The Seven Songs (16 page)

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

Wind rushed past. I fell down, down, down. I fought to take in some air. No use! The howling wind tore at me. Yet I could not fill my lungs with it, as I had always done before. Then, with a splash, I hit cold water. My gills opened wide. Gills! I breathed again at last. As water moved around me, it also moved through me.

No more arms. No more legs. My body was now a single, streamlined tail, with flexible fins above and below and on both sides. One of the fins curled around a small stick, which I guessed was all that remained of my staff. What had happened to my satchel, boots, and tunic, I had no idea.

It took me a moment to find my balance, for whenever I tried to move my fins, I flipped over on my side. And it took more than a moment for my second sight to adjust to the dim, scattered underwater light. Except for the layer of water closest to the surface, there was practically no light at all. Only gradations of darkness.

After several minutes of struggling, however, my confidence began to improve. I discovered that swimming required completely different movements than it had with my human form. Stroking was out of the question. So was kicking, at least in the old way. What I needed to do was sway my entire body from side to side, like a living whip cracking. Every single scale on my skin, from my gills to the tip of my tail, joined in the motion. Soon I found I could whip through the waves. And I could move up or down as well as left or right.

A slender fish, mottled with greens and browns, swam over. I knew at once it was Rhia, for although she had been underwater no longer than I, she moved with the grace of the current itself. We waved our fins in greeting. She made some sort of coughing sound, and I realized that she was laughing at the sight of my miniature staff.

At that moment Bumbelwy, trailing a torn ribbon of kelp from his tail, swam slowly toward us. While he wore no bells, there was no mistaking him. From the front, his sagging chins made him look like an eel wearing a ruffled collar. It was the closest he had ever come to being funny, although he had no idea.

Our first task was learning to keep together. Rhia and I took turns in the lead position, with Bumbelwy always following behind. In time, Rhia and I began to swim with increasing coordination. A sixth sense slowly emerged in us, the same sense that binds an entire school of fish together. After the first full day of swimming, the two of us moved almost as a single, connected being.

A quiet, liquid thrill moved through me as we swam through vast forests of swaying kelp or leaped through the rolling waves. I could taste feelings as well as flavors in the currents; I could sense the joy of a family of dolphins, the lonely struggle of a migrating turtle, the hunger of a newborn sea anemone. Yet I never forgot the seriousness of my quest. Even as I reveled in the experience of being a creature of the water, I knew that all of this was merely a means of saving time—and, perhaps, Elen. Still, I promised myself that if I ever survived this quest and one day actually became a wizard, perhaps even the mentor of a young king or queen, I would remember the virtues of transforming my student into a fish.

One of those virtues was discovering the great amount of food that the sea could provide. Why, the sea was really one enormous, floating feast! Day after day, I ate enough insects, eggs, and worms to feel bloated. Rhia, for her part, proved adept at catching tasty little crayfish. While Bumbelwy drew the line at worms, even he tasted many of the sea’s strange delicacies.

At the same time, we tried to stay alert to the danger of becoming someone else’s delicacy. Once I swam through a tunnel of bright yellow coral only to find a very large, very hungry fish waiting for me at the other end. As quickly as I darted away, I surely would have been caught but for the even larger creature who suddenly appeared, scaring off my pursuer. Although I just barely glimpsed the creature who had helped me, it seemed to possess the tail of a fish and the upper body of a man.

For six days and five nights we swam steadily northward. Often after dark, the pale light of a swelling half moon danced upon the waves. Yet the moon’s beauty escaped me. I saw in its face only the face of someone else, someone I feared losing forever. Less than three weeks remained.

At last came the moment when Rhia veered sharply toward the coast. She led us to a small delta where a freshwater stream emptied into the sea. I could taste, mixing with the salty flavors of the wide waters, the purity of melted snow, the playfulness of otters, and the unwavering patience of a stand of ancient spruce trees. We surged up the stream as far as we could. Then, concentrating my thoughts, I repeated the command that I had learned from Cwen.

All of a sudden I stood knee-deep in a tumbling cascade, clutching my staff in one hand and Rhia’s arm in the other. Just downstream, Bumbelwy threw himself on the marshy bank, coughing and sputtering. He had, it seemed, forgotten that people tend not to breathe too well with their heads underwater.

While Bumbelwy recovered, Rhia and I shook some of the water from our clothes and ourselves. Meanwhile, she explained that she believed that this stream flowed down from the Lake of the Face itself. Before long, all three of us were trekking along the stony stream bank, climbing with the rising ground. A tangled forest of alder and birch that clung to the bank made the going difficult. Every time Bumbelwy tried to shake free of the branches that grasped at his cloak, his bells rattled soggily.

At one point I paused, panting hard from the climb. Spying a shaggy-topped mushroom growing among the roots of a birch, I pulled it from the ground. “Strange as it sounds,” I said as I took a bite, “I’m going to miss those little white worms.”

Rhia wiped her brow and grinned at me. She picked her own mushroom. “Maybe you’ll find more worms at the Lake of the Face.”

“How did it come to have such a name? Do you know?”

She chewed pensively. “Some say it’s from the shape, which is a little like a man’s face. Others say it’s from the power of the water.”

“What power?”

“If you look into it, according to legend, you will face an important truth about your life. Even if it’s a truth you would rather not know.”

17:
B
INDING

We continued on, following the stony stream bank as it climbed through the alders. Though roots tripped our feet and thorns tore our clothing, our pace hardly slackened. Several hours and scraped shins later, the waterway opened into a snug valley surrounded by steep, wooded hills. The spicy scent of pine trees wafted over us. Amidst the trees, outcroppings of white quartz gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

Yet the valley seemed eerily silent. No birds sang, no squirrels chattered, no bees buzzed. I listened closely, hoping to hear the stirring of something alive. Rhia, reading my thoughts, gave a knowing nod. “Animals and birds stay away from this valley. No one knows why.”

“They’re smarter than people,” observed Bumbelwy, still dripping water from his bells.

I watched Rhia walk down to the shore of the lake in the center of the valley. The lake, its water almost black, was so still that hardly a ripple broke its surface. Its contours resembled, from this angle, the profile of a man whose jaw, strong and defiant, jutted outward—much like my own father’s. Remembering him, I stiffened. I wished he had been as strong in reality as in appearance. Strong enough to stand up to Rhita Gawr when he had seen the chance. Strong enough to help his own wife, Elen, when she had needed him.

A shriek jolted me out of my thoughts.

There, by the edge of the lake, stood Rhia, gazing into the dark water. She held her hands in front of her protectively, while her back arched in fear. Yet if something in the lake had frightened her, she made no effort to move or get away. She stared straight into the water, completely transfixed.

I ran down to her. Bumbelwy followed me, alternately tripping over his torn cloak and the mesh of vines that grew along the shore. Just as I reached her, she turned around. Her skin, usually full of color, looked deathly pale. She gasped when she saw me, as if she were suddenly afraid. Then she shuddered and grabbed my arm for support.

I braced myself to support her weight. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she answered weakly.

“Did you see something in the lake?”

“Y-yes.” She shook herself again, releasing my arm. “And you—you’d better not look.”

“Fine,” declared Bumbelwy, glancing nervously at the dark water. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” I stepped to the edge of the lake. As I peered into the still water, I viewed my own reflection, so clear that for an instant I thought that my own twin was in the lake, staring back at me. What, I wondered, could have been so frightening about such a perfect reflection? There were my useless eyes, looking like lumps of coal beneath my brows. And my scarred cheeks, ravaged by flames that I could still almost feel. Stroking my cheeks, I wished that I might someday grow a beard to cover those scars. A beard, curly and white, like the one I imagined that Tuatha himself had worn.

I jumped back. The boy in the lake started sprouting whiskers. First black, then gray, then white as the quartz on the hillside, the whiskers grew long and scraggly. They covered most of the boy’s face, growing and growing. Soon they fell all the way to his knees. Was it possible? Was the Lake of the Face telling me that I would one day, like him, be a wizard?

I smiled, feeling increasingly confident about peering into the still, dark water. Whatever Rhia had seen had clearly departed. I leaned closer. The boy in the lake, no longer wearing a beard, slowly turned away from me. He ran toward something. No, someone. A huge, muscular warrior, wearing a red band around his forehead, strode out of the depths. Then, as the warrior came nearer, I realized that he had only one eye. One enormous, wrathful eye. Balor!

To my horror, the ogre dodged the boy with ease, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him high. My own throat constricted as I watched the boy being strangled by powerful hands. Hard as I tried, I could not turn away from the terrifying scene. The boy struggled wildly, trying not to look in the ogre’s deadly eye. Yet the eye’s power pulled on him. Finally, he succumbed. With a last jerk of his legs, he hung limp in the ogre’s hands.

I fell backward on the ground, gasping for air. My head whirled. My neck throbbed. With each breath, I coughed uncontrollably.

Rhia reached for me, as did Bumbelwy. She squeezed my hand, while he patted my brow sympathetically. Slowly, my coughing subsided. But before any of us could speak, someone called to us across the water.

“So,” wheezed a gleeful voice, “are you finding the lake’s prophecies difficult to, shall we say, swallow?” A full, breathy laughter followed. “Or are you just feeling, shall we say, choked up?”

Regaining my bearings, I scanned the dark surface of the lake. Near what would be the nose of the profile, I spotted an immense, hairy otter, silver in color except for his face, which was white. He floated leisurely on his back, kicking so effortlessly that he hardly caused a ripple.

I pointed. “There. An otter.”

Rhia shook her head in disbelief. “I didn’t think anyone lived here.”

“I only live where I otter,” he answered merrily, squirting a jet of water from between his two front teeth. “Care to join me for a swim?”

“No chance,” declared Bumbelwy. He waved his long sleeves like fins, causing his bells to dribble water on his face. “I’ve had enough swimming for a lifetime.”

“Then perhaps I should sing one of my water songs for you?” The otter kicked lazily toward us, patting his belly with both paws. “I have, shall we say, a fluid voice.” His breathy laughter came again, echoing over the lake.

Supporting myself with my staff, I stood. “No thanks. The only Song we care about isn’t about water.” Seized by a sudden inspiration, I asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the magic of Binding, would you?”

Rhia frowned. “Merlin,” she cautioned. “You don’t know him at all! He could be—”

“An expert in matters of Binding,” said the otter relaxedly. “My favorite pastime. Next to floating on my back and watching the clouds, that is.”

“You see?” I whispered to her. “He could tell us what we need. And I don’t see anyone else around this lake who might be able to help.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Why not?”

She pressed her tongue against her cheek. “I don’t know exactly. It’s just a feeling. An instinct.”

“Oh, confound your instincts! We’re running out of time!” I searched the shoreline for any sign of other creatures who could, perhaps, assist us. There were none. “Why would he lie to us? We have no reason to mistrust him.”

“But . . . “

I growled with impatience. “What now?”

She hissed at me like a snake. “It’s, well . . . confound it all, Merlin! I can’t put it into words.”

“Then I’m going with what I think, not what you feel. And I think that any creature who lives in this enchanted lake, all alone, must have some special knowledge. Maybe even special power.” I turned back to the otter, who had drifted much closer. “I need to find the soul—the first principle—of the art of Binding. Will you help me, good otter?”

Tilting his head toward the shore, he squirted a jet of water at me. “Why should I?”

“Because I asked you, that’s why.”

He blew some bubbles in the water. “Oooh, that tickles my ears.” More bubbles. “You need to give me a better reason than that.”

I jammed my staff into the soil. “Because my mother’s life is at stake!”

“Hmmm,” he said lazily. “Your mother? I had a mother once, myself. She was a terribly slow swimmer. Oh well, I suppose I could help you. Only with the fundamentals, though.”

My heart pounded in my chest. “That’s what I need.”

“Then pull up some of those vines.” He floated closer to the shore. “By your feet.”

“Vines?”

“Of course,” replied the otter, kicking in a slow circle. “To learn about Binding you need to bind something. Go to it, boy! I haven’t got all afternoon. Get your smiling friends to help you.”