The Lost Years (11 page)

Water. I must find fresh water.
If only I could find some to drink, I would feel more alive.

I climbed to the ridge of a dune arching above the beach. What I saw took my breath away.

A dense forest, where colorful birds flitted among the spires of towering trees, stretched far to the west. Near the horizon rose waves of misty hills, where the green of the forest deepened into blue. Between here and there, a lush valley unfurled as soft as a carpet. Sunlit streams cascaded out of the woods and over the meadows, merging into a great river that rushed toward the sea. In the distance, more trees grew, though in orderly rows that seemed less wild than the forest, more like an orchard that someone had planted long ago.

I was about to descend into the valley and quench my thirst when something else caught my attention. Although I could see only a little of the eastern bank of the river, it seemed far less green than the other side. Rather, it looked brownish red, the color of dried leaves. Or rust. At first it gave me an unsettled feeling, but then I realized that it was probably just some strange sort of vegetation. Or perhaps a trick of the light, caused by the mass of dark clouds hovering over the eastern horizon.

Feeling my parched throat, I turned back to the verdant valley and forest before me. Time for that drink! Then I would investigate this mist-shrouded island, if indeed it was an island. Although I could not quite put my finger on it, something about this place made me want to stay and explore—despite the strange experience with the shell. It might have been the vibrant colors. Or it might have been the simple fact that I had trusted in the waves and they had brought me here. Whatever the reason, I would remain for a while—but only for a while. If I did not discover any clues to my past, I would promptly leave. I would build myself another boat, sturdier than the last, and continue my quest.

I started down the dune. The sand soon gave way to grasses, their slender stalks bowing in the fragrant breeze. Though still stiff from my voyage, I gathered speed as I descended. Soon I was running across the open field. Feeling the wind in my face, I realized that this was the first time I had run since leaving Caer Myrddin.

Approaching a stream of bright water, I knelt by the mossy stones along its border. Immediately I immersed my whole head in it. The cold, clear water slapped my skin, shocking me no less than the colors and smells of this land had first shocked me. I swallowed enough to feel bloated, belched, then swallowed some more.

Satisfied at last, I leaned on my elbow, now drinking not the water but the crisp, spicy air. Grasses tickled my chin. With so much tall grass surrounding me, anyone passing near might have thought me just a brown log by the streambed. I listened to the subtle rustling of stems rubbing together, the rising and falling of wind in the forest, the steady dancing of the stream. A long-legged beetle, red in hue, crawled lazily across the folds of my tunic.

A sudden whoosh of air, just above my head, jolted me out of my reverie. Whatever it was had flashed past with the speed of an arrow, so fast that I had no idea what it could have been. Cautiously, I lifted myself higher. My second sight detected some movement in the grass downstream. I rose to my feet.

A piercing whistle erupted from the grass, followed by hissing and snarling. The angry sounds swelled as I approached. A few steps later, I halted, amazed.

The largest rat I had ever seen, as thick as my own thigh, with powerful legs and teeth as sharp as dagger points, wrestled before me. Its adversary was a small hawk with a banded brown tail and gray back. A merlin. Despite the fact that the rat was at least three times the bird’s size, they appeared evenly matched.

Furiously, they battled. The merlin’s strong talons clung tight to the back of the rat’s neck. The rat writhed, trying to bite and claw its enemy’s head, bashing the bird against the ground. But the bird’s courage outweighed its compact body, for it only screeched and dug its talons deeper, drawing blood from the rat’s tough hide. Feathers flew, as blood splattered the grass. Clawing, biting, and snarling, they tumbled over each other in a wild frenzy.

This fight might have continued for some time with no victor, except that another rat emerged from a thicket by the stream. Whether out of loyalty to its kind, or more likely, desire for some easy prey, it joined in the fray. Clamping its jaws on one of the merlin’s wings, it tore at the bird viciously.

The merlin shrieked in pain, but somehow held on. The second rat, its face ripped by the bird’s beak, released its grip and circled around to the other side. Meanwhile, the merlin’s torn wing hung at its side, flapping uselessly, while one of its talons came loose. Sensing victory at hand, the second rat brushed away some feathers caught in its teeth. Its legs tensed as it readied to pounce on the weakened bird.

At that instant I ran forward and kicked the second rat in the chest, so hard that it rolled into the thicket. Seeing this, the first rat stopped its thrashing, glaring at me with bloodred eyes. With a violent shake, it threw the merlin to the grass. The bird lay on its back, too weak to move.

The rat hissed shrilly. I took a step closer. Then I raised my hand as if to strike. The rat, apparently tired of battling for the moment, turned and slipped away through the blades of grass.

I stooped to examine the merlin. Although its eyes, two dots of black encircled in yellow, remained barely half open, they watched me intensely. As I reached for the bird, it whistled and lashed out with one of its talons, slashing the skin of my wrist.

“What are you doing, fool bird?” I yelped, sucking the bloody wrist. “I’m trying to help you, not hurt you.”

Again I reached toward the fallen warrior. Again the bird whistled and struck with its talon.

“Enough of this!” Shaking my head in dismay, I rose to leave.

As I left the spot, I glanced one more time at the merlin. Its eyes had finally closed. It lay there on the grass, shivering.

I took a deep breath, and returned. Cautiously, I picked up the bird, avoiding the talons in case it suddenly came alive again. I held the warm, feathered body in my hand, wondering that any creature so fierce could also feel so soft. Stroking the injured wing, I could tell that, while skin and muscles had been shredded, no bones had been broken. I reached into the satchel that Branwen had given me, removed a pinch of the dried herbs, and added to this a few drops of water from the stream. Using the edge of my tunic, I cleaned the gashes made by the teeth of the rat. There were several deep ones, especially along the wing’s upper edge. Carefully I applied the herbs as a poultice.

The merlin stiffened and opened an eye. This time, however, it did not slash at me. Apparently too weak even to whistle, it could only watch me warily.

When I had finished, I held the small bird and pondered what to do next. Leave it here by the stream? No, the rats would surely return and finish their work. Take it with me? No, I had no need for a passenger, certainly not one so dangerous.

Spotting an oak with wide branches at the edge of the woods, an idea came to me. I put down the bird long enough to pull up some grasses and twist them together into a rough-hewn nest. Gathering both the nest and the bird under my arm, I climbed to a low branch that wore a rich coat of moss. I wedged the nest into place where the branch joined the trunk, then placed the helpless bird within.

I looked into the defiant, yellow-rimmed eyes for a moment. Then I climbed down and strode into the forest.

13:
A
B
UNDLE OF
L
EAVES

As I walked among the spires and the intertwined branches of this ancient forest, an odd sensation crept up on me.

It had nothing to do with my second sight, although the light proved dim indeed in these dark groves where only occasional rays reached all the way to the forest floor. It had nothing to do with the resins filling the air, stronger than I had ever smelled, although they brought back the memory of the day I outlasted the storm in the arms of the great pine beneath Y Wyddfa. It had nothing to do with the sounds all around me—winds rushing through leaves, branches clacking and creaking, needles crunching underfoot.

The odd sensation stemmed from none of these things. Or perhaps it came from all these things combined. A sound. A smell. A dimly lit grove. Above all, a feeling. That something in this forest knew I was there. That something was watching me. That a strange whispering, much like what I had heard in the shell, was now happening all around me. I spotted a knobby stick, nearly as tall as myself, leaning against the trunk of an old cedar. A good staff might help me work my way through the dimly lit groves of this forest. I reached for it. Just as my hand was about to squeeze its middle, where a cluster of twigs protruded, I gasped and pulled back.

The stick moved! The twigs, joined by others above and below, began churning like little legs. The knobby shaft bent as it clambered down the cedar’s flaky bark, over the roots, and into a patch of ferns. In a few seconds, the stick creature had vanished. So too had my desire to find a staff.

Then I felt a familiar urge. Climb one of these trees! Not all the way to the top, perhaps, but high enough to gain a view of the upper canopies of branches. Choosing a lanky linden tree, whose heart-shaped leaves trembled like the surface of a running river, I started up. My feet and hands found plenty of holds, and I moved swiftly higher.

From the distance of five times my own height above the ground, the view changed dramatically. Much more light pierced the mesh of limbs, improving my vision. Through the quivering linden leaves I noticed a round, green clump of moss near my head—although given my experience with the stick I decided not to touch it. Then I glimpsed a pair of orange and blue butterflies floating among the branches. A spider, its web pearled with dew, swung freely from a nearby limb. Squirrels with large eyes chattered noisily. A golden-plumed bird moved from branch to branch. Yet one quality from the forest floor did not change: The strange whispering continued.

Turning toward the edge of the forest, I could make out the grassy field where I had encountered the merlin. Just beyond, flowing toward the wall of mist that I knew marked the sea, I spied the sparkling water of the great river. To my surprise, a strange wave lifted from its rapids, a wave that seemed almost like a huge hand. I knew that it could not be so. Yet as the hand of water emerged from the river, dripping water through its broad fingers before plunging back down with a splash, I felt a surge of wonder and fear.

Then, from far above me, a huge bundle of leaves broke loose. Rather than falling straight downward, though, it flew outward and across to another tree. Miraculously, the second tree’s branches caught the bundle, cradling it in sturdy boughs, before flinging it outward again. Another branch caught it, bent with the weight, then flung it back. The bundle spun through the air, sailing over branches and between trunks, spinning like a dancer. It seemed almost as if the trees of this grove were playing catch with one another, throwing this bundle as children might throw a ball of string.

In time, the bundle of leaves dropped lower and lower among the limbs. Finally, it rolled onto the forest floor, coming to rest at last in a bed of brown needles.

I gasped. From the bundle, a long, leafy branch suddenly protruded. No, not a branch. An arm, wearing a sleeve of woven vines. Then another arm. One leg, then another. A head, its hair bedecked with shining leaves. Two eyes, as gray as beech bark with a touch of blue.

The leaf-draped figure rose and laughed out loud. The laughter, full and clear, rang through the trees with all the beauty of a bell.

I leaned forward on my limb, trying to discern more detail. For I could tell already that this bundle of leaves was, in truth, a girl.

14:
R
HIA

Without warning, the limb gave way. I tumbled to the ground, my fall broken by several boughs along the way. My chest smacked hard into one limb, as did my lower back, my shoulder, and both thighs. With a thud, I landed in a cushion of needles.

Groaning, I rolled to the side. In addition to the stiffness from my voyage, and the usual pain between my shoulder blades, my entire body ached. Slowly, I sat up—and found myself face-to-face with the girl.

Her laughter ceased.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Although the light was spare, I could tell that she was about my own age. She watched me, standing as still as one of the trees. But for the touch of blue in her eyes, her garb of woven vines consisted of so much green and brown that she could almost have passed for a tree. Yet the eyes could not be missed. They flashed angrily.

She uttered a command in a strange, rustling language, waving her hand as if to brush away a fly. Immediately, the heavy branches of a hemlock wrapped themselves around my middle, as well as my arms and legs. The branches held me tightly, and the more I struggled the harder they squeezed. Swiftly they lifted me into the air. I hung there, suspended, unable to move.

“Let me down!”

“Now you will not fall again.” The girl spoke in my own tongue, the Celtic language I had spoken in Gwynedd, but with a curious, lilting accent. Her expression shifted from wrath to mirth. “You remind me of a big brown berry, though not a tasty one.”

She picked a plump purple berry growing in the moss by her feet and put it in her mouth. Puckering, she spat it out again. “Ecchh. No sweetness left.”

“Let me down!” I roared. I twisted to break free, but the branch around my chest tightened so much that I could hardly breathe. “Please,” I croaked. “I meant . . . no harm.”

The girl eyed me severely. “You broke the law of Druma Wood. No outsiders are allowed here.”

“But . . . I didn’t . . . know,” I wheezed.

“Now you do.” She plucked another berry. Evidently it tasted better than the first, because she bent and picked another one.

“Please . . . let me . . . down.”