The Seven Songs Page 18

  “I know, I know. And for Leaping we must go all the way back to Varigal. We’ll have to cross Eagles’ Canyon again, and we’ll probably find trouble in the Dark Hills again.” I ran my finger along the scabbard I now wore on my waist. “More trouble, I’m afraid, than even a magical staff and sword can handle.”

  Rhia nodded toward Bumbelwy. “And what about him? He can’t even sit up, let alone walk anywhere.”

  I considered the moaning figure, studded with lumps of dough. “This may surprise you, but I just don’t feel right about leaving him. He really did his best for you back there on the cliff.”

  She smiled sadly. “It doesn’t surprise me.”

  “So what should we do?” I stretched my aching shoulders. “If only we could fly.”

  Rhia swallowed a crust of ambrosia bread. “Like the Fincayrans of old, before they lost their wings.”

  “I need more than wings,” said Bumbelwy, stirring to roll over on his side. “I need a whole new body.”

  I observed the staff, propped against the base of the fountain. There, etched darkly, were the images of a butterfly, a pair of soaring hawks, a cracked stone, and now a sword. We had come so far, accomplished so much. Yet it all amounted to nothing if I could not discover the souls of the remaining Songs before time ran out.

  I recited them to myself, trying to find a hint of hope:

  The power Leaping be the fifth,

  In Varigal beware.

  Eliminating be the sixth,

  A sleeping dragon’s lair.

  The gift of Seeing be the last,

  Forgotten Island’s spell.

  And now ye may attempt to find

  The Otherworldly Well.

  My heart sank as I considered the vast distances that the Songs required. Even if I did have wings, how could I possibly cover so much ground? Not to mention the challenges that still would remain: finding the Otherworld Well, evading the ogre Balor, and climbing up to the realm of Dagda to get the precious Elixir. All this . . . in five short days.

  If only I could compress things somehow! Skip one of the Songs. Go straight to the land of the spirits. Yet even as I considered the notion, I remembered Tuatha’s warning to avoid such folly.

  I slammed my fist against the ground. “How can we do it all, Rhia?”

  She started to reply when a group of four men tottered over to the fountain, staggering under the weight of a huge black cauldron. Oblivious to anyone who might happen to be in their path, they pushed and bumped their way across the common. As they moved between Rhia and myself, they nearly stepped right on poor Bumbelwy. Even as he groaned and rolled aside, they propped the cauldron on the edge of the fountain’s pool and began to pour. A creamy brown mixture that smelled of cloves emptied into the pool, gurgling and splattering.

  As they departed with the empty cauldron, a small, round-cheeked boy ran up to me. Excitedly, he tugged on my tunic.

  “Galwy!” I exclaimed. Then, seeing the worry on his face, I froze. “What’s wrong?”

  “She took it,” he panted. “I saw her took it.”

  “Took what?”

  “The goblin slayer! She took it.”

  Puzzled, I squeezed his stout little shoulders. “Goblin slayer? What—”

  Suddenly I looked at the fountain. My staff was gone!

  “Who took it?”

  “The girl, the tall one.” Galwy pointed at the village gates. “Ran that way.”

  Nimue! I flew to my feet, shoved my way through the villagers near the fountain, leaped over a sleeping dog, and sprinted through the wooden gates. Standing beneath one of the towering spruces, I scanned what was visible of the grassy plains, although a thick blanket of fog obscured everything beyond the foreground.

  No sign at all of Nimue. Or of my staff.

  “Leaving already?”

  I whirled around to see the guard. He was watching me from the shadows, still grasping the hilt of his sword. “My staff!” I cried. “Did you see a girl just now with my staff?”

  Slowly, he nodded. “That one called Vivian, or Nimue.”

  “Yes! Where did she go?”

  The guard tugged on the shreds of hair dangling over his ears, then waved at the rolling fog. “Somewhere out there, beyond the sea mist. Maybe toward the coast, maybe toward the hills. I have no idea. I save my attention for people coming in, not going out.”

  I kicked at the ground. “Didn’t you see she had my staff?’

  “That I did. Your staff is hard to miss. But it’s not the first time I’ve seen her convince a fellow to part with something precious, so I didn’t think much of it.”

  My eyes narrowed. “She didn’t convince me! She stole it!”

  He grinned knowingly. “I’ve heard that a few times, too.”

  In disgust, I turned back to the clouded plains. Stretching my second sight to the limit, I tried to find any sign of the thief. Yet all I found was fog and more fog, endlessly shifting. My staff. My precious staff! Filled with the vitality of Druma Wood, touched by the hand of Tuatha, marked by the power of the Songs. Gone! Without the staff’s ability to tell me whether I had found the soul of each Song, I had no hope.

  Head bowed, I trudged back through the gates and into the common. A man, arms laden with bread, bumped into me and dropped several loaves. But I hardly noticed. I could think of nothing but my staff. As I reached the base of the fountain, I collapsed beside Rhia.

  Wrapping her forefinger around my own, she searched my face. “So it’s lost.”

  “Everything is lost.”

  “Too true, too true, too true,” moaned Bumbelwy, rubbing his swollen belly.

  Rhia reached for my satchel and opened it. Pulling out Pluton’s heart bread, she tore off a chunk and placed it in my hand. A sturdy, robust smell, as rich as roasting venison, filled the air.

  “Here. Pluton said it will fill your heart with courage.”

  “It will take more than courage to save my mother,” I muttered, taking a small bite of the bread.

  As I chewed, the bits of seeds burst in my mouth, releasing their powerful flavor. And something more. I straightened my back and drew a hearty breath, savoring the new strength that I could feel surging through my limbs. Yet, even as I took another bite, I could not forget the truth. My staff was lost, as was my quest. What could I possibly do—without the staff, without the time, without the wings to fly to the other end of Fincayra?

  Tears brimmed in my sightless eyes. “I can’t do it, Rhia. I can’t possibly do it!”

  She slid closer on the ground, brushing aside some hardened lumps of dough. Gently, she touched the amulet of oak, ash, and thorn that Elen had given her. “As long as we still have hope, we still have a chance.”

  “That’s just the point!” I jabbed at the air with my fist, almost hitting the base of the bread fountain. “We have no hope.”

  At that instant, something warm brushed against my cheek. A light touch, lighter than a caress. Lighter than air. “You still have hope, Emrys Merlin.” The familiar voice breathed in my ear. “You still have hope.”

  “Aylah!” I leaped to my feet, lifting my arms skyward. “It’s you.”

  “There, you see?” said Bumbelwy sadly. “The strain was too much for the poor boy. He’s lost his mind. Now he’s talking to the air.”

  “Not the air, the wind!”

  Rhia’s eyes brightened. “You mean . . . a wind sister?”

  “Yes, Rhiannon.” A soft, whispering laughter rose out of the air. “I am here to take you, all of you, to Varigal.”

  “Oh, Aylah!” I cried. “Is it possible, before you take us there, to go somewhere else first?’

  “To find your staff, Emrys Merlin?”

  “How did you know?”

  As a spring bubbles out of the ground, pouring over the soil, the wind sister’s words tumbled out of the air. “Nothing can long hide from the wind. Not a stealthy girl, nor the secret cave where she hides her treasures, nor even her desire one day to wield great power throu
gh magic.”

  My blood surged angrily. “Can we still catch her before she reaches her cave?”

  A sudden gust of wind swept the village common. Hats, cloaks, and aprons lifted into the air, swirling like autumn leaves. All at once my boots, too, rose off the ground. In an instant, Rhia, Bumbelwy, and I were airborne.

  25: ALL THE VOICES

  As we lifted off from the village common, several people standing near the fountain shrieked in fright—though none shrieked as loud as poor Bumbelwy. For my part, I swung my legs freely in the open air, alive with the thrill of flight. It was a thrill that I had known only once before, nestled into the feathers of Trouble’s back. Yet this time the feeling was even more powerful, if also more frightening. For this time I was borne aloft not by another body, but by the very wind itself.

  Aylah carried us swiftly higher, supporting us on a blanket of air. As the loaf-shaped buildings of Slantos melted into the fog, the golden pool of the bread fountain faded into tan, then brown, then white. Clouds swallowed us whole, leaving nothing visible beyond ourselves. I could hear the whistling of air all around, yet it wasn’t too loud, for we were flying with the wind and not against it.

  “Aylah!” I cried. “Can you still find her in the fog?”

  “Patience,” she replied, her airy voice springing from both above and below. The clouds thickened as we dropped lower and banked to the right.

  Rhia turned to me, her face showing her own growing exhilaration. We were riding, it seemed, on a cloud itself, close enough to touch each other and far enough apart to feel completely free. And, in the case of Bumbelwy, completely miserable. His face, still splattered with dough, turned greener with every jostle and sway.

  Suddenly, just below us, a figure emerged from a gap in the fog. Nimue!

  She strode purposefully across the grassy plain, her long black hair falling over her shoulders. In her hand, she clutched my staff. I could almost hear her clucking to herself in satisfaction. No doubt she was considering what place of honor to give my staff in her cave of treasures. Or how she might find some way to turn its hidden powers to her advantage. A thin smile spread across my own face as we drew nearer, casting a trio of ghostly shadows on the ground.

  Sensing something, she whirled around. She shrieked, seeing me and my companions dropping right out of the sky on top of her. Before she could turn and run, I reached down and grasped the gnarled top of the staff with both hands.

  “Thief!” she wailed, clinging tightly to her prize.

  We tugged against each other, trying to twist the staff free. As Aylah bore me aloft again, Nimue herself rose off the plain, her legs kicking wildly. My back and shoulders ached from the strain, but I held on. Currents of air slapped against her, shoving her body this way and that. Yet she refused to let go. We dropped a bit lower, just as a tangle of brambles came into view. Straight through it flew Nimue, the thorns tearing at her legs and ripping her robe. Still she did not release her grip.

  I felt the staff slip lower in my perspiring hands. Her weight made my shoulders scream with pain. My arms were starting to feel numb. All the while, Nimue twisted and writhed, trying her best to break free.

  Banking hard to the left, we veered toward a pile of jagged rocks. An instant before she collided, Nimue caught sight of the approaching obstacle. With a terrified shriek, she let go at last.

  With a thud, she dropped to the ground, landing on her back next to the pile of rocks. Weakly, I pulled the staff to me, gazing again at its familiar markings. The sign of the paired hawks glistened with my own perspiration. I felt whole again, my staff and my hope both restored.

  As the mist thickened, I glanced down at Nimue. As she sat up, her eyes flashed angrily. She kicked her heels on the turf like an infant, waving her clenched fists at the air, cursing and crying for revenge. Smaller she grew, and smaller. An instant later, she disappeared in a shroud of fog, her shouts replaced by the whistling wind.

  I twirled the staff in my throbbing hands. “Thank you, Aylah.”

  “You are welcome, Emrys Merlin. Ahhh yes.”

  The wind bore us higher, until the fog began to pull apart, shredding into white waves that rose and fell like the rolling sea. Ships of mist, sails billowing, lifted their prows, only to dash upon vaporous shores. The cloud waves rolled over us, soaking us with spray, churning ceaselessly.

  I turned to Rhia, her eyes as joyful as Nimue’s had been wrathful. “You were so right about her. I don’t know how, but she had me, well, confused at first. I wish I had your . . . what did my mother call them?”

  “Berries,” she said with a laugh. “Also called instincts.” She flapped her arms in the mist, stretching them like wings. “Oh, isn’t this wonderful? I feel so free! Like I’m the wind myself.”

  “You are the wind, Rhiannon.” Aylah’s wispy arms encircled us. “You have all living things within yourself. That is what instincts are, the voices of those living things inside you.”

  I watched the shredding clouds, as Aylah’s voice whispered in my own ear. “You, too, have instincts, Emrys Merlin. You simply do not hear them very well. You have all the voices, old and young, male and female.”

  “Female? Me?” I scoffed, tapping my sword, as the air whooshed past. “I’m a boy!”

  “Ahhh yes, Emrys Merlin, you are a boy. And a wonderful thing that is to be! One day, perhaps, you will learn that you can also be more. That you can listen as well as speak, sow as well as reap, create as well as construct. And then you may discover that the merest trembling of a butterfly’s wings can be just as powerful as a quake that moves mountains.”

  Hardly had those words been spoken than a sudden current of air jolted us. Rhia and I rolled into each other, while Bumbelwy cried out, flailing his arms and legs. His bell-draped hat flew into the air, and nearly sailed away before Rhia caught it. As she snatched the hat, several chunks of dough flew off, causing it to rattle noisily again.

  All at once we burst out of the clouds. As swiftly as hawks, we rose above their fluffy contours. Far below, Fincayra revealed itself now like a tapestry unfurling, full of dazzling colors and intricate patterns. There lay the Dark Hills, swathed in shadows, the flowing ridges broken only by the occasional cluster of trees or jumble of rocks. There ran the red and maroon gorge of Eagles’ Canyon, winding away to the south. And there, dappled with sun, stretched the rolling sweep of the Rusted Plains.

  I leaned forward, stretching myself prone on the carpet of wind. Soaring headlong over the lands below, I felt for a moment as if I had become a fish again, gliding through an ocean of air rather than water. Buoyed by invisible currents, sailing weightlessly, I flew through the very substance of my breathing.

  To the north, I followed the contorted coastline of a dark peninsula, until it melted into mist. Twisting rivers sparkled below, as hills started swelling beneath us. Dimly, beyond the hills, I glimpsed the grim profile of the Lake of the Face. An icy finger ran down my spine as I recalled the image I had seen in those dark waters, the image of Balor’s deadly eye.

  Then, above the whooshing wind, I heard a faint rumbling. It came from somewhere in the snowy mountains ahead, whose crested summits gleamed in the late afternoon light. The rumbling grew louder and louder, rolling like avalanches down the slopes. It seemed that thunder itself must be part of this land.

  And indeed it was. For we had arrived in the land of the giants. The rumbling swelled as Aylah set us down on a knoll bristling with short, stubby grass. Rising out of a steeply sloping, rocky ridge, the knoll was one of the few patches of green around. The ground beneath us, like the cliffs on all sides, shook from the noise. Or from whatever caused the noise.

  As soon as Bumbelwy’s feet touched down, he tottered unsteadily over to an enormous pile of leaves, branches, and ferns that had been left on the knoll for some reason. It covered nearly half of the knoll, rising like a miniature mountain of brush. He fell into the pile, crawled higher, then sprawled on his back. Above the rumbling, he called, “If I’m go
ing to die in an earthquake, I might at least be somewhere soft!”

  He smoothed some broken branches beneath his head. “Besides, I have some difficult digesting to do. Not to mention recovering from that ride.” He closed his eyes, wriggling deeper into the ferns. “Imagine! Almost killed twice in the same day.” He yawned, shaking his bells. “If I weren’t such an optimist, I’d say something even worse will happen to me before the day is over.”

  Seconds later, he was snoring.

  “I wish you well, Emrys Merlin.” Louder than usual because of the rumbling, the voice spoke in my ear. “I wish I could stay with you longer, but I must fly.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

  “I know, Emrys Merlin, I know.” Aylah’s warm breath caressed my cheek. “Perhaps, on another day, we will meet again.”

  “And fly again?” Rhia lifted her arms as if they were wings, “Like the wind?”

  “Perhaps, Rhiannon. Perhaps.”

  With a sudden swirl of air, the wind sister departed.

  26: LEAPING

  A great thud sounded, from somewhere in the steep-walled valley below the knoll. The ground shook again, knocking both Rhia and me over backward. A plump thrush, its purple wings dotted with white, shrieked and flew away from its perch in the bristly grass. Sitting up, I looked over at Bumbelwy, still snoring peacefully in the pile of leaves and brush. What it might take to awaken him, I could not imagine.

  Crawling on hands and knees, Rhia and I crept slowly to the edge of the knoll. Peering over, we gazed into the valley below. At that instant, an entire section of cliff above the valley cracked open, dangled precariously, then tumbled down in a cloud of rubble and dust. Another rumble filled the air, and the ground beneath us shook violently again.

  Then, as the dust cleared, I recognized the figures laboring below. Even from this distance, the giants looked enormous. And frighteningly powerful. While some of them split boulders apart with hammers the size of pine trees, others hauled the chunks of rock to the center of the valley. Lifting even one such stone would have required fifty men and women, yet the giants moved them around like bales of summer hay.