I blanched, remembering Rhia’s plea to take a bough of mistletoe with me to the Otherworld. And I had dismissed her advice out of hand!
Once again Rhita Gawr smirked. Arms of mist, sprouting out of his head, clawed at me. “I do so love arrogance. One of humanity’s most endearing qualities.”
His hollow eyes narrowed. “So much for your lessons. Now you shall die.”
At that instant, a winged shape shot out of the clouds. A screech echoed across the shifting landscape of mist, even as Trouble soared straight at me. Behind him he trailed a loose, flowing bough of gold. Mistletoe. Rhita Gawr roared with rage and leaped at me.
Only a fraction of a second before he could seize me, the golden bough fell over my shoulders like a cape. I felt his powerful hands closing on my throat. Suddenly, I became vapor, dissolving into the mist. The last thing I felt was a pair of talons grasping my shoulder. And the last thing I heard was the wrathful cry of Rhita Gawr.
“You have escaped me once again, you runt of a wizard! You will not be so fortunate next time.”
33:
W
ONDROUS
T
HINGS
Skin, bone, and muscles dissolved. Instead, I consisted of air, water, and light. Plus something more. For now I belonged to the mist.
Rolling like a cloud of vapor, I stretched my limitless arms before me. As the golden bough of mistletoe propelled me along the hidden pathways to Dagda’s home, I swirled and swayed, melting into the air even as I moved beyond it. Through the spiraling tunnels and twisting corridors of mist I flew. And while I couldn’t see them, I could sense that Trouble and Rhia, in whatever form, traveled with me.
Too many times to count, I glimpsed other landscapes and creatures within the vapors. Boundless variety seemed to inhabit each and every particle of mist. Worlds within worlds, levels within levels, lives within lives! The Otherworld, in all its vastness and complexity, beckoned.
Yet I had no time now to explore. Elen’s life, and Rhia’s as well, hung in the balance. I might have lost my chance to help one or both of them, thanks to my own supreme folly. Even so, as Rhia herself had declared when my staff vanished in Slantos,
as long as you still have hope, you still have a chance.
And hope remained with me, though it seemed no more substantial than the shifting clouds.
My thoughts, rolling like the very mist, turned to Dagda. I felt a deep pang of fear at the prospect of facing the greatest of all the spirits. While I expected that he would judge me harshly for my many mistakes, would he also refuse to help? Perhaps saving my mother’s life would disturb some delicate cosmic balance that only he understood. Perhaps he would simply not have time to see me. Perhaps he would not be in his realm at all when I arrived, and instead be somewhere far away, in this misty world or another, battling the forces of Rhita Gawr.
I wondered what so powerful a spirit would look like. Surely, like Rhita Gawr, he could assume any form he chose. When he had appeared on the day I washed ashore on the coast of Gwynedd, he had come as a stag. Immense, powerful, with a great rack of antlers. What had struck me the most, though, were his eyes. Those brown, unblinking pools had seemed as deep and mysterious as the ocean itself.
Whatever form he might take, I knew it would be as strong and imposing as Dagda himself. A stag in human form, perhaps. What had Rhita Gawr called him?
The great and glorious Dagda. Warrior of warriors.
Like a cloud flowing into a hollow in the hills, my forward motion slowed, little by little, until finally it stopped. Then, imperceptibly at first, the mist around me started to dissipate. Slowly, very slowly, it thinned and shredded, pulling apart like a wispy veil. Gradually, I could discern the outline of a tall, towering form behind the veil. Dark and brooding, it hovered before me.
All at once, the remaining mist melted away. The towering form, I realized, was actually an enormous, dew-coated tree. As tall and mighty as Arbassa it stood, with one prominent difference.
This tree stood upside down. Its massive roots reached upward, disappearing into the tangled threads of mist. They curled majestically around the clouds, as if they embraced the entire world above. From these soaring roots hung countless boughs of golden mistletoe, swaying gracefully. Down below, at the base of the trunk, burly branches stretched across a wide plain of steaming mist. And the entire tree, covered with thousands upon thousands of dewdrops, sparkled like the surface of a dancing stream.
So captivated was I by the sight of the tree that it took me a moment to realize that I, too, stood on the misty plain. My body had returned! Rhia slumped in my arms, while Trouble made soft, gurgling sounds in my ear. A bough of mistletoe, just like the ones dangling above me, draped over my shoulders. My sword hung at my side, while the staff still rode under my belt.
I looked into Trouble’s yellow-rimmed eyes. “Thanks, my friend. You saved me once again.”
The hawk released a high, almost embarrassed whistle and fluttered his gray wings.
“Welcome to the Tree of Soul.”
I spun to face the source of the weak, unsteady voice. It came from a frail, old man, whose right arm dangled uselessly at his side. Although he sat on the floor of mist, leaning against the branches, he was so small and slight that I had not noticed him at all before. His silver hair glistened like the dew-covered bark around him.
“Thank you. Very much.” I spoke stiffly, not wanting to be fooled again. Still, with time so scarce, I had no choice but to be direct. “I am looking for Dagda.”
Trouble’s talons pinched my shoulder. He squawked at me reproachfully.
The old man smiled gently, soft lines crinkling his face. Laying his withered arm across his lap, he studied me intently.
Suddenly I noticed his eyes. Deep, brown pools, full of compassion, wisdom, and sadness. I had seen them before. On the great stag.
“Dagda.” I bit my lip, gazing at the frail, little man. “I am sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
The elder’s smile faded. “You did, in time. Just as you may, in time, come to know the true source of my power. Or do you already?”
I hesitated, unsure how to respond. “I know nothing, I’m afraid, about your power’s true source. But I believe that you use it to help living things take their own course, whatever that may be. That’s why you helped me on the day I washed ashore.”
“Very good, Merlin, very good.” His brown eyes sparkled with satisfaction—and a touch of annoyance. “Even if you did try to avoid one of the Songs.”
I shifted uncomfortably.
He examined me, as if he could see into my deepest heart of hearts. “You carry a great load, in addition to the friend in your arms. Here. Lay her down beside me.”
“Can you—can you help her?”
“We shall see.” His brow, already webbed with wrinkles, creased some more. “Tell me of the Songs, Merlin. Where does the soul of each lie?”
“And my mother? If she has any time left, it isn’t much.”
“She, too, must wait.”
Stooping on the vaporous ground, I gently laid the body of my sister beside Dagda. Curls of mist flowed over her shoulders and across her chest, covering her like a wispy blanket. He glanced at her, looking profoundly sad, then returned his gaze to me.
“First. Show me your staff.”
Trouble clucked with admiration as I drew the staff out of my belt. I held the knotted top toward Dagda, twirling the shaft slowly. All of the markings, as deep blue as the dusk, gleamed before us. The butterfly, symbol of transformation. The pair of hawks, bound together in flight. The cracked stone, reminding me of the folly of trying to cage the light flyer. The sword, whose name I knew well. The star inside a circle, calling back the luminous laughter of Gwri of the Golden Hair. The dragon’s tail, which somehow reminded my tongue of the taste of soiled leather. And, last of all, the eye, so different from Balor’s, yet in its own way just as terrifying.
Dagda nodded. “You carry a sword now, I see.”
I patted the silver hilt.
“Guard it well, for the destiny of that sword is to serve you until the time comes for you to place it into a scabbard of stone. Then it shall pass to a boy, no older than you are now. A boy born to be king, whose reign shall thrive in the heart long after it has withered on the land.”
“I will guard it well.”
“Tell me now, my son. What melodies have you heard within the Seven Songs? Start with the first one, Changing.
I cleared my throat. “I learned from a butterfly—and from a traitor, a treeling, who redeemed herself—that all of us, all living things, have the potential to change.”
The old man studied me intently. “It is no accident that this was your first Song, Merlin. I believe you have been hearing its strains for some time.”
“Yes,” I looked into the dewy boughs for a moment. “I see now why the Greek words for butterfly and soul are the same.”
“Good. Now tell me about Binding.”
I glanced at Rhia’s face, pale and still. “The strongest bonds are of the heart. I learned it from watching a pair of hawks soaring together.”
Trouble pranced proudly across my shoulder, preening his wings.
“And from a trickster, perhaps?”
I sighed. “That, too.”
A shred of mist passed over Dagda’s left hand. With a deft twirl of his fingers, he wove the mist into a complex knot. Then, with a pensive nod, he let it drift away.
His gaze returned to me. “Next you found your way into the underground realm of my old friend Urnalda. She is wiser than she appears, I can assure you! No doubt she enjoyed the chance to be your teacher.”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure how much. I was a rather slow learner. Eventually, though, with the help of a light flyer, I finally found the soul of that Song.”
“Which is?”
I pointed to the image of the cracked stone. “The best way to protect something is to set it free.”
Dagda leaned back, gazing upward into the burly roots of the Tree of Soul. As he raised an eyebrow, a curl of mist spiraled up the trunk. “The next lesson, I believe, came as a surprise for you.”
“Naming. It took awhile—and a broken bread knife—to teach me that a true name holds true power.” I paused, thinking. “Is my true name Merlin?”
The elder shook his silvery head.
“Then would you, perhaps, know my true name?”
“I know it”
“Would you tell me?”
Dagda considered my request for a while. “No. Not yet. But I will do this. If we should meet again at a happier time, when you have won over the most powerful enemy of all, then I will tell you your true name.”
I blanched. “The most powerful enemy of all? You must mean Rhita Gawr.”
“Perhaps.” He pointed to the star within a circle. “Now Leaping.”
“That’s an amazing skill. The Grand Elusa used it to send us all the way to the land of the treelings. Gwri of the Golden Hair used it, too—to give Rhia a vision of the Otherworld Well.” My voice lowered. “And Rhita Gawr used it to send the death shadow to my mother.”
The silver eyebrows lifted. “To your mother?”
My boots shifted uneasily on the misty ground. “Well, no. To me. But it felled my mother instead.”
“So what is the soul of the art of Leaping?”
My attention turned to the flowing mist that surrounded us. Gracefully, it wound its way around Dagda and myself, touching both of us as it touched the upside-down tree, embracing the great roots that themselves embraced the world above. “Everything,” I declared, “is connected to everything else.”
“Good, my son, good. Now what of Eliminating?”
“That one I learned from a sleeping dragon. And from . . . a jester.” I grinned slightly. “They showed me that every living thing is precious somehow.”
Dagda leaned toward me. “Even a dragon?”
“Even a dragon.”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You will meet that dragon again, I believe. When it awakens.”
I caught my breath. Before I could ask anything, however, he spoke again.
“Seeing. Tell me, now, about Seeing.”
My tongue worked against my cheek before any words came. At last, in a voice not much louder than a whisper, I said, “The heart can see things invisible to the eye.”
“Hmmm. What else?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, now that I know a little about seeing with the heart, I can, perhaps, see better into myself.”
Dagda’s deep brown eyes regarded me. “And when you look into that place, my son, what do you see?”
I cleared my throat, started to speak, then stopped myself. Searching for the right words, I paused before starting again. “It’s . . . well, it’s like going down into the Otherworld Well. The deeper I go, the more I discover.” Turning away, I said under my breath, “And what I discover can be truly frightening.”
The old man watched me with compassion. “What else do you see?”
I heaved a sigh. “How little I really do know.”
Dagda reached toward me, taking my hand in his own. “Then, Merlin, you have learned something invaluable.” He drew me nearer on the floor of mist. Shreds of vapor curled about us both. “Truly invaluable! Until now, you have been searching for the souls of the Songs. But knowing how little you really know—having humility—that, my son, is the soul of wizardry itself.”
Puzzled, I cocked my head.
“In time, I believe, you will fully understand. For humility is nothing more than genuine respect for the wondrous, surprising ways of the world.”
Slowly, I nodded. “That sounds like something Rhia would say.” Looking again at her lifeless form, I asked anxiously, “Can you still save her?”
Dagda gave no answer.
“Can you?”
For an extended moment, he watched me in silence. “I know not, my son.”
My throat constricted as if Balor still held me in his grasp. “I’ve been such a fool! I’ve caused so much harm.”
Dagda pointed a finger at a rolling ribbon of mist, which instantly straightened. At the same time, he glanced at another wispy line, which suddenly changed into a tight little ball. Then, turning back to me, he smiled sadly. “So you have come to see both the dark and the light within yourself. The dragon as well as the star. The serpent as well as the dove.”