The Lost Years (15 page)

I wondered whether Arbassa herself ever slept. Even now, as she held us in her arms, was it still watching the hawk with concern? I wished I could ask the great tree whether Fincayra held the answers to my questions. Had the time come to leave Druma Wood and explore other parts of this island? Or should I be building a boat to search for another place entirely?

I sighed. For I knew once again, in that hour before dawn, how little I really did know.

17:
T
HE
A
LLEAH
B
IRD

Rhia shrieked suddenly. She sat rigid in her chair, not moving, not breathing. Even the golden light of sunrise, pouring through the window slats and over her suit of leafy vines, could not hide the look of terror on her face.

I bounced out of my chair. “What’s wrong?”

Her wide eyes peered into mine. “Everything.”

“What do you mean?”

She shook the forest of curls on her head. “A dream. So real, like it was truly happening.” She took a deep breath. “It frightened me.”

I watched her, remembering my own dream.

Cwen’s slender form approached. “What dream wassss thissss?”

Rhia faced her. “Every night I dream about the Druma. Without fail.”

“Sssso? I do assss well.”

“It’s always safe. Always comforting. Always . . . home. Even when I go to sleep worried about the troubles in other parts of Fincayra—which happens more and more—I know I can always find peace in my dreams of the Druma.”

Cwen wrung her knobby hands. “You don’t sssseem sssso peaceful now.”

“I’m not!” Rhia’s eyes filled with terror again. “Last night I dreamed that the whole Druma—all the trees, the ferns, the animals, the stones—started bleeding! Bleeding to death! I tried and tried, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. The forest was dying! The sky darkened. Everything turned the color of dried blood. The color of—”

“Rust,” I finished. “Same as the other side of the river.”

She nodded grimly, then lifted herself from her chair and strode to the eastern wall, where rays of lavender and pink now mixed with gold. Propping her hands on both sides of a slat, she gazed at the dawn. “For months, I’ve tried to convince myself that the sickness across the River Unceasing would never reach the Druma. That only the Blighted Lands would fall, not the whole of Fincayra.”

“Sssso wrong,” put in Cwen. “In all my yearssss, which are now sssso very many, I have never felt the Druma in ssssuch danger. Never! If we are to ssssurvive, we need new sssstrength—from whatever ssssource.” The last phrase rang rather ominously, though I was not sure why.

Rhia’s brow creased. “That too was part of my dream.” She paused, thinking. “A stranger came into the forest. A stranger who knew no one at all. He had some sort of power . . .” She swung around to face me. “And he—and only he—could save the Druma.”

I blanched. “Me?”

“I’m not sure. I woke up before I could see his face.”

“Well, I’m not your savior. That’s certain.”

She watched me closely, though she didn’t say anything.

Trouble’s talons squeezed tighter on my shoulder.

I turned from Rhia to Cwen and back to Rhia. “You’re mistaken! Badly mistaken. Once I had . . . But I can’t . . . I can’t do anything like that! And even if I could, I have my own quest to follow.” I shook my left arm. “Despite this bird on me.”

“Your own quesssst?” demanded Cwen. “Sssso you care nothing for otherssss?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you did.” Rhia looked at me sharply. “You care about your own quest more than you care about the Druma.”

“If you put it that way, yes.” My cheeks burned. “Don’t you understand? I have to find my own past! My own name! The last thing I need is to get caught up in whatever is happening here. You can’t ask me to give up my quest just because you had one bad dream!”

She glared at me. “And how far would your quest have gone if the Druma had not been kind to you?”

“Far enough. I got here on my own, didn’t I?”

“You remind me of a baby who says he fed himself on his own.”

“I am no baby!”

Rhia sucked in her breath. “Listen. I’m the only creature of my kind who lives in this forest. No other woman or man or child can be found here, except for the rare outsider who slips through, as you did. But do I think, even for an instant, that I live here alone? That I could have survived without the others—like Arbassa, or Cwen, or the alleah bird, whose beauty I treasure even if I should never be lucky enough to see it again? If the Druma is in trouble, then all of them are in trouble. And I’m in trouble, too.”

Imploringly, she opened her hands to me. “Please. Will you help?”

I looked away.

“He will not help ussss,” spat Cwen.

Rhia strode to the stairway entrance. “Come. I want you to see what else will die if the Druma dies.”

As she started down the stairs within Arbassa’s trunk, I followed her, but only reluctantly. For the feeling was growing inside me that my own quest must take me elsewhere—to other parts of Fincayra, and perhaps beyond. In any case, to places far from the Druma. And even if I stayed here for a while, how could I try to help Rhia without being tempted to call on my forbidden powers? I shook my head, certain that our new friendship was already lost.

I glanced over my shoulder at Cwen. She showed no emotion at my departure—with one exception. Her teardrop eyes glared at Trouble, making clear that she was glad to see the irascible bird go. As if in response, he lifted one leg and raked his talons savagely in her direction.

Winding down the stairway, I smelled the familiar moist fragrance, all the while doubting I would ever stand here, in this great tree, again. I paused to examine the curious script that covered Arbassa’s walls.

Rhia, already at the bottom, called up to me. “Let’s go.”

“I am just taking a last look at this writing.”

Even in the spare light of the stairwell, her puzzlement was clear. “Writing? What writing?”

“On the wall here. Don’t you see it?”

She climbed back up to me. After staring at the spot where I pointed, she seemed baffled, as if she saw nothing there. “Can you read it?”

“No.”

“But you can see it?”

“Yes.”

For a moment she scrutinized me. “There is something different about the way you see, isn’t there?”

I nodded.

“You see without your eyes.”

Again I nodded.

“And you can see something I can’t see
with
eyes.” Rhia bit her lip. “You are even more of a stranger to me now than when I first met you.”

“Maybe it’s better for you I stay a stranger.”

Trouble fluttered his wings nervously.

“He doesn’t like it in here,” she observed, heading down the stairs.

I followed. “He probably knows what Arbassa thinks of him.” After a pause, I added, “Not to mention what I think of him.”

The doorway creaked, then opened. We stepped through it into the morning light scattered by the leafy boughs overhead, even as the passage snapped shut behind us.

Rhia glanced upward into the broad boughs of Arbassa, then quickly moved into the forest. As I followed, my walking jarred Trouble, and his talons squeezed me tighter than ever.

Before long, she came to a large beech tree, its gray bark folded with age. “Come here,” she called. “I have something to show you.”

I approached. She took her hand and laid it flat against the trunk.

“No tree is as ready to speak as a beech. Especially an elder. Listen.”

Gazing up into the branches, she started making a slow, swishing sound with her voice. Immediately, the branches began to wave in response, whispering gently. As she varied her pace, pitch, and volume, the tree seemed to reply in kind. Soon the girl and the tree were engaged in full and lively conversation.

After a time, Rhia turned to me and spoke again in our own language. “Now you try it.”

“Me?”

“You. First put your hand on the trunk.”

Still doubtful, I obeyed.

“Now before you speak, listen.”

“I already heard the branches.”

“Don’t listen with your ears. Listen with your
hand
.”

My palm pressed into the folds of the trunk; my fingers joined with the cold, smooth bark. Presently I could feel a vague pulsing at the edges of my fingertips. The pulsing moved gradually into my whole hand and then up my arm. I could almost feel the subtle rhythm of air and earth flowing through the body of the tree, a rhythm that combined the power of an ocean wave surging with the tenderness of a small child breathing.

Without thinking, I started making a swishing sound like Rhia. To my surprise, the branches responded, waving gracefully above me. A whisper stirred the air. I nearly smiled, knowing that while I did not understand its words, the tree was indeed speaking to me.

Both to Rhia and the old beech, I said, “One day I would like to learn this language.”

“It would do you no good if the Druma dies. Only here are the trees of Fincayra still awake enough to talk.”

I hunched my shoulders. “What can I possibly do for you? I already told you I’m not the person in your dream.”

“Forget my dream! There is something remarkable about you. Something . . . special.”

Her words warmed me. Even if I didn’t really believe them, it meant something that she did. For the first time in what seemed like ages, I thought of myself, seated on the grass, concentrating on a flower, making it open its petals one by one. Then I remembered where that path had taken me, and I shuddered. “Once there was something special. But that part of me is gone.”

Her gray-blue eyes burrowed deeper. “Whatever it is you have, it is with you right now.”

“I have only myself and my quest—which will probably take me far from here.”

Adamantly, she shook her head. “That is not all you have.”

All at once I understood what she must be talking about. The Galator! She didn’t want me, after all. She wanted the pendant I wore, whose power I did not begin to understand. It didn’t matter how she had concluded that I carried it. What mattered was that, somehow, she knew. How foolish of me to have believed, even for an instant, that she had seen something special about me. About my person, rather than my pendant.

“You don’t really want me,” I growled.

Her face turned quizzical. “You think not?”

Before I could answer, Trouble’s talons dug into my shoulder with sudden force. I winced with pain. It was all I could do to keep myself from swiping at the bird, but I knew that he might attack me as ferociously as he had attacked the killer rat by the stream. All I could do was try to tolerate the pain, while despairing that he had chosen me to be his perch. But why had he chosen me? What did he really want? I had absolutely no idea.

“Look!” Rhia pointed at a brilliant flash of iridescent red and purple disappearing into the trees. “The alleah bird!”

She started after it, then paused, glancing back at me. “Come! Let’s get closer. The alleah bird is a sign of good fortune! I have not seen one for years.”

With that, she dashed after the bird. I noticed that the wind seemed to sweep through the trees at that very moment, causing the branches to chatter vigorously. Yet if they were truly saying something, Rhia was not paying any attention. I rushed after her.

Over fallen branches and through needled bracken we chased the bird. Each time we drew close enough to get a better look, it flew off in a burst of brilliant color, showing only enough of its plumed tail to make us want to see more.

Finally, the alleah bird settled on a low branch in a stand of dead trees. Most likely it had chosen this place to perch because the supple, living branches all around were swaying so wildly in the wind. For the first time, no leaves hid its bright feathers. Rhia and I, panting from the chase, held ourselves as still as possible, studying the flaming purple crest on the bird’s head and the explosions of scarlet along its tail.

Rhia could hardly contain her excitement. “Let’s see how near we can get.” She started to creep closer, pushing past a dead limb.

Suddenly Trouble whistled sharply. As I cringed from the blast in my ear, the hawk took flight. My heart missed a beat when I realized that he meant to attack the beautiful bird.

“No!” I cried.

Rhia waved her arms wildly. “Stop! Stop!”

The merlin paid no attention. Releasing another wrathful whistle, he shot like an arrow straight into his prey. The alleah bird, taken unaware, shrieked in pain as Trouble sunk his talons deep into its soft neck and pecked at its eyes. Still, it fought back with surprising savagery. The branch snapped beneath them. Feathers flying, the two birds tumbled to the ground.

Rhia ran forward, with me right behind. Reaching the spot, we both froze.

Before us on the brown leaves, Trouble, his talons smeared with blood, stood atop the body of his motionless prey. I noticed that the alleah bird seemed to have only one leg. Probably the other one had been torn off in the attack. I felt sick at the sight of those crumpled feathers, those luminous wings that would never fly again.

Then, as we watched in amazement, the alleah bird began to metamorphose. As it changed, it pulled away from its former skin, much like a snake that is shedding. This left behind a brittle, almost transparent skin, marked with ridges where the feathers had been. Meanwhile the bird’s wings evaporated, as the feathered tail transformed into a long, serpentine body covered by dull red scales. The head grew longer and sprouted massive jaws, filled with jagged teeth that could easily bite off a hand. Only the eyes, as red as the scales, remained unchanged. The serpentlike creature lay dead, the thin skin of its former body clinging to its side.

I took Rhia’s arm. “What does this mean?”

Her face drained of color, she turned slowly toward me. “It means that your hawk has saved our lives.”

“What is that . . . thing?”

“That is—or was—a shifting wraith. It can change into whatever shape it wants, so it is especially dangerous.”

“Those jaws look dangerous enough.”