The Eternal Flame Page 7

  Well now, Palimyst. What have you collected today?

  Although he had long grown accustomed to hearing the thoughts of other kinds of beings, and understanding their languages, Tamwyn wasn’t at all sure that he’d heard correctly. Collected ? What does that mean ?

  The creature’s puzzlement seemed to deepen. Then, in a deep, rolling growl, it spoke directly to Tamwyn. “You arrrrre an intelligent one, I rrrrrealize that now. Yet neverrrrr have I seen the likes of you beforrrrre.”

  Without warning, the hairy beast released his grip on Tamwyn’s shoulders. The young man dropped back to the ground, landing with a thud on the grass. Tamwyn groaned as the torch pole jammed into his back. But he swiftly rolled to the side and bounced to his feet, ready to run away at any sign of hostility.

  “What—I mean, who—are you?” Tamwyn asked, growling in the language of this strange giant.

  A deep, bubbling growl filled the air, which Tamwyn sensed was really a kind of laughter. “That is the verrrrry question I have forrrrr you, my little two-leggerrrrr! Yet since you arrrrre, I suspect, a visitorrrrr to this rrrrrealm, I shall answerrrrr yourrrrr question firrrrrst.”

  With a sweep of an immense arm, he declared, “I am Palimyst, of the Taliwonn people. A crrrrraftsman I am—and also a collectorrrrr.”

  Still a bit nervous about that term, Tamwyn asked, “And just what do you collect?”

  “One question at a time, little one.” Palimyst bent his broad leg briefly, then straightened up again—what Tamwyn guessed was a bow of greeting. “Welcome to Holosarrrrr, ourrrrr name forrrrr this land. It means the lowest rrrrrealm, since we arrrrre the bottommost brrrrranch on the Grrrrreat Trrrrree.”

  Tamwyn gave his own version of a bow. “My name is Tamwyn Eopia, a human. And I come from a realm even lower than yours: a root of this very Tree.”

  Palimyst started at this news, taking a small hop backward. “A rrrrrealm of the rrrrroots? You speak the trrrrruth, Tamwyn Eopia?”

  “I do.”

  “Small as you arrrrre, you have climbed so verrrrry high?”

  “I have.” Tamwyn’s gaze lifted to the rocky ridge above them, and then higher, to the bright lights in the sky. “And I intend to climb higher still.”

  The dark eyes of Palimyst stared at him, scrutinizing closely. They showed heightened interest—and also, perhaps, esteem. Finally, he asked, “That tiny blade on yourrrrr belt. Forrrrr what do you use it?”

  Tamwyn patted the sheath. “Mostly just whittling. And carving something—a gift for . . . a friend.” He tapped the side of his pack, producing a low, quaking note from the wood inside. “A harp.”

  Tamwyn paused, just listening to the resonant note. Then, abruptly, his face fell. “Though I don’t have the skill. Or even the strings.”

  Again Palimyst spoke, his growl quieter than before. “I, too, carrrrrve wood, frrrrrom the ancient forrrrrestlands higherrrrr in the rrrrrealm. Like you, I know the turrrrrn of a blade, the contourrrrrr of wood, the language of grrrrrain. And I also know the humility that comes frrrrrom trrrrrying to masterrrrr a crrrrraft.”

  The huge, hunched form bent lower. “Tamwyn Eopia, if you would like to visit my lairrrrr, I would welcome you as my guest.”

  Though he felt touched by the generosity and kindness of those words, Tamwyn shook his head. “I would be honored, Palimyst. But—” He glanced once more at the stars. “I have very far to go, and much too little time.”

  Palimyst hopped slightly closer, and dropped his voice to a rumbling whisper. “Even if I werrrrre to show you a way to make time stand still?”

  “Y-y-you could do that?” stammered Tamwyn, awestruck.

  “Forrrrr a fellow wood carrrrrverrrrr, yes. And yet I must warrrrrn you: I can tell you what I know about the crrrrraft. But only you can masterrrrr it.”

  Still unsure whether anything like this was even possible, the young man nodded slowly. “In that case, I would be glad to come.”

  “Follow afterrrrr me, then.”

  With surprising grace for someone so large, Palimyst turned on his leg and hopped into the valley, leaving a trail of compressed grass. Tamwyn hurriedly checked to make sure he hadn’t dropped any belongings, then dashed after him. It was all he could do to stay with Palimyst’s pace.

  Up the gently rising valley they moved, past more steaming pools of hot sap and outcroppings of smooth rock. Tamwyn also spotted, to his dismay, a distant group of drumalings, but the treelike creatures watched them pass in silence. They skirted a thundering waterfall, pouring with billows of mist over a cliff on the ridge. Finally they reached a canyon that joined with the valley.

  Here Palimyst turned, hopping higher into the canyon. Although he needed to scramble over a mass of boulders to keep up, Tamwyn couldn’t help but notice that the canyon’s auburn cliff walls seemed softer than stone—more like some kind of earthen fruit. He also spied a large, coiled snake, as auburn as the rocks, resting on a ledge. Nearby, a pair of green butterflies flitted above a newly opened flower, which smelled as fragrant as honeycomb.

  Abruptly, Palimyst veered into a smaller side canyon. A thin stream ran down its center, carrying water from the ridge above. Some of the same bushes with lavender leaves that Tamwyn had found before lined the stream’s banks, along with an array of brilliant blue and pink flowers.

  Tamwyn hardly noticed, however. For the most striking thing about this canyon was the enormous piece of green fabric, the size of a meadow, that hung from one cliff. The fabric’s top was anchored to the rocks above, while its bottom stretched out almost to the edge of the stream in the canyon’s center. Great walls of fabric hung from the sides so that, underneath, a huge area was shielded from wind and storm. Palimyst hopped up to one side, lifted a flap, and entered with the ease of a deer bounding into a glade.

  A tent, thought Tamwyn in wonder. He’s made himself a tent.

  As he climbed up to the entrance, still panting from his run, he could see that the fabric had actually been woven from thousands of thin, sturdy vines. Each vine had been wound carefully around many, many others, producing a durable yet flexible sheet. Before going inside, Tamwyn paused to run his hand along the weaving’s edge. This fellow really is a craftsman.

  He lifted the flap and entered. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, but soon he could see very well. And he knew that he had just stepped into a truly extraordinary residence.

  On the left side of the well-beaten dirt path that ran down the center of the lair, Tamwyn saw a large open space that held a fire circle. The charred ring, flanked by two great stone benches, rested just below a circular hole in the tent where smoke could escape. Beside the fire circle sat a forge where hot coals glowed bright, a bellows made from the same fabric as the tent, and a wide assortment of handmade tools. This whole area, along with the smoky smell in the air, reminded him of Ethaun’s smithy.

  Yet Tamwyn could also see one major difference. These tools, unlike Ethaun’s, were not intended for gardening. Rather, they were meant for the more delicate work of craftsmanship. There were blades long and short, hammers, wedges, thin needles made of bone and willow shoots, hooks, bowls, spools of thread and twine and even metal wire, a spinning wheel, a turntable with a clay pot, mortars and pestles, stone jars that might have held dyeing powders, several pairs of scissors, files of all sizes, a spiraling metal drill, slats of wood for stretching materials, dozens of iron pots, two sharp axes, a huge loom, tall baskets of bark strips and wood of many kinds, and several devices so bizarre that Tamwyn had no idea at all what they might be.

  Opposite this work area, on the right, was a pen of packed straw that must have been Palimyst’s sleeping pallet. Nearby sat an immense wooden table bearing half a dozen woven baskets piled high with apples, melons, squashes, and a curling, red-spotted fruit that Tamwyn had never seen before. One especially large basket, on the seat of a vast wooden chair, held only rinds, cores, and clumps of seeds. Bowls, mugs, great stone jars, and other kitchen supplies fi
lled the three tall cabinets behind the table. Next to the wall of the tent, where a row of windows had been cut, rested a gigantic chair hewn from the auburn stone of the cliffs. And in that chair sat Palimyst himself, his leg propped on the thick slab of wood that was the tabletop.

  “Welcome to my lairrrrr, Tamwyn Eopia.”

  The young man glanced at the green fabric that stretched high above his head. “This is the most remarkable home I’ve ever seen.”

  Palimyst’s growling voice bubbled with laughter. “Perrrrrhaps, my two-legged guest. Yet what I will show you now is farrrrr morrrrre rrrrremarrrrrkable.”

  11 • The River of Time

  Palimyst slid his enormous leg off the tabletop, slamming it down onto the dirt floor of his lair. Tamwyn, seeing the puff of dirt from the impact, realized that the leg was even heavier than he’d thought, more like a stone pillar than a tree trunk. And that made Palimyst’s grace of movement when he hopped all the more amazing.

  Before leaving the table, the hairy fellow grabbed three apples with the fingers of one hand. In rapid succession, he popped each one into his mouth, chewed briskly, and then spat the core into the basket on his wooden chair. His eyes gleaming, he shot a glance at Tamwyn.

  “Come rrrrright along,” he growled. Then he turned and hopped past the forge and all his scattered tools and materials, heading deeper into the tent.

  The young man followed. Watching his huge, broad-shouldered host, he couldn’t help but think that the many objects that he himself carried—pack, dagger, staff, and torch—really didn’t amount to much compared to the immense bulk that Palimyst hauled around everywhere he went. But the sight of all those craftsman’s tools had made Tamwyn realize that the key quality of this creature, and maybe all the Taliwonn people, was not his massive size.

  No, it was his fingers. Those long, slender fingers, seven on each hand, were capable of amazingly delicate movement. And, as Tamwyn understood more with every step further into the tent, they were also capable of stunning skill.

  Shelves lined both sides of the lair, crammed with crafts of every kind. There were woven baskets, some as small as Tamwyn’s thumbnail, others so big he’d have no trouble at all climbing in. There were also painted slabs of wood, engraved metal blades, strangely shaped clay pots and pitchers, sculpted stones, and carefully arranged bouquets of dried grasses, pressed flowers, and even polished snail shells. Tamwyn saw—and couldn’t resist touching gently—a colorful sphere made entirely from seeds, a huge mask of iridescent feathers, radiant prisms cut from quartz crystals, carpets woven from dyed threads, beeswax candles, plus (to his surprise) a square of fabric made from the bright wings of beetles.

  He found, on those shelves, a miniature landscape carved from the auburn stone of the cliffs. An antler, playfully decorated with beads. A sculpture, made from amethyst and calcite crystals, that looked like a purple mountain draped with glaciers. A huge hat of woven grass, spotted with luminous blue butterfly wings. A tapestry of white lightning stark against a black sky. A pair of rounded shells, painted with exquisite detail so that they resembled the multifaceted eyes of an insect.

  Most striking of all, though, were the musical instruments. Palimyst had put so many of them on the shelves that they leaned against each other or sat in jumbled piles, making it difficult sometimes to tell them apart. But Tamwyn had no trouble recognizing several flutes, carved from bone or wood; a set of crystal drums; the largest lute he’d ever seen; and many beautiful harps, whose sound boxes of oak or ash or maple had been intricately carved with flowing designs.

  “Well now, my two-legged frrrrriend, what do you think of this collection?”

  Tamwyn realized that he’d been so engrossed in viewing the treasures on the shelves, as he strolled slowly down the path, that he had almost walked right into Palimyst. His mammoth host had been waiting for him to catch up. Looking up into Palimyst’s face, he fumbled for words.

  “It’s, it’s—well, fabulous. Too much, too big, for description. As you promised, just remarkable.”

  The enormous eyes studied him. “Rrrrremarrrrrkable, yes. Not because of me, howeverrrrr.”

  “Not because of you?” Tamwyn stared at him in surprise. “But you made all these things, didn’t you?”

  “Many of them. And the otherrrrrs I have collected overrrrr the yearrrrrs. Yet all I have rrrrreally done is take the naturrrrral gifts of Avalon, alrrrrready so beautiful, and rrrrreshape or rrrrrearrrrrange them.”

  Still bewildered, Tamwyn shook his head. “You’ve put so much work into these things.”

  “Parrrrrt of theirrrrr virrrrrtue, to be surrrrre. Yet everrrrrything you see herrrrre—” He paused to wave his arm at the mass of objects on display. “Combines naturrrrre’s infinite gifts with a crrrrraftsman’s finite skills. And the rrrrresult is a special kind of beauty: one that mixes the Trrrrree and the hand, immorrrrrtal and morrrrrtal.”

  For a long moment, Tamwyn was silent. At last, he said, “I think, maybe, I understand. A carver can do nothing without wood. Or a weaver, without thread. Or a painter, without pigment. But it’s even more than that, isn’t it? More than just the raw materials that we need. For none of those crafts would even begin to happen without inspiration. And that, too, we get from the natural world—from noticing and appreciating its many wonders.”

  With the fingers of one hand, Palimyst gently drummed the young man’s shoulder, his touch as light as falling rain. “That is the wisdom of a crrrrraftsman, a trrrrrue makerrrrr of arrrrrt.”

  The word maker rang in Tamwyn’s mind. He remembered how it had been used by Aelonnia, one of Isenwy’s ancient mudmakers. For her, a Maker meant someone with magic in his hands, and humility in his heart. How different was that, really, from Palimyst’s view of a craftsman?

  “Now,” announced Palimyst, “I will show you one thing morrrrre. And then, Tamwyn Eopia, I will tell you what I know about how to stop time.”

  As Tamwyn watched eagerly, his host swung around and gestured at a large tapestry that hung by itself on the side of the tent. Instantly, the young man recognized its design. It was a map of the stars!

  Luminous silver threads marked each star in the sky, while the background colors melted from pitch black to azure blue. Although Tamwyn could identify his favorite constellations—Pegasus, the Twisted Tree, the double rings of the Circles, and of course, the now-darkened Wizard’s Staff—they seemed to be in unfamiliar shapes, as if they’d been stretched a bit out of proportion.

  Of course! he realized. This was how they looked from Holosarr, the lowest branch of the Tree. All his life, he had seen them from a slightly different angle, down in the root-realms.

  Despite this unfamiliarity, though, he gazed with wonder at the tapestry, almost as if he were seeing the stars themselves. For all his life, long before he had ever embarked on this quest, the stars had intrigued him. Called to him, almost. If they had been a text, with mysterious letters blazing on a blackened page, he would have longed to read it; if they had been a field, with radiant flowers blooming underfoot, he would have longed to run through it.

  Suddenly he noticed something else that seemed a bit odd. There, running down the middle of the sky, was a vague line of light. The same line that he had seen when he first arrived in Holosarr! Like a subtle crack in a backlit piece of wood, it glowed ever so slightly, inviting a closer look.

  “What is that line?” he asked, pointing.

  Palimyst’s deep growl bubbled. “That, my frrrrriend, is what I wanted to show you.”

  Shifting his great bulk, he bent lower—so low that his snout wasn’t far above Tamwyn’s head. “The Rrrrriverrrrr of Time.”

  “A river? In the sky?”

  “That is rrrrright. It was called, in the Taliwonn’s most ancient tongue, Crrrrryll Onnawesh, which means the seam in the tent of the sky.”

  “Cryll Onnawesh,” repeated Tamwyn. “But how is it like a river?”

  Palimyst exhaled, growling thoughtfully, as he chose the best words. “T
he Rrrrriverrrrr,” he explained, “divides the two halves of time—past and futurrrrre. So the Rrrrriverrrrr of Time itself is always in the prrrrresent. The now. And yet, even as it stays in the prrrrresent moment, it moves within itself, flowing ceaselessly thrrrrrough all the worrrrrlds that exist. In that way, it connects all the worrrrrlds—not in space, but in time.”

  He bent the tiniest bit lower, so that Tamwyn felt the warmth of his apple-scented breath. “And herrrrre, Tamwyn Eopia, is the mirrrrracle. If anyone can enterrrrr the Rrrrriverrrrr, he can move acrrrrross the whole rrrrrealm of the sky—but stay in the prrrrresent time.”

  Tamwyn nodded, his thoughts racing. “In other words, he can stop time.”

  The craftsman gave a deep, affirmative growl.

  “And so,” Tamwyn continued, “if the stars are really doorways to other worlds, and if Avalon is the world in between all the others, then someone who enters the River of Time from Avalon can ride to anywhere.” He paused, feeling the magnitude of this idea. “And never leave the present moment.”

  “Now you underrrrrstand.” Palimyst straightened up, though not enough to remove his hunchback. “Yet you must rrrrrememberrrrr my warrrrrning: As much as I can tell you about this new crrrrraft, only you can masterrrrr it.”

  Tamwyn’s brow furrowed. “Then you don’t know how to enter the River? “

  “No, my frrrrriend. As often as I have trrrrried, I have neverrrrr been able to do it myself.” His many fingers worked the air, as if they were pulling invisible threads. “Yet I do believe it can be done. Forrrrr the wizarrrrrd Merrrrrlin himself once did that verrrrry thing.”

  “Really? When?”

  “On his final deparrrrrturrrrre frrrrrom Avalon, when he left forrrrr the worrrrrld called Earrrrrth. He did not rrrrride into the starrrrrs, as he had done beforrrrre, on the back of the grrrrreat grrrrreen drrrrragon Basilgarrrrrad—although no one, not even the drrrrragon himself perrrrrhaps, knew why. That was especially strrrrrange, since he had just rrrrridden the drrrrragon to rrrrrelight seven darrrrrkened starrrrrs—the constellation we call the Staff of Merrrrrlin. “