The Dragon of Avalon

  "Dagda," he asked anxiously. "I—I need something. Some help."

  The rich brown eyes peered at him. And, it seemed, right through him. "What kind of help?"

  Basil's tail thumped nervously on the stone beneath him. "I need your—"

  Abruptly, he caught himself. For he'd just noticed, beside the stag's head, a strange vibration in the air. All around one antler point, the air quivered, making everything nearby look slightly distorted. Worse, the spot seemed to throb, oozing colors—as if it were an open wound, bleeding something more precious than blood.

  "You were saying?" asked the stag, an edge of impatience in his voice. "I must go soon. Time does not dally, even for me."

  "It's—um, well . . ." He started to tell Dagda what he was seeing, but doubts suddenly bloomed in his mind. How could anything be wrong with him? He's immortal, beyond harm.

  The stag stamped his hoof on the rocks; several stones cracked with the force. The message was unmistakable.

  Still, Basil couldn't bring himself to say anything. More doubts buzzed in his head, crowding out other thoughts. Wasn't he wasting the great spirit's time? Who did he think he was, anyway, offering advice to a god?

  Dagda bobbed his head. "Changed your mind, then? Well, I must go."

  The stag turned and began to trot away. Basil watched, his unease swelling rapidly. He watched the air around the antler, pulsing and oozing. Something's wrong. I know it.

  Forcing himself to speak, he barely managed to croak a single word: "Wait."

  Though his voice sounded weak and scratchy, like that of a newborn frog, it carried across the crumbling stones. The stag stopped and slowly turned his head. Impatience showed in the brown eyes, along with something else, unfathomably deep.

  "Yes?"

  With great effort, Basil forced out some words. "Your . . . antler," he said in a hoarse, strained whisper. "Sick. Wrong. Maybe . . . ev—"

  But before he could finish saying evil, his whole throat constricted. He gagged, gasping for air. Desperately, he swished his tail, sending broken bits of rock over the cliff's edge. Finally, using all his will, he took a ragged breath. But even then he felt as if an invisible hand was wrapped around his throat, choking him.

  Dagda cocked his head. "My antler?"

  The invisible hand squeezed tighter. Basil collapsed on the stone. He rolled on the lichen, unable to speak, unable to breathe. His throat felt closed down completely; his tongue seemed as lifeless as a shard of rock.

  He struggled, rolling back and forth, kicking his legs in the air. I've . . . got to breathe! Speak. Warn him.

  Meanwhile, Dagda asked, "What is wrong, little fellow?" But Basil, head buzzing, could barely hear the words, let alone answer them.

  The terrible hand squeezed even more. His neck seemed about to break. As he rolled helplessly on the stone, pain surged through him, convulsing his body, twisting his wings. Dark shadows filled his mind, clouding his vision. His lungs felt ready to burst.

  That . . . thing. Bad for Dagda! Bad . . . for Avalon.

  At that final, disjointed thought, something new bubbled up inside him. It was simple, yet strong, flowing more from his heart than from his mind.

  Love. For Avalon, this enchanted world. For Dagda, who had already done so much to protect its many lands and peoples. And for a simple notion, what Merlin famously called the Avalon idea: that all creatures of all kinds could live together in harmony, with themselves and with their world.

  Deeper than pain, stronger than fear, this love flooded through him. And with it came another feeling: I have more living to do! Much more. This new feeling deepened the first, gave it power as well as direction. I want to live—to do what I can for myself . . . and my world.

  Slowly, very slowly, the grip around his throat began to subside. The anguish relented. He drew a thin, quaking breath. Then a deeper one, and a still deeper one.

  Weakly, he rolled back onto his feet. As the dark clouds evaporated before his eyes, he blinked—and found himself gazing straight into the face of Dagda.

  The stag nudged him gently with his nose. "You, my little friend, are more than you appear."

  With that, the great spirit breathed upon Basil. All at once, the remaining ache in his throat vanished, his chest swelled, and he breathed freely. But Basil didn't pause to celebrate.

  "Your antler!" he exclaimed. "The air around it is shaking. And dripping—almost bleeding."

  The stag's eyes narrowed. He shook his enormous rack. "Where exactly?"

  "The lowest point on the right," he replied, amazed to be talking with ease again.

  The stag snorted with fury. "How could I have missed . . ." He halted, then spoke again to Basil, a new urgency in his voice. "A dangerous spell is upon me! There's only one way to break it."

  "A spell? Who cast it?"

  "Later!" commanded Dagda. "Right now you must help me break it. I cannot do it alone. I need all your great strength—what you used to break that evil grip just now."

  Basil shook himself in disbelief, flapping his little wings. "Me? Great strength? You—you must be mistaken."

  The stag stamped again, smashing stones with his fury. Gusts of wind whistled across the cliff, raising spirals of dust. "Do not doubt me, little one. Now, will you help?"

  "Why yes, of course. What should I do?"

  "There is something—or someone—on my antler," the stag declared, his eyes blazing. "He has stolen a ride on me from the Otherworld. And he has blinded me to his presence with a powerful cloaking spell."

  Basil gave a brisk nod. "And to remove him?"

  "He must first be seen! Only when that happens, shattering his cloak, can he be removed. And then punished."

  "How do we see him?"

  "It won't be easy. Only someone other than me can do it, since I am the object of the spell. And very few others can succeed. But since you saw the vibrations of his wicked magic—and found the strength to tell me—I believe you can do it."

  The stag snorted angrily before continuing. "Just try to pierce through the veil of his magic, to see his mortal form. The instant you do, his spell will collapse." He nodded, bobbing his great rack, as his voice lowered to a rumble. "I will deal with the rest."

  He paused, gazing at Basil. "I must warn you, though. He won't like this. He might attack you again, worse than before."

  "Let him try," growled Basil. He thumped his slender tail on the stone for emphasis.

  Folding his wings tight against his back, he drew a deep breath. Then, clenching his little jaw, he peered straight at the antler, turning all his strength toward one goal: to see beyond the veil. Carefully, he noted all the shifts in light and color, sensing the most subtle vibrations. He opened his green eyes wide, trying to see through the distortions that shielded this assailant.

  Who is it? he wondered. But he couldn't guess. He knew only that this was someone vile enough to attack not just him, but the greatest god of the spirit world.

  Layer by layer, he felt his gaze go deeper, plunging into the magic, all the way to its source. A sharp pain exploded in his head, splitting his tiny skull like a bolt of lightning, But he hung on to his goal. Through the searing pain, he continued to look deeper. He would not stop.

  All at once, the vibrations ceased. His vision snapped into clarity. And he could see, buried in the fur at the base of the antler, a small but repulsive beast.

  "A leech!" he exclaimed. "An ugly, bloodsucking leech."

  The instant he said those words, three things happened at once. The leech—a black worm with twisted folds of skin, a circular mouth, and a single bloodshot eye—suddenly straightened. Dagda bellowed in rage, pounding his hooves on the rocks. And, as the leech's eye fixed on Basil and flashed like a ruby, the lizard felt a powerful wave of malevolence.

  Basil shuddered, fighting off the urge to retch as his stomach twisted with nausea. Knifepoints jabbed at his scales, his wings, his rounded ears. His head buzzed; his eyes throbbed, swelling inside his head. The pain return
ed to his skull, making him want to shriek.

  Yet throughout all this, he continued to glare at the leech, "How dare you?" he groaned, refusing to turn away. "How dare you . . . attack Dagda?"

  "I see you now," boomed the stag, "beneath your wretched disguise! You will regret this treachery, I promise."

  Without warning, the leech released his hold with a shrill cry of rage, then sprang into the air. Tumbling on the breeze like a broken twig, the assailant fell behind a jumble of boulders. Almost as quickly, Dagda bounded over to the spot—but by then the leech had completely disappeared.

  Basil, whose nausea and pain had ceased instantly when the bloodshot eye looked elsewhere, still felt dizzy and drained. Yet despite his shakiness, he opened his wings and flew over. Landing atop the largest of the boulders, a chunk of gray rock dotted with white quartz crystals, he surveyed the area. No sign of the leech! Watching the stag kick over rocks with his hooves, searching tor the attacker, he asked dismally, "Gone?"

  "Alas, yes." From the base of the stag's antler, a thin stream of blood trickled. But he seemed otherwise unharmed. His sturdy leg muscles flexed, as if he wanted to race after his enemy and run him into the ground. "At least, thanks to you, I am rid of him."

  Discouraged, Basil shook his small head. "I have failed you. What good did all that accomplish if he escaped?"

  "A great deal of good," replied the stag. His eyes darkened, like the sky before a storm. "For now I know his name."

  18: MAGICAL SIGHT

  If you've lived as long as I have, you realize that it's wise never—absolutely never—to answer a tricky question or accept a surprise gift. Unless, of course, you simply can't resist.

  Who is it?" demanded Basil.

  With a flap of his batlike wings, he moved across the boulder to be closer to the great stag. As a fresh gust of wind raced across the cliff, whistling ghostly notes, he stretched his face toward Dagda and said: "Tell me."

  "That I will," the stag declared with a bob of his antlered head. "First, though, I must tell you something else. Something very important."

  Basil blinked his eyes, feeling a strange mixture of uncertainty and amazement. How could it be that this powerful creature, the mortal form of the god of wisdom, was speaking to him—and speaking about matters of importance? Surely there were plenty of wiser, stronger creatures in Avalon who better deserved to occupy Dagda's time.

  Yet the great spirit didn't seem to harbor any such doubts. Gracefully, he bent his muscular neck, lowering his rack, until the tip of his nose was almost touching Basil's. Solemnly, he said, "You, my son, have the Sight."

  Basil blinked again. "The what?"

  "The Sight. That rare ability to sense magic—even when it is cloaked by spells—that wizards call the Sight." The stag's warm breath poured over Basil's small, scaly body, wrapping him like a protective blanket. "But it is more than a way of seeing. Truly, my little friend, it is a way of living."

  Still uncertain, Basil cocked his cupped ears forward. "And I have it?"

  "You do, indeed. I can see that this is surprising news for you. And even more surprising, I suspect, is the fact that the Sight is found only in Avalon's most powerful creatures. Wizards have it. Unicorns have it. Some, though not all, dragons have it. But no others—until now."

  Nervously, Basil shifted his weight on the boulder. He tapped the tiny knot at the end of his tail against the rock, sending up a thin trail of dust. "You must be mistaken."

  Dagda's deep brown eyes observed him. "No, I am not. Just as I am not mistaken about the true identity of that wretched leech."

  Reminded of the ugly, bloodsucking beast whose ruby red eye had burned with such vengeance, Basil scowled. "Who?"

  "Someone who rode very far upon me, hoping to elude my notice. Someone whose overwhelming desire is to conquer and control. Someone who knows how much I despise his ultimate goals: to invade Avalon, make it his own, and use it as a stepping-stone to conquer mortal Earth."

  Basil's throat released a spluttering hiss—his version of a growl. "So that leech is really—"

  "Rhita Gawr! Not the warrior god himself, of course, who is even now raising an army against me and Lorilanda in the Otherworld. No, this is merely his latest mortal incarnation. And much like the god, who so enjoys the taste of blood . . . he chose the form of a bloodsucking leech."

  Shaking his snout in disbelief, Basil asked, "Rhita Gawr? Here in Avalon?"

  The stag snorted with disdain. "No one else would have acted so wickedly. First he tried to hide from you. Then to strangle you. And when at last you shattered his cloaking spell, to harm you."

  Basil cringed, remembering the waves of nausea that had surged through him. The agonizing blast of pain that seared his skull. The sheer malevolence that came from the bloodshot eye.

  "I am afraid," Dagda observed, "that you have now made a lasting enemy of Rhita Gawr."

  Shaking off the nauseous memory, Basil lifted his small head and said resolutely, "There is no one whose enemy I would rather be."

  Though it might have seemed comical, to some, to hear a puny creature with crumpled wings declare himself the foe of an immortal warlord, Dagda didn't laugh. Instead, he declared, "Avalon is fortunate to have your brave heart."

  The stag kicked over several more rocks, as if he still hoped to catch a glimpse of the leech. Seeing nothing but lichen-spotted stones, he turned back to Basil. With a sigh, he added, "All too soon, I predict, your brave heart will be needed. And the brave hearts of others, as well. For Rhita Gawr brings only evil to this land."

  "I still can't believe he's here in Avalon! Remember what you said at Merlin's wedding? That Avalon was one place that Rhita Gawr had never touched."

  The stag shook his head, making his antlers swish through the air. "No more. He is here—and for only one purpose. To conquer this world."

  "Can't you stay here? Help us defeat him?"

  Somberly, the stag shook his head. "No, my son. That is not my way. Unlike our enemy, I have promised never to break the law of free will—to interfere in the choices made by mortal beings, choices that shape their world."

  "But . . ." protested Basil. "Rhita Gawr—"

  "Has now been discovered. Your world has been warned.''' Seeing the doubt written on Basil's face, Dagda went on: "If Avalon is to be saved, if it is to become all it could become—that will require free will. If peace is to prevail over war, if arrogance and greed are to end—that, too, will require free will. For all those worthy goals are built on choices, important choices, that can be made only by mortals such as you."

  "Me?" asked the lizard despondently. "What do my choices matter? I'm just a little beast, smaller than a spruce cone, who doesn't even know what he really is."

  Dagda watched him for a moment, thinking. Then he said, in a gentle voice, "Your weight may be very small, my friend—but it is yours to use. And even a small weight could be enough to tip the balance of destiny."

  Basil looked up at the stag, unsure whether he could really believe such an outlandish idea. Then, as if hearing a dim echo, he remembered what Dagda had said at Merlin's wedding: Just as the smallest grain of sand can tilt a scale, the weight of one person's will can lift an entire world.

  All at once, Basil's thoughts turned to a different question. Cautiously, he asked, "When you said dragons sometimes have the Sight . . . did you, er—was that a way of saying, ummm . . . that I, crazy as it sounds, am really some sort of—"

  "Dragon?" The stag shook his massive rack from side to side and answered decisively. "No. Definitely not."

  Though he wasn't at all surprised, Basil couldn't help but feel a slight pang of disappointment. Any answer to the question of what he really was, no matter how far-fetched, would have been welcome. And for just an instant, despite everything he knew, he'd almost allowed himself to hope that he might one day be something as big and powerful as a dragon.

  "What then," he asked plaintively, "am I? Can you tell me that?"

  Dagda studied hi
m with eyes unfathomably deep. "I really cannot say what you really are, or what you might become." His bass voice reverberating on the rocks, he added, "But I am sure of this much: Whatever you may be, you are not a mere dragon."

  Basil coughed in surprise. "A mere dragon? They're the most powerful creatures alive! They can—"

  "Nevertheless," interrupted Dagda, "you are something else."

  Rustling his scrawny wings, Basil demanded, "What?"

  Instead of replying, the stag turned and started to trot slowly around the boulder where Basil sat. As he circled, his hooves clacked on the rocks, sending a few of them skittering down the cliff. He seemed to be sizing up the lizard, measuring him in some way that had nothing whatsoever to do with body length. When, at last, he stopped and spoke again, he asked a question—the last question Basil expected.

  "What are your dreams, my son?"

  Basil started. Surely Dagda didn't want to know about that terrible dream from long ago! Furrowing his snout, he replied, "You mean my wishes? My longings? I want to know what I am—not just what kind of creature, but what makes me . . . me. What makes me, well . . . special."

  The stag nodded. "That much I already guessed. No, I meant your dreams that come at night, in your unguarded moments. Call them visions—whether they are beautiful or disturbing." He peered at Basil. "Do you have any dreams of that kind?"

  The lizard swallowed. Should he tell? Dagda might be shocked, might lose whatever goodwill he had toward Basil. Too great a risk! Clearing his throat, he answered firmly: "No."

  Dagda merely watched him, waiting.

  Anxiously, Basil drummed his tail. Though he wasn't sure why, he felt an urge to confide, to trust, in this wise being. "Well . . . yes," he confessed. "I did have one—a truly dreadful one. And it's come back many times over the years."

  Dagda continued to wait in silence.

  "Merlin was there with me. And—something horrible. A creature with wings. Jagged, bony wings. Like mine, only bigger, darker. It attacked him! It tried to—to . . ." He paused, gathering himself, but when he spoke again his voice was barely a whisper. "To kill him."