The Lost Years (13 page)

Rhia seemed puzzled, but said nothing.

“The room,” I continued, “would have every kind of book imaginable. Surrounding me, everywhere I turned. Being in a room like that would be a lot like flying, you know. I could fly through those pages, anywhere I like.”

Rhia laughed. “I’d rather have real wings! Especially on a night like this. See?” She looked up through the branches. “You can already see Gwri of the Golden Hair.”

“That’s a new constellation for me. Where is it?”

“Right there.”

Though I strained with my second sight, I could see nothing in that part of the sky but a single star that I knew would eventually become part of Pegasus’ wing. “I don’t see it.”

“Can’t you see a maiden?”

“No.”

She took my arm and aimed it upward. “Now?”

“No. All I see is a star that will be part of Pegasus. And there. I can see another star for Pegasus.”

Rhia shot me a puzzled look. “Stars? Constellations of stare?”

Puzzled myself, I demanded, “What else?”

“My constellations are not made from the stars, but from the spaces
between
the stars. The dark places. The open places, where your mind can travel forever and ever.”

From that instant onward, I could not view the heavens in the same way. Just as I could not view the girl beside me in the same way. “Tell me more. About what you see up there.”

Rhia tossed back her brown curls. In a lilting voice, she began to explain some of the strange wonders of the Fincayran sky. How the broad band of stars across the middle of the night sky was truly a seam sewn in the two halves of time, one half always beginning, the other half always ending. How the longest patches of darkness were really the rivers of the gods, connecting this world and others. How the spinning circle of the stars was actually a great wheel, whose endless revolutions turned life into death, death into life.

Late into the night we drew pictures in the sky and traded tales. When at last we slept, it was soundly. And when warm rays awoke us, we realized that we did not want to leave this place. Not yet.

So for another day and another night we lingered at the bountiful hilltop, feasting on fruit and conversation. Though I remained guarded about discussing my deepest feelings, I discovered more than once that Rhia had an unnerving way of reading my thoughts as if they had been her own.

We sat beneath the fruity canopy, eating a hearty breakfast of tangy orange spheres (for me) and sweet red berries (for her). As we finished the meal by sharing one of the spiral-shaped fruits, Rhia turned to me with a question.

“That woman, the one who said she was your mother. What was she like?”

I looked at her with surprise. “She was tall, with very blue—”

“No, no, no. I don’t care what she looked like. What was she like?”

For a moment I considered Branwen. “Well, she was kind to me. More kind than I deserved. Most of the time, anyway. Full of faith—in her God, and in me. And quiet. Too quiet. Except when she told me stories. She knew a lot of stories, more than I can begin to remember.”

Rhia examined a berry for a moment before dropping it into her mouth. “I’m sure she learned some of them in that room full of books.”

“That’s right.”

“And even though she wasn’t your real mother, did you feel different because she was there, beside you? A little less lonely? A little . . . safer?”

I swallowed. “I guess so. Why are you so curious about her?”

Her face, which usually seemed at the very edge of laughter, turned serious. “I was just wondering what a mother, a real mother, would be like.”

I lowered my eyes. “I wish I knew.”

Rhia nodded. She ran her hand along a drooping bough of fruit, though she seemed to be looking past it, to some place or time far away.

“So you don’t remember your mother?”

“I was so very young when I lost her. I only remember feelings. Being safe. And warm. And . . . held. I’m not even sure I really remember those things. It might just be my longing for them.”

“What about your father? Any brothers or sisters?”

“I lost them. All of them.” She spread her arms to the branches above us. “But I found the Druma. This is my family now. And while I don’t have a true mother, I do have someone who protects me. And holds me. She is almost my mother.”

“Who is that?”

Rhia smiled. “A tree. A tree named Arbassa.”

I imagined her seated in the boughs of a great, sturdy tree. And I, too, smiled.

Then I thought about Branwen, my own almost-mother, as a strange warmth filled my chest. She was so distant from me and yet, at times, so close. I thought about her stories, her healing work, her sorrowful eyes. I wished that she had been willing to share more, about her own struggles as well as my mysterious past. I hoped that I might see her once again someday, although I knew it could not be so. Haltingly, I said a silent prayer to the God to whom she prayed so often, a prayer that wished her the peace she so longed to find.

Suddenly a sharp whistle pierced the air above my head. I looked up to find a familiar form perched on one of the branches.

“I don’t believe it.”

“A merlin,” observed Rhia. “A young male. And look. His wing is hurt. See how it’s missing some feathers.” She twitched her neck, in the way a hawk often does, and released a sharp whistle of her own.

The bird, cocking his head, whistled back. This time the whistle warbled a bit, incorporating some more throaty tones.

Rhia’s thick eyebrows lifted. She turned to me. “He said to me—not very politely, I might add—that you saved his life a while ago.”

“He told you that?”

“Is it not true?”

“Yes, yes, it’s true. I patched him up after he got into a fight. But how did you learn to talk with birds?”

Rhia shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “It’s no more difficult than talking with trees.” She added a bit sadly, “Those that are still awake, that is. Anyway, who was the merlin fighting?”

“I couldn’t believe his pluck. Or foolishness. He picked a fight with two giant rats, each of them at least three times his size.”

“Giant rats?” Rhia’s whole body stiffened. “Where? In the Druma?”

I shook my head. “No, but right on the edge. Near a little stream that flows out of the trees.”

Gravely, Rhia glanced at the merlin, who was pecking ravenously at a spiral-shaped fruit. “Killer rats, on our side of the river,” she muttered, shaking her head. “They are forbidden to enter Druma Wood. That’s the first time I’ve heard of them so close. Your friend the merlin may not have any manners, but he was right to attack them.”

“That bird just likes fighting, if you ask me. It could just as easily have been you or me that he attacked. He is no friend of mine.”

As if to contradict me, the merlin fluttered down from the fruit and landed on my left shoulder.

Rhia laughed. “Looks like he disagrees with you.” She observed the hawk thoughtfully. “It’s possible, you know, that he came to you for a reason.”

I grimaced. “The only reason is the same bad luck that follows me everywhere.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like such bad luck to me.” Whistling in a light, friendly cadence, she extended her hand toward the merlin.

With a screech, the bird lashed out with one of his talons. Rhia quickly withdrew, though not before the talon sliced across the back of her hand.

“Oh!” Scowling, she licked the blood from her wound, then whistled a sharp reprimand.

The merlin reprimanded her in return.

“Stop that,” I barked. I tried to brush the merlin off my shoulder, but the talons held tight, piercing my tunic and digging into my skin.

“You keep him away from me,” declared Rhia. “That bird is trouble.”

“I told you so.”

“Don’t act so smug!” She got up to leave. “Just rid us of him.”

I rose also, with the unwanted passenger still on my shoulder. “Can’t you help me somehow?”

“He’s your friend.” She stalked off, heading down the hill.

Again I tried to remove the merlin. But he refused to budge. Fixing an eye on me, he whistled angrily, as if he were threatening to tear off my ear if I did not cooperate.

Growling with frustration, I ran after Rhia as she disappeared into the forest. The bird clung tight to my shoulder, wings flapping. When I finally caught up with her, she was sitting on a low, rectangular rock, licking her gash.

“I don’t suppose you could fix my hand the way you fixed your friend’s wing.”

“He’s not my friend!” I shook my left shoulder, but the merlin hung on, eyeing me coldly. “Can’t you see? It’s more like he’s my master and I’m his slave.” I glared at the bird. “I can’t make him leave.”

Rhia’s expression turned sympathetic. “I’m sorry. It’s just that my hand hurts so.”

“Let me see it.” I took her hand, studying the deep cut. Blood continued to flow. Swiftly, I reached into my satchel and sprinkled some of the powdered herbs into the open wound. Pulling a broad leaf off a nearby bush, I laid it over the gash, taking care to draw the skin together as I had seen Branwen do dozens of times. Then, using a vine from Rhia’s own sleeve, I wrapped her hand securely.

She lifted her hand gratefully. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“From Branwen. The woman who told me stories. She knew a lot about healing.” I closed the satchel. “But she could only heal wounds to the skin.”

Rhia nodded. “Wounds to the heart are much more difficult.”

“Where are you going next?”

“To my house. I hope you will come.” She waved at the hawk, who raised a vicious talon in response. “Even with your, ah, companion there.”

“Generous of you,” I replied grimly. Despite the bothersome bird, my curiosity to learn more about this place, and about Rhia herself, remained strong. “I would like to come. But I won’t stay for long.”

“That’s fine. As long as you take that bird with you when you go.”

“Do I have any choice?”

With that, we strode into the forest. For the rest of that morning and well into the afternoon we followed a trail only visible to Rhia. We rounded hills, leaped streams, and slogged through marshes where the air hummed with all kinds of insects.

Halfway across one such marsh, Rhia pointed to a dead tree that seemed to be painted bright red. She clapped her hands once. A split second later, a scarlet cloud billowed out of its branches. Butterflies—hundreds of them, thousands of them—rose into the air, leaving the tree as bare as a skeleton.

I watched the scarlet cloud rise. So bright were the wings of the butterflies, flashing in the sun, that I wondered whether slices of the sun itself had been set like jewels within them. And I began to hope that my second sight was continuing to improve. If I could see such a stunning burst of color as this without my eyes, then one day, perhaps, I might be able to see all the world’s colors as vividly as I had seen them before the fire.

On we went, stepping through glades of hip-high fern, crossing over tumbled trees whose trunks and limbs were melting steadily into soil, passing beneath roaring waterfalls. When we paused to gather, some berries or take a drink of water, it was only briefly. Yet those moments were always long enough to glimpse the tail of a scurrying beast, catch the spicy scent of a flower, or hear the several voices of a stream.

I did my best to keep up, although Rhia’s pace and my poor vision in shadowy places kept my chest heaving and my shins bruised. All the while, the bird continued to pinch my shoulder. I started to doubt that those talons would ever let me go.

As the late afternoon light wove luminous threads through the loom of branches, Rhia came to a sudden halt. I approached, huffing, to find her looking up at the trunk of a linden tree. There, wrapped around the middle of the trunk, hung a spiky wreath of glittering gold.

“What is it?” I asked in wonderment.

Rhia smiled at me. “Mistletoe. The golden bough. See how it holds the light of the sun? It is said that one who wears a mantle of mistletoe may find the secret path to the Otherworld of the spirits.”

“It’s beautiful.”

She nodded. “Second only to the long-tailed alleah bird, it’s the most beautiful sight in the forest.”

I studied the shining wreath. “It seems so different from other plants.”

“And so it is! It’s neither a plant nor a tree, but a little of both. It’s something in between.”

Something in between,
I repeated to myself, remembering the words. Once Branwen had used them to describe those special places, like the Greeks’ Mount Olympus, where mortals and immortals could live side by side. And those special substances, like mist, where elements as distinct as air and water could merge to form something both alike and unlike themselves. Something in between.

Rhia beckoned. “We should go. We will need to move quickly to reach my house before dark.”

Through the towering trees we marched. As the light grew dim, my ability to see grew worse. As did my bruises and scrapes. Despite Rhia’s repeated urgings, I lost speed in the darkening forest. I stumbled more and more often, tripping on roots and rocks. Every time I fell, the merlin dug in his talons and screeched at me angrily, so loud that my ear stung as much as my shoulder. The trek became a torture.

At one point, I misjudged a branch and walked straight into it. The branch jabbed one of my sightless eyes. I howled in pain, but Rhia was too far ahead to hear. Then, trying to regain my balance, I did not see an animal’s den and stepped in it, twisting my ankle.

I crumpled on a fallen trunk, my eye stinging and my ankle throbbing. I lowered my head toward my knees, prepared to wait out the night if necessary.

To my surprise, the merlin finally lifted off. An instant later, he pounced on a mouse, bit the creature’s neck in two, then carried it aloft. He landed next to me on the trunk and began attacking his meal. While sorry for the mouse, I rubbed my sore shoulder thankfully. But my relief was muted. I felt sure that the bird, who continued to eye me even as he ate, would soon return to his favorite perch. Why, of all the places in this entire forest, did he have to choose my poor shoulder?

“Emrys!”

“Over here,” I answered dismally. Even the sound of Rhia’s voice failed to lift my spirits, for I did not look forward to telling her that I could not see well enough to go any farther that night.