Brushing some salty spray off her cheek, she sat down next to me, her legs dangling alongside mine. For a while we simply sat there, our hair blowing in the misty breeze, as the hat sailed along. Neither of us spoke a word, listening only to the sounds of lapping water and creaking branches.
At last, gazing not at me but into the darkening mist, she spoke. “Where are you taking us, my son?”
“The sea, not me, is taking us. With Dagda’s blessing, we should land by midmorning.”
“Land where?”
I listened to the continuous slapping of the waves. “The Forgotten Island.”
She tensed for an instant, then relaxed. Turning, she faced me squarely. “I have faith in you, my son.”
“So do I, master Merlin.”
I spun my head to see Lleu crouching beside me, his curls fluttering in the wind.
“Come join us, lad.” I slid closer to Elen. “There’s a space right here.”
Moving with care so not to bump into me with his head, he sat down on the brim. Mist flowed over his bare feet, slipping between his toes. Giving me a wry grin, he said, “I’ve never went ridin’ on a hat afore.”
I chuckled. “Nor have I.”
“Makes me want to see everythin’, ye know? The whole wide world, an’ all the seas in between.”
“One day you will, I’ll wager.” I patted his thigh. “You’re already quite the adventurer.”
“Not likes you, master Merlin.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve already done some things I haven’t.” Glancing at his blackened stub of an ear, I wanted to add,
and survived some things I haven’t.
“Before you’re done, you’ll go to all the places you like.”
“Maybe so,” he replied, the wry gleam returning. “But I won’t knows how to make a feather go flyin’ around, ticklin’ yer nose.”
Both my mother and I laughed. “You might well do that, too,” I said. Feeling my stomach churn, I waved toward the bowl of the hat. “Do you think there’s enough food down there for me to have some supper?”
Lleu nodded vigorously. “Twenty suppers, if ye likes.” He drew up his legs and started to crawl over to the bowl. Trying not to knock into any other children—not easy with all the swaying—he called, “I’ll bring ye a loaf or two o’ bread, an’ maybe—”
“Hey there, ye one-eared oaf!” An older boy with muscular arms and a jutting chin grabbed him roughly by the arm. “Watch where yer goin’! Ye crunched me knuckles wid yer knee.” He brandished a fist. “Methinks I’ll do jest the same to yer face.”
Lleu tried to wriggle free, but couldn’t escape. “Sorry, Hervydd,” he blustered. “I didn’t see ye.”
“Aye?” The bigger boy gave him a brutal shake. “Then maybe ye’ll see this.” He raised his fist. “Or maybe I should give that ol’ ear some more flattenin’.”
“No, no!” squealed Lleu, doing his best to cover the tender side of his head.
Hervydd smirked, clearly enjoying his power. He drew back the fist—when I seized him by the wrist. He struggled briefly, then seeing who was holding him, fell still. Even so, he glared at me angrily for spoiling his fun.
My temples pounding, I commanded, “Let him go.”
“Aw, I wasn’t really gonna hurt ‘im none.”
“Let him go,” I repeated through clenched teeth.
The boy complied, shoving Lleu down hard against the spiky branches. Hearing Lleu’s whimper, I glowered. Hervydd merely watched me with a sassy grin.
My wrath swelled, out of sympathy for Lleu . . . and also something more. This bully, so rough and unrepentant, reminded me of Dinatius, that scourge of my childhood. Dinatius had treated me just the same way when I was no older than Lleu. And whenever Elen had tried to stop him, he’d shown the same insolence as Hervydd was showing now.
“No one aboard this vessel treats someone like that,” I said sternly.
“What’re ye goin’ to do?” he shot back. “Throw me overboard?”
My fingers squeezed his wrist more tightly. Now that was a tempting idea! Of course, I wouldn’t really do that—but I still wanted to punish him somehow. Maybe I could use the idea to frighten him a bit.
“Well,” he said sassily, “ye gonna do it?”
“That’s what you deserve,” I retorted.
“Wait, master Merlin.” Lleu touched my forearm. “Don’t fling him in the sea.”
I looked down at him, scowling. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because . . . well, he’s not so bad, really.”
“No?” Viewing Lleu’s earnest face, my mood softened slightly, though my grip did not. Hervydd, meanwhile, watched Lleu with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.
“I did step on top o’ his hand,” Lleu explained. “An’ I figures, well, we’re all together here, for awhiles anyway. So we might jest as well try to get along.”
My eyebrows lifted. “You’re a rare one, lad.”
Finally, I let go of Hervydd. “And you’re a lucky one. If Lleu here hadn’t spoken up, I might well have thrown you overboard.” I bent low, so my face nearly touched his. “But only after I turned you into a sea urchin, or maybe a jellyfish.”
Seeing his skepticism, I decided to emphasize the point. I took one of the hairs hanging over my brow and gave a sharp tug. Then, holding it in the palm of my hand, I uttered a simple spell. The hair sizzled, curled, and abruptly vanished. In its place lay the wet, formless body of a jellyfish. I held it, fingering its slimy mass, before flinging it over the edge into the waves.
For the first time, Hervydd’s face showed traces of fear. His eyes widened, and he started to back away, crawling across the brim.
I stroked my chin, pretending to muse aloud. “Or maybe a shard of driftwood? No, no, too little character. What about a handful of sea scum, floating on the water like a rotten fish? Yes, that’s just the thing.”
Hervydd retreated even faster, scurrying over to the far side of the hat.
Again Lleu tapped my arm. In a whisper barely audible above the slapping waves, he asked, “Ye’d really’ve done that to him?”
“No,” I answered with a wink. “But he doesn’t need to know that, does he?”
I placed my arm around his shoulder, when a sudden lurch sent us both sprawling on the woven branches. Children shrieked, tumbling across the brim, thudding into one another. One boy pitched headlong into the bowl. My mother flew backward, knocked into me, then grasped a bowed branch just in time to keep from falling into the sea. Others weren’t so lucky: I heard several cries that ended in splashes.
The hat, while continuing to rock with the waves, seemed to have stopped moving over the water. Winds blew harshly, shredding the mist. The whole vessel began listing to one side, as if it were sinking.
“We’ve run aground!” shouted Medba, adroitly seizing my staff, which was about to roll off the brim.
“Everyone into the bowl!” I roared above the din. “Right now!”
Turning to Medba, I took the staff with a grateful nod. “Go see if you can help anyone who fell over. But be careful! I’ll try to get us out of this.”
Before I could blink, she was off, sliding through a gap and scuttling down the side with the agility of a spider. I crawled to the edge and peered down into the darkness. Meanwhile, the hat tilted even more sharply. Leaning as far as I could without falling over, I searched the waves for some sign of whatever we had struck.
Nothing but water.
The hat tilted further, creaking ominously. I jammed my staff into a space between some branches, making a sturdy post rising up from the brim. Hooking my legs around the shaft, I hung my entire chest over the edge. Splashing waves drenched my face, stinging my sightless eyes, but my second sight continued to probe the depths.
Something stirred beneath the surface. Long and thin, like a strand of kelp. But no, it moved too purposefully for kelp. Then, along its side, I glimpsed a row of quivering suction cups, glowing with their own greenish light. A tentacle! I could tell by its immense length and girth that it belonged to something big—far bigger than our vessel.
Stretching out my arm, I sent a stream of water, concentrated to strike as hard as a spear, at the tentacle. Seawater sprayed in all directions. But the tentacle swiftly recoiled, pulling itself out of reach. At the same time, other serpentine limbs lifted out of the waves, entwining themselves with the branches. Glowing strangely, they pulled on the hat, tearing at the webbing, dragging us downward. The vessel listed precariously. From within the bowl, I heard frightened screams.
Drawing on all the power within me, I called to the great hat.
Rise, now. Rise, O vessel of willow and vine!
An errant pelican swooped past, brushing my back with its wing tip. Again I called, urging the hat with all the force I could muster.
Rise now, up from the sea!
More spray drenched me, chilling blood and bone. Suddenly I felt the vessel starting to vibrate. The vibrations grew swiftly stronger, loosening the grip of my legs on the staff. With a wrenching effort, I pulled myself back up onto the brim.
At that instant, the quaking hat began to turn, spinning slowly in a circle. The rotations came faster, and faster still. Buffeted by gusts of spray, I clung to the staff, trying to keep my balance. Then, without warning, the spinning ceased.
A loud, extended slurping noise erupted from the water beneath us. The noise swelled steadily, ending with a sudden
pop.
At the same time, the entire hat lifted out of the water, creaking and snapping like a grove of trees writhing in a storm.
Peering over the edge, I saw great streams of water cascading off the sides of the hat, pouring back into the sea. Our vessel hung in the air, just above the surface. More than a dozen tentacles stretched out of the depths, glistening with green light that rippled across the tops of the waves. The tentacles flexed, tugging, but the hat didn’t budge. Weakened though I was from the strain of the spell, I threw whatever I could into keeping our position firm, muttering a new round of chants.
A strange, raucous cry arose from the sea—half bellow, half hiss, and full of fury. The tentacles slowly unwound themselves from the branches, releasing us at last. In unison, the supple limbs slid back under the waves. Their menacing glow lingered briefly, hovering just beneath the surface, then also disappeared.
Exhausted, I rolled onto my back. As my breathing calmed, I listened to waves pulsing beneath the hat, the sound of a tranquil sea. Below, in the bowl, the children’s voices had quieted. I could hear some of them climbing out to the brim again. Then I heard another sound, one that slapped me like a frigid wave.
“Help me,” came a thin, wailing voice from somewhere below, near the surface of the water. “Someone please . . . help me.”
Summoning my strength, I crawled back to the edge of the brim. Anxiously, I scanned the dark waves. I saw no one—until I looked not at the water, but at the side of the hat itself. Clinging to the sopping branches, huddled and frail, was the figure of a small girl.
Cuwenna!
Swiftly, I slid through an opening between the layered boughs and clambered down to her. Prying her shivering body off the branches, I gathered her in one arm, holding her tight. With great care, I carried her back up the side, pushing her through the opening in the brim before following after. I peeled off my mother’s vest, still warm even though it was soaked with spray, and wrapped it around her tiny body.
She looked up at me, her eyes bloodshot but radiant. “Thanks, master Merlin,” she whispered.
I touched her nose gently with my finger. “You’re welcome, little one. Next time you want to go swimming, though, tell me first.”
Through her shivers, she nearly smiled.
I carried her down into the bowl, gave her a drink of apple cider, then tucked her into a quiet corner where she could sleep. Returning to the surface, I released the hat from my spell—a process that took longer than expected. The reason had nothing to do with my chants, and everything to do with Medba’s insistence on first climbing down to the bottom of the hat. Though she claimed she wanted to make sure there was no serious damage to the weave of branches, I suspected she really just wanted to experience hanging upside down over the water. After she returned, her hair dripping wet, I released the spell. The great hat dropped into the sea with a resounding splash. Waves lapped against the sides, bearing us westward once again.
For the rest of the evening, I sat on the brim, my knees drawn up to my chest for warmth. Though the thick mist hid the rising moon from view, I watched as silvery beams scattered through the vapors. And I promised myself, however long this night might last, to stay alert for any trouble—whether from another creature of the depths, or from the barrier of spells that lay between us and our destination.
I listened, beyond the rhythmic slapping of the waves, to the voice of my mother down inside the bowl of the hat. To any children not already asleep, she told one of her favorite tales, about the winged horse Pegasus. It was one I knew well, for she had often sent me to sleep as a child with its vivid images: great hooves trotting through the sky, starlit wings beating steadily, and a graceful form leaping from one constellation to the next.
The story, I knew, came from that other world across the water, the place where my destiny seemed determined to call me. Yet as I heard Elen tell it on this particular night, under the shimmering blanket of mist that surrounded us, it seemed to be a story that belonged to Fincayra. Just as I, in my heart of hearts, belonged to Fincayra.
In time, the rocking waves did their work, and my mother’s audience succumbed to slumber. Moments later, she climbed back onto the brim. She sat beside me, her warm shoulder touching my own. From the pocket of her robe she pulled a small loaf of grainy bread.
“If I remember right,” she said, “you never got that supper you wanted.”
“Thanks,” I replied, tearing off a bite of crust. I chewed avidly, savoring the flavors of roasted oats and rich molasses. “I’m almost as grateful for this as I am for hearing you tell Pegasus again. You’re a powerful storyteller.”
Elen shook her head, making her flowing hair sparkle with moonlight. “No, it’s you who is powerful, my son. What you did to free us from that beast was marvelous.”
“Not really,” I said with a sigh. “All it took was a bit of elementary Leaping, nothing like what Tuatha could do. Now there was a true mage! He knew the art well—so well he could send himself anywhere he chose, and get there an instant later.”