Wayfarer

by R. J. Anderson

  And wait some more, because the stop at Cardigan was on a busy street, and he only had a few minutes to catch the coach to their next destination. Which turned out to be almost as crowded as the last one, so again he was forced to remain silent, knowing Linden was only a few inches away and yet she might as well have been in Uganda for all the good it did either of them….

  The inside of Timothy’s pack smelled unpleasantly of damp, not to mention the dirty socks he’d stuffed into it that morning, and it galled Linden that she couldn’t see a thing that was going on. This journey felt ten times longer to her than yesterday’s had been. Still, at least she was warm and dry, with a full stomach-and after last night, she would never take any of those things for granted again.

  She had lost all sense of time or direction and was half asleep from sheer boredom when she felt a soft bump and the mouth of the pack opened, letting in a gust of cool, deliciously fresh air. Timothy was gazing down at her, his mouth crooked in a rueful smile.

  “Sorry,” he said. “About everything.”

  She’d been savoring her resentment all morning, but now it evaporated in the sheer relief of knowing they’d reached their destination at last. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Wait a minute,” Timothy cautioned in an undertone. “Just until these people walk past us…All right, they’re gone. You can come out.”

  It was easy for Linden to change size now; the hard thing was remembering that it had ever been difficult in the first place. “Oh!” she said as her head rose to the height of Timothy’s shoulder. “I forgot to tell you! Last night I was so tired that I went to sleep at this size instead of remembering to make myself small, and I was still big when I woke up in the morning! Isn’t that-” But then she saw what lay ahead of them and broke off, her lips parted in wonder.

  They stood at the top of a cobbled street, beside a wall of uneven dove-gray stones. The lane ended in a soaring gateway flanked by square towers, and looking through it, Linden could see the spires of St. David’s Cathedral.

  It was old, older than the Oak by far, she could tell. To think that human hands had built this enormous church and preserved it over the long centuries amazed her, but even more exciting was the hope of what they might find within its grounds-the magical herbs that would lead them to the Children of Rhys.

  As they passed beneath the gate and into the churchyard, Timothy let out a low, disheartened whistle. “This place is huge,” he said. “We could be here until the Blackwings catch up with us.”

  “Then we had better start looking, hadn’t we?” Linden shielded her eyes with her hand as she surveyed the distant horizon. “But shouldn’t we be able to see the ocean from here? It all looks like sky to me.”

  “It’s too cloudy,” said Timothy. “Or maybe the legend was wrong. I don’t know.” He seemed defeated already, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped beneath the backpack’s weight.

  Linden looked behind her and saw a low-walled garden with a stone cottage behind it. Perhaps it hadn’t been part of the original churchyard, but it might give her a better view…and she climbed up onto the tiny lawn, treading carefully to avoid the shoots of young daffodils that were just beginning to nudge through the grass.

  At first she saw nothing beyond the cathedral but a haze of leafless trees and the rocky shoulder of a faraway hill. She stood on tiptoe, straining with all her senses…and gradually the island appeared to her, shining out from the mists.

  It seemed almost to float, independent of the sea, and the grass that velveted its slopes was not the uncertain yellow-green of early spring but the deep emerald of midsummer. A little wood grew on one side of the island, and its leaves too were green, as though winter had never touched them.

  “Timothy!” she shouted down to him. “I see it!”

  He scrambled up to join her, one hand pressed to his injured side. “Where?”

  “Right there,” she said eagerly, pointing ahead. “A minute ago there was nothing, and then…”

  Timothy squinted into the distance. “I don’t see anything. Here, move over and let me stand where you are.”

  Linden stepped to one side and he took her place, but his frown remained. “I can’t see anything,” he said. “Are you sure it wasn’t just the clouds?”

  “I’m certain,” she said. “I can still see it now.”

  Timothy let his hand drop back to his side. “Of course you can,” he said, sounding disgusted. “You’re a faery yourself, and you knew what you were looking for-their glamour couldn’t fool you. You could probably have spotted that island from the window of the coach, if only I’d given you the chance.” He kicked the turf, stomped a few paces-and stopped.

  “Did you say an island?” he said. He sounded dazed, almost dreamy, and he was looking off at a different angle, beyond the cathedral tower.

  Linden followed the line of his gaze, and let out a slow exhalation of surprise. He was right: There were two islands. But if he could see them as well…

  She bent to examine the turf at Timothy’s feet. What she’d taken for daffodil shoots were actually a smooth-leaved plant she’d never seen before. When she broke off one of the leaves, the juice that welled out had a sweet, fruity scent, but it left no stickiness upon her fingers.

  “I think we’ve found Gruffydd’s magic herbs,” she said, smiling up at him.

  With the iron key in his pocket, a clump of strange plants in his backpack, and his injured side clumsily patched together with bandages and gauze, Timothy felt like he’d just come back from a visit to the witch doctor-but he couldn’t deny that the magical herbs seemed to do exactly as the legend claimed. Eyes fixed on the distant islands, he and Linden made their careful way down the slope of the churchyard, past the ruins of the Bishop’s palace, and out beyond the stone walls of the cathedral yard. Within minutes they had found a footpath that would lead them toward the sea.

  “How are we going to get out to the island?” Linden panted as they hurried along. It was past noon, the sun high above them, but the air was still cold enough to make Timothy’s lungs ache. He had to catch his own breath before he could reply: “We’ll have to hire a boat, I guess.”

  Preferably one with a motor, or at least a good pair of oars. He hadn’t a clue how to sail, but Paul had taken him rowing on his last visit to Oakhaven, and he’d learned a few things then. Never mind that he’d probably rip his side open on the first stroke, or how likely it was that some current would grab hold of the boat and whisk the two of them straight out to sea….

  The path grew rockier as they walked along, the countryside more open and wild. Soon they had left St. David’s behind, and were edging around the side of a steep and rugged hill. Timothy paused to get his bearings, and when he looked out at the choppy waters of Cardigan Bay, he could now see three distinct green islands.

  “We need to go over more this way,” he called back to Linden, but she had lagged behind, and he could no longer see her. He was cupping his hands to his mouth to shout again when he saw her flashing toward him at faery size, her wings buzzing frantically.

  “They’ve found us!” she gasped, circling around him. “The Blackwings-they’re here!”

  Timothy looked up to see two familiar ragged shapes flapping across the sky toward them. The first raven’s wings beat the air with smooth, powerful strokes, but the other’s flight was halting, as though it had been injured….

  He broke into a run, leaping from rock to rock with blind urgency as he angled down the gravelly slope toward the sea. The green islands looked so close-he knew he hadn’t a prayer of reaching them, but there was nowhere else to go except back and he wasn’t ready to give up, not like this, not yet-

  The world pitched over and he hit the ground hard, skidding his palms raw on the stony ground. His side flared with agony as he rolled over, sickeningly certain the Blackwings had caught him in their spell-but then he saw his shoe trapped between two rocks, wedged there by nothing more sinis
ter than his own carelessness. He wrenched his foot free, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ankle, then scrambled around and pried the shoe loose so he could put it back on.

  “Hurry!” screamed Linden, her voice so high he could barely hear it. She was just a speck in the distance now: He’d never catch up to her. But the ravens were almost upon him, weaving through the air, a shimmering web of magic coalescing between their wings. Timothy limped down the hillside as quickly as he could, eyes raking the slope for some sign of cover. He’d seen a lopsided heap of stones on the far side of the hill, ruins of some ancient monument. If only he could find something like that, he might be able to hide-but though his gaze swept the ground in every direction, there was no sign of shelter.

  A tingling heat raced up his back, and all his hair stood on end. Timothy knew at once that he’d been touched by magic-but as the electric feeling died, he realized that the iron key in his pocket was still protecting him.

  Relieved, he scrambled around the side of the hill and back onto the footpath. The ravens wheeled above him, regrouping for another try…no, wait. There was only one of them now. Where was the other? He looked around-and a great black shape leaped into him, snarling.

  Timothy tumbled flat onto his back, rigid with horror as he stared up into the glowering eyes of an enormous hound. It bared its teeth, and hot breath steamed over his face, reeking of carrion. Then a word rumbled up from its throat, slurring over the dog’s lips and tongue but horribly comprehensible just the same:

  “Checkmate.”

  He couldn’t see Linden anywhere. Not that it mattered: There was nothing she could do. You didn’t warn us they could be dogs, too, Rob.

  The dog reared up, heavy paws lifting from his shoulders-and suddenly he felt a booted foot on his chest instead. “I know about the iron you carry,” said a cool voice, and he looked up into the faery’s hard, contemptuous eyes. “Attempt to touch it, and I will snap your neck.”

  The remaining raven flapped down onto the path, folded its wings-and became another male faery, like a slightly flawed copy of the first. He flexed his stiff arm and winced, then slapped his brother on the shoulder and broke into a grin. “Good hunting, Corbin.”

  “The hunt is not over yet,” said the taller Blackwing, his eyes still on Timothy. “The little rebel escaped-but in that small form, she cannot fly far. We will take her soon enough.”

  “How did you…find us?” gasped Timothy. The Blackwings didn’t know about the Children of Rhys; if he kept them talking long enough, then Linden might be able to fly to one of the magical islands, out of their reach. “Thought we’d thrown you off the scent.”

  “We track by magic, not some human stench,” said Corbin with contempt. “With a hair from the girl’s head in our possession, all we needed to catch you was patience and time.” Then he leaned down and said softly, “But where, I wonder, were you headed? And what did you hope to find there?”

  Timothy faked a fit of coughing, buying himself a few precious seconds to think. “We were looking for some…magical plants. They’re…supposed to grow around here. Because Linden’s Queen…she’s dying.”

  Corbin made a scornful noise. “And for this you chose to throw in your lot with the Forsaken, and risk your very life? Only a fool would believe such a tale.”

  “She promised me…gold…if I helped,” Timothy wheezed. “As much as I wanted.”

  Behind them, the injured Blackwing laughed. “Gold! Say rather a handful of acorns and a few withered leaves, for that is all you would have in the end.”

  “Indeed,” said Corbin, and the pressure on Timothy’s chest eased a little. “And where is your faery companion now? Flying away from you as fast as her wings will carry her. So much for your hopes of reward.” He stepped back, nodding at his brother. “Byrne, guard him. I will catch the girl.” And with that he shifted back into raven form and flapped off down the hillside.

  Until then Timothy had lain limp on the rocky ground, offering no resistance. But all the while he and Corbin were talking, he’d been inching his fingers toward his pocket. Now he risked everything on a sudden snatch at the key-

  — but he’d only just pulled it out when Byrne kicked his elbow, and the key went flying. As Timothy’s only weapon clattered against the rocks and tumbled out of sight, the faery grabbed him and wrenched him to his feet.

  “That was foolish, boy,” he breathed, his dark eyes gleaming. “Very foolish.” He hooked his fingers, and Timothy jerked back-

  “Let him go!” shrilled Linden’s voice from behind them, and the male faery whirled, his grip on Timothy loosening. Timothy’s ankle still throbbed and his side felt as though it were splitting open, but he planted his feet and shoved Byrne as hard as he could.

  The Blackwing swayed, lost his footing, and toppled down the hillside. “Come on!” Linden shouted at Timothy, and he lurched after her, mouthing ow with every step.

  From somewhere behind him came a raven’s croaking call, then an answering cry from the far side of the hill. But Linden darted straight toward the ocean, and Timothy forced himself to ignore the pain and just run, run, run down the lessening slope until at last the pebbles and dry scrub gave way to green grass, and he could see the waves smashing against the rocks far below.

  “What do I do now?” he yelled at Linden, as the frigid sea wind whipped his hair into his eyes. “I can’t fly!”

  “This way!” she shouted back, pointing to a narrow trail that slanted down from the cliff’s edge. At its foot lay a smudge of sandy beach, a scant half-moon of a cove, where two tall stones stuck out of the water like the ruins of some ancient Roman gate. “Can’t you feel it? It’s magic!”

  So this was where Linden had gone, when the Blackwings thought she’d deserted him. She could have flown straight to the Children of Rhys for help, but instead she’d scouted out this cove, and then returned to the hillside to rescue Timothy and bring him there. As plans went it was noble, impractical, and built mostly on faith-in short, just like her.

  But all these thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, as Timothy scrambled onto the trail and began to pick his way downward as fast as he could go. Still, between his twisted ankle and his bleeding side he had a hard time of it, and he knew that at any second the ravens would swoop down upon him…

  “Where are they?” demanded Byrne’s voice from the top of the cliff.

  Timothy froze.

  “They cannot have vanished into the air,” replied Corbin’s cooler tones. “No doubt the girl has merely cast a glamour to throw us off their trail. But the finding spell will-” He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice was flat: “Impossible.”

  “You can’t find them? Let me try.” A pause, and then: “Her magic must be stronger than we thought. But the boy will still have footprints and a scent, no matter what glamour she puts on him. You fly that way, I’ll go back around the hill….”

  Flattened against the cliff face, Timothy listened in disbelief as the sound of the Blackwings’ voices faded away. They’d tracked him and Linden all the way out here, only to lose them at the last moment-but how?

  Linden was waiting for him at the bottom of the path, human size once more. The waves washed foam around her feet, and the breeze lifted her brown curls in all directions. “Look up!” she called excitedly. “Look at the sky!”

  Timothy shot a wary glance upward-and saw only empty, cloudless blue. Even the wind that had been tugging at his jacket had subsided, and there was no sign of the Blackwings anywhere.

  “The glamour around this cove is incredibly strong,” Linden said. “I don’t think the Blackwings could even see it-or us either, once we’d started down here. We must be very close to the Children of Rhys.”

  Legs wobbly with the effort of clambering down the path, Timothy edged the last few feet and stumbled onto the sand beside her. He dusted the grit and lichen off his hands, then straightened up and looked out at the sea. The mist over the ocean had cleared, and the sun shone summer bright;
he had a perfect view of the first of the magical islands, framed between the two ancient stones that rose up from the water. But it was still just as far away as ever-and they had no boat.

  “What now?” he said.

  Linden gazed out at the island, and her expression became distant. She raised her hand and touched her ear, cupping her palm against her cheek as they had seen Martin do on the train. “Children of Rhys,” she said. “We have come a long way to seek your help. Please, speak to us.”

  Long seconds passed, but the only sound was the waves crashing into the nearby cliffs. Linden’s face creased with disappointment, and she let her hand fall. “I really thought,” she began-but before she could finish the sentence the air between the standing stones shimmered, and a little boat slid out of nothingness to glide across the waves toward them. It drew up on the beach at Linden’s feet, empty and waiting.

  “You have called the Plant Rhys Ddwfn,” said a melodious Welsh-accented voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere: It could have been a man’s light tenor or a woman’s contralto, it was impossible to tell. “And we have answered. But we cannot allow strangers to set foot upon our islands unless we are certain that they are trustworthy. Will you turn away, or seek to pass the test?”

  As a child in Sunday School, Timothy had tried to imagine how the “still, small voice” of God had sounded when the prophet Elijah heard it in the wilderness. Now he felt as though he knew. “What test?” he asked, and the words sounded impossibly loud and coarse in his own ears.

  “The questions are these,” came the reply. “Do you honor the wishes of your ancestors, and obey those who have rule over you? Are you honest in all your dealings, forsaking treachery or deceitfulness? Are your hands clean of violence, and your heart free of envy and selfish ambition? If so, you are welcome among us. If not, you must forbear.”