by Wayland Drew
“Then you will look after her?”
“Oh yes. We all must look after her.”
“And we can go home, Meegosh and I.”
“Meegosh may go. We shall see that he has safe escort home. But your journey has just begun, Willow Ufgood.”
“But, please, you don’t understand. I want to go back to my family. I’m worried about them. They need me!”
“Elora needs you. That is even more important. She has chosen you to be her guardian on the journey she must make.”
“Chosen me! But how could she? She’s an infant.”
Cherlindrea laughed. “A very special infant.” Her light glowed brighter, and Willow shielded his eyes. With a gentle motion, she raised the baby off her bed of moss and floated her toward Willow, laughing. He took her into his arms. Sparkling light touched the inside of the child’s elbow. “She has the Sign, you see.” Then for a moment Cherlindrea fragmented and vanished, and the glade was lit only by the soft glow of moonlight and the dancing radiance of the other fairies. When she returned she was carrying a wand, like a crooked twig.
“Now, Meegosh,” Cherlindrea said, “the time has come for you to part from your friend and begin your journey home. I must give Willow his instructions and tell secrets that are for him alone. You are a good friend, Meegosh. You have served loyally, and you shall be rewarded.”
“Must I go?”
“Yes, you must.”
“But will it . . . be dangerous for Willow?”
“Very dangerous.”
“Then why . . .”
The radiance throbbed. Meegosh covered his eyes. “All right. I’m sorry.”
Willow took his friend’s hand. “Good-bye, Meegosh. Thank you.”
“Willow, I don’t think you really have to do this. The High Aldwin . . .”
Willow glanced down at the smiling child. “If I don’t do it, who will?”
“Well,” Meegosh sighed, “be careful, then.”
Willow nodded. “You must tell Kiaya and the children that I love them. And Meegosh, tell them we had a nice trip. Tell them the country around the Daikini crossroads is very pretty. Don’t tell them what it’s really like.”
Meegosh laughed. “I won’t have to with Burglekutt around. Everything will be twice as big and twice as scary as it really
“Look after them, Meegosh.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Round the bend!”
“Round the bend.”
“He’s a donkey . . .”
“I’m your friend.” Willow hesitated a moment, grinning. Their childish ritual brought good memories flooding back—memories of long summery days spent fishing along the shadowy banks of the Freen; memories of days when there were no urgencies, no responsibilities, no terrors; memories of boyhood.
He watched Meegosh head south into the forest, a little cloud of fairies surrounding him.
“He will be well looked after,” Cherlindrea said. “Now, Willow Ufgood, your way lies to the north, where you must take Elora Danan.”
“North! Even beyond the Daikini crossroads?”
“Far beyond. You must travel the old road. You must take this child to Tir Asleen.”
“Tir Asleen!” Willow sat down suddenly. “Do you mean there really is a Tir Asleen?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But I thought . . . I thought . . .”
“You thought it was only legend.”
Willow nodded.
“No, Willow. Tir Asleen is real. You must take Elora Danan safely there. And you must take something else, as well.”
“But what? Why?”
“Ah,” the brownies said, nodding to each other. “The Question.” All around Willow they drew closer and sat down, folding their legs and laying their spears and bows on the moss.
“Ohhh,” sighed the fairies, “the Question, the Question.” The chorus of their voices whispered like breath in crystal. All around Willow silvery clouds of them settled on flowers and drooping leaves.
Cherlindrea smiled. She laid her wand beside her. Her aura diminished so that Willow could see her clearly. She nodded, looking a little sadly at him. “Yes, of course, when you go into the Daikini world you must know, mustn’t you? Well, to answer your question, and to show you what you face I must tell you a story . . .”
Cherlindrea’s Tale
Long ago, the high castle of Tir Asleen reigned over all those lands—south even farther than the Nelwyn Valley, east beyond Galladoorn, and westward to the sea. In those days the Earth was wild and good. There was room in it for all, and a multitude of plants and animals flourished on it, woven together in ways that no mortal may understand. Daikinis lived at peace with one another and permitted the small folk to go their ways undisturbed. Fairies, brownies, Nelwyns and elves all lived out their lives in harmony with each other and with men. There was no time then, but only the slow round of the days, only the turning of the seasons.
For many generations the kings of Tir Asleen had kept the order of this land, not by decree, but by the wise channeling of will, so that disputes were quelled as if by magic, and enemies found themselves sharing the same currents of Life. Then as now, of course, all things died, but in those days we understood better how all things were reborn.
As well as the kings of Tir Asleen, there were in those days others with special powers, powers sometimes far surpassing the High Aldwin’s. Often they began as mere tricksters, performers of magic acts for their friends. They crafted many devices—hollow feathers, hanging sleeves, hidden pockets. Some aspired to rise above these things and touch the infinite power of the Great Mystery; they longed to become true sorcerers. Only a very few achieved this end.
The youngest ever to become a sorceress was Fin Raziel. She was a wondrous child. From her birth, all who attended upon her mother knew she participated in the Mystery, for the animals came to her. Deer and elk emerged from the forest at dusk and waited in the fields to pay her homage. Hawks and sparrows settled together in the boughs of firs and uttered soft cries of greeting when the nursemaid brought the child to the lighted window. Salamanders and frogs struggled up from the marshes to see her and gazed upon her with large eyes.
While she was still a child, she often went far from home, and for many days. Her parents had no fear for her, because they understood that she must follow the urgings of her heart, and they knew that no harm would come to her. Where she went, what she did, whom or what she saw—they never knew, for the child would never talk. Some said that before she was five she had made great journeys on the backs of eagles. Some said that before the age of ten she had travelled to the farthest reaches of the kingdom and had made a pilgrimage to the Western Islands, where ancient ruins lay glyph-covered in their fogs. Everyone understood that when Fin Raziel departed on her journeys, she had been summoned by true sorcerers. They knew that she was being nurtured in the Mystery, and shown how to find her Way. They knew too that she conversed with all the small folk of the lakes and forests—with the lords of the elves, with the high priests of the brownies, and with fairy queens. Cherlindrea saw her often in those days and watched her grow. She was a radiant and beautiful child, pure as a still pond . . .
But she was a woman also, and a Daikini, and hence subject to all the Daikini whims and passions. Neither spells nor solemn warnings could protect her from those passions, for they lay within. As a sorceress she was sublime; as human she was vulnerable.
And so she fell—down into danger, down into love.
The young man was beautiful, and good, and a worthy mate. He was a prince of Tir Asleen and next in line for the throne. All the virtues of that royal house were his—courage, kindness, generosity, patience, and wisdom. He was handsome besides, with regal bearing, and the broad honest face of his family. Splendid red hair distinguished him, as it did them all.
Imagine him at the festivals where he rode among his people on his white horse, or dismounted to stroll and feast with them, to bl
ess their provender, and laugh with them at the games and plays. How splendid he was! No wonder the young Raziel should fall hopelessly in love with him.
When autumn came, her pursuit of the Way became a halting thing. She grew reluctant to make the journeys, loathe to respond to summonses. For many days at a time she would close off all contact with her mentors in sorcery, and they could not know what was happening to her. She became private and secretive. She moved out of the currents of the Mystery, and into Daikini life.
Joyous was all that Daikini world! Their prince had found a princess as lovely as he was handsome, one whose virtues matched his own, who equalled him in majesty, who would join him in a long and fruitful reign. When their engagement was announced, what a festival was held in the valley of Tir Asleen! They bedecked all the castle with flags and flowers. They covered the whole broad avenue with blossoms. People from all the kingdoms journeyed to bestow gifts and blessings.
But the wedding was not to be. In the valley of Tir Asleen dwelt another young sorceress—Bavmorda! She too had once shown great promise. Creatures of the forest night—whippoorwills and owls, night herons and flying squirrels—had all attended at her mother’s chamber in the hour of her birth. Like Fin Raziel, Bavmorda had received nurturing and tutelage from Cherlindrea and others of the Mystery. Upon her they lavished all their wisdom, urging her to find her Way. How they came to regret that! For Bavmorda’s power found tides deeper than Raziel’s and blended into darker seas.
Now, the great Mystery is eternal and beyond all persuasions. Those who draw upon it, either Daikini or other-than-human, must control themselves, and see clearly what is good and what is evil. Some few abandon that control; they lust for power as a traveler in dry land longs for water. Bavmorda was one of these. Her Way drew heavily on the powers of the Mystery, but it was restricted by no conscience. Selfishness drove her. Passions dominated her. So cunning was she, and so strong, that she concealed her purposes even from all her mentors’ divination until too late, until she had passed beyond control.
Then she became enormous; she became an enormity!
She did not change physically. If anything, she grew sweeter on the outside and more charming as her dark and inward power grew. But sorcerers of all degrees from across the realms could feel what was happening. They could feel each other’s consternation and helplessness, each other’s foreboding.
When Bavmorda turned her wiles on the young prince of Tir Asleen, what protection did he have against her? None! In no time she had spellbound him, in no time aroused his passions to meet her own. In no time she had lured him away from Fin Raziel. For days they would vanish together, making love in caves and bowers that only Bavmorda knew, while her minions kept watch, turning back all creatures from their natural haunts and habitats. In no time the young man was besotted by her. And, as she controlled him, so she controlled Tir Asleen!
Poor Raziel! Too late she realized what had happened—too late, when her own Way had eddied into backwaters and disuse. She rushed frantically from one sorcerer to the next, pleading for help, but there was nothing they could do. They could not lend themselves to such a cause, to a mere struggle of the passions.
At last Raziel came to Cherlindrea. She asked her for her wand to confront Bavmorda, to win her prince back again, and when Cherlindrea refused she flew into such a passion of furious and inconsolable weeping that the fairy queen withdrew, leaving watchers to make sure she did herself no harm. The following day, when she had grown calmer, Cherlindrea talked earnestly to her, although she knew that reasoning with Daikinis was difficult at the best of times. Sometimes they listen and sometimes they do not, and even when they do listen, no one can be sure they understand.
Cherlindrea consoled Fin Raziel as much as possible, and made her this promise: that if she returned to her discipline and pursued her Way, and if Bavmorda’s power grew, then, when the time came to confront that power for the sake of Earth and its creatures, Fin Raziel would have Cherlindrea’s wand.
So, in the fullness of time, Raziel resigned herself to the loss of her love. She returned to the nurturing of her sorcery, and in the years that followed she did much good. She grew sublime, though sad. She rose over passion to compassion. She became beloved of all creatures—a healer, a true sorceress.
Bavmorda married the prince, though the event caused small rejoicing, and there was only token attendance at the feast. They had a child, Sorsha, who was said to have her father’s red hair and gentle disposition, though she was bent early to her mother’s will. Not long afterward the old king and queen died together, and some whispered that Bavmorda’s spells had helped them go.
So she became Queen of Tir Asleen, and Tir Asleen became a mournful place. Where once there had been festivity and laughter, now there was only gloom and mourning. The real Bavmorda emerged from pretense and loosed her baleful power. The young king sickened. Animals fell ill. Crops waned and died. Retainers suffered. Those who had freely waited on the old king and queen were now constrained to serve and punished harshly for trifling faults, their every action narrowly watched by Bavmorda’s guards and minions. Grotesque and alien creatures inhabited the palace moat and cesspools, the dark corners of the orchard, and the hedgerows beside the wilting fields of maize.
Tir Asleen filled with whispers.
Then, when she had sucked what she could from the castle and its lands, Bavmorda abandoned them like a husk. In a nearby valley, where the volcano of Nockmaar smoked and fumed, she built a towering new fortress. Much agony and grief its building caused. Many lives it took. It rose a dread, grim place—invulnerable. Its denizens were such creatures as only a will utterly depraved could summon into being.
When she withdrew to this place, Bavmorda surrounded Tir Asleen with a maze so convoluted that no one ever found their way back to that castle. The young king was never seen again. The child, Sorsha, Bavmorda took with her, to raise in her own manner. They say the little girl wailed so pathetically on the journey that the very birds mourned and drooped their wings as the drear procession passed.
Fin Raziel, when she protested Bavmorda’s act, was defeated in sorcerers’ combat and banished to an island in the center of a great lake in the north, where she has been imprisoned ever since . . .
“And there, Willow Ufgood, you must go. You must take to Fin Raziel the wand which she requested long ago, for the time has come to use all means to challenge the power of Bavmorda.”
“But . . . but Cherlindrea, how do you know?”
“Because of this child, Willow. Here is the Sign where Fin Raziel’s prophecy said it would be. She is the child promised long ago, the child who will restore Tir Asleen and cause the downfall of Nockmaar.”
“But why don’t you take the wand to Fin Raziel? You have magical powers.”
The fairy queen shook her head, smiling sadly. “I wish I could, but my presence cannot extend beyond my woods. Besides, the child has chosen you, and you have powers, too.”
“Me? But I’m just little. I’m small even for a Nelwyn! This is a task for a warrior! For a whole army!”
“I cannot make you go, Willow. The final choice is yours. I must tell you again that the task is very dangerous. Bavmorda’s troops are rampaging, searching for the child. If she is found in your presence, at least you will perish instantly . . .”
“At least!”
“. . . at worst, you will suffer with Elora Danan the Ritual of Obliteration.”
“The Rit—What’s that!”
The Sight of all the fairies dimmed. “Worse, worse than death!” they whispered.
“Far worse,” Cherlindrea murmured. “It is the wiping-out of all you were since Earth began, of all that you are, of all that you have been.”
Willow shuddered, wrapping both arms around Elora. “No!”
“Everything! So, the risks are very great, and I cannot make you accept them. I can tell you only that if you undertake this task you must bear my wand to the Lake of Fin Raziel and give it to the gr
eat sorceress herself.” Cherlindrea leaned forward and offered the crooked shaft.
Willow swallowed.
Still trembling, he stepped forward and accepted it.
There was an instantaneous burst of radiance around him, the hum of fairy exultation, and the cool touch of myriad fairy kisses.
Cherlindrea smiled. “Remember,” she said, beginning to vanish before his eyes, fragmenting into crystalline points of light, “you must give the wand only to Fin Raziel.”
As Cherlindrea faded, so did the sparkling light of the fairies. It flowed like mercury in all directions back into the forest, together with the tinkling of their laughter, and Willow found himself alone with Elora in the center of a moonlit glade, surrounded by murmuring brownies.
Only one fairy remained, asleep under a drooping leaf. The large-eared brownie who had spoken to Willow earlier crept over and sprinkled silvery dust on her out of a tiny pouch.
“Rool!” Franjean said, bustling up, “where did you get that Dust of Broken Heart?”
“Found it! There!” He pointed to a hollow tree. “Uh, I mean there!” He pointed to a little cave at the edge of the glade.
“Stole it, you mean! Give it to me!” Franjean snatched the pouch and tied it to his belt just as the fairy awoke, staring at him adoringly. Arms stretched to embrace him, she fluttered up to him, murmuring endearments.
“No!” Franjean squeaked. “Back! Help! Get her away!”
Cackling, one of the brownies doused her with water from a pitcher plant, and the little fairy fled muttering into the woods, her ardor cooled.
The incident caused much merriment at Franjean’s expense. The brownies chortled and punched each other, pointing at him. With as much dignity as he could muster, he bowed to Willow. “Peck, I mean, Sire, I am to be your guide to the Lake of Fin Raziel.”
“What? But you’re the one who stabbed me in the nose!”
