The Dragon of Avalon

  Basil blinked in astonishment. For he now recognized this giant, who was even bigger in reputation than in size. Basil had heard about him over the past two years, and not just from a yammering flock of crows. He'd also heard stories from a pair of far-flying owls, with the mist of Fincayra still fresh on their wings. From a bedraggled faery, blown all the way from Waterroot in a gale. And, most recently, from a wandering bard, who had been bursting with songs and stories about the wizard Merlin and his friends.

  This was Shim! Of all the giants who had lived in Lost Fincayra, he was by far the most celebrated—a close friend of Merlin the wizard. Though once very small, Shim had grown truly enormous, and had played a crucial part in the famous Dance of the Giants, the decisive battle that banished—for the time being, at least—the evil spirit warlord Rhita Gawr.

  Descending, Basil alighted on the topmost spire of the dead tree. From this perch, he watched the giant lumber through the distant hills of the forest. The huge stone pillar on Shim's shoulders reminded him of something the bard had said: Merlin's mother, Elen of the Sapphire Eyes, had just founded a new order to spread harmony among all the creatures of Avalon. Even now, her followers were building a great compound in Stoneroot, using a sacred circle of stones from Lost Fincayra. Could that pillar be one of those stones? Had Shim actually carried it all the way through the mists into Avalon?

  Sitting atop the dead tree, which creaked and groaned every time one of Shim's bare feet slammed down, Basil's batlike face crinkled in a grin. Imagine being large enough to carry a stone pillar! To shake the ground with every step. To fear nothing, short of a wrathful dragon, ever again.

  Clinging to the barkless tree, Basil sighed wistfully. Size didn't mean everything, of course. But it certainly had its advantages! Why, even a fire-breathing dragon had recently done Shim's bidding, according to the bard. When Shim had donated his own belt buckle to make a great bell for Elen's compound, there was a problem: No fire was hot enough to melt down something so big. So Shim, to Elen's amazement, asked a dragon to blast it with flames. The dragon obliged—and then, to everyone's relief, departed.

  Basil shuddered at the thought. A giant was one thing—huge in size, but normally peaceful. A dragon, though, was quite another. They were rarely peaceful, and then never for long. Compared to them, dactylbirds seemed utterly tame. Dragons savored every chance they could find to destroy lands and devour creatures. Especially little creatures.

  Stay away from dragons, thought Basil. Another useful rule for life.

  Just then he heard another verse of Shim's rumbling song:

  So who am I? A proudly sigh,

  And I'll say who I be.

  Just strips me nude, and you'll conclude

  There be no mystery:

  Bigly now I be! My size is truly me.

  9: GREEN FIRE

  Change. What a paradox! The more you do it, the more you don't. The farther you seek it, the nearer you find it. The less it's in your world, the more it's in you.

  YEAR OF AVALON 27

  Time for a rest," sighed Basil. Wearily, he climbed onto an oak branch and nestled into the hollow of one of its leaves. His tiny body—from his batlike nose to the tip of his lizard's tail, from the edge of one little wing to the other—fit snugly on the oak leaf.

  "What a day," he muttered, yawning. "Chasing those rascally insects over eighty leagues, through marshes, lakes, rivers, mountains . . . changing speed and direction constantly. Changing tactics, too, as well as my smells. Guess that's one thing I'm good at—how to change."

  Noticing a slender cocoon suspended from the leaf beside him, his words seemed to wither, like a pond lily in the heat. He peered at the cocoon—in which a plodding little caterpillar was now growing wings—and shook his head. How to change? Compared to that caterpillar, he knew almost nothing.

  Glancing at his small, scaly torso, he scowled. Though now more than twenty years old, he wasn't even a hairsbreadth longer than he'd been on that day he first crawled out of his shell and heard the whispering voice of Aylah, the wind sister.

  As if in answer, a subtle breeze blew through the oak branches, rustling them gently. But, of course, it carried no scent of cinnamon. It never did anymore.

  Studying the cocoon, he could see the traces of thousands of threads, woven together with considerable skill. Maybe that little fellow in there wasn't so plodding after all. Maybe he was more than he appeared?

  What about me? he wondered. Am I any more than I appear?

  He rolled over on the cradling leaf, suddenly restless. Did change always mean a new shape? Growing wings or getting bigger? The most important changes in his life hadn't been visible to anyone except himself.

  Not that those changes amounted to much. Here he was, still living a staid, predictable life, catching insects in one part of Woodroot. He'd never traveled anywhere else! The only journeys he'd ever taken were through the stories told by others. The only lasting friends he'd ever made were—well, himself. And the only real adventure he'd ever had, the only experience that was special somehow, was an intensely vivid dream that he couldn't forget.

  Hearing the faint buzz of an approaching locust, he decided, halfheartedly, to have another bite to eat. Not that he felt hungry. Just bored—and tired of thinking. Besides, as small as he was, the locust was even smaller. So why not eat it? He'd always enjoyed the satisfying crunch of a locust in his jaws, even if it tasted like charcoal.

  Without stirring from his niche, where his own green color matched perfectly the color of the leaf, he cast a small but potent smelt into the air just above his face. Instantly, the fragrance of yellow meadowsweet flowers—irresistible to any locust—wafted from the spot.

  As expected, the insect flew heedlessly toward him. Basil watched out of a half-closed eye as the insect flew closer and closer.

  Chomp. He snapped his jaws—on air.

  How could I miss? he chided himself, as the locust whirred away, heading deeper into the forest. Too much thinking, not enough doing. Pull yourself together, my friend, or you'll soon be someone else's meal! He frowned, then added, Even if it's a very small meal.

  His eyes narrowed in annoyance as he watched the locust disappear into a grove of hemlocks, elms, and lavender-hued birches. "Think you got the better of me, do you?"

  He leaped off the oak tree and into the air. Flapping his leathery wings, he zipped after the insect—eager to regain his food, as well as his pride. Through the leafy boughs he raced, searching every hiding place he could see.

  There! He spied the locust, diving into a thick bush of thornberries. Ha! thought Basil. As if a few little thorns could stop me. He swerved in midair and dropped down at the other side of the bush, just as the insect emerged.

  Before Basil could pounce, though, the locust veered sharply and flew out of reach. Wings abuzz, the tiny beast escaped into a thick stand of tall, rust-colored grasses whose stalks resembled fountains spewing sprays of grain.

  Basil, in hot pursuit, flew toward the grasses. Right before plunging in, however, he halted. Hovering just in front of the stalks, he watched the insect depart . . . and didn't follow it. All the while, his cup-shaped ears quivered, for a new thought had filled his mind.

  I'm chasing him not because I'm hungry, but just because I'm bigger. Wincing, he realized that he was acting no differently than so many of the mean-spirited brutes who had pursued him over the years. Didn't dactylbirds act just the same way?

  He flapped harder, lifting himself over the grasses. Green eyes aglow, he vowed, "No more of that for me! I'll fight when necessary, and eat when hungry. But I won't chase someone just for the fun of it. Not even a bothersome little locust."

  With that, he nodded his head at the rusty grasses and flew off. Weaving between the birches and elms, he spotted a pair of large, oblong boulders that he'd never noticed before. He flew closer, curious about the strange crackling sound that seemed to come from the stones themselves. As he approached, he saw flickers of eerie green light shimmer
ing along the sides of the boulders.

  Flames! Between the stones, a circle of green flames danced enticingly. As Basil studied the strange green fire, its light reflected in his eyes, merging with the remarkably similar light that already glowed there.

  Unsure why, he felt drawn to this green fire that crackled so vigorously. Although he couldn't see any fuel burning or smell any smoke at all, he felt no fear. Instead, he felt a strange kind of kinship to those flames. And a comforting warmth that penetrated deeper than the heat of a normal fire. Slowly, he flew nearer, entranced by this amazing discovery.

  "Hold it, greenie."

  Basil stopped in midair, and turned toward the gruff, baritone voice. It had come from somewhere on the ground in front of the flames. But nobody was there, not even a caterpillar: just a scattering of golden grass, a moldberry shrub (whose fruit, he'd learned, was not the best eating), and a slim, yellow-petaled flower. Turning back to the alluring flames, he continued to fly closer—when the voice spoke again.

  "I said hold it, if you'd like to live another day."

  The yellow flower! Its face had turned toward him, following his flight. Swooping down, Basil peered at it. What he saw made him curl his tail in amazement. In the midst of the petals sat a round amber eye!

  The eye blinked. "What are you staring at, greenie? Never seen a flower before?"

  "Not, um . . . like you." Cautiously, he flew a bit closer. "And until now, I'd never heard one, either."

  "Honestly?" The flower shook its head, making the slender leaves on its stem tremble in unison. "You must live a sheltered life."

  Basil didn't respond.

  "So then, greenie, are you thinking of flying into that?" The flower bent toward the fire, then snapped back upright. "If so, better think again."

  "Why?"

  The flower's eye widened until it reached the encircling petals. "You really don't know?" Shaking its stem and leaves in dismay, it declared, "Lucky for you, then, I planted myself here last spring."

  "Why?" he repeated, hovering directly above the amber eye. "What's so wrong with those flames?"

  "Nothing at all," drawled the flower. "Unless you get too close." Gazing straight into Basil's skeptical face, it blurted, "That's a portal, greenie! A pathway to other places—the seven root-realms, the hidden lands inside the trunk, maybe even the starward realms."

  Crinkling his long nose in disbelief, Basil glanced at the flames. As he watched them crackle so invitingly, his skepticism began to soften. Travel, he thought. To other realms! This could be my chance.

  Still not sure whether to believe any of this, he said, "That doesn't sound so bad. Why did you say I wouldn't live another day?"

  The flower's ring of petals drooped. "For somebody so small, you can be a huge idiot! That fire is élano, the very essence of the Great Tree—and the strongest magic in all of Avalon."

  Cocking his head toward the flames, Basil asked, "So? What's that got to do with living or dying?"

  Quaking as if caught in a sudden storm, the flower replied, "Because those flames transport you by magically dissembling you—pulling you completely apart—and then reassembling you when you arrive." Its gruff voice lowered. “If you arrive."

  "What do you mean, if?"

  "Put it this way, greenie. Unless you concentrate clearly on exactly where you want to go, your pieces go wherever the portal decides! I saw one lucky traveler, a goblin, come out of this portal just last week. He looked a bit confused . . . especially when he realized his legs had gone to Fireroot. And right after I came here, a pile of orange scales came through—but without the snake they used to cover."

  Basil groaned, missing a whole wingbeat, at such a gruesome thought. But he glanced again at the fire, rising so mysteriously between the stones, and the temptation returned. Just a closer look, he promised himself. No harm in that.

  Without even willing himself to do it, he started drifting closer. The flames seemed to tug on him, pulling him nearer, as a fire swallows a hapless moth. The green light burned in his eyes, glowing deeper than any reflection.

  "Wait, greenie!" called the flower behind him. "Didn't you hear what I said? Or is your head made of solid stone?"

  Basil only half heard, so captivated was he by the enticing flames. The words solid stone echoed inside his mind. Stone . . . solid stone . . .

  At that instant an arc of green flames leaped out and grabbed hold of him—snout, tail, wings, everything. Frantically, he beat his wings, suddenly aware of his peril. The flames' enchantment vanished, leaving him only with terror—and the dim echo of the flower's voice.

  How could he know that the voice, and the image it gave him in those final seconds, would save his life? He couldn't. Just as he couldn't guess, as the flames gathered more densely around him, drawing him into the portal, that he would soon be sent—body, mind, and spirit—to the distant realm of Stoneroot.

  Despite his fear, Basil suddenly realized that the flames surrounding him made him feel warm, but not burned. Swallowed, but not destroyed. He felt strangely lighter, as if he were disintegrating, floating away from himself.

  In that moment, he plunged into the veins of the living Tree of Avalon. He merged with its brightest fires; he rode on its purest rivers. Deeper into the Tree he traveled, and still deeper, through realms without names, regions beyond count.

  He wasn't merely borne by the fire of élano. He was that fire. He had become a spark of light, surrounded by millions more sparks of light, distinct from each of them yet connected to all of them. A rich, resinous smell overwhelmed him—the smell of a thriving woodland, a sprouting seed, a rippling stream: the smell of life, with all its magic and mystery. He felt at peace, at home, as never before! Infinitely small, yet infinitely large.

  He tumbled out of another portal, landing on a flat, lichen-covered rock. The impact caused the rock, precariously balanced on a mountainside of jumbled boulders, to teeter. Dazed, Basil rolled weakly to one side. With a grinding crunch, the rock slid off its perch, taking its passenger.

  That rock hit other rocks, jarring them loose. Those rocks smashed into others. In seconds, the entire slope roared with cascading boulders. A violent landslide had begun—with Basil in the middle of it.

  10: RUDE AND SASSY

  Wisdom, like those who possess it, comes in all shapes and sizes. That much I've learned, often the hard way. Yet despite all their differences, truly wise people share this same understanding:

  No matter how much you know, you still have a lot to learn.

  Falling!

  Basil tumbled down the mountain slope, rolling and twirling so fast he felt dizzy and nauseous, unable to make himself think, let alone fly. All around him, rocks slid loose and boulders bounced, crashing into each other with explosive impact, sending up sprays of smashed rocks, shredded lichen, and pulverized stone. The entire mountain roared with the landslide.

  One flying rock grazed his side, scraping against his scales. Then another rock, the size of a sparrow, struck him hard under the jaw and sent him reeling backward. Hopelessly out of control, he spun wildly, bouncing down the mountain as if he were just another pebble in this cascade of stones.

  Splat. He landed on a broad, flat ledge. Head spinning, he weakly focused his eyes and gazed around. Suddenly he realized that something had drastically changed. He wasn't moving anymore! This ledge, protruding upward from the slope, reached above the chaos of shifting rocks. It was, in fact, a rare island of stability in this stormy sea. Could it be that his luck had finally turned?

  That was when he noticed the moving shadow. It darkened the ledge, covering him swiftly. Basil looked up—and saw an enormous, jagged-edged boulder falling straight at him. Frozen with fear, he watched the boulder drop closer, closer. In another heartbeat he would be completely crushed.

  A swooshing sound—and something grabbed Basil by the tail, plucking him off the ledge. An instant later, the boulder smashed down. Fragments of rock exploded, bursting from the spot where he'd just been
, filling the air with dust.

  Basil, now gliding above the mountainside, knew he'd been saved. By what? Another hungry predator who didn't want a tasty little meal to go to waste? Expecting to find a fierce dactylbird, or a vulture perhaps, he bent his body to see what held him by the tail.

  A hand! The small but sturdy hand of a round-bodied sprite grasped Basil firmly. Seeing the mass of silver threads that billowed above them, forming a parachute, he remembered hearing crows chatter about pinnacle sprites, solitary little people who lived in the highest peaks of Stoneroot, floating casually from ridge to ridge on parachutes they could produce from their backs at will. Looking into the smooth, beardless face of this particular sprite—which, like the rest of his body, was an angry shade of purple—Basil surmised that he was very young. And very grumpy.

  "Hmmmpff," grumbled the sprite as he glanced down at his catch. "I save your life and all you can do is stare? Rude little beast! Didn't they ever teach you any manners in lizard school?"

  "I'm not a lizard," answered Basil, feeling a bit grumpy himself.

  "Well then, bat school."

  "I'm not a bat."

  The sprite, whose long hair fluttered as they sailed above the boulders, peered closely at Basil. "Hmmmpff, what in Dagda's name are you, then?"

  Seconds passed, while an updraft filled the parachute, carrying them higher. At last, Basil shook his head and said, "I'm—I—I'm . . ."

  "A stutterer, I see," growled the sprite. Although his voice sounded as gruff as ever, his skin color changed a little, softening to lavender with a few swirls of gray.

  Finally, Basil completed his sentence, whispering just loud enough to be heard above the wind that ruffled the parachute: "I really don't know what I am."

  "Hmmmpff. Maybe you're telling the truth, maybe not. Or maybe you're just plain stupid as well as rude."

  Even though he was dangling by his tail, Basil arched his body so that his face drew near to the sprite's. Glowering, he said, "Rude, maybe. But stupid? No, that word belongs to somebody who's easily fooled."