The Seven Songs Read online

  As I bent to pick up the front end of the stretcher, I looked at my mother. Perspiration flecked her cheeks and brow. Such torment in her face! Seeing her this way felt like a spear twisting in my chest. Yet . . . I couldn’t shake the feeling that not all of the pain she was feeling this day had been caused by me.

  Bumbelwy, grumbling to himself, picked up the rear. Together, we stumbled across the maze of roots toward the doorway. When I was only two paces away, the bark-edged door began to close. Just as it had done before, when I first came to Arbassa! Once again, the tree did not want to let me inside.

  Rhia shrieked. She waved her hands, swishing a stern reprimand. The tree shuddered. The belligerent door stopped closing, then slowly opened again. Rhia shot me a glance, her expression grim. Then she turned and began to climb the gnarled, spiraling stairway within the trunk. As I followed, ducking my head to pass through the door, I was struck by the smells, rich and moist like autumn leaves after a rain. And by the sheer enormity of the trunk. Arbassa seemed even larger inside than she had outside. Even so, I had to concentrate hard in the dim light not to bump the stretcher against the walls or tilt it so far that my mother might slip off.

  Carefully, we climbed the stairs of living wood. Strange writing, as intricate as a spider’s web, flowed across the walls. Its interwoven runes filled the entire stairwell from top to bottom. But it was as incomprehensible as before. My hopes sank further.

  Finally we came to the thick curtain of leaves that marked the entry into Rhia’s cottage. Pushing through, we stepped onto a wide floor of woven boughs. All around us, wooden furniture sprouted straight out of the interlaced branches. I recognized the low table by the hearth, the pair of sturdy chairs, the honey-colored cabinet whose edges were lined with green leaves.

  “Oh,” breathed Elen, as she shifted slightly to see better. “It’s so beautiful.”

  I nodded to Bumbelwy and we set down the stretcher as gently as possible. Even as he straightened himself stiffly, his frowns lessened ever so slightly. He looked around, captivated by the interior of the cottage. My own thoughts, however, remained in the stairwell below.

  As if reading my mind, Rhia touched my arm. “I have some herbs to fetch for your mother.” She removed the Flowering Harp from her shoulder, placing it against the wall near the stretcher. “And you, if you still hope to save her, have much work to do.”

  10: ARBASSA’S SECRET

  Deep within Arbassa, I toiled. I tried everything possible to find the key to the puzzle. Time after time, I trudged up the spiral stairs and down again, searching for the right place to start. I backed away, scanning the walls for some sort of pattern. I came very close, laying my forehead against the cool wood, examining each individual rune in turn. To no avail.

  Hour after hour, I pored over the mysterious writing on the walls. Writing that might somehow guide me to the cure Elen so desperately needed. Yet while the intricately carved script seemed full of hidden meaning, it left me empty of understanding.

  Sunset came and went, and the dim light in the stairwell faded away completely. For some time I struggled to use my second sight, even less reliable than usual in the darkness, until finally Rhia brought me an unusual torch. It was a sphere, as big as my fist, made of thin but sturdy beeswax. Within it crawled a dozen or more beetles that glowed with a steady, amber light. It was enough to illuminate at least a small portion of the script.

  Grateful though I was for the torch, I accepted it without a word. The same was true for the two bowls, one filled with water and one with large green nuts, which Bumbelwy brought me sometime later. Despite the fact that he tripped on the stairs, spilling half the water on my neck, I hardly noticed him. I was too absorbed in my work. And also my guilt. For all my concentration on the strange runes, I couldn’t keep myself from hearing the recurrent sighs and moans from the woman lying on the floor above me. The woman I had brought to Fincayra.

  Outside, I knew, a pale new moon was rising over Druma Wood, painting Arbassa’s boughs with the faintest glow of silver. Now I had one month, less one day, to find the cure. As difficult, perhaps impossible, as that task would be, I could not even begin it until I deciphered the script. And the script showed no sign of sharing its secret.

  Wearily, I lay my hand against the wooden wall. Suddenly I felt a brief spark of warmth from the runes. It barely pricked the palm of my hand before it vanished. Yet it left me with the feeling, deep in my bones, that this writing had indeed been carved by the great wizard Tuatha. Could he have known that one day, years later, his own grandson would struggle to read these mysterious words? That the words would offer the only hope of finding the stairway to the Otherworld and the Elixir of Dagda? And could Tuatha have guessed that the Elixir would be needed to save the life of Elen—the woman he had once predicted would give birth to a wizard with powers even greater than his own?

  Some wizard I had turned out to be! When I wasn’t bearing a magical instrument, what had my powers wrought? Nothing but misery. To me and those in my wake. I had not only snuffed out my own two eyes, I had nearly snuffed out my own mother’s life.

  I shambled down to the bottom of the stairwell. Despondently, I leaned close to the wall. Reaching out my hand, I touched the very first rune with the tip of my finger. It looked something like a squarish sunflower wearing a long, shaggy beard. Slowly, I traced its curves and creases, trying yet again to sense even a glimmer of its meaning.

  Nothing.

  I dropped my hand. Perhaps it was a matter of confidence. Of belief. I was born to be a wizard, wasn’t I? Tuatha himself said so. I am his grandson. His heir.

  Again I touched the first rune.

  Again I sensed nothing.

  Speak to me, rune! I command you! Still nothing. I slammed my fist against the wall. Speak to me, I say! That is my command!

  Another painful moan echoed down the stairwell. My stomach knotted. I drew a slow, unsteady breath. If not for me, then for her! She will die if I can’t find some way to learn your secret. A tear drifted down my cheek. Please. For her. For Elen. For . . . Mother.

  A strange tingling pulsed through my finger. I caught a whiff of something, not quite a feeling.

  Pushing my finger to the rune, I concentrated harder. I thought of Elen, lying alone on a floor of woven boughs. I thought of her love for me. I thought of my love for her. The wood seemed to grow warmer under my fingertip. Help her, please. She has given me so much.

  In a flash, I understood. The first rune spoke its meaning directly to my mind, in a deep, resonant voice that I had never before heard, yet somehow had always known. These words shall be read with love, or not read at all.

  Then came the rest. In a flowing, cascading river of words, a river that washed over me and carried me away. The Seven Songs of Wizardry, One melody and many, May guide ye to the Otherworld, Though hope ye have not any . . .

  Excitedly now, rune by rune, I read my way up each step of the stairwell. Often I paused, repeating the words to myself before proceeding. When at last I reached the top, the sun’s first rays were filtering down the stairwell and trembling over the runes. During the night, the Seven Songs had been carved on the walls of my mind just as they had once been carved on the walls of Arbassa.

  11: ONE MELODY AND MANY

  I climbed the last wooden stair and stepped through the curtain of leaves. My mother still lay on the floor, though no longer on the stretcher. Hearing me enter, she stirred beneath a light, silvery blanket, woven from the threads of moths, and tried with effort to raise her head. Rhia sat cross-legged by her side, her face full of worry. Bumbelwy, leaning against a far wall, looked glumly my way.

  “I have read the words,” I announced without pride. “Now I must try to follow them.”

  “Can you tell us a little?” whispered Elen. The pink light of dawn, sifting through the windows, touched the pale skin of her cheeks. “How do they begin?”

  Grimly, I knelt by her side. I studied her face, so pained and yet so loving. And I
recited:

  The Seven Songs of Wizardry,

  One melody and many,

  May guide ye to the Otherworld,

  Though hope ye have not any.

  “Though hope ye have not any,” repeated Bumbelwy, staring blankly at his hat. “Too true, too true, too true.”

  As I glared at him, Rhia reached for a small, pine-scented pillow. “What does it mean, One melody and many?”

  “I’m not sure.” I watched her slide the pillow under my mother’s head. “But it goes on to say that each of the Seven Songs is part of what it calls the great and glorious Song of the Stars, so maybe it has something to do with that.”

  “It does, my son.” Elen observed me for a moment. “What else did the words say?”

  “Many things.” I sighed. “Most of which I don’t understand. About seedlings and circles and the hidden sources of magic. And something about the only difference between good magic and evil being the intention of the one who wields it.”

  I took her hand. “Then I came to the Seven Songs themselves. They begin with a warning.”

  Divine the truth within each Song

  Before ye may proceed.

  For truths like trees for ages grow,

  Yet each begins a seed.

  I paused, remembering that even the mighty Arbassa, in whose arms we now sat, began as a mere seed. Still, that gave me scant encouragement when I remembered the words that followed:

  Pursue the Seven Songs in turn;

  The parts beget the whole.

  But never move until ye find

  Each Song’s essential soul.

  “Each Song’s essential soul,” repeated Rhia. “What do you think that could mean?”

  I touched the woven boughs of the floor. “I have no idea. No idea at all.”

  My mother squeezed my hand weakly. “Tell us the Songs themselves.”

  Still pondering Rhia’s question, I recited:

  The lesson Changing be the first,

  A treeling knows it well.

  The power Binding be the next,

  As Lake of Face can tell.

  The skill Protecting be the third,

  Like dwarves who tunnel deep.

  The art of Naming be the fourth,

  A secret Slantos keep.

  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.

  But lo! Do not attempt the Well

  Until the Songs are done.

  For dangers stalk your every step,

  With Balor’s eye but one.

  Silence fell over the room. Even Bumbelwy’s bells did not stir.

  At last, I spoke in a hushed voice. “I don’t know how I can possibly do all the things the Songs require and return here before . . . “

  “I die.” Elen lifted her hand to my cheek. “Is there any way I could persuade you not to go, my son?” Her arm fell back to the floor. “At least then we’d be together at the last.”

  “No! I’m the one who did this to you. I must try to find the cure. Even if the chances are one in a million.”

  Her face, already pale, grew still whiter. “Even if it means your own death, on top of mine?”

  Rhia touched my shoulder in sympathy. Suddenly, a whoosh of wings stirred in my memory, and I thought of someone else I had lost, the brave hawk who had died in the fight for the Shrouded Castle. We had named him Trouble, and no name could have been more fitting. Yet his actions rang even louder than his angry screeches in my ear. I wondered whether his spirit still lived in the Otherworld. And whether, if I failed in this quest, I might join him there, along with my mother.

  Elen stiffened, clenching her fists, as another spasm of pain coursed through her body. Rhia reached for a bowl of a yellow potion that smelled as rich as beef broth. Carefully, she helped my mother drink a few swallows, spilling a little on the floor. Then, raising the bowl, Rhia made a loud, chattering noise with her tongue.

  From on top of the cabinet, a squirrel with huge brown eyes suddenly bounced to the floor and loped to her side. It placed one paw on her thigh, waving its bushy tail. Almost before Rhia had chattered another command, the squirrel took the bowl from her hands. With a high-pitched chatter in reply, it bounded off, carrying the bowl in its teeth.

  “That’s Ixtma,” she explained to my mother, “I found him once in a glade near here, squealing from a broken leg. I set it for him, and since then he often visits, helping however he can. I asked him to refill the bowl for you, after he chops some more chamomile.”

  Despite her condition, my mother seemed on the verge of laughing. “You are an amazing girl, you are.” Then her face tightened, the shadows of leaves quivering on her golden hair. “I only wish I had more time to know you.”

  “You will,” declared Rhia. “After we return with the cure.”

  “We!” I looked at her in amazement. “Who said you were coming?”

  “I did,” she replied calmly. She folded her arms across her chest. “And there is nothing you can do to change my mind.”

  “No! Rhia, you could die!”

  “Nevertheless, I’m coming.”

  The floors and walls of the cottage creaked, as Arbassa swayed from side to side. I could not be sure whether a sudden wind outside had tossed its branches, but I suspected that the wind had sprung from within.

  “Whyever do you want to come?” I demanded.

  Rhia looked at me curiously. “You get lost so easily.”

  “Stop that, will you? What about my mother? Someone needs to—”

  “Ixtma will do it. We’ve already arranged everything.”

  I bit my lip. Turning to Elen, I asked in exasperation, “Are all girls this stubborn?”

  “No. Just the ones with strong instincts.” Her eyes moved to Rhia. “You remind me of me, child.”

  Rhia blushed. “And you remind me of . . . “ Her voice trailed off. “I’ll tell you when we get back.”

  Bumbelwy cleared his throat. “I shall stay.”

  I jumped. “What?”

  “I said I’ll stay. To keep her company, during the excruciating agony of her death. It’s going to be miserable, absolutely miserable, that I know for certain. But perhaps I can lighten her load a bit. I’ll dust off my most cheery melodies, my most humorous tales. Just the thing for someone gripped by the horror of death.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” I struck the wooden floor with my fist. “You’re . . . coming with us.”

  Bumbelwy’s dark eyes widened. “You want me to come?”

  “No. But you’re coming anyway.”

  “Merlin, no!” Rhia waved her leaf-draped arms. “Please don’t let him come.”

  I shook my head gravely. “It’s not that I want him with us. I want him away from her. What he calls humor could kill her in a week instead of a month.”

  Elen reached a trembling hand toward me and lightly brushed my scarred cheek. “If you must go, I want you to hear what I have to say.”

  She locked her sapphire eyes on me, so that I could almost feel her gaze penetrating my skin. “Most important, I want you to know that even if I should die before you return, it was worth it all to me just to see you again.”

  I turned away.

  “And something else, my son. I have learned precious little in my time, but this I know. All of us—including me—have within ourselves both the wickedness of a serpent and the gentleness of a dove.”

  I pushed the hair off my brow. “I have a serpent, that’s certain! But I’ll never believe you do. Never.”

  She sighed heavily, her eyes roaming the interwoven branches that framed the room. “Let me say it in another way. You often enjoyed my tales of the ancient Greeks. Do you remember the one about the girl named Psyche?”

  Puzzled,
I gave a nod.

  Once more her blue eyes seemed to search me. “Well, the Greek word psyche has two different meanings. Sometimes it means butterfly. And other times it means soul.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The butterfly is the master of transformation, you see. It can change from a mere worm into the most beautiful creature of all. And the soul, my son, can do the same.”

  I swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “Don’t be sorry, my son. I love you. I love all of you.”

  Bending low, I kissed her hot brow. She gave me a faltering smile, then swung her head toward Rhia. “And for you, child, I have this.” From the pocket of her deep blue robe, she pulled an amulet of twigs bound together with a red thread. “An amulet of oak, ash, and thorn. Take it. You see how the buds are swelling with new life? They are ready to blossom, as are you. Keep it with you, for courage. And to remind you to trust your instincts. Listen to them. For they are really the voice of Nature, mother of us all.”

  Rhia’s eyes glistened as she took the gift and deftly fixed it to her shirt of woven vines. “I will listen. I promise.”

  “You already do, I think.”

  “It’s true,” I declared. “She has even been known to remind other people to trust in the berries.”

  Rhia blushed, even as she fingered the amulet of oak, ash, and thorn.

  “Of course,” muttered Bumbelwy, “you have nothing for me.”

  I scowled at him. “Why should she?”

  “Oh, but I do,” said Elen weakly. “I have a wish.”

  “A wish?” The lanky figure came closer and knelt upon the floor of branches. “For me?”

  “I wish that one day you will make someone laugh.”

  Bumbelwy bowed his head. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Merlin,” whispered my mother. “Perhaps your Seven Songs are like the seven labors of Hercules. Do you remember them? They were thought to be impossible. Yet he did them all, and survived.”