If land long forgotten
Returns to its shore,
And ancient opponents
Stand allies once more,
Then all through the heavens
Grand music may sound:
The balance restored;
The hidden wings found.
Yet tidings, more likely,
Are vilely reversed—
All hope torn asunder,
The Treasures all cursed.
Then over the heavens
A shroud shall descend:
The longest of evenings,
The uttermost end.
His eyes reopened, watching me with concern. “The stakes could not be higher, my boy.”
I nodded. “You heard him mention wings? Just as Dagda did. I just don’t understand how that fits in.”
The poet rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. “Nor do I. The part that puzzles me most, though, is that earlier reference:
If land long forgotten returns to its shore
.” Turning, he gazed at the bone-white trees. To himself, he muttered, “It couldn’t possibly mean the Forgotten Island.”
I drew a sharp breath. “That’s where I’m taking the children!”
His face showed, in rapid succession, surprise, doubt, and horror. “You can’t do that, Merlin! Don’t you remember? Ages ago that place was part of Fincayra, then Dagda cut it off completely, pushing it out to sea and surrounding it with spells.”
“I know all that. And if I can just figure out how to get there, the children will be safe. Out of that wicked warrior’s reach forever!”
Vigorously, he shook his gray mane. “Impossible. First of all, how do you plan to get there?”
“Well, I . . . we could, um . . .”
“I see,” he said gravely.
Suddenly, an idea burst into my mind. I leaped up, dashed over to the stand of dead trees, and slapped my open hand against one of the whitened trunks. “We’ll build a raft! Yes, a great raft, using these trees. Shim will help me. It will work, I know it!”
My old mentor, far from sharing my enthusiasm, watched me with heightened concern. “The ocean is the least of it, my boy! The spells—don’t forget the spells. No one, not even your grandfather Tuatha, has ever made it past them. And most of those who tried never returned.”
Angrily, I swung my arm. It collided with a small branch, snapping it in two and spraying me with shards. “I must find a way. For the children, I must!”
The ridges on his brow seemed as deeply engraved as those on the sand dune behind him. “Can’t you battle this warrior?”
“Battle him, yes. But I can’t defeat him.” I stepped closer, my face grim. “He takes my own powers somehow, and hurls them right back at me. That’s right! So the children’s best hope is to get as far away as possible.”
“They—and you—may well die trying.”
“Their chances are worse if I don’t try.” Folding my legs, I sat beside him again on the sand. “Cairpré, you could help me. Tell me what you know about those spells.”
He bit his lip. “Virtually nothing. Just that something terrible rises up out of the sea whenever someone gets too close to the island. Don’t you see, my boy? Whatever Dagda’s reasons, he wanted no one to go back to that place. Ever.”
I blew a long breath. “What could have happened there? Do you really think it had to do with the lost wings?”
“That’s my guess,” he said with a shrug, “though no one knows. Why, everything about the island is a mystery! We don’t even know if it ever had a name of its own.”
“So it truly is forgotten. Even its name.”
“That’s right,” he said somberly. “It’s as if the whole place, even the memory of it, was destroyed. And if Fin’s ballad is right, the same fate awaits Fincayra.”
“Wait now,” I protested. “As bad as the ballad sounds, it still leaves room for hope. We might yet avoid that
uttermost end
.”
The dark pupils of his eyes seemed to grow distant. “There is more, I’m afraid. You haven’t heard the final stanza.”
His voice wavering, he recited the ballad’s concluding lines.
Beware, you that joineth
To rescue the cause:
Your sacrifice dearest
Holds ruinous flaws.
For times may occur,
So laden with cost,
When all truly gained
Is yet truly lost.
“Those words again!” Grasping a handful of sand, I poured it onto the side of my boot, watching the grains tumble over the edge and onto the ground. “How can what is gained also be lost?”
Cairpré drew his bushy brows together. “Hard to know. It’s only after
sacrifice dearest,
I fear, that we’ll finally understand.”
For quite some time we sat in silence, hearing only our thoughts and the ongoing cries of the water birds on the other side of the dune. The ballad, once spoken, seemed etched upon my mind. Over and over I repeated some lines, though with no better understanding.
At last, the poet spoke again. “Let’s have a fire, Merlin. And a spot of food.” He nudged his leather satchel. “I’ve brought the makings.”
“Yes,” I replied. “We need our strength if we’re going to prevail.”
He paused in opening the satchel to smile at me fondly. “My boy, you are persistence personified.”
“No, no. I’m just hunger personified.”
With a flourish, he pulled out the contents of his satchel: plenty of oatmeal for porridge, some dried bilberries, a large slab of honeycomb, a flask filled with apple cider, one vial of ground nutmeg, a cooking pot, and a pair of wooden spoons. Quickly, we set about collecting driftwood and dry grass to build a fire, the first I’d seen since the torches of the dwarves’ underground realm. Soon crackling flames arose, warming our chilled hands. For a moment, I thought of Lleu, coaxing our own fire to life back in the village.
“Did you return to the village after you went home?” I asked, as Cairpré stirred the nutmeg into the simmering pot. “And was Elen there? And Lleu?”
“Yes on all counts,” he replied. “Little Lleu brought her your message. She’s staying there, as you demanded, though she’s not very pleased about it.” He gave the pot a final stir. “There now. Break off a generous piece of honeycomb and grab your spoon.”
In short order, we were eating porridge from the pot. Simple though it was, it seemed like a grand repast. The aromas of apple, oats, and honey filled our nostrils as well as the air beneath the dune; the porridge warmed our bodies thoroughly.
The poet studied me as he blew on his spoon. “In a way, it’s really a blessing that Stangmar has reappeared.”
I nearly dropped my spoon. “How so?”
“Because otherwise your mother couldn’t resist going to the circle of stones, not to fight, but to be near you and Rhia. Much as she detests being confined to that squalid little settlement, she’s probably quite safe there, and she’ll be spared all the horror of the battle.” He gazed wistfully into the fire. “
O gentle soul, thy innocence stole
.”
I threw another piece of driftwood onto the flames. “It’s Stangmar’s legacy, though, that’s made it so difficult to win the allies we need! I tried with Urnalda, and she practically spat blood at me.” The fire, as if in emphasis, crackled loudly. “I doubt Rhia’s having any better luck with the canyon eagles and the others.”
Somber again, Cairpré said, “If you don’t return in time from this misadventure at the island, she may be there all alone.”
“I’ll be there. Whatever happens, I’ll be there.” Quizzically, I examined him. “You won’t be there yourself?”
“Me?” He shook his gray head. “I’m a man of words, not weapons. As bad as I am fighting with the ending lines of a ballad, I’d be far worse fighting any living foe! No, the last thing you need is an old bungler like me on the battlefield.”
He gazed at me intensely across the flames. “I shall be with you and Rhia in every other way, though. Yes, and so will that woman with the sapphire eyes.”
“I know,” I whispered. “You’ll be staying with Elen, then? Keeping her company through all this?”
His gaze never wavered. “You can count on that, Merlin. As long as she’ll have me, I’ll stay by her side. I know no treasure even half so precious as a single day with her.”
Thoughtfully, I pursed my lips. “In the ballad, where it spoke of the Treasures of Fincayra, what did that mean?”
“Nothing good,” he answered. “Fin was implying that the Treasures are somehow linked to the future of Fincayra. So if the Treasures are cursed, Rhita Gawr is likely to prevail.” He ran his fingers through the sand of the dune. “That seems unlikely, though. And besides, only the Caller of Dreams has been destroyed.”
“What?” I grabbed his tunic sleeve, imagining the graceful horn in his keeping. Often called the Horn of Good Tidings, it held the power to bring a person’s most cherished dream to life. “It’s been destroyed?”
“That’s right. It cracked somehow, inexplicably, a few days ago. I was combing through my books, looking for the ballad. Suddenly, from its place on a neighboring shelf, it gave out a mournful wail and split in two.” He frowned. “There’s no way to repair it.”
“That’s what happened,” I exclaimed, “to the Flowering Harp! Destroyed, with no explanation.”
He looked at me, aghast. “Truly?”
“Yes! And Rhia’s Orb is gone, too, though in that case the curse came in the form of Stangmar.”
His body went rigid. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then exclaimed: “No, no, it can’t be related! Why should the fate of the Treasures be connected to the fate of Fincayra?”
I reached over and touched his knee. “Because, my friend, it’s not their fates that are connected but their
lives.
They were hewn from the same wondrous fibers, by the same great forces. It’s the magic of this land that gave birth to the Treasures to begin with. It’s the magic of this land that has empowered them always.”
Slowly, Cairpré nodded, his brow aglow from the firelight. “You’re right, Merlin. I see it now.” With his boot, he pushed an ember back into the flames. “And while I am gladdened that my student has become my teacher, I only wish it hadn’t happened when we’re about to lose everything.”
“We haven’t lost it yet,” I declared. “Listen, now. Do you recall that night, that terrible night, when you and I first met?”
He watched me, saying nothing.
“Well, on that night, you said something I’ve never forgotten.”
Seeing the grim line of his mouth relax ever so slightly, I continued. “You told me that you couldn’t say whether I really belonged in Fincayra, whether it was truly my home. The only one who could ever know that, you said, was me. Well, I’m telling you now that it is my home! It will
always
be my home, no matter what fate might befall it—or me.”
I squeezed his knee, my sightless eyes watering. “I love this land, Cairpré. So much I’ll give everything I have to save it.”
The poet swallowed hard, then spoke. “Then, my boy, it is truly your home.”
21:
A
IRBORNE
B
ODIES
Late that afternoon, Cairpré departed our sheltered niche at the base of the dune. He stood stiffly, knees cracking, and brushed some of the sand off his tunic. With an air of grim resolve, he studied me, the light from the lowering sun turning his hair silvery bronze.
“Good luck to you, my boy. You have revived my spirits, a major feat in its own right. True evidence of the strength of your powers!” His fingers wrapped tightly around my arm, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps you will be the one to find the way to the island.”
“That I will,” I declared, jamming my staff into the sand. “And then I’ll do my best to turn back Rhita Gawr.”
His steady gaze faltered. “No power, I fear, is strong enough for that. He’ll be terribly vicious—whether he takes the form of a man, a wild boar, or something else entirely.” Slowly, he filled his lungs with the briny air. “Even so, your bravery has inspired my own. While I won’t be joining you myself at the circle of stones, I will do my very best to urge others, more capable of fighting, to be there.”
“Thank you, my friend.” I cocked my head. “Don’t even think about trying the dwarves, now. With Urnalda’s state of mind, any man or giant who enters her realm is just asking to be killed.”
The poet smiled wryly. “Worry not. I’ll try something easier, such as the great man-eating spider of the Misted Hills.”
“Elusa? Finding her is just as dangerous.”
His eyes narrowed. “Everything now is dangerous.” Pensively, he worked his tongue. “I should say something before we part, I know. Something profound, or at least poetic, something befitting a bard.” He sighed. “Can’t think of anything, though. I told you I wasn’t very good with endings.”
Doing his best to smile, he released my arm. Then he drew up the hood of his heavy cloak, throwing his face into shadow, all but the very tip of his nose. Turning, he strode through the stand of dead trees, a dark shape amidst their white trunks. He continued over the floodplains, his boots crunching on the hardened turf and brittle grass.
Standing in the lee of the dune, I watched him go, wondering whether we would ever meet again. When his cloaked figure finally disappeared, I started gathering driftwood, enough to keep the fire burning through the night. The winter’s sun would soon be gone, and with it whatever meager warmth came from its rays.
As the blue overhead deepened into purple, the color of wild grapes, I ate the remains of our porridge and honeycomb. In time, darkness flowed across the land like the tide of a shadowy sea. My thoughts turned to the dead trees, and I contemplated how to bind them together in a seaworthy craft. Strands of kelp might work. Or some of the dried vines I’d seen while crossing the floodplains.
The size of the raft, of course, would depend on the number of children it would need to carry. If Shim did well, despite so little time, he might be able to find thirty, maybe thirty-five. Even for a large raft, that would be a full load. Yet the thought of saving that many lives—that many seeds—made me all the more determined to try.
A new realization hit me: If I succeeded in protecting those children from Slayer, perhaps they would also be safe from Rhita Gawr! Might the curtain of spells that hid the island be enough to keep its shores, and anyone there, out of the warlord’s grasp, even if he did prevail on winter’s longest night?
The moon, deep red, rose into the darkened sky, resembling a swollen, angry eye. Behind the row of dunes, the water birds that had settled on the shore grew quieter. I listened to their occasional cries, and the surging waves, for quite some time, ever mindful that only four days remained before the longest night. At last, I drifted into a fitful sleep.