway smelled as rich and moist as a glade after a rain. As we climbed higher, the stairs grew lighter, revealing intricately carved script that flowed over the inner walls. Thousands of lines of this tightly written script covered the stairwell, as beautiful as it was indecipherable. I wished I could read what it said.

  At last we reached an open platform. Rhia pushed against a drapery of leaves, and entered her house. I came right behind, although Trouble clawed angrily at the leaves when they brushed against his feathers.

  I found myself standing on a floor of tightly meshed boughs, sturdy yet uneven. A fire burned in the hearth in the middle of the room, so bright that I wondered what fuel could be burning within it. The branches of the great tree curled around us, though they were not as closely woven as the floor, so that window slats opened in all directions.

  Every piece of furniture in this one-room house rose out of the branches, as naturally as the branches themselves sprang from the trunk. A low table by the hearth, a pair of simple chairs, a cabinet containing utensils made of carved wood and beeswax, all were produced by living branches twisted into shape. Next to the cabinet, Cwen was stirring something.

  I stepped closer to Rhia. “What happened down there?”

  Cautiously, she looked from me to the sharp-taloned bird on my shoulder. “My friend Arbassa did not want to let you in.”

  “That much I could tell.”

  “She would only have done that for one reason. To keep out of my home someone who could do me great harm.”

  I felt a new surge of resentment against Trouble. If his presence had almost prevented me from entering Rhia’s house, might it also prevent me from finding my past, my identity? “I wish I’d never met this cursed bird!”

  Rhia frowned. “Yes. I know.” She waved toward Cwen, still bending over the cabinet. “Come. Let’s have some supper.”

  The slim figure poured something that looked like honey over her concoction, a platter of rolled leaves crammed with reddish-brown nuts. The whole thing gave off a hearty, roasted smell. As she carried the platter over to the low table by the hearth, she glanced sharply at Trouble. “I have no ssssupper for that vicioussss beasssst.”

  For the first time, I realized that Cwen was truly more tree than human. Her skin, gnarled and ridged, looked very much like bark, while her tangled brown hair resembled a mass of vines. Her rootlike feet remained unshod, and she wore no adornment but the silver rings on the smallest of her twelve knobby fingers. Beneath her robe of white cloth, her body moved like a tree bending with the wind. Yet her age musthave been considerable, for her back bent like a trunk leaning under a winter’s weight of snow, and her neck, arms, and legs seemed twisted and frail. Even so, the fragrance of apple blossoms wafted around her. And her recessed brown eyes, shaped like slender teardrops, shone as bright as the fire.

  Staying clear of me, and especially my passenger, she set down the platter. Her aim was off, however, and she knocked over an oaken flask of water on the table.

  “Cursssse thesssse old handssss!” Cwen grabbed the flask and brought it over to the cabinet. As she refilled it, I heard her muttering, “The cursssse of time, the cursssse of time.” She continued to grumble as she returned it to the table.

  Rhia sat in one of the chairs, indicating with a nod for me to take the other. I watched as she took one of the rolled leaves in her hand. This she plunged into the jar of honey on the platter.

  She flashed me a slightly guilty smile. “A person can never get enough honey.”

  I grinned. Tilting my head toward Cwen, I whispered, “She is not a person, like you or me, is she?”

  Rhia looked at me curiously. “A person, she certainly is. But like us, she is not. She is the last survivor of the treelings—a race of part trees, part people. They used to be common in Fincayra, back in the days when giants were the masters of this land. But they are gone now, except for Cwen.”

  She stuffed the food, dripping with honey, into her mouth, then reached for the flask of water. After several swallows, she offered it to me. Since by then I had tried some myself and found the rolled leaves so sticky that they were very difficult to chew, I accepted the water gladly.

  As I replaced the flask on the table, I notice
d that the fire, intensely bright though it was, produced no smoke and no heat. In a flash I understood that this fire was really not a fire at all. Thousands of tiny beetles, pulsing with light of their own making, crawled across a pile of rounded river stones in the center of the hearth. The stones appeared to be their home, for the beetles crawled over and under them continuously, like bees in a hive. While each one of the beetles comprised only a subtle spot of light, collectively they produced a powerful glow which illuminated the entire tree house.

  As I finally swallowed the sticky food, Trouble shifted on my shoulder, digging his talons deep into my skin. I cried out, then turned angrily toward him. “Why do you punish me like this? Get off my shoulder, I say! Get off!”

  Trouble merely stared at me, unblinking.

  I turned to Rhia. “How am I supposed to tame him? Not even the Galator could tame him!”

  Cwen, standing near one of the window slats, stiffened.

  Caught off guard, I instinctively touched the tunic over my chest, feeling the pendant hanging beneath. Then, realizing what I had done, I did my best to disguise the motion, reaching higher to rub my free shoulder. In a casual voice, I said to Rhia, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to find something magical, like the Galator? But if I ever did, I wouldn’t waste it on the bird. I’d use it to mend my sore body.”

  Rhia nodded sympathetically. “Where are you sore?”

  “My legs mostly. But I also have this ache between my shoulder blades. It’s been with me for as long as I can remember.”

  Her eyebrows lifted, but she remained silent. I somehow had the feeling that she, too, knew more than she was saying.

  She reached beneath the table and pulled out two small, silvery blankets, made from the most delicate linen I had ever seen. She spread one over her thighs, then handed the other to me. “A good night’s sleep will help.”

  I held the shimmering blanket up to the light. “What is this cloth?”

  “It is silk, made by moths.”

  “Moths? You’re joking.”

  She smiled. “Their silk is just as warm as it is light. Try it yourself.”

  Keeping a safe distance from the hawk, Cwen approached. “Would a ssssong be ssssoothing to you?”

  “Please,” Rhia answered. “It reminds me of all the times you sang to me when I was small.”

  Cwen nodded, her teardrop eyes expressionless. “I will ssssing you a ssssong that ussssed to help you ssssleep.”

  As she passed a thin hand over the glowing beetles, their light dimmed. Then, like an old tree weaving in the wind, Cwen began to project a rolling, vibrating sound. It swelled and faded, repeating a comforting pattern over and over again. Almost a voice, yet not quite a voice, the sound wound wordlessly around us. Coaxing us to relax, to let go. I pulled the blanket over my chest and leaned back in the chair, my eyes feeling heavy. Rhia, I could tell, was already asleep, and even Trouble’s head had drooped low on his chest. I watched Cwen’s flowing motions for a while, but it was not long before I too drifted into slumber.

  I dreamed that I lay alone, fast asleep, in a deep forest. Tall trees surrounded me, weaving in the wind. Honey, from somewhere, dripped into my mouth. Then, all at once, enemies appeared. I couldn’t see them. But I could feel them. They were hiding in the trees. Or perhaps they were the trees themselves! Worse yet, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t wake up, not even to protect myself. Slowly, one of the thin, twisted trees nearby bent down over my sleeping form, slipping a fingerlike branch into my tunic. The Galator. It wants the Galator. With a supreme effort, I managed to rouse myself.

  I was still sitting in the chair by the dimly glowing hearth. The silk blanket had fallen to the floor beside me. I reached for the Galator, and to my relief, felt it was still there under my tunic. Listening, I heard the sporadic chattering of birds outside, telling me that sunrise was an hour or so away. Rhia slept curled as tight as a ball in her chair, while Cwen lay snoring on the floor by the cabinet. Trouble sat on my shoulder, his yellow-rimmed eyes wide open.

  I wondered whether Arbassa herself ever slept. Even now, as she held us in her arms, was it still watching the hawk with concern? I wished I could ask the great tree whether Fincayra held the answers to my questions. Had the time come to leave Druma Wood and explore other parts of this island? Or should I be building a boat to search for another place entirely?

  I sighed. For I knew once again, in that hour before dawn, how little I really did know.

  17: THE ALLEAH BIRD

  Rhia shrieked suddenly. She sat rigid in her chair, not moving, not breathing. Even the golden light of sunrise, pouring through the window slats and over her suit of leafy vines, could not hide the look of terror on her face.

  I bounced out of my chair. “What’s wrong?”

  Her wide eyes peered into mine. “Everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shook the forest of curls on her head. “A dream. So real, like it was truly happening.” She took a deep breath. “It frightened me.”

  I watched her, remembering my own dream.

  Cwen’s slender form approached. “What dream wassss thissss?”

  Rhia faced her. “Every night I dream about the Druma. Without fail.”

  “Sssso? I do assss well.”

  “It’s always safe. Always comforting. Always . . . home. Even when I go to sleep worried about the troubles in other parts of Fincayra—which happens more and more—I know I can always find peace in my dreams of the Druma.”

  Cwen wrung her knobby hands. “You don’t sssseem sssso peaceful now.”

  “I’m not!” Rhia’s eyes filled with terror again. “Last night I dreamed that the whole Druma—all the trees, the ferns, the animals, the stones—started bleeding! Bleeding to death! I tried and tried, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. The forest was dying! The sky darkened. Everything turned the color of dried blood. The color of—”

  “Rust,” I finished. “Same as the other side of the river.”

  She nodded grimly, then lifted herself from her chair and strode to the eastern wall, where rays of lavender and pink now mixed with gold. Propping her hands on both sides of a slat, she gazed at the dawn. “For months, I’ve tried to convince myself that the sickness across the River Unceasing would never reach the Druma. That only the Blighted Lands would fall, not the whole of Fincayra.”

  “Sssso wrong,” put in Cwen. “In all my yearssss, which are now sssso very many, I have never felt the Druma in ssssuch danger. Never! If we are to ssssurvive, we need new sssstrength—from whatever ssssource.” The last phrase rang rather ominously, though I was not sure why.

  Rhia’s brow creased. “That too was part of my dream.” She paused, thinking. “A stranger came into the forest. A stranger who knew no one at all. He had some sort of power . . .” She swung around to face me. “And he—and only he—could save the Druma.”

  I blanched. “Me?”

  “I’m not sure. I woke up before I could see his face.”

  “Well, I’m not your savior. That’s certain.”

  She watched me closely, though she didn’t say anything.

  Trouble’s talons squeezed tighter on my shoulder.

  I turned from Rhia to Cwen and back to Rhia. “You’re mistaken! Badly mistaken. Once I had . . . But I can’t . . . I can’t do anything like that! And even if I could, I have my own quest to follow.” I shook my left arm. “Despite this bird on me.”

  “Your own quesssst?” demanded Cwen. “Sssso you care nothing for otherssss?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you did.” Rhia looked at me sharply. “You care about your own quest more than you care about the Druma.”

  “If you put it that way, yes.” My cheeks burned. “Don’t you understand? I have to find my own past! My own name! The last thing I need is to get caught up in whatever is happening here. You can’t ask me to give up my quest just because you had one bad dream!”

  She glared at me. “And how far would yo
ur quest have gone if the Druma had not been kind to you?”

  “Far enough. I got here on my own, didn’t I?”

  “You remind me of a baby who says he fed himself on his own.”

  “I am no baby!”

  Rhia sucked in her breath. “Listen. I’m the only creature of my kind who lives in this forest. No other woman or man or child can be found here, except for the rare outsider who slips through, as you did. But do I think, even for an instant, that I live here alone? That I could have survived without the others—like Arbassa, or Cwen, or the alleah bird, whose beauty I treasure even if I should never be lucky enough to see it again? If the Druma is in trouble, then all of them are in trouble. And I’m in trouble, too.”

  Imploringly, she opened her hands to me. “Please. Will you help?”

  I looked away.

  “He will not help ussss,” spat Cwen.

  Rhia strode to the stairway entrance. “Come. I want you to see what else will die if the Druma dies.”

  As she started down the stairs within Arbassa’s trunk, I followed her, but only reluctantly. For the feeling was growing inside me that my own quest must take me elsewhere—to other parts of Fincayra, and perhaps beyond. In any case, to places far from the Druma. And even if I stayed here for a while, how could I try to help Rhia without being tempted to call on my forbidden powers? I shook my head, certain that our new friendship was already lost.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Cwen. She showed no emotion at my departure—with one exception. Her teardrop eyes glared at Trouble, making clear that she was glad to see the irascible bird go. As if in response, he lifted one leg and raked his talons savagely in her direction.

  Winding down the stairway, I smelled the familiar moist fragrance, all the while doubting I would ever stand here, in this great tree, again. I paused to examine the curious script that covered Arbassa’s walls.

  Rhia, already at the bottom, called up to me. “Let’s go.”

  “I am just taking a last look at this writing.”

  Even in the spare light of the stairwell, her puzzlement was clear. “Writing? What writing?”