The Merlin Effect (14 page)

Cracking open the book, he paused at the first page, greeting it like an old friend. To Kate’s surprise, the page was covered with slashes, curves, and crosses—the same secret
language her father had spoken about. All except for six lines at the top, which were written in letters, but not words, she could recognize.

“What language is that?” she asked, pointing to the first six lines.

“Why, it’s Latin, of course.” Geoffrey looked at her askance. “Did you never go to school?”

“Sure,” she answered. “I just, ah, missed Latin. What does it say?”

“Well,” he sniggered, “it’s my personal inscription. Books are precious, you know, so such things are customary.”

“But what does it say?”

Geoffrey held the book closer. “My, such abominable handwriting,” he muttered. “Even if it is my own.”

Then he read:

Lowering the book, he observed, “Rather makes the point, doesn’t it?”

Kate gulped. “Rather.”

He flipped through the pages, each one decorated with a small illustration at the top. After a time, he came to one showing a spoon with feathered wings.

“What’s that?” asked Kate, pointing to the picture.

“Oh, that is the charm for levitation. One of the least useful but most entertaining ones in the book.”

“Can you do it?”

“I can try,” agreed the monk. “Let me see.” He studied the page, mouthing some mysterious words to himself. Then he set down the book, pointed a long finger at the cooking pot of spices resting on the upturned barrel, and cleared his throat.

“Arzemy barzemy yangelo igg lom,”
he chanted.

Nothing happened.

Geoffrey pulled up his sleeve, cleared his throat again, and tried once more.
“Arzemy barzemy yangelo igg lom,”
he intoned. Quickly, he added,
“Abra cadabra.”
Turning to Kate, he whispered, “That sometimes helps.”

At that moment, the cooking pot quivered slightly. It slid toward the rim of the barrel. Then, with a slight crackling sound, it slowly lifted into the air, hovering a few inches above the barrel.

“You did it,” said Kate in wonderment.

Geoffrey lowered his finger. The pot clattered back to its place, with a small amount of liquid sloshing over the top. He sighed wearily, but his dark eyes gleamed. “Just a little parlor trick, really.”

“That’s amazing! What else can you do?”

Geoffrey thumbed through the book, stopping at a page displaying an ant strolling beside an elephant. Underneath was a strange, convoluted design, surrounded by dozens of pictures of animals, plants, and constellations. “This is one of my favorites, the charm to change your shape. All you need to do is imagine very clearly what you want to become and say the proper words. Or, if you prefer, you can say nothing but concentrate deeply on this page, and something will happen.”

His mouth twisted doubtfully. “Of course, it might not be what you
want
to happen.” He slapped the side of his head.

“Drat those sea lice! As I was saying, these things can be tricky. The first time I tried to change myself into a robin, it was a bit too close to mealtime. My poor stomach rumbled just as I was concentrating, and I came out a rather spindly worm. Took me three whole days just to climb back up to the desk. Then I had to open the book again, which was no small feat for a worm.”

Ignoring Kate’s stifled laugh, he went on, “Still, it remains one of my most handy charms, as it was for Merlin himself. Do you know all the creatures he turned Arthur into? A fish, a hawk, a butterfly, a unicorn, and more. I find it oddly comforting to know that I can change myself into a totally different being any time I choose. Like starting life over, in a way.” He sighed. “The difficult part is deciding just what I want to become.”

He flipped to a page embroidered with intricate green-and-gold vines. “This one allows you to learn the languages of animals and plants. It has its pitfalls as well—Boar is perilously close to Camel, and Mosquito quite frankly gives me a headache—but it has proved invaluable to me. I have even used it to communicate with the whales.”

“The gray whales?” asked Kate.

Geoffrey blinked his eyes slowly. “The ever-singing whales.”

Kate spun her head toward the window. Somewhere out there, beyond the mist, beyond the whirling wall of water, swam those elusive creatures. She thought, with a pang, of the young whale she had tried to help. How long could he have survived with that severed tail? She would never know. Just as she would never know where and how her father was right now, although she could not suppress the uneasy feeling that something was wrong.

Without warning, the brass latch lifted and the door to the captain’s quarters swung open. A large figure shadowed the doorway.

“Where the hell am I?” demanded a husky voice.

K
ate’s mouth went dry. “How did you get here?”

Turning sideways to fit through the door, Terry stepped inside. A swollen bruise marked his forehead, his glasses were gone, his Bermuda shorts hung ripped, and his entire body was smeared with wet sand.

“I’m the last one to answer that question,” he muttered, leaning against the wall for support. “The boat, that storm…It happened so fast.” He squinted at her. “I thought you were dead.”

“No thanks to you, I’m not.”

Terry looked down at his feet, started to say something, then caught himself. He thrust his chin at her. “You can’t blame me because you fell overboard.”

“I can blame you for not grabbing me when you had the chance,” she retorted.

“I did what I could.”

“Right.”

Patting the bruise on his head, he winced. “I suppose you also blame me for what happened to the submersible.”

The submersible.
Suddenly it all came back to Kate. The hammer. The jammed lever. The cable releasing at last—from the wrong end.

“How could that happen?” she demanded.

Terry shrugged. “I have no idea. It wasn’t supposed to happen, just as we weren’t supposed to get thrown into the sea.”

“But Dad and Isabella might be in danger! The submersible might be damaged or something.”

“I doubt it. That thing is built to withstand a tidal wave. Probably has, more than once. Isabella must have had some way to release the cable from her side.”

“Then why didn’t she ever use it before? That doesn’t add up.”

“Look, quit the interrogation, will you? I know only as much as you do. They could be dead, for all I know.”

“They’re not!”

The geologist moved toward her, but clipped his thigh against the corner of the desk. “Ow! Where are my glasses?” Bending nearer, he asked hoarsely, “Are we the ones who are dead? I mean, this ship and all. It’s ancient! A real museum piece. And, what’s more, it’s loaded to the gills with—”

“Treasure,” completed the pile of brown rags on the chair.

Terry jolted. “What, er, who…are you?”

Creakily, the old man rose and extended a hand. “Geoffrey of Bardsey, at your service.” He paused, looking confused, then asked, “Have we already been introduced?”

“And this is Terry Graham,” said Kate, stepping to Geoffrey’s side. “No need to kneel on his account.”

“I’m hallucinating,” moaned the broad-shouldered young man. “Or dead.”

“You’re not dead,” declared Kate. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Then where am I? Who is he?”

Facing him squarely, Kate replied, “You’re on the
Resurreccíon.
Remember? The ship you said wasn’t real. At the bottom of the whirlpool. And Geoffrey here is a survivor, kept alive somehow by a magical Horn. Is that enough for you?”

“Enough to convince me I’m crazy,” said Terry uncertainly. “Wait. Did you say we’re at the bottom of the whirlpool?”

Kate nodded.

“So that sand out there is really the ocean floor, three thousand feet down?”

Again she nodded.

“But…that isn’t possible! Look, be rational. It’s so warm here. Too warm for that far down. Unless…” His eyes bulged. “Have you felt any tremors?”

“More than one.”

Terry went pale. “Then, if this is the ocean floor, magma must be pushing closer! There could be an eruption any moment.” He waved at the air. “And we’re stuck down here. Hopelessly stuck.”

Sensing his anxiety, she felt an unexpected touch of sympathy. “Maybe not.”

“Hopeless is an unfortunate state of mind,” offered Geoffrey. “It is very difficult, while feeling hopeless, to remain at all, well, hopeful.”

Kate and Terry traded perplexed looks. Then Kate asked the monk, “Are you absolutely sure there is no way the Horn could help us?”

“Not unless you can solve the riddle.”

“Tell me what else you know about the Horn,” she insisted. “Maybe it will give me a clue.”

Geoffrey regarded her doubtfully. “I suppose I could tell you a story I learned during my time in the Order of the Horn—the story of how the Horn came to be found, and then lost, by Merlin. Beyond that, all I can tell you is how, long after Merlin’s demise, I came to find it again.”

“Go ahead,” she pleaded.

“I really would rather—”

“Please.”

Geoffrey cracked his withered knuckles. “I never could say no to the ladies,” he muttered. “All right. It is, I admit, an intriguing tale. One of hope and promise.”

He reached for the red volume, tucked it under his arm, then started hobbling toward the door. As he passed Kate, he remarked, “The deck is the place to do it, though. Out with the sails and the fresh air.”

Reluctantly, Kate and Terry followed.

Geoffrey led them onto the deck, past the rows of cannons and the cases of cannonballs and bar shot. Near the trapdoor, he stopped and lifted a rammer off the deck. Reaching as high as he could, he used the rammer to tip over a round clay jar lashed to the rigging above his head. A brief cascade of water, collected from the constant vapors of the whirlpool, poured onto his upturned face. Then he shook himself, cast the rammer aside, and tottered onward.

His version of a shower, thought Kate. All he needs now is some shampoo. Strong enough to kill lice.

At the base of the snapped mainmast, the monk stepped over a tangle of rigging and sat down on a broken barrel. Motioning to the others to join him, he looked up into the swirling clouds of mist, as if searching for a glimpse of the blue sky he had not seen for half a millennium.

Kate sat on the dark wood of the deck before him, leaning
her back against the side of a crate. As Terry joined her, he grumbled, “Do you really expect to learn anything useful from this character?”

“Got any better ideas?” she replied.

“No.” He gingerly wiped the salty dew from his brow. “But every minute we sit here the eruption gets closer.”

Geoffrey tilted his haggard face toward them. He scratched behind his knee and between two toes, then intoned, “Our story begins in the age of Merlin, long after Arthur perished at the hands of Mordred.”

Terry released a painful groan, causing Kate to elbow him.

“Merlin learned of a legendary craftsman, whose life was steeped in tragedy. He lived all alone, high on a mountain precipice. His true name had been lost from memory, but he was known as—”

“Emrys,” finished Kate.

Geoffrey and Terry both looked at her with surprise, though the elder’s expression showed a touch of admiration, as well.

“You are correct,” said Geoffrey. “Now may I continue?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, by the way. When I come to the part concerning me—how I came to find the Horn—I will speak of myself as Geoffrey. That is because…this is how, long after my time has passed, I hope the story will be told.”

He squared his shoulders. “Now listen well, for you shall learn how Serilliant came to be…the Horn of Merlin.”

W
hen King Arthur died, the wizard Merlin’s hopes for peace and justice in
Clas Myrddin
died as well. His only scant comfort came from the prophesy that one day, under certain conditions, Arthur might return. The prophesy told of a Final Battle that would follow where Arthur would fight against all the assembled forces of wickedness. If Arthur won, the world would be liberated, but if he lost, the world would sink into chaos and despair.

Merlin believed that the Thirteen Treasures created by Emrys would be essential to Arthur in that colossal battle. Merlin’s friends, the elusive mer people, had told him enough about the Horn named Serilliant to convince him that it was the most valuable of all the Treasures. Yet they would not reveal, even to Merlin, the secret of its power. They warned him that the Horn must never fall into the hands of Arthur’s enemies, or his cause would surely be doomed.

After years of searching, Merlin finally discovered the mountain hideaway of Emrys. Merlin found the craftsman on
the verge of death, still tormenting himself for the loss of his one true love, the mermaid Wintonwy. Although Merlin could do nothing to relieve Emrys’ pain, he convinced him to contribute the Treasures to the cause of Arthur. So Emrys gave Merlin the flaming chariot, the cauldron of knowledge, the mantle of invisibility, the knife that could heal any wound, and the other Treasures in his possession. But he could not deliver the three that had been lost: the sword of light, the ruby ring that could control the will of others, and—most precious of all—the mysterious Horn.

Guided by the directions Emrys provided, Merlin made his way to the realm of Shaa. At last he came to the entrance. There he found a fearsome monster of the deep, a spidery creature with a thousand poisonous tongues. By the monster’s side lay the sword of light. Merlin hid himself and waited until the moment the monster began to doze. Then, changing his own form into a small crab, Merlin managed to spirit away the sword of light.