by T.A. Barron
Savoring the sweet taste in his mouth, Promi thought of one more example. The smackberries he was now enjoying, which had been grown in the Divine Monk’s garden, originally came from the Great Forest. As he took another bite of pie, he thought, I could almost believe these berries have been touched by a breeze from the spirit world.
All this was why every old myth about this land sprang from the same two ideas. First, Ellegandia’s magic was profoundly valuable, an eternal gift to every person, every creature, and every tree in the realm. No wonder the people’s favorite blessing, saved for the most special occasions, was I bless your eternal qualities.
The second idea was a kind of responsibility. The Great Powers asked only one thing in return for all this magic—that Ellegandia’s people do everything possible to protect its riches from the greed of others, whether humans or immortals. Promi didn’t see how immortals could ever be a problem, since the mortal world and the spirit world were completely separate. And that separation was inviolable. But in any case, the myths always reminded people to safeguard their homeland’s natural magic.
He shrugged his shoulders. That bit about immortals didn’t really make sense. Maybe that was why he didn’t like listening to the old legends. Or, for that matter, to any of the far-fetched tales about immortals—whether they lived up in the clouds of the spirit realm or in Ellegandia’s forest groves. If you believe in such things, he told himself, you’ve got to carry them around with you everywhere, like a satchel filled with rocks. And I like to carry as little as possible.
He took another bite, savoring every ingredient from the sweet syrup to the sugary crust. All at once, he realized that he had company—not people, but several creatures who’d been drawn to the pie’s alluring aroma.
Seated around him on the grassy slope were a mountain squirrel who waved his tail like a flag, a pure white kitten whose whiskers were as long as her legs, and a long-nosed anteater with a baby clinging to her back. A broad-winged butterfly with pink-and-black-striped wings floated over and landed on a mustard flower. Then up in the branches of the old cedar, he caught a flash of something deep blue. Feathers?
He peered into the branches, furrowing his brow. Could it be one of those rare hi-marnia birds? They were so elusive that almost nobody ever saw them. But he’d heard that their nests were sometimes found in the boughs of blue cedars in the Great Forest.
The kitten mewed plaintively. Promi shook his head and said sternly, “No way, you beggar. I earned this pie, every bite.”
But the kitten merely stared at him. She opened her eyes to their widest, never blinking.
Promi sighed. “Oh, all right. Just this once.”
Pinching a small piece of crust that oozed with smackberry syrup, he tossed it to the kitten. She pounced on it eagerly. Then, seeing the looks of great longing on the faces of the anteater and the squirrel, he threw each of them a scrap.
The butterfly landed on his wrist, wings trembling with anticipation. Promi shook his head, knowing he was beaten. Gently, he smeared a bit of sweet juice on a mustard flower. Instantly the butterfly glided over and began to dine.
Just about to get back to his own eating, he thought of something else. For the sake of fairness, he broke off one more chunk of pie crust and tossed it straight up into the cedar’s branches. Though he heard a scurrying sound, he didn’t see any more flashes of blue up there. But the crust didn’t fall back to the ground.
Taking another bite for himself, he glanced again at the City’s outer wall. As he chewed, he heard the distant chiming of a bell—not the big one in the bell tower that he himself had rung that morning, but one somewhere else in the temple complex. He also heard some muffled shouting from the market square, the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer, and the gentle bleating of goats. The only other sounds he could hear came from his new neighbors, who were loudly chomping and licking their paws, as well as some more scurrying in the branches above his head.
“Welcome to my dining room,” he announced. “The finest eating place in all of Ellegandia.” With a chuckle, he added, “And it’s certainly a lot nicer than the Divine Monk’s dining room right now.”
He waved his arms, gesturing to the assembled creatures, but they ignored him. They were too engrossed in devouring their treats. Only the butterfly gave any indication of having heard him, pausing briefly to flutter its wings before continuing to eat.
Promi thought back to his successful theft of the pie and chuckled again, spurting some purple syrup onto his leggings. The hardest part of the whole operation had turned out to be something he hadn’t expected—trying not to fall over laughing when the incense shaker exploded, the Divine Monk crashed into the table, and the whole place erupted in chaos.
Best of all, he thought with satisfaction, was that look of utter shock on Grukarr’s face. A look I’m starting to enjoy.
He licked his purple-stained fingers. And Araggna’s face was a good match. Why, she looked even angrier than usual, which is hard to imagine.
Hearing something stir in the branches overhead, he glanced up. But he saw nothing through the mesh of blue needles . . . except a hint of rust color. Part of the hi-marnia bird? But no, they were supposedly all blue. So another kind of bird, then?
Only one piece of pie remained. Turning his attention to that, he lifted it and took a huge bite. The animals around him whimpered with disappointment, while the butterfly’s antennae drooped.
“Oh, well,” he said with a shrug. Then he broke off a lump of crust and divided it among them. Immediately they went back to the happy task of eating.
As he watched them, Promi couldn’t help but think about the diversity of this land’s creatures. He’d seen only a small sampling of them, of course—the ones people had captured and brought to market, or the rare ones brave enough to approach him as these had done. But that small sampling had been amazingly varied . . . and sometimes quite beautiful.
There really could be some truth to the old stories about this land’s wondrously varied creatures. And that wasn’t even counting the immortal beings who, it was said, had actually chosen to live in Ellegandia’s deep woods rather than in the spirit realm on high.
That can’t be true, thought Promi skeptically. Why would any immortals choose to live on Earth rather than up in the sky with the rest of their kind? Ellegandia may be special . . . but let’s not get carried away.
His thoughts turned to another question. Where had Ellegandia’s people come from originally? With all those barriers of ocean cliffs and impassable mountains, it couldn’t have been easy. Some believed those first people had sailed here from a faraway land called Greece, and that a terrible storm at sea had hurled their boats over the tops of the cliffs. Others claimed that Ellegandians came from people called Berbers from the continent of Africa—and that those people had discovered some way to cross the high peaks.
Still others believed the first people of this land had been chosen by the immortals to live here. This theory held that men, women, and children from places all around the world had been plucked away from their old homes and magically brought to Ellegandia. Outlandish as this theory was, it did at least explain the great diversity of Ellegandia’s people, whose skin color ranged from deepest black to palest white and all shades in between.
Promi chuckled. I like that theory . . . for originality, at least.
He sank his teeth into the last bite of pie. Frankly, he didn’t care what the old legends said. Like the other stories spread around by monks and priestesses, they didn’t concern him at all. No, the only things that mattered—the only things he could count on—were solid reality.
Such as, he concluded, a tasty piece of pie.
A heavy net suddenly dropped on top of him. Several men rushed over and roughly pinned him to the ground. Then he heard a voice that made his skin prickle with heat—a voice he’d never expected to hear again today.
“Well, well,” declared Grukarr as he strode out from behind the tree. “What a perfe
ct place you chose to eat your stolen pie.” Lowering his voice to a growl, he added, “And to end your days.”
Promi struggled to free himself from the net, trying with all his strength to throw off his captors. But a couple of sharp kicks to his head and ribs put a quick end to that. He groaned painfully.
“Indigestion?” asked Grukarr with mock sympathy. “That’s what happens when you eat too fast. Or eat too well for your lowly place in society.”
Striding closer, the priest planted a heavy boot on his prisoner’s chest. Though the weight made it hard to breathe, Promi didn’t struggle or moan. He didn’t want to give this scoundrel any more satisfaction.
And Grukarr already felt plenty. He beamed down at the captive under the net and started to whistle jauntily, savoring his moment of triumph—a moment that was, for him, even tastier than smackberry pie. Then he released a different sort of whistle—a single, shrill call.
From the branches above came an answering call. Wings flapped, and a big, rust-colored bird with huge talons glided down and landed on his shoulder. The bird’s savage eyes, rimmed in scarlet, studied the helpless prisoner.
“Introductions?” asked Grukarr in a tone both playful and poisonous. “Or do you need to rush off to steal something else?”
Hearing nothing but labored breathing from Promi, the priest went on, “This is Huntwing, my loyal servant. It was he who found you, relaxing after your day of criminal mischief.”
The bird clacked his beak proudly. His large, vicious talons gripped Grukarr’s shoulder.
“And these,” continued the priest with a wave at the men who had jumped on Promi, “are my faithful minions. They will do absolutely anything that I command.”
A few men grumbled at this. But one sharp look from Grukarr silenced them.
“At least,” he went on, “they had better do so.” Stroking Huntwing’s talon, he explained, “You see, only a short while ago they sat in chains, convicted of terrible crimes. Their punishments, ordered by the High Priestess, would have left them without a limb—or a life.”
Several of the men stirred uneasily. Grukarr paused a moment, enjoying their palpable fear, as well as his power over them.
“But in the name of kindness,” he continued, “I took it upon myself to set them free. Now, they may not be as well trained as temple guards—but they will do whatever I tell them without question.”
With a chortle, he added, “Or else . . . the punishments Araggna had ordered for them will be mild compared to what I will do.” He tapped the bird’s talon. “Isn’t that right, my Huntwing?”
The bird clacked his beak savagely.
Ignoring the men’s shudders, Grukarr said to Promi, “And now, you worthless vagabond, I have something special planned for you.” Leaning hard on his captive’s chest, Grukarr barked to one of his men, “Club him so he won’t cause any more trouble.”
Grukarr started whistling merrily again—then something struck Promi’s head. He slumped to the grass. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the faint echo of that whistle, so very different from the half-remembered song that had given him such comfort during his short life.
CHAPTER 8
Eternal Qualities
The most important moment in creating a pastry doesn’t happen in the oven, or even in the kitchen. No, it takes place long before, when a special stalk of grain emerges from the soil.
—A scrap from Promi’s journal
Deep in a forest grove a few days’ walk to the South, the wind suddenly fell silent.
Branches stopped clattering; leaves ceased their restless rustle. High in the trees, bright-feathered birds grew still, their voices no longer echoing. Insects quieted. Even the noisy squirrels fell mute.
Then, from deep in the grove, a young woman’s voice lifted in song.
The seed holds the life of a tree;
A tree carries wonders untold.
The forest holds deep mystery:
A magic both newborn and old.
Leaf and droplet,
every part—
Form the Whole
and fill my heart.
Bless eternal
qualities—
Grace my soul
and all the trees.
Branches stirred again, rustling. Leaves brushed against each other; shaggy mosses started to sway. But they were not moving with any wind. No . . . they were dancing to the rhythm of the young woman’s song.
She stood beneath a towering yew whose crown lifted higher than any of the surrounding trees. Her blue-green eyes shone as she sang. And in time, the yew’s dark red berries, high in the branches, began to glow subtly.
A fern in the forest is slight;
A pebble is small by the shore.
Yet each holds a magical light:
Each morsel of magic brings more.
Sunlight and shadow grow stronger,
The day and the night are true kin.
Lives may be brief or still briefer,
Yet magic lies always within.
Leaf and droplet,
every part—
Form the Whole
and fill my heart.
Bless eternal
qualities—
Grace my soul
and all the trees.
The young woman continued to sing, tilting her head back as she looked up into the yew’s branches so that her curly brown hair played on her shoulders. Gently, she lifted her left hand and placed her palm on the massive trunk. She worked her fingers into the contours of bark, as if she were stroking the face of an old friend.
Atlanta she was called, both by those who knew her well and by those who had heard about her unusually powerful gift of natural magic. Her name, which meant “voice for all” in the Ellegandian Old Tongue, might have been a burden for some. But not for her. She simply was who she was, someone who wandered the forest paths, helping others find their magic.
More than twenty of these people surrounded Atlanta now, standing in the shade of the ancient yew. Women and girls, men and boys, they looked as varied as the oaks, yews, acacias, banyans, blue cedars, elms, redwoods, and thorn trees around them.
People from the cavern lands wore sashes of mountain bear fur decorated with wyvern claws, while those from the Lakes of Dreams had plumed hats with bright yellow sunbird feathers. Others, who had walked here from the Indragrass Meadows, wore iridescent robes that smelled like fresh mint, along with vests of supple willow shoots. A few, who had come all the way from the western shores, perhaps even from Mystery Bay, stood in sandals made from the rutted skin of crocodiles. They hummed quietly to themselves all the time, as was their custom. And one sturdy fellow had trekked from the Waterfall of the Giants, within sight of the country’s highest peak, Ell Shangro. His hat still smelled of waterfall lilies.
In addition, there were three priestesses and one monk from the City. The most senior priestess, a spry-looking elder, wore a traditional deep green robe, while her younger companions had chosen the tan-colored robes favored by those who resided in the temple. And their host, Atlanta, wore clothing that evoked the Great Forest—a simple purple gown of woven lilac vines.
As varied as these people were, they all shared a passion for natural magic . . . and a yearning to know more of its secrets. Which is why so many of them had traveled great distances to experience the Great Forest and learn from Atlanta.
On top of that, they shared one common physical trait—sparkling green eyes. Whether their irises showed just a few green flecks, looked as green as sunlit meadows, or combined shades of green and blue, they showed the unmistakable color of magic. In most parts of the country, such eyes marked someone as a valued healer; in others, as a person to be feared. But here in the Great Forest, the very heart of Ellegandia’s natural magic, all these people felt fully welcome.
Air that is breathed by us all,
Winds that support every wing—
Rise over mountains so tall,
Car
ry the magic of spring.
All branches and roots interlink,
A web that embraces the Whole.
Upon it are words without ink:
Deep magic on natural scroll.
Leaf and droplet,
every part—
Form the Whole
and fill my heart.
Bless eternal
qualities—
Grace my soul
and all the trees.
As Atlanta’s song ended, the ancient yew’s branches fell still. In the quiet that followed, the elder priestess with the deep green robe spoke. “Thank you, young one. You bring beauty to this forest, and blessings to us all.”
Modestly, Atlanta shook her head. “This forest holds blessings beyond any of us.”
“True,” the old priestess replied. “But too many people of this time—including some who wear the robes of priestesses and monks, who should know better—have forgotten that the immortals we worship are also present right here in the mortal realm, in this wondrous forest. Yes, just as much as they are alive in the spirit realm on high!”
From around the group came many murmurs of approval. The fellow with the hat that smelled of waterfall lilies gave a slight bow to Atlanta.
Feeling a new tingling in her hand that was touching the yew tree’s trunk, Atlanta lifted her gaze to the branches. An expectant hush filled the grove, and several people traded glances.
All at once, a pair of long vines with golden leaves uncoiled themselves from the tree’s upper limbs. Gracefully, like sinuous rivers, the vines flowed down the trunk. The first one to reach Atlanta curled lightly around her left hand. The other wrapped around her right hand and forearm. As the vines touched her skin, their golden leaves quivered.
“Now,” she said softly, gazing up into the tree, “my old friend here will reveal its most magical language. Come, Master Yew, show these good people the speech of the vines.”
Up and down the vines, golden leaves trembled and twirled. Those nearest Atlanta’s hands moved most vigorously—and then started to change color. Beginning at the stems, streams of purple and blue, orange and white, flowed into the leaves, spreading out in complex patterns. Spirals and curls of color wrote themselves on the surfaces, while the leaves’ serrated edges bent and waved in a slow, mysterious dance.
