by T.A. Barron
“Merlin,” implored my mother, “you will be careful? As careful as you begged me to be a moment ago?” Seeing my nod, she reached for a thick vest, woven from the stalks of dried astral flowers, and thrust it at me. “Take this with you.”
“You’ll need that yourself.”
Her eyes showed an ironic gleam. “You’ll be traveling more than I.”
“Are you sure? It’s your favorite vest.”
“That’s right. Made by Charlonna, healer of the Mellwyn-bri-Meath, and given to me as a token of our friendship. So you may take all the more comfort in its warmth, since it holds within it the magic of the deer people.”
I brightened, and she gave me a tender smile. “Now both Hallia and I will embrace you whenever you wear it.”
My head turned to Rhia. “Come with me, won’t you? Just for a while. I have an idea for you, a way you could help.”
“How could I help?” she asked, shaking her curls. “Unless you’d like my Orb to keep you warm.”
My expression hardened. “I need you, my good sister. With or without the Orb.”
She patted her sleeve, just below the pocket where Scullyrumpus lay sleeping. “I can’t, Merlin. I need to return to the Druma, where I belong. Besides, you can’t ask me to come without telling me your idea.”
“I just did. And I’ll tell you when the time is right.”
She scowled at me. “Oh, all right. Not for long, though.” Under her breath, she muttered, “Scully’s going to love this.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You won’t regret it.”
“No, but you will.”
Elen reached over and took her daughter’s hand. “I wish I had another vest for you.”
“It’s all right,” Rhia replied cheerily. “Merlin’s going to let me use his whenever I want.” She glanced my way. “Right?”
“Right,” I grumbled, handing her the vest. “Here. Use it as your blanket tonight.”
“In that case,” interjected Cairpré, “you’ll be needing this, as well.” He unraveled his thick gray scarf and threw it in my lap. “And Rhia, you should take my mare, Coella. My journey home is less than a day’s walk, so you’ll need a horse more than I.” With a wink, he added, “Unless you want to make Merlin give you Ionn, that is.”
Rhia waved her hand dismissively. “Not yet, anyway.” Then she looked at me, her expression serious again. “When do we leave?”
“At dawn,” I replied. “Then we ride. For all of Fincayra, we ride.”
“Time for some sleep, then, Brother.”
We stretched ourselves out on the dirt floor. I lay on my back between Rhia and Lleu. For an extra touch of warmth, I draped the woolen scarf across my chest. Absently, I watched the smoke rising thickly from the smoldering fire, climbing through a hole in the thatching and into the dark skies above. All the while, I listened to the slow, regular breathing of Lleu, until with time, my own breathing took on the same rhythm.
9: KINDLING
Some hours later I awoke with a shiver. So cold! Darkness filled the hut, along with the odors of goat dung and smoky clothes. Shivering again, I could see with my second sight that the scarf had slid off my chest. Yet that wasn’t the real problem: The fire had gone out completely.
I rose, flexed my stiff fingers, and crawled over to the hearth, trying not to disturb anyone. Carefully, I poked the fire’s remnants with a twig, hoping to find at least one ember. But there was only charcoal, dusted with ash, and some unburned bits of goat dung.
Drat, I told myself. Now I’d need to start a new fire from scratch! I thought of using the incantation of the fire-bringer, but that magic always caused a loud eruption along with the flames—certain to wake everyone. And even more than warmth, my friends needed their rest.
Holding my chilled hands under my armpits, I looked around the hut for more fuel. There! Next to the wall sat a few sticks about the thickness of my staff. I crept across the dirt floor to fetch them, trying hard to avoid the splayed arms and legs of my sleeping companions. But what about some kindling? The sticks wouldn’t ignite without it.
Nevertheless, I tried. Retrieving Cairpré’s iron stones from the ground next to the hearth, I worked as quietly as possible to produce some sparks. In this I succeeded, though in making the sticks catch fire I failed miserably. After several minutes of fruitless effort, I was colder than I’d been when I first awoke. My fingers felt numb. In disgust, I gave up, resigned to shivering through the rest of the night.
Just then something nudged me from behind. I whirled around to see Lleu, holding out his hand to me. Clutched within his small fingers was a mass of dry bark shavings. The kindling I needed!
Viewing this young lad, so self-sufficient and also so generous, I did something I’d not let myself do before. I smiled at him.
Tentatively, the corner of his mouth twisted slightly. It was gone in an instant. But I knew he had smiled back.
Then, wordlessly, he crawled forward, his bare feet scraping on the floor. He placed the kindling in the center of the charred stones, quickly arranging a pile that left enough room for air. I struck the iron, and a lone spark flew out, landing near the base of the shavings. In unison, ever so gently, we blew on the spark, coaxing it to life.
A pulsing glow appeared, along with a thin trail of smoke. Again we blew upon it. All at once, a flame appeared, licking at the edges of the shavings. We arranged the sticks on top, and before long they started crackling and sputtering, throwing off sparks of their own.
In silence, we warmed our hands before the swelling flame. Then, after a time, we turned to each other. I gave an approving nod; so did Lleu. Around us, the hut rippled with firelight, as waves of orange flowed across the walls. And a new warmth touched us both.
After a time, we crawled back to our places on the floor. As he settled himself on the dirt, I did the same. For a while I watched the new column of rising smoke. Since the air was still cold, I reached for the scarf beside me. The touch of its thick wool in my hand gave me an idea.
I sat up and leaned over Lleu. He watched me uncertainly. I could see, in the firelight, the dried blood that encrusted the hair around his sliced ear. Gently, I offered him the scarf, knowing that Cairpré would be as pleased as myself if the boy wore it.
He hesitated for a moment. At last, he reached out and took the scarf, the hint of another shy smile on his face. Then he did something I hadn’t expected. Instead of looping the scarf around his neck, or stretching it across his chest, he wrapped it around his feet, covering his bare toes.
With a final nod of thanks, he curled himself into a ball. Before long, he fell asleep. As did I.
PART TWO
10: AWAKENING
As the first hint of gray light touched the sky, not so much erasing the night as thinning it, Rhia and I set off. We passed through the warped posts of the village gate, our breath, like our horses’, forming frosty clouds in the night air. The cold slapped my face and stiffened my limbs; my fingers felt as hard and lifeless as the ground itself. Meanwhile, worries crowded my mind. Only when I thought of Lleu, and the fire we’d built together, did I smile inwardly.
Rhia, like me, seemed lost in thought. Huddled in Mother’s vest, she sat astride the mare Coella, whose ears swiveled apprehensively. Meanwhile, I rode Ionn, listening to his hooves smacking the turf, cracking the slabs of ice that might later in the day become puddles. I glanced over at Rhia, glad that she’d wanted to keep wearing the vest. Touched by the vague predawn light, it glowed with the yellow hues of astral flowers. And with the green eyes of Scullyrumpus, who had nestled deep in its folds.
As we passed through a small copse of oak, ash, and hawthorn, the sun arose, touching the tops of the leafless trees with golden hues. Rhia’s face, uncharacteristically stern, turned to me. I could tell that she was missing her home in Druma Wood, where winter touched the land so lightly. And I could also feel her unasked questions about my plans.
Plans. That was much too strong a word. I had only an ide
a, and not a lot of confidence that it would work. Or that Rhia would even agree to it. I felt grateful, at least, that I still had a few more hours to think it through, since Rhia had asked only that I explain myself by nightfall. But the passage of time did nothing to calm my queasy stomach.
For the rest of the day, we rode north together across the frosted plains. We spoke little, though Scullyrumpus’ unwavering scowl told me his thoughts quite plainly. Throughout the day, the horses’ pace, like the dreary clouds overhead, never changed. Why rush, when I myself wasn’t sure where we were going?
In time, a colorless sunset brightened the clouds to the west. We approached a still-flowing rivulet, bubbling out of a thick stand of trees. Pointing to a tilting oak tree by the forest’s edge, I declared, “There’s our camp for the night.”
“Wondyful, just wondyful,” grumbled the voice from Rhia’s shoulder. “And no food for supper, I suresure.”
Rhia silenced him with a wave. “I’ve got some oatcakes, you glutton. And maybe some rivertang berries if you stay quiet.” She shot me a glance. “Merlin has some talking to do.”
“Goodgood,” chattered Scullyrumpus. “Clumsy man talking helps me sleeping.”
Without bothering to tether the horses, we sat by the roots of the oak, which clasped the turf like bony fingers. From one of her pockets, Rhia pulled out a handful of oatcakes, plus a few dried berries, purple and tart. I took some, as did Scullyrumpus with a smack of his lips. Reaching for a rounded stone, I broke away the fingers of ice that were stretching across the rivulet. As I dunked Rhia’s flask, filling it to the top, the frigid water drenched my hand.
“We could use some of your raspberry syrup right now,” I lamented.
She chuckled at the thought, her eyes alight. Despite everything, I felt glad to be in her company. For one more night, at least.
“Well,” I began. “Let’s—”
“Night night, talky man,” said Scullyrumpus, sliding into Rhia’s sleeve pocket with an oatcake in each paw. “Be sure jabber all night now. And don’t fallyfall in river, hek-heka, hee-hee-hee-ho.”
Watching his ears disappear into the pocket, I shook my head. “He’s such good company.”
Rhia swallowed one of her berries. “He makes me laugh now and then. That’s worth something.”
“About as much as a sour stomach, if you ask me.”
She reached over to me, rustling her thick vest, and tapped my leg. “So tell me this idea of yours.”
Drawing a deep breath, I began again. “Think about our problem for a minute. There isn’t nearly enough time to alert every creature on Fincayra. So that means I’ve got to decide which ones would be most helpful in turning back Rhita Gawr, and go after them. I’m thinking of trying the canyon eagles first.”
Rolling a berry between her fingers, she pondered the notion. “Makes sense. Go on.”
I studied her for a long moment. “Rhia, there are some creatures you know better than I—who trust you, as I do.”
She tensed, backing up against a burly root. “You’re not wanting me to . . . No, Merlin. I’d like to help you gather everyone, but I really can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she blurted out, “it can’t be done!”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do!” She turned away, staring into the gloomy forest behind the old oak. “At least it can’t be done by me. I belong in the Drama, you know that. With the trees, my friends.”
I laid my hand on the oak’s deeply rutted bark. “They might listen to you, Rhia. They might even stir from that slumber that’s kept them rooted for so many centuries.”
“Unlikely,” she scoffed. “Even the Drama’s trees, which are more awake than most, can’t lift their roots out of the ground anymore. They’ve slept so long they’ve forgotten how.”
“What about the walkers?” I pressed. “I met one just last year, near the Haunted Marsh.”
“A nynniaw pennent? A real one? You never told me!” Her gray-blue eyes widened for an instant. Then, just as quickly, her excitement faded. “You know how rare they are. I’ve heard only five or six are left on this whole island. And besides, they look just like any other tree. Even their name means always there, never found.”
My hand moved down the ridges of the trunk, then dropped to her shoulder. “You could find them, Rhia. I know you could! And if you can reach them, they might know how to awaken the other trees.” I bent closer, gazing at her intently. “Think of it! A forest on the move, as you described last night! If Rhita Gawr’s army ever saw such a thing . . .”
My words trailed off, but my gaze never slackened. “Remember? Like a mountain on the move, like a tide upon the land.”
Running a hand through her curls, she stared at me, unconvinced. “It’s fine to imagine. But . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m just not good at this kind of thing.”
“Come on now. You confronted Stangmar in his own castle, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and hated every minute of it.”
“And you came with me into the dragon’s lair, didn’t you? It wasn’t our friend Gwynnia we faced there, but her father, three times bigger and a thousand times more wrathful.”
Her face softened enough to show a spare grin. “That was the day you took a bite out of your own boot.”
“Mmmm,” I said, pretending to chew on something impossibly tough. “Bring me,” chomp, chomp, “some more salt.”
Her grin widened. “Not needed! There’s enough already from your sweaty feet.”
At that, we both laughed, so hard that Scullyrumpus poked out his head, watching us in surprise. Seeing one of Rhia’s oatcakes resting unguarded on a root, he leaped down, snatched the morsel, and plunged back into the pocket before anyone could object.
As we quieted, she looked at me long and hard. “You’re mad, Brother. Utterly mad.”
I nodded.
“And the whole idea is ridiculous. Not to mention dangerous, with both Stangmar and that sword-armed character roaming about.”
I nodded again.
She swallowed. “All right, I’ll do it.” Scowling at me, she added, “How do you ever talk me into these things?”
“The same way you talked me into flying on that vine.”
Her fingers drummed on the tilting trunk of the oak, already lined with dusky shadows. “Tell me what else you’re thinking. While I’m off trying to rouse the trees, what other allies do you hope to win?”
“Well, the canyon eagles, as I said. They’re tricky to find, as you know, but I helped them long ago and I’m hoping they haven’t forgotten.”
“Who else?”
“The giants, as many as possible. Shim’s already taken on that task. But we’ll also need some help from the dwarves, fierce fighters that they are.”
“That won’t be easy.” She popped her remaining berry into her mouth. “Your last encounter with Urnalda was about as tart as this berry.”
My hand ran along the carved handle of my staff, resting beside me on the roots. “I know, believe me. But she’s more than just the dwarves’ leader, right? She’s an enchantress, a powerful one, with her own ability to see the future. It’s possible she already knows the dangers we’re facing. And if she could be persuaded—well, one angry dwarf is worth a dozen of Rhita Gawr’s warrior goblins.”
“Wait, now. You can bet Rhita Gawr will have some help from the goblins, his old allies. But most of his army will be spirits, deathless beings. That’s what Dagda told you. How do you expect to fight them?”
For several seconds, I listened to the slapping of the rivulet, bounding past the rims of ice along its edges. “I don’t know,” I said at last. “I really don’t know. We’ll just have to do our best.”
Rhia chewed silently—not on any food, but on her lip. “We’ll need to contact the wind sisters somehow. I wish I knew how to reach our old friend Aylah.”
“You never find the wind,” I corrected. “It finds
you. Now, someone I might be able to reach is the Grand Elusa. She’ll surely fight for Fincayra! With her size and power—not to mention that appetite of hers, fitting for a giant spider—she’s the most dangerous creature ever to walk on this island.” I paused. “Except for a dragon.”
My throat constricted as I thought of Hallia, traveling northward in search of Gwynnia’s lair. Would she find it in time? Would the dragon be there . . . and willing to help?
“We’ll need men and women,” Rhia said decisively. “Every person we can find. And my friends the wood elves might agree to join us, though they’re as elusive as shadows.”
My own shadow, barely visible on the darkening ground, shook its head vigorously.
“All right, all right,” I said. “None of her elves are as elusive as you.”
The shaking ceased.
I swung my head back to Rhia. “The marsh ghouls, too.”
She frowned. “Not them. They’re savage fighters, all right, but they can’t be trusted.”
“You weren’t there when I met them—and helped them. Maybe they’ll remember, and want to repay their debt.”
Her frown only deepened. “They’re at the bottom of our list. Only the living stones would be worse prospects. Ha! You won’t even get a living stone to talk with you, let alone join with you.”
“But I did, Rhia! Don’t you remember? That night when the living stone tried to swallow me? We did speak, and I remember it still—that deep, rumbling voice. There’s life in those ancient boulders, and great wisdom, too. I can reach them, I’m sure I can.”
“Myself, I’d rather try to wake the trees. If it’s really possible.”
“Let’s find out,” I suggested, nodding toward the oak.
She eyed me uncertainly for a moment, then laid her hand, fingers splayed wide, upon the rutted bark of the trunk. Closing her eyes, she started to whisper in the deep, breathy tones of the oak’s language. Hooo washhhaaa washhhaaa lowww, hooo washhhaaa lowww wayanooo. Again she repeated the chant, and again.