The Seven Songs Page 3

  As another cold gust blew against me, I drew my fingers across the strings. A sudden burst of music poured forth, a lilting, magical music that lightened my heart like nothing I had heard since the singing of my mother so long ago. Although I had now carried the Harp over dozens of these hills, I had not grown the least bit tired of its resonant song. I knew I never would.

  A small sprig of fern lifted out of the ground and started to unfurl. Again I plucked the strings.

  All at once, the hillside sprang to life. Brittle stems turned into flexible, green blades of grass. A rivulet of water started splashing down the gully, soaking the thirsty soil. Small blue flowers, sprinkled with droplets of dew, popped up along the banks. A new fragrance filled the air, something like lavender and thyme and cedar combined.

  I drank in this melody of aromas, even as I listened to the Harp’s own melody still pulsing in the air. Then my smile faded, as I recalled the fragrances of my mother’s collection of herbs. How long it had been since I had smelled them! Since before I was born, Elen of the Sapphire Eyes had surrounded herself with dried petals, seeds, leaves, roots, shavings of bark, and whatever else she might use to heal the wounds of others. Sometimes, though, I suspected that she filled her life with such things just because she enjoyed the aromas. So did I—except for dill, which always made me sneeze.

  Yet, far more than the aromas that she nurtured, I enjoyed my mother’s company. She always tried to make me feel warm and safe. Even when the world did not let her succeed—which was all too often. She provided for me during all those brutal years in Gwynedd, called Wales by some, without ever asking for thanks. Even when she made herself aloof and distant in the hope of shielding me from my past, even when I nearly choked with rage at her refusal to answer my questions about my father, even when I struck back in my fear and confusion by refusing to call her by the one word she most wanted to hear—even then I loved her.

  And now that I understood at last what she had done for me, I could not thank her. She was far, far away, beyond the mist, beyond the ocean, beyond the rugged coast of Gwynedd. I could not touch her. I could not call her that word: Mother.

  A curlew chirped from the branch of the tree, pulling my thoughts back to the present. Such a glad, full-throated song! I plucked the harp strings once more.

  Before my eyes, the tree itself burst to life. Buds formed, leaves sprouted, and bright-winged butterflies flew to the branches. Smooth, gray bark coated the entire trunk and limbs. The roots swelled, grasping the bank of the stream, now swiftly tumbling down the hillside.

  A beech. I grinned, seeing its burly branches reaching skyward. The breeze rippled its silvery leaves. Something about the sight of a beech tree always filled me with feelings of peace, of quiet strength. And I had saved it. I had brought it back to life. As I had this entire hillside, like so many before. I felt the thrill of my own power. The Great Council had chosen well. Perhaps I did, indeed, have the heart of a wizard.

  Then I noticed my own reflection in a puddle that had formed between the tree’s roots near the bank. Caught short by my scarred cheeks and my black, sightless eyes, I stopped smiling. How had Rhia described my eyes, on the first day we met? Like a pair of stars hidden by clouds. I wished I could see with my eyes, my own eyes, again.

  Seeing with my second sight was, of course, better than blindness. I could never forget that miraculous moment when I had discovered that I could actually see without my eyes. Yet second sight was no substitute for real eyesight. Colors faded, details blurred, darkness pressed all the closer. What I would give to heal my eyes! Burned and useless though they were, I always knew they were there. They reminded me constantly of everything I had lost.

  And I had lost so very much! I was only thirteen, and already I had lost my mother, my father, and whatever homes I had known, as well as my own eyes. I could almost hear my mother, in her encouraging way, asking whether I had also gained anything. But what? The courage to live alone, perhaps. And the ability to save all the blighted lands of Fincayra.

  I turned back to the beech tree. Already I had rescued a good portion of the Dark Hills, stretching from the ruins of the Shrouded Castle, now a sacred circle of stones, almost to the northern reaches of the Haunted Marsh. Over the next few weeks, I would bring life back to the rest. Then I could do the same for the Rusted Plains. Although it held more than its share of mysteries, Fincayra was not, after all, a very big place.

  Setting down the Harp, I stepped nearer to the beech. Laying my hands on the smooth, silver bark, I spread my fingers wide, feeling the flow of life through the imposing trunk. Then, pursing my lips, I made a low, swishing sound. The tree shuddered, as if it were breaking free from invisible chains. Its branches quivered, making a swishing sound much like my own.

  I nodded, pleased with my skills. Again I swished. Again the tree responded. This time, however, it did more than quiver. For I had given a command.

  Bend. Bend down to the ground. I wanted to seat myself in its highest branches. Then I would command it to straighten again, lifting me skyward. For as long as I could remember, I had loved to perch in the tops of trees. Regardless of the weather. But I had always needed to climb there myself—until today.

  Hesitantly, with considerable popping and creaking, the great beech began to bend lower. A section of bark ripped away from the trunk. I craned my neck, watching the highest branches descend. As the tree bent before me, I selected my seat, a notch not far from the top.

  Suddenly I heard another swishing sound. The tree stopped bending. Slowly, it began to straighten itself again. Angrily, I repeated my command. The tree halted, then started bending toward me once more.

  Again a swishing sound filled the air. The tree ceased bending and began to straighten.

  My cheeks grew hot. How could this be? I dug my fingers into the trunk, ready to try again, when a clear, bell-like laughter reached my ears. I spun around to see a leaf-draped girl with gray-blue eyes and a mass of curly brown hair. Glistening vines wrapped around her entire body as if she were a tree herself. She watched me, still laughing, her hands on her belt of woven grass.

  “Rhia! I should have guessed.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Tired of speaking beech so soon? You’re sounding like a Celt again.”

  “I’d still be speaking to the beech if you hadn’t interrupted us.”

  Rhia shook her brown curls, enmeshed with leaves. “I didn’t interrupt your speaking. Only your commanding.”

  Exasperated, I glanced up at the tree, which by now stood perfectly straight again, its silvery leaves tossing in the wind. “Leave me, will you?”

  The curls shook again. “You need a guide. Otherwise, you might get lost.” She looked with concern at the beech tree. “Or try something foolish.”

  I grimaced. “You’re not my guide! I invited you to join me, remember? And when I did, I didn’t think you’d try to interfere.”

  “And when I started teaching you the language of trees, I didn’t think you’d use it to hurt them.”

  “Hurt them? Can’t you see what I’m doing?”

  “Yes. And I don’t like it.” She stamped her foot on the ground, flattening the grass. “It’s dangerous—and disrespectful—to make a tree bend like that. It might injure itself. Or even die. If you want to sit in a tree, then climb up there yourself.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Then you haven’t learned anything in the last three weeks! Don’t you remember the first rule of tree speech? Listen before you speak.”

  “Just watch. I’ll show you how much I’ve learned.”

  She strode up to me and squeezed my elbow with her strong hand. “You remind me of a little boy sometimes. So sure of yourself, with so little reason.”

  “Go away,” I barked. “I saved this tree! Brought it back to life! I can make it bend if I want to.”

  Rhia frowned. “No, Merlin. You didn’t save the tree.” Releasing her grip, she pointed at the instrument lying on the g
rass. “The Flowering Harp saved the tree. You are just the one who gets to play it.”

  2: A FITTING WELCOME

  Where has all the sweetness gone?”

  I leaned back on the soft, fragrant grass of the gently sloping meadow, careful not to bump my head against the Harp. Even without the use of my eyes, my second sight could easily pick out the plump, pink berries in Rhia’s hand. I knew that her question referred to the berries, which were not nearly sweet enough for her taste. But in the days since our confrontation at the beech tree, I had often asked the same question myself—about our friendship.

  Though she appeared and disappeared at unpredictable times, Rhia never left me for long. She continued to accompany me over the ridges and valleys, sometimes in silence, sometimes in song. She continued to camp nearby, and share most of her meals with me. She even continued to call herself my guide, although it was perfectly obvious that I needed no guide.

  Yet despite her continuing presence, an invisible wall divided us now. While in some ways we traveled together, we really traveled separately. She just didn’t understand. And that continued to rankle me. The thrill of bringing the land back to life, of turning it green with buds and promise, I couldn’t even begin to explain to her. Whenever I tried, she gave me one of her lectures on the Flowering Harp. Or, worse, one of her looks that seemed to pierce right through me. As if she knew everything I was thinking and feeling, without even needing to ask. After all I had done for her! Were all girls as maddeningly difficult as she was?

  I waved at the bush, its tangled branches heavy with pink berries. “If you don’t like them, why do you keep eating them?”

  She answered, still pulling berries off the branches. “There must be some sweeter ones here someplace. I know it.”

  “How do you know?”

  She shrugged carelessly, even as she popped a handful into her mouth. “Mmmff. I just do.”

  “Did someone tell you?”

  “A little voice inside me. A voice that understands berries.

  “Be sensible, Rhia! This bush just isn’t ripe yet. You’d be better off waiting to find another.”

  She ignored me, continuing to chew.

  I tore a clump of grass and threw it down the slope. “What if you eat so many tart berries that you haven’t any room left for sweet ones?’

  She turned to me, her cheeks as packed with berries as a squirrel’s would be with acorns. “Mmmff,” she said with a swallow. “In that case, I guess it would have to be a day for tart berries, not sweet ones. But that little voice tells me there are some sweeter ones here. It’s a matter of having trust in the berries.”

  “Trust in the berries! What in the world are you saying?”

  “Just what I said. Sometimes it’s best to treat life as if you’re floating down a great river. To listen to the water and let it guide you, instead of trying to change the river’s course.”

  “What do berries have to do with rivers?”

  Her brown curls flopped as she shook her head. “I wonder . . . are all boys as difficult as you are?”

  “Enough of this!” I pushed myself to my feet and slung the Flowering Harp over my back, wincing from the old pain between my shoulders. I started across the meadow, the base of my staff leaving a trail of tiny pits in the grass. Noticing a revived but still drooping hawthorn tree to my left, I reached over my shoulder and plucked a single string. The hawthorn instantly straightened and exploded with pink and white blossoms.

  I glanced back at Rhia, hoping she might at least offer a word of praise, even something halfhearted. But she seemed completely occupied with fingering the branches of her berry bush. Turning to the rust-colored hill that rose from the edge of the meadow, I stepped briskly toward it. The crest of the hill was covered with shadowed rock outcroppings, the kind that could have concealed the caves of warrior goblins. Although I had seen many such places during my travels in the Dark Hills, I had yet to find any sign of goblins themselves. Perhaps Cairpré’s worries had not been justified after all.

  Suddenly I halted. Recognizing the pair of sharp knobs that rose from the crest, I toyed with my staff, twirling it in my hand, even as I toyed with a new idea. I veered westward, down the slope.

  Rhia called out.

  Planting my staff, I looked her way. “Yes?”

  She waved a berry-stained hand toward the hill. “Aren’t you going the wrong direction?”

  “No. I have some friends to see.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What about your task? You are not supposed to rest until you’ve finished the Dark Hills.”

  “I’m not going to rest!” I kicked at the rich grass beneath my boots. “But no one said I had to avoid my friends along the way. Especially friends who might actually appreciate what I’m doing.”

  Even with my limited vision, I could not miss her reddening cheeks. “My friends have a garden. I am going to make it grow as never before.”

  Rhia’s eyes narrowed. “If they are genuine friends, they’ll be truthful with you. They’ll tell you to go back and finish your task.”

  I stalked off. A stiff gust of wind blew in my face, making my sightless eyes water. But I pushed on down the slope, tunic flapping at my legs. If they are genuine friends, they’ll be truthful. Rhia’s words echoed in my mind. What, indeed, was a friend? I had thought Rhia was one, not long ago. And now she seemed more like a burr in my side. Do without friends! Maybe that was the answer. Friends were just too undependable, too demanding.

  I bit my lip. The right kind of friend would be different, of course. Someone like my mother—totally loyal, always supportive. Yet she was one of a kind. There was no one like her on Fincayra. And yet . . . perhaps, with enough time, I might come to feel that way about others. Like the two people I was about to visit, T’eilean and Garlatha. With a single stroke of my harp strings, I would enrich both their garden and our friendship.

  The wind relented for a moment. As I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, I heard Rhia’s soft footsteps on the grass behind me. Despite my frustration with her, I felt somehow relieved. Not because I needed her company, of course. I simply wanted her to see all the thanks and admiration that I would soon be receiving from real friends.

  I turned to face her. “So you decided to come along.”

  Somberly, she shook her head. “You still need a guide.”

  “I’m not going to get lost, if that’s what you mean.”

  She merely frowned.

  Without another word, I started down the slope, my heels digging into the turf. Rhia stayed close, as silent as a shadow. When we reached the plains, the remaining wind died away. Mist hovered in the muggy air, while the sun baked us. Now when I wiped my eyes it was because of the sting of perspiration.

  Through a long afternoon we trekked in silence. Every so often, when the fields turned dry and brittle, I strummed a little, leaving behind us a wake of verdant grasses, splashing streams, and all manner of life renewed. Yet while the sun continued to warm our backs, it could not do the same for our moods.

  Finally, I spied a familiar hillside, split by a deep cleft. Within it, seeming to sprout from the rocks and soil of the hill itself, sat a gray stone hut. It was bordered by a dilapidated wall and surrounded by a few trailing vines and thin fruit trees. Not much of a garden, really. Yet in the days before the fall of the Shrouded Castle, it had seemed like a genuine oasis in the middle of the Rusted Plains.

  How surprised my old friends T’eilean and Garlatha would be when I brought endless bounty to their meager garden! They would be grateful beyond words. Maybe even Rhia would finally be impressed. On the other side of the wall, in the shade of some leafy boughs, I could make out two white heads. T’eilean and Garlatha. Side by side over a bed of bright yellow flowers, their heads bobbed slowly up and down, keeping time to some music only they could hear.

  I smiled, thinking of the wondrous gift I had for them. When I had last seen them, on my way to the Shrouded Castle, I was nothing more than a ragged boy with only the
faintest hope of living out the day. They had expected never to see me again. Nor had I expected to return. My pace quickened, as did Rhia’s.

  Before we were twenty paces from the crumbling wall, the two heads lifted as one, like hares in a morning meadow. T’eilean was the first to his feet. He offered a large, wrinkled hand to Garlatha, but she waved it away and rose without any help. They watched us approach, T’eilean stroking his unruly whiskers, Garlatha shading her eyes. I stepped over the wall, followed by Rhia. Despite the weight of the Harp on my shoulder, I stood as tall as I possibly could.

  The wrinkles of Garlatha’s face creased into a gentle smile. “You have returned.”

  “Yes,” I replied, turning so they could see the Harp. “And I have brought you something.”

  T’eilean’s brow creased. “You mean you have brought someone.”

  Rhia stepped forward. Her gray-blue eyes shone at the sight of the two aging gardeners standing before their simple hut. Without waiting to be introduced, she nodded in greeting.

  “I am Rhia.”

  “And I am T’eilean. This is my wife of sixty-seven years, Garlatha.”

  The white-haired woman frowned and kicked at his shin, barely missing the mark. “Sixty-eight, you old fool.”

  “Sorry, my duck. Sixty-eight.” He backed away a step before adding, “She is always right, you see.”

  Garlatha snorted. “Be glad you have guests, or I’d come after you with my trowel.”

  Her husband glanced at the trowel half buried in the flower bed, waving his arm in the air with the playfulness of a bear cub. “Right again. Without occasional guests to protect me, I doubt I would have survived this long.”

  Rhia suppressed a laugh.

  Garlatha, her face softening, reached for T’eilean’s hand. They stood together for a quiet moment, as gray as the stones of their hut. Leaves quivered gently all around them, as if in tribute to the devoted hands that had nurtured this garden for so many years.