The Old Magic

by James Mallory

  “I can take care of him!” Mab retorted.

  She gestured, and instantly the hut was filled with a cloud of winged sprites in all the colors of the rainbow. Before Ambrosia’s astonished eyes they began to build a cradle of rowan twigs lined with soft river moss and birds’ down.

  Outside the window, Ambrosia could see that another cloud of sprites hovered around her old nanny goat while a brownie milked it into a tiny wooden bucket. The inside of the hut began to sparkle as it was decorated with out-of-season flowers and the colorful feathers of tropic birds. An empty jug on the table began to fill with flower nectar, gathered by an army of pixies.

  “Tricks,” Ambrosia sneered.

  At Ambrosia’s remark Mab stopped, her head tilted to one side as if she were some great bird of prey as she regarded the old priestess. Ambrosia braced herself for a fight.

  “You need more than tricks to bring up a child, you know. You don’t know the first thing about it, do you? You need patience, understanding, and love.” Ambrosia sighed, suddenly sad for everything that all of them had lost. “Above all, you need love. That’s something you had once, but no more.”

  She could tell that no one had spoken so plainly to Queen Mab in a long time. Frik cowered back against the wall of the hut, trying desperately to remain unnoticed. Mab drew herself up, seeming to grow taller in her fury.

  “He won’t need love,” Mab snapped. “He’ll have power. Give him to me!” Mab glowered and raised her hand as if she would strike.

  Ambrosia held the baby closer. I do this for you, little Merlin. You have the right to know both sides of your heritage—and who will teach you about humankind if I don’t?

  “You want him to grow up, don’t you?” Ambrosia countered, taking a step backward. “You want him to become a man?”

  Mab hesitated, watching her with the intensity of a hungry wolf.

  “Nothing grows in the Land of Magic,” Ambrosia said. “Time stands still there, Queen Mab. We all know that. If you want this child to grow to be a man, you have to leave him here with me to grow.”

  “I wouldn’t trust her if I were you, Madame,” Frik said officiously, overcoming his earlier alarm.

  Mab turned on him, Ambrosia momentarily forgotten. “When I want your opinion, Frik, I’ll give it to you! The witch has always had a sharp tongue, but she’s always spoken the truth … unlike some at my court.”

  She turned back to Ambrosia, but all of her attention was fixed on the baby in Ambrosia’s arms. Mab regarded Merlin with such a look of longing, almost of love, that it nearly softened the heart of her former priestess.

  But Ambrosia knew too well what Mab had become.

  “Very well,” Mab finally said. “The boy stays with you—but don’t you try to turn him against the Old Ways, Ambrosia, or you’ll answer to me! He belongs to me: He’s my son. You can keep him only until his wizard nature awakens within him. On the day that the power of the Old Ways rouses in him, I will send for him.”

  May that day never come! Ambrosia thought fiercely. She nodded slowly. “That’s fair, Queen Mab.”

  “Fair or not, it’s my ruling!” Mab spat. She flung up her arms and vanished in a flicker of light.

  Frik remained behind. He and Ambrosia stared at each other for a frozen moment.

  “Scat, you bumblewit!” Ambrosia said, shifting the baby to one arm and reaching for the hearth-broom.

  Frik hastily disappeared as well.

  Ambrosia looked around the empty hut, still littered with glittering fairy trash. There was an empty basket on the hearth, laid ready last night for the child to come. Ambrosia picked it up, setting it atop the table beside the fairy cradle. When she bumped it, the cradle fell from the table and exploded into a pile of leaves on the floor.

  “Pretty things,” Ambrosia muttered, “but they don’t last.”

  She set the baby in the basket and tucked him up warmly, then picked up the broom and began to clean the leaves and flowers and cobwebs the sprites had brought out of the little hut. It took her several hours, but she wasn’t willing to stop until everything that Mab had brought with her was gone.

  She’d dumped the last bushel of leaves at the edge of the clearing, when she looked up to see Herne standing right in front of her, in the shadow of a large oak.

  “I didn’t see you there,” Ambrosia said brusquely. She could see by his face that there was no need to tell him the news.

  “I’ve only just come,” Herne said quietly. He indicated the spade leaning against the tree. “I thought that at least I might dig her grave.”

  “You do that, lad,” Ambrosia said. The tears she had held back for so long welled up in her old eyes, and she scrubbed them roughly away, turning to go back into the hut.

  She picked up the jug on the table, half-full with nectar, and went out to finish filling it with fresh goat’s milk. When it was full, she poured the mixture into a bottle, and then sat down on a stool before the hearth and set about the business of giving little Merlin his first meal.

  She looked down into his crumpled newborn’s face, already beginning to smooth out into infant roundness. He was a beautiful baby, and he’d grow to be a handsome man—if nobody meddled too much.

  She’d been reluctant to make the promise she had to Elissa, but now she was glad she had. With Mab’s blood running in his veins, Merlin had as great a potential in him for harm as for good. But Ambrosia would love him, and pray that her love would awaken the heart-magic of the lost Grail in him. At Avalon they taught that Love was the greatest power in the world, and Ambrosia hoped fervently that they were right.

  “Poor little tyke,” she said, rocking him gently in her arms. “No father and three mothers … whatever are we going to do with you, young Master Merlin?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE COURTS OF MIRRORS

  Spring followed winter, melted into summer, withered into fall, and became winter again as the Wheel of the Year spun onward. The boy learned to walk, and, soon, to run. He ruled over his forest kingdom like a young prince, roaming wherever he chose, confident and unafraid. It was the greatest gift of all those his foster-mother Ambrosia ever gave him, that though she worried constantly about his safety, Merlin never knew.

  The morning air was cool, and dew still glistened on spiderwebs and leaves as Merlin made his way along the forest path.

  He was a gawky teenager—at that awkward age, his foster-mother said, all knees and elbows and good intentions. His wide-set eyes were the vivid blue of the sky, peering out from a fox-sharp face he had yet to grow into. His long unruly brown hair collected more than its fair share of twigs and tangles and birdfeathers in the course of each day; Ambrosia scolded him as she combed them free each night. He wore the same simple homespun that the farmers did, and in his greens and browns he could blend into the trees nearly as well as his friend Herne, but his sunny open nature saw little need for concealment. He had never experienced any unkindness or disappointment in all his seventeen years. He was kind to everyone he met, and received kindness in return, and in his innocence Merlin thought that was the way the world ran.

  The basket under his arm creaked as the heavy contents shifted, but the boy simply hugged it tighter. Nestled in the basket beneath the homespun cloth were a crock of his foster-mother’s apple preserves with brandy, two loaves of fresh brown bread, and a ramekin of sweet butter—a tempting assortment for an always-hungry teenager, but Merlin resisted them determinedly. These provisions were for a friend of his—the hermit Blaise, who lived deep in the heart of the forest.

  Blaise was a follower of the new religion, but Merlin found nothing odd in that. He had many friends who believed in many different things. For all people to believe the same thing, Herne said, would be as strange as expecting wolves to eat acorns or red squirrels to chase mice. Each beast of the forest was true to its own nature, and so it was for every man.

  “Merlin—Merlin—Merlin—where are you going this morning?” a voice called over his head.
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  I could reach out my hand and blast you into a ball of feathers.

  The cold angry thought appeared in his mind like a hostile stranger, and Merlin recoiled from it in dismay. He did not understand the source of such black thoughts, or the suspicion—almost a premonition—that he really did have the ability to act on those cruel thoughts. Sometimes it was as if he shared his body with a stranger—a stranger he never wanted to meet.

  He took a deep breath and peered up at his friend. “I’m going to see Blaise,” Merlin said. He held out his free hand, and the speaker floated down through the air to perch on his hand.

  “Are you bringing him food?” the raven asked eagerly. “Do you think he might share?”

  “You’re always hungry, Bran,” Merlin said with amusement. The impulse of cruelty vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Well, hop aboard. We’ll see.”

  The raven hopped up his arm and perched on Merlin’s shoulder. He reached up and stroked its feathers with one finger, and the bird preened its enjoyment.

  “Oh, Merlin! Don’t listen to him. Bran never tells the truth!” a pair of red squirrels chattered. They stopped halfway up a tree to regard Merlin with bright black eyes.

  “Oh, you can believe Bran when he says he’s hungry, because its almost always true. Hello, Rufus. Hello, Rusty,” Merlin said, waving as he continued along his way. The squirrels chased each other, scolding and chattering, up into the high branches of the ancient oak.

  He did not find it odd to be able to talk to the animals, since nobody had ever told him that people didn’t do things like that. In all his seventeen years, Merlin had seen very few people other than Blaise, Herne, and his Aunt Ambrosia, and they were mostly taciturn shirefolk who came to see Ambrosia for herbs and medicines. If he had not had the birds and beasts of the forest for company, Merlin would have been very lonely indeed, but until recently he had never been tempted to leave the wood to seek out others of his own kind.

  While he knew that there was a whole world beyond the forest edge, until lately he’d been content to confine his explorations to the forest itself. But for the last several months a new restlessness had been growing in him, something for which he had no name. Part of him feared that this nameless feeling was linked to the ugly thoughts he had, and part of him longed to understand it. It seemed to him as if this peculiar new uneasiness was like a cluster of bright berries that hung just out of reach—you’d never be able to tell if they were sweet or sour until you found some way of reaching them.

  “Ow!”

  Bran pecked him sharply on the ear, and Merlin realized that he was standing still, stopped at the place where the little forest path he was following crossed the wide track of the main road that passed through Barnstable Forest. Ambrosia had forbidden him ever to follow it to see what lay beyond the forest, and as it was the only thing she’d ever forbidden him, Merlin had always assumed the prohibition was for his own good. He’d never questioned it—until now.

  “Hurry up!” the greedy raven demanded.

  Merlin stepped out of the bushes and stood in the middle of the road, peering down its length. There was a whole world out there—wonders he’d never glimpsed, let alone imagined. How dangerous could it be to follow the road and find them? You have the power to do just as you please, and no one can stop you, the inner voice wheedled. Merlin tried to ignore it.

  “Bran, do you ever wonder what’s out there?”

  “No!” the raven said positively. “Don’t think about such things, young Merlin—it only leads to trouble.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Merlin sighed, and crossed the road. He knew enough to stick to the path in this area, because this part of the forest was filled with treacherous mudholes wide and deep enough to suck down a horse and cart in seconds. All the forest animals knew enough to avoid the mudholes, and they had taught Merlin the location of all of them over the years.

  A few minutes more brought him to Blaise’s forest dwelling. Blaise lived in a hut much smaller than the one that Merlin shared with Ambrosia. When Merlin had befriended him, the hermit had been hardly more than skin and bones, living entirely on eggs and mushrooms and whatever he could gather in the forest. Now, with the help of years of Ambrosia’s cooking, the old hermit was decidedly plump.

  “Blaise!” Merlin shouted, as he entered the clearing. “Blaise, where are you?”

  “Here, young Merlin.” Blaise crawled out through the low door of his hut and stood up.

  The old hermit’s hair and beard were long and white, and winter and summer he wore nothing more than a simple tunic of deerskin, going barefoot and cloakless no matter how deep the snow upon the ground. When Merlin had been much younger, he’d asked Blaise why.

  “So that I can pay more attention to what’s important in this life. It’s the only one we have, young Merlin, so we have to pay attention while we can,” the hermit said.

  Merlin laughed, not understanding. “I’ve had many lives before this one, and I’ll have many more,” he answered.

  “Perhaps you will,” Blaise had told him. “But it’s to your advantage to live each life as if it were your only one, so that you can be proud of it.”

  Merlin had not known what Blaise meant at the time, but more and more these days, his mind turned back to those words. How did you live a good life, one you could be proud of? He’d asked the deer and the wolves and the ravens, but none of them had understood his question.

  “Is that a basket I see?” the old hermit asked, smacking his lips in anticipation. Merlin held it out to him.

  “Aunt Ambrosia baked yesterday. She sent me to bring you some bread and butter—and the last of the apple preserves she put up last winter.”

  Bran flew up off of Merlin’s shoulder and settled on a low tree branch, watching the food closely.

  “It will be berrying season soon,” Blaise said, coming to take the basket and peering inside. “I’m looking forward to another pot of Ambrosia’s black-berry jam. But come, lad, sit down. I was just making tea, and I’ve got a nice large honeycomb for you to take back to Ambrosia.”

  Merlin sat down on a stone beside the door of Blaise’s hut. Bran fluttered from the tree to the roof of the hut, where he could get a better look at the basket.

  “You stay out of that,” Merlin warned.

  “Eh?” the hermit said. He lifted the steaming kettle from the fire and carefully poured its contents into two thick clay cups.

  “Oh, I was just talking to Bran. He’s hoping for a hand-out,” Merlin said.

  “Charity is always a virtue, unless it is motivated by conceit,” Blaise said. “Then it ceases to be charity, and becomes cruelty.” He handed Merlin his cup, then reached into the basket and broke off a chunk of bread. He held it out to the bird, which seized it eagerly in its beak and flew up into a tree to enjoy its feast.

  “How can charity be cruel?” Merlin asked, puzzled. In the years they’d known each other, Blaise had told Merlin many things—the names of the trees in the forest and the stars in the sky. His talks with Blaise always challenged his mind, filling his mind with questions that lasted for weeks. Whatever Ambrosia did not know, Blaise did, and Merlin had always assumed that between the two of them, they knew everything there was to know. But lately Merlin had begun to realize that there was something outside their vast store of knowledge, something that maybe he had to discover for himself. He listened closely to Blaise’s reply, still hoping to find his answers there.

  “When charity is given only to impress its recipient with how superior the giver is, then its purpose is to sow anger and despair. The charity of princes leads to wars, more often than not, because only the truly humble and good can dispense true charity.”

  “Can’t a king ever be humble and good?” Merlin asked.

  Blaise smiled. “Have you ever known one who was?”

  “I’ve never known any kings,” Merlin admitted, sipping his sweet herb tea. “Everyone says we have two—Vortigern and Uther—and that Uther is
our true king, because he’s the son of King Constant. But if Uther’s our rightful king, why isn’t he here? And if Vortigern isn’t our true king, how does he rule?”

  Blaise sighed. “You ask deep questions, Master Merlin, and I have no easy answers for you. All the answers to that sort of question lie outside this forest—and the world out there is a cold and wicked place.”

  “It’s because the king is wicked,” Merlin said dreamily, staring at the dancing dust-motes in a beam of sunlight. Sometimes the new inner voice told him interesting things, and this was one of them. “Because the land follows the king, and the king serves the land. If I were king, I’d be humble and good, and teach others to be good also.”

  “You cannot teach goodness,” Blaise said tartly. “It comes from the heart—it isn’t something you can slap on like a coat of whitewash.”

  Merlin sighed, shrugging himself out of his daydream. There were so many voices, both inner and outer, that at times it was hard to know which to listen to. “I have so much to learn, Blaise. There’s something I need to know—only I don’t know what it is. But it’s as if there’s something inside me, and it’s a part of me, but not like me at all. I want to be good, and fair, and just—but how can I tell if I’m being good, when I’m not sure what being good is?”

  The old hermit sighed. He reached out and patted Merlin’s knee reassuringly. “Patience, young sir. Have patience. You’ll know all the answers to your questions with time. But be wary in your search for truth. You tread a dangerous path.”

  “I know,” Merlin said, although he didn’t. It seemed these days that more and more of his talks with Blaise ended in warnings. It was frustrating to be warned about something, but not to be told what that something was.

  His Aunt Ambrosia knew. Merlin was sure of it. But no one could get Aunt Ambrosia to talk about something if she didn’t want to.

  Perhaps he could find his answers outside the forest. But everyone told him that the outside world was a big place—if he went in search of answers there, how would he even know where to begin looking?