The Great Tree of Avalon Read online

  The plunge becomes dangerous. . . .

  Tucking back his massive wings, Scree plunged downward. Wind rushed against his face, blowing his streaming hair backward. He narrowed his yellow-rimmed eyes to thin slits, and clutched the staff tight within his talon. Then he screeched the cry of the eaglefolk—a cry that meant only one thing.

  Death.

  The two intruders, who had neared the jagged rim of the crater, froze. Just as his prey always did. Inwardly, Scree smiled.

  One of the intruders, the short and pudgy one, yelped in fright and threw himself behind a charred black boulder. A flame vent spouted fire and smoke right beside him, but he just huddled there, cowering.

  The other one reacted differently. This one didn’t run and hide, or stand still, paralyzed with fright. No, this person instantly pulled out a bow and nocked an arrow.

  Scree didn’t veer aside. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced flamelon archers, who came up here hunting for action—or for eaglefolk meat. Even if the bowman got off a shot before Scree reached him—which was unlikely, given Scree’s speed—he’d never hit the moving target. And never survive to shoot again.

  The bowman shot. Just as Scree had predicted, the arrow was easy to dodge.

  Scree plunged again. Rage flooded his mind. He screeched louder than before, his cry echoing across the smoky cliffs.

  By the time he saw the second arrow speeding toward him, it was too late.

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published in the United States of America as The Great Tree of Avalon: Child of the Dark Prophecy

  by Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2004

  Published as The Great Tree of Avalon by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011

  Patricia Lee Gauch, Editor

  Text copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2004

  Illustration copyright © David Elliot, 2004

  Map copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2004

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Barron, T. A. Child of the dark prophecy / T. A. Barron

  p. cm.—(The great tree of Avalon ; bk. 1)

  Summary: In accordance with prophecy, Avalon’s existence is threatened in the year that stars stop shining and at the time when both the dark child and Merlin’s heir are to be revealed.

  ISBN : 0-399-23763-1 (hc)

  [1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Avalon (Legendary place)—Fiction. 3. Fantasy.]

  I. Title

  PZ7.B27567 Ch 2004 [Fic]—dc22 2004044427

  Puffin Books ISBN 978-0-14-241927-4

  Design by Semadar Megged

  Text set in ITC Galliard

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out , or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  A Word from the Author

  Avalon lives. For centuries, it has been celebrated in story and song . . . for its magic, its mist, and most of all, I think, its memory of a time of truth and healing amidst mortal sorrow. It is a story, and a place, that continues to grow—much like the Great Tree of this story, whose roots reach as deep as its branches lift high.

  Like all myths that have rooted themselves in our hearts, Avalon continually sprouts new interpretations: new blossoms and boughs. This tale is one of them. The shapes and colors of these new versions may be widely varied, but they are all connected to the same tree, drawing life from the same ancient soil. So while it is fair to say that I have reimagined Avalon in these pages, it is also true that this tale is but a tiny twig on an immense and wondrous tree—a tree that is very much alive.

  —T. A. B.

  To Mother Earth,

  beleaguered yet bountiful

  With special thanks to

  Denali Barron and Patricia Lee Gauch,

  my fellow explorers of realms in between

  Born of a Seed That Beats Like a Heart

  the celebrated opening lines of the bard Willenia’s history of Avalon

  As one world dies, another is born. It is a time both dark and bright, a moment of miracles. In the mist-shrouded land of Fincayra, an isle long forgotten is suddenly found, a small band of children defeats an army of death, and a people disgraced win their wings at last. And in the greatest miracle of all, a young wizard called Merlin earns his true name: Olo Eopia, great man of many worlds, many times. And yet . . . even as Fincayra is saved, it is lost—passing forever into the Otherworld of the Spirits.

  But in that very moment, a new world appears. Born of a seed that beats like a heart, a seed won by Merlin on his journey through a magical mirror, this new world is a tree: the Great Tree. It stands as a bridge between Earth and Heaven, between mortal and immortal, between shifting seas and eternal mist.

  Its landscape is immense, full of wonders and surprises. Its populace is as far-flung as the stars on high. Its essence is part hope, part tragedy, and part mystery.

  Its name is Avalon.

  The Dark Prophecy

  first revealed by the Lady of the Lake, Year of Avalon 694

  A year shall come when stars go dark,

  And faith will fail anon—

  For born shall be a child who spells

  The end of Avalon.

  The only hope beneath the stars

  To save that world so fair

  Will be the Merlin then alive:

  The wizard’s own true heir.

  What shall become of Avalon,

  Our dream, our deepest need?

  What glory or despair shall sprout

  From Merlin’s magic seed?

  Prologue: One Dark Night

  A flame vent erupted on the cliffs, blasting the darkness like an angry dragon.

  Then another. And another. All across the cliffs, among the highest in Fireroot, tongues of fire shot upward, licked the air, then vanished behind veils of ash and smoke. Rotten as sulfurous eggs, blacker even than the black rocks of this ridge, the heavy smoke swirled under cliffs and poured out of crevasses. Fire plants, shaped like ghoulish hands, flickered strangely as they stretched glowing fingers at anything that moved.

  But nothing moved on the cliffs. Nothing but smoke, and ash, and spitting flames. Nothing . . .
except two shadowy shapes that crept steadily higher.

  It was night, and the two shapes, a pair of burly men, knew well that darkness brought added dangers. Yet this particular night had lasted for months on end, its blackness broken only by the ceaseless fires of the cliffs. For this was the Year of Darkness—a time long dreaded, ever since the Lady of the Lake had made her infamous prophecy that all the stars of Avalon would go dark, and stay dark, for an entire year.

  Even so, the fact that night had swallowed all Seven Realms was not the most terrible part of the Dark Prophecy. No, far worse, the Lady had also foretold that in this year of darkness, a child would be born—a child destined to bring the very end of Avalon. The only hope, she had added, would come from someone else, someone she called the true heir of Merlin. Yet who that might be, and how he or she could ever defeat the child of the Dark Prophecy, no one knew.

  “Aaaghh!”

  The man’s pained cry echoed over the cliffs. “Damn lava rocks. Burn me feet, they do.”

  “Shuddup, ye blasted fool!” spat his companion, crouching nearby. “Afore ye ruin everthin’.”

  The first man, still rubbing his feet through the burned-out soles of his boots, started to reply—when he caught sight of something above them, at the very top of the cliffs. “Look thar,” he whispered, staring at a great tangle of branches, half lit by flames, that seemed to claw at the black sky.

  “Where?”

  “Up thar. A nest! I told ye we’d find—” He coughed, choking on a plume of smoke. “A nest.”

  The other man shook his head, sending up a cloud of black ash that had settled on his hair. “We ain’t seekin’ no nest, Obba, ye woodenbrain! We’re seekin’ a child. An’ some sort o’ stick, remember?”

  “Sure, but thar’s jest the place to find both, I say. Ossyn, if ye wasn’t me dumb liddle brother, I’d chuck ye right off this cliff. A dead flea’s got more brains!”

  Ignoring his brother’s growl, he went on. “Look, ol’ White Hands got us here all right, didn’t he? An’ promised us we’d find the child he wants. The one he calls the true heir o’—”

  “I don’t give a dragon’s tooth what he’s called, just as long as White Hands pays us good as he promised. What’s yer point?”

  Using the sleeve of his ragged cloak, Obba wiped some sweat from his eyes. “Me point is, think about what White Hands said. On top of the flaming clif s, you shall find the child. Them’s his exact words. An’ then he says to us: Beware the eagle-mother, who will do anything to protect her young. Don’t that make it clear ’nuf? The child’s in a nest.”

  “Clear as smoke,” his brother retorted, waving away another plume. “Even if thar is some eaglechild hidin’ up thar, it could be the wrong one. Could be any ol’ child—or even the Dark child that everyone’s jabberin’ about!”

  Obba reached over and grabbed his sleeve. “Use yer brain, will ye? There ain’t hardly any children bein’ born this year—not in any realm, remember? An’ lots o’ those that are born get killed straightaway, fer fear they could really be the Dark one. So if we do finds any child up here, it’s more’n likely the right one.”

  His eyes gleamed savagely, reflecting the flames. “Anyways, we don’t really care, do we? If ol’ White Hands wants to pay us fer a child, we brings him a child. An’ if he wants to believe that the true heir is so young—foolhardy, if ye ask me—that’s his own friggin’ folly! Besides, didn’t his liddle entrails readin’ also tell him the child wouldn’t come into power fer seventeen years? That’s plenty o’ time fer us to vanish wid all our coins.”

  A slow grin creased Ossyn’s face. “Maybe yer not such a woodenbrain after all.” Suddenly he yelped, as a clump of hot ash blew into his eye. “Ogres’ eyeballs!” he swore. “Whatever we’re paid won’t be ’nuf.” He swung his fist at the smoky air—and smashed his brother hard on the ear.

  Obba howled, then punched him back in the gut. “Ye clumsy troll! Any pay’s too small wid all yer foolishness.” He slumped against a cracked boulder, tugging the hunting bow on his shoulder. “But we won’t get paid nothin’ if we don’t—ehhhh!”

  He leaped away from the boulder just as three fiery fingers pinched his rear end. Tripping, he sprawled and sent some loose rocks clattering down the cliff. He landed hard—right on his scorched bottom.

  “Owww,” he cried, flipping back over onto his knees. “Ye fried me friggin’ bacon!” Obba clutched his sore rear end with one hand, while shaking a blackened fist at the fire plant that had singed him so badly. And so rudely. “Ye cursed plant! I’ll—”

  “Shush,” hissed Ossyn suddenly, pointing at the nest above.

  A rustle—then a pair of enormous wings slapped the air. Spanning nearly three men’s height, the wings rose out of the nest, glowing orange from the fires below. Upward on the swells they rose, bearing the feather-covered body of an eaglewoman. As she flew, her feathery legs—and sharp talons—hung low, while her head, which kept its human form, turned toward the cliffs. Beneath streaming locks of silver hair, her fierce eyes flashed.

  The eaglewoman raised one wing. Instantly she veered away, following the ridgeline. A screeching cry—part human and part eagle, loud enough to freeze the two men’s hearts—struck the cliffs. She sailed behind the rocky rim and vanished into the night.

  At last, the brothers breathed again. They traded relieved glances. Then, hit by the same idea, they started scurrying up the cliff toward the nest—although Obba did pause to glare at a certain fire plant. It just sputtered noisily, almost like a wicked chuckle.

  Higher and higher the two men climbed. Several minutes later, they reached the top, a long ridge of steep cliffs broken only by a few pinnacles of rock. And by one enormous nest, a mass of broken branches and twisted trunks that the eaglefolk had carried all the way from the lowland forests in their powerful talons. The brothers clambered up the side of the nest. With a wary glance at the sky, they jumped down inside.

  Soft, downy feathers broke their fall. Some were as small as their hands; others were longer than their outstretched arms. The feathers lay everywhere—along with heaps of gray droppings and broken bits of shell. Plus hundreds and hundreds of bones, all picked clean by sharp beaks, all gleaming red from the cliff-fires.

  And one thing more. There, at the far side of the nest, lay a small, naked boy. Warmed by the smoky fumes from the vents, he needed no covers beyond the pair of large feathers that lay upon his chest. Though he looked like a human child of five or six, he had only just hatched. That was clear from the temporary freckles that covered his entire body below his neck, marking the places where, as an adult, he would be able to sprout feathers at will. Unlike his hooked nose, hairy forearms, and sharply pointed toenails, those freckles would soon disappear.

  “Get him!” whispered Obba, seizing his bow. “I’ll watch fer danger.”

  “Ye mean the mother?” Ossyn shoved his brother jokingly. “Or them fire plants?”

  “Move it,” growled Obba. But just in case, before he looked skyward, he glanced behind himself for any sign of flames.

  Meanwhile, his brother untied a cloth sack from around his waist. A plume of smoke blew past, but he stifled his cough. Stealthily, he crept across the nest, until he stood right over the eagleboy. His smirk faded as he gazed down at the child. “Do ye really think he’ll pay us all that coin fer jest a scrawny liddle birdboy?”

  “Do it, will ye?” Obba whispered urgently. He was watching the billowing plumes of smoke overhead, aiming his arrow at every new movement.

  His brother nodded. Swiftly, he grabbed the sleeping child by the ankle, lifted him high, and plunged him into the sack.

  But not before the boy awoke. With eagle-fast reflexes, he swung out his arm and caught hold of the sack’s rim. Twisting, he freed one leg, let out a shrieking cry, and slashed sharp toenails across his attacker’s face.

  “Ghaaaa!” Ossyn howled in pain. His hand flew to his cheek, already starting to drip with blood. He dropped the sack.

/>   Almost before he hit the nest, the eagleboy wriggled free. His yellow-rimmed eyes flashed angrily, and he jumped to his feet. His mouth opened to shriek again.

  Just then a heavy fist slammed into the eagleboy’s head. He reeled, lost his balance, and fell into a heap amid the feathers.

  “So thar,” spat Obba, rubbing his fist. “He’ll sleep plenty good now.” He rounded angrily on his younger brother. “Look what ye did, ye clumsy troll! Quick now, stuff him in yer sack. Afore the mother comes flyin’ back.”

  Cursing, Ossyn jammed the unconscious boy into the sack. He slung it over his shoulder, then halted. “Wait, now. What about the stick? White Hands said there’d be some kind o’ stick, right here wid the child.”

  Obba picked up a branch and hurled it at him. “Ye bloody fool! This whole blasted nest is made o’ sticks! Hundreds an’ hundreds o’ sticks. Jest grab one an’ shove it in the bag. Afore I shove it in yer ear.”

  “But what if it’s not the right—”

  A loud screech sliced through the night. Both men froze.

  “She’s back!”

  “Hush, ye fool. I still got two arrows.” Obba crouched down against the wall of the nest. He nocked an arrow, its point of black obsidian gleaming dully in the light of the flame vents. Slowly, he pulled the bowstring taut, waiting for the huge wings to come into range. Sweat dribbled down his brow, stinging his eyes. But still he waited.

  “Shoot, will ye?”

  He let fly. The arrow whizzed up into the smoky sky and disappeared. The eaglewoman veered, screeched louder than before, and plunged straight at them.

  “Bloody dark! Can’t see to aim.”

  “Quick, out o’ the nest! Maybe we can—”

  A sudden gust of wind blew them backward, as a great shadow darkened the night and talons slashed like daggers above their heads. Ossyn screamed as one talon sliced his arm. He staggered backward, dropping the sack on the downy branches. Blood gushed from his torn limb.