"No, no, Unky Shim," protested the child. "No rest! More stomping an' bomping."
But Shim ignored his pleas. Exhausted, he lay down on the slope, gently enough not to crush his passengers—but heavily enough to rearrange the ridge's contours by flattening a cliff with his weight and knocking over several pinnacles with his arms and legs. In truth, Shim seemed to become a new ridge himself. For by the time he'd stretched out fully, placing his head on the summit and resting his feet far below, he looked like another mass of craggy cliffs. With hair that blew wildly in the mountain breeze. Only that blowing mane and the rhythmic movement of his chest as he breathed—and, very soon, snored—made it clear that this particular ridge was alive.
As the giant's snores echoed across the mountainside, an idea dawned in Basil's mind. This is my chance! To speak to Merlin—to warn him about my dream. When will I ever be so near to him again?
Excitedly, the lizard's tail thumped on the edge of the gulley, causing a few pebbles to dislodge and tumble down the small slope. At once, a second idea came to him. Maybe Merlin could help me find the buried portal! With his powers—which were practically unlimited, as everyone knew—the wizard could surely restore the portal to working order. And Basil, at last, could embark on his search—wherever it might lead.
I'll just wait for the right moment, then ask. His slender body, from the tip of his snout to the knob of his tail, quaked with anticipation. He rustled his wings. Suddenly, unbidden, an image flashed across his mind: Wings, dark and dangerous. Wrapping around the wizard. Smothering him to death.
No! he told himself, now quaking from something other than excitement. It won't happen. Can't happen. I'll make sure of it. The image faded from his mind, though its shadow lingered—a shadow he could feel rather than see.
Slowly, he crept along the gulley's edge, wriggling like a tiny green snake across the stones and pebbles. All the while, he kept his eyes on the wizard, who had started to climb down from Shim's car. Holding young Krystallus in the crook of his arm, Merlin grabbed hold of one of the giant's hairs that dangled by the enormous ear. Carefully, he slid down the makeshift rope, until his boots hit the rocks of the ridge. Then he released the hair, pulled the staff from his belt, and gently set down his son.
"Go play awhile, Krystallus. See if you can climb any of these rocks."
The little boy, standing unsteadily, peered up at his father. His pure white hair contrasted starkly with Merlin's black locks. "Sure, Da, but then we ride Unky Shim again?"
Merlin smiled. "Yes," he promised, even as he glanced up and saw a large glob of drool about to drop on them from Shim's mouth. Calmly, he aimed the top of his staff at the unsavory glob. A bolt of white light shot out of the staff, striking the liquid missile just as it fell. The air sizzled, and then with a flash, the drool completely evaporated.
The boy, who had already started to climb a lichen-dappled rock, abruptly stopped. "Da," he asked enthusiastically, "when you teach me magic stick?"
The joy drained out of Merlin's face. He stared absently down at his boots for several seconds. "I don't know, Krystallus. It depends on whether or not . . ." He kneeled down to face his son. "Whether or not you, well . . ."
"What, Da?"
"Show any magic of your own."
What? thought Basil, lifting his round ears in surprise. Had he heard correctly? How could the son of a wizard not have any magic of his own?
He crawled a bit closer, careful not to knock even a pebble into the gully. For he didn't want to make any sound. He didn't want to miss a single word of this.
"You see, Son . . ." began Merlin, pausing to swallow. "Wizards' powers often skip generations. It's possible—I'm not saying it will happen, just that it's possible—you might not develop your own magic. And without that, you can't . . . well, control a staff."
The wizard halted, looking much older than his years. Solemnly, he peered at the boy's brown eyes, which shone as brightly as his mother's. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Krystallus nodded. Then, in a gleeful voice, he asked, "So when you teach me? Magic stick fun!"
Pushing some stray locks off his brow, Merlin merely mumbled, "I don't know, Son." He stood slowly. With a sigh, he leaned heavily against his staff, which crunched on the ground. "Just find something safe to climb on while Shim naps."
The boy frowned. While he didn't comprehend his father's words, he clearly knew that his question hadn't been answered. And it seemed to Basil that he also sensed, somehow, that he'd been judged inadequate. Whether to impress his father or simply to prove him wrong, he started to climb the highest thing around. Not a rock, or even a boulder—but Shim.
"Look now, Da!" he cried, as he started to scale the folds of Shim's gigantic vest made from woven willow trunks.
But Merlin, lost in thought, hardly heard him. Without turning around, he began to walk slowly away. From his moss-filled gully, Basil watched him with concern. For a man who had defeated the powerful spirit warlord Rhita Gawr—more than once, if the tales of Lost Fincayra were really true—he now looked thoroughly beaten.
Basil knew this was his chance. He scurried ahead, racing along the gully, barely avoiding a rock sporting dozens of needle-sharp quartz crystals. Then, abruptly, he stopped. His tail swayed indecisively. Merlin seemed so troubled right now. Was this really the best time to talk with him?
No, he told himself. But it might be the only time.
Raising himself up on his hind legs, he called in his thin voice, "Ah, hello. Master Merlin?"
Instantly, the wizard spun around. Seeing this unusual creature, as green as mountain moss, he straightened in surprise. "You?" he asked. "Aren't you the little fellow I saw at my wedding?"
Basil's snout turned pink at the tip. "Saved at your wedding is more like it." He nodded, which made his ears flap against his cheeks. "I have something important—very important—to tell you."
"Really?" The wizard's brows lifted in curiosity. He stepped closer, as a breeze fluttered the sleeves of his tunic. "What could that be?"
"I, well, I . . ."
"Yes?"
Basil took a deep breath, even as he steadied his wavering body by bracing his tail against a rock. "I had . . . well, a dream."
"A dream?" Merlin pursed his lips, disappointed. "My friend, I am not a fortune-teller. I don't interpret people's dreams."
"No, no," protested the lizard. "This isn't like most dreams! It's different. And it involves—"
A sharp, terrified shriek ripped the mountain air.
The shriek of a child.
Merlin whirled around. "Krystallus!"
Shim, in his sleep, had lifted his enormous hand and placed it on his chest—right on top of the tiny boy. From somewhere beneath the hand, buried under an immense slab of flesh, came a muffled cry: "Help, Da, help!"
Instantly, Merlin turned to a jagged boulder, as big as himself, that lay by the giant's elbow. Shouting an incantation, he pointed his staff at the boulder. With a grinding lurch, the big stone lifted slowly into the air. It hung there, quivering slightly. All at once, Merlin swung his staff with tremendous force. The boulder flew straight into Shim's hand, smashing into an oversize knuckle. The stone exploded into shards.
Basil watched, certain that such a stinging blow would cause the giant to awaken, howling with pain. And, most important, to move his hand.
Shim, however, did none of those things. He merely lifted his little finger, as if shooing away a pesky fly. Still fast asleep, he went right on snoring, a lopsided grin on his face.
"Curse you, Shim!" shouted Merlin furiously. "Wake up, fool!"
"Da," came the muffled cry again, from deep under the giant's palm. Yet the boy's voice seemed much weaker. "Da . . ."
Frightened for the boy's life, Basil crawled as fast as he could, feet slapping on the rocks, to get closer. He leaped onto a flat stone—and what he saw made him all the more agitated. Shim's hand, larger and heavier than an ancient oak tree, was starting to press down against
his chest. In a matter of seconds, the boy would be completely crushed.
Seeing this, Merlin swung his staff toward the giant's head. "Anzalay luminari!" he commanded.
A sizzling bolt of white-hot lightning flew out of the staff and exploded on Shim's forehead. Fiery sparks lit the air, raining down on the slope.
But Shim didn't wake up. He only stirred slightly, grinding his shoulder into what remained of the cliff beneath him. His silly grin widened, as if he'd just had an especially luminous dream. Meanwhile, his snores continued unabated.
Now, from beneath the giant's hand, came a very different sound: a weak, smothered whimper. It lasted only briefly. Then, with ominous finality, it ceased.
Merlin, wild-eyed under his bushy brows, dashed over to the giant and tried to climb onto his massive chest. But he slipped, lost his balance, and toppled to the ground. Springing to his feet, he lifted his arms to the sky and called out desperately: "What do I do? Dear Dagda, what do I do?"
No answer came from above. No help at all.
Then, all at once, a different sort of answer appeared. It came in a most unlikely form, from a most unlikely source.
Honey. The sweet, drippingly delicious smell of honey. The aroma wafted over the mountainside, making the air seem as thick as syrup and as sweet as summer clover.
Immediately, Shim woke up. Eyes wide open, he looked around eagerly. "Honey?" he rumbled, sniffing vigorously. "Me smells some sweetly honey."
Seeking the source of his favorite smell, he sat up. As he did so, his hand fell to the side and landed, palm up, on the ridge. In its center lay a small, squirming boy with pure white hair.
"Krystallus!" In a flash, Merlin sprinted to his son. He vaulted over Shim's thumb and leaped into the giant's open hand. Rolling across the palm, he eagerly scooped up the boy.
Kneeling in the center of Shim's hand, Merlin held his son tightly and tousled the mop of white hair. "Krystallus," he cried. "Are you unhurt? Are you all right?"
The little boy responded by throwing his arms around his father's neck. Swaying unsteadily on the fleshy hand, Merlin held him close.
Meanwhile, Shim's eyes scanned the slope. His gargantuan nose quivered as he sniffed avidly. For some strange reason, though, the wondrous smell had vanished. And there was no honey to be seen anywhere.
"Trolls' tongues," roared the disappointed giant, his grin vanishing. "Me surely smelled honey! Sweetly, definitely, absolutely."
Hearing those words, Merlin suddenly understood what had happened. Someone had magically projected the smell of honey into the air. Someone with considerable power. But who? There was nobody else here on the mountainside. Nobody, at least, with that kind of magic. He caught his breath. Unless . . .
He turned toward the bizarre little beast—some sort of winged lizard with glowing green eyes—who was watching from a stone nearby. The same little beast who had wanted to talk about a dream. As Merlin stared, the lizard simply met his gaze, swishing a slender tail on the stone.
"Not . . . you,” the wizard said doubtfully. "That couldn't have been you, could it?"
Basil shrugged bashfully. "Just a small thing, Master Merlin." He cleared his throat. "Now, about that dr—"
Shim smashed his heel down on the mountain, causing dozens of boulders to roll and crash down the slope. Passionately, the giant declared, "I knows me smelled honey! Maybily I can still finds it." He glanced down at the people he held in his hand. "Time to wakes up, you two. No more restily lounging around! We have some sweetly honey to finds."
"Wait, Shim!" called Merlin.
"Wait, please!" echoed Basil.
But the giant ignored them. With a thunderous grunt, he stood up, knocking over a tower of rocks the size of a hillside. Eagerly, he sniffed the air again, then took his first gargantuan stride.
"Wait!" both Merlin and Basil cried again, but to no avail. It took only two more steps for Shim, along with the passengers in his hand, to vanish behind the ridge.
In the last instant before they disappeared, the wizard called out: "Thank you, little fellow, whoever you are! May we meet again before—"
The voice ended in the tumultuous boom of a giant's footstep.
17: DISTORTION
What you see isn't always real, and what is real is only rarely what you see.
That, I can tell you, is the first rule of magic.
YEAR OF AVALON 37
Basil grew older—but alas, no bigger—with the passing of seasons. Reluctantly, he'd come to accept that his body—as unusual as it was—would always stay small. But he absolutely refused to accept the idea that his life would also stay small.
There's all of Avalon to discover, he promised himself each morning as he continued to search the slope, rock by rock, for the missing portal. And all of me to discover, as well.
At times, as he crawled into crevasses, squeezed between boulders, and followed the dank passageways of streams that tunneled under the stony slope, he'd try to imagine the faraway places he wanted to explore. What did Fireroot look like? Were all the creatures of Airroot as misty as sylphs? Who could survive for long in Shadowroot?
Yet no realm filled his thoughts more often, or more sensuously, than the one he had long called home. Woodroot. The land the elves called El Urien bloomed like a recurrent springtime in his mind, Sometimes, while he probed for the elusive green fire, his thoughts would drift to the forest realm's sights and sounds—and, most of all, its scents. Although he was surrounded by a mountain of rock, he could almost smell the sweet resins of pine and hemlock, the rich aroma of woodland mushrooms, the musty odor of deer prints in a marsh, the snappy scent—almost as strong as ginger—of a newly woven spider's web, and the freshness of rain-washed leaves.
One day, Basil sat on a cliff atop the slope. As he scanned the boulders below, looking for any hint of the portal, he tried—for the thousandth time—to produce that smell of deer prints in a marsh. Sure enough, the smell appeared, hanging over his head like a devoted cloud. But as always, the imitation couldn't compare to reality.
"You're really just a half-witted trickster," he grumbled to himself. The aroma dissipated, carried away by the breeze that constantly swept across the cliff. "What was it that old field mouse in Woodroot used to say? Smells aren't real. Give me something to swallow."
He kicked at the lichen, shredding its edge. A tiny flake of yellow broke off, spun in the air, and drifted away. He watched it go, thinking, Is that all I am? A tiny little shred . . . carried by forces I can't steer?
Clamping his tiny teeth around a leaf of lichen, he tore off a bite. It tasted sour, but that fit his mood. Thoughtfully, he chewed.
In the time since he'd seen Merlin on this mountain, he'd often thought about that day. That missed opportunity! Why in Avalon's name had he delayed? Why didn't he explain that his vision of dark wings was much more than a dream? That Merlin's future, as well as his own, was at risk?
Whenever he recalled that encounter, he also wondered about the wizard and his son. About their shared friendship . . . and their shared magic. From what he'd heard from the crows (and one slightly tipsy owl who had sipped some farmer's home-brewed ale), young Krystallus wasn't showing any signs of magical powers. Maybe it was the fact that wizards' powers often skipped generations. Or maybe it was the pressure of an entire world watching and waiting for him to be like his famous father. Either way, it couldn't be easy for the little fellow.
And what of Merlin himself? Basil chewed, recalling the most recent news. The wizard's mother, Elen, who labored for decades to create the faith she called the Society of the Whole, had recently died. A few weeks earlier, Merlin had given her something she dearly treasured: a book of her beloved Cairpré's poems. And this particular book, thanks to an added dose of magic, could read aloud to her, in Cairpré's voice, anytime she opened its cover. So she had spent most of her final days listening to her favorite bard—often joined by Merlin, and also by Rhia, who now wore the spider's silk gown of the High Priestess.
r /> Well done. Merlin, thought Basil. From what he'd seen of her at the wedding, he felt sure that Elen must have been quite ready, after so many years, to join the spirit of her loved one, Nothing would have eased the pain of her last days more than to hear Cairpré's resonant voice—a voice she would soon hear again at last.
Then, remembering what he'd heard about the achingly long journey to the Otherworld, he frowned. "How long will it take her to go all the way to the spirit realm?" he asked aloud.
"Not as long as you might think," declared a profoundly deep voice behind him.
Basil spun around. There, striding toward him on the cliff, was a great stag with a mighty rack of antlers, seven points on each side. The stag's eyes gleamed with extraordinary wisdom, at once radiant and shadowed, brighter than light and deeper than dark.
"Dagda!" he exclaimed, his eyes bulging with surprise. "You're here? You've returned to Avalon?"
"Yes," replied the stag.
"But why?"
"To escort someone to the Otherworld."
The lizard's round ears trembled with awe. "You would really do that?"
"I would indeed," answered the stag. "But only for a mortal of the highest grace and deepest wisdom."
"Elen."
"Yes, little fellow. I have come to take her home." He flicked his tail at a curl of mist that hovered behind him, causing it to separate into three distinct circles. At a glance from the stag, they spun silently away. Each circle of mist floated in a different direction: One flew over the ridge of the mountain; one soared upward to melt into the wispy clouds above; and one, to Basil's astonishment, sailed straight down into the rocks of the cliff where he sat.
At once, Basil realized this could be his chance—maybe his last chance—to find the lost portal! Dagda was, after all, a god. And not only that, he was the leader of the gods—except, of course, for those who followed Rhita Gawr. Surely even now, in mortal form, he retained great magic. Enough, at least, to assist.