“And that land,” continued Dagda, “no longer cursed or forgotten, shall at last have a name of its own.” He paused, savoring the word before he uttered it. “Avalon. Its name shall be Avalon. And it shall have a destiny no less wonderful than the seed that gave it new life.”
Trouble lifted his talons and paced a little, finding a spot closer to my head. Feeling his soft feathers brush against my cheek, I recalled the wind on my face during our first moments of flight together. And I felt again the freedom, the sheer thrill of it all.
The wise spirit looked directly at me again. “Now, my son, tell me what else you saw.”
I worked my tongue, which felt suddenly dry. “I saw another land, one that calls to me.” Swinging my face toward Hallia, I drank from the depths of her liquid brown eyes. “But I cannot go there without you.”
For what seemed an endless moment, she studied me. At last, her voice cracking, she replied. “And I cannot go there with you, young hawk. My life, my people, are here. All our stories, past and future, are here.”
“Come with me,” I pleaded.
“Stay with me,” she replied.
Several seconds passed. Neither of us spoke, or said a word.
Dagda took a step closer. “The choice is yours, Merlin. You are not required to go. Since Fincayra no longer exists as a world unto itself, the ancient prohibition against a son or daughter of Earth remaining here no longer applies.”
I swallowed. “What then are my choices?”
He spoke slowly, as if each syllable carried the weight of an entire world. “You, like Rhia and Hallia, have three choices. Hallia has already made hers clear: to stay here in the Otherworld, a world that includes more, much more, than can ever be described.”
The hawk perched on me whistled enthusiastically, strutting across my shoulder.
“Or you may go to the new world of Avalon.” With a glance toward Rhia, he added, “I should tell you that your mother, with whom I spoke just before you returned, has decided to go there. As has your friend Lleu, the young girl Cuwenna, and several other children.”
“That’s my choice, too,” announced Rhia. Curled around her neck, Scullyrumpus nodded vigorously, slapping his long ears. Then Rhia stiffened. “That is,” she added, “if . . .”
“Yes,” Dagda agreed, laughing. “You may keep your wings.” His gaze swung back to me. “Your wings are yours in either of the first two choices. But not the third. For that is to return to mortal Earth, to the land called Britannia.”
I looked at Hallia, who would remain here, and then at Rhia, who would go with my mother to start a new society among the groves of Avalon. My hand wandered to the hilt of my sword, and the magical blade started ringing softly in its scabbard.
My heart pounded. How could I possibly make such a choice? If I chose my destiny, my calling, I would lose the people closest to me—as well as my wings.
“Be careful,” Dagda advised, using his finger to draw the outline of a misty wing in the air. “Whatever choice you make will be forever.”
My gaze moved around the sacred ring, whose pillars glowed with luminous vapors. There sat the eagles, fluttering their wings on the highest stones; there stood my mother, with Lleu by her side; and there, propped against one of the stones, lay Dinatius. Thin trails of mist wrapped around his bladed arms, softening them. He looked far more forlorn and embittered than dangerous.
All the while, I listened. To the breathing of those I loved. To my own beating heart. To the ringing, so quiet and yet so clear, of my magical sword. And perhaps, though I couldn’t be sure, to what Aylah once called my innermost wind.
Slowly, I turned to Dagda. “I know now what I must do.”
“And what is that?”
Trembling, I drew a deep breath. “I must follow my destiny.”
I faced Hallia, whose round eyes held a mist of their own. “It’s what I know is right, my love. But even so . . . I don’t really know if I can do it.”
With difficulty, she swallowed. “You must, young hawk. You must.”
I stroked the back of her hand. “The better part of me will always stay here, with you.”
She nodded, brushing her eyes. “We’ll still be together.”
“Yes,” I said. “Like honey on a leaf.”
She shook her auburn hair, pulling some strands away from her wing. Then she reached for the hilt of my sword, drew the blade partly out of its scabbard, and cut off a single lock. She pressed it, moistened by her tears, into my hand.
“Take that with you,” she said softly, “to the next world.”
“I will,” was all I could manage to say. Somberly, I tucked the lock of hair into my satchel, next to Trouble’s feather.
Turning back to Dagda, I ruffled my radiant wings. “I’d like to ask, if I could, a boon.”
His silver eyebrows lifted. “And what might that be?”
“It’s about, well, my wings. Since I’ll be losing them . . .”
“Yes, my son?”
My hand lifted, pointing at the dejected figure of Dinatius. “I’d like you to give my wings to him.”
Hallia and Rhia both sucked in their breath. On my shoulder, Trouble released a dissatisfied squawk and pinched me with his talons.
Dagda’s eyes narrowed. “You would have me give your wings to one who served Rhita Gawr?”
“He bears as many wounds as he has inflicted. And one of those wounds, a grave one, he received from me. So you see, by healing him, I’m also healing myself.”
The elder’s face softened. “You are truly a wizard, my son.” He paused, scrutinizing me. “But I shall not grant your request.”
“You won’t?” I protested.
“No. To have wings, he must earn them. That will take time, in his case much time, if it ever is to happen.” His voice lowered. “I will, however, honor your request by doing something else.”
Bending low, he swept his hand through the carpet of mist. He seemed to search for just the right thread of vapor before catching a spiraling one in his palm. Slowly, he stepped toward Dinatius, who took no notice of him. With a twist of his hand, Dagda dropped the shred of mist over the young man’s head. It floated down, seeping into his body.
“This,” pronounced the spirit, “is a gift from Merlin.”
All at once, mist gathered thickly around Dinatius, covering all but his head. Then a sudden expression of disbelief came over him. Shaking himself, he looked down at his body, swathed in vapors. With dawning amazement, he worked himself higher against the pillar, until part of his chest rose above the mist. His chains, newly severed, fell to the ground. And below his shoulders, instead of deadly blades, hung two arms. His own arms, made of his own flesh.
Awestruck, he moved them, flexing his restored muscles. He lifted his arms into the air, bent them, and touched his cheeks with his hands. He stared first at Dagda, then at me, unable to speak. But his eyes, wide with wonder, said enough.
With a luminous smile, Dagda strode back through the mist. Gently, he touched my shoulder. “Come walk with me, young wizard.”
Quickly retrieving my staff, I started walking alongside him. Across the circle we strode, leaving vaporous footprints on the whitened ground. This time, none of the creatures within the ring followed Dagda, so we were alone—except, of course, for the silver-toned hawk on my shoulder. The elder spirit led me all the way to the westernmost edge of the ring, where two upright pillars rose skyward, separated by a shaft of golden afternoon light. There we stopped, our backs warmed by the sun’s rays.
Dagda studied me with affection. “When I came to you in a vision, so many nights ago, I warned you that you would have to confront your greatest foe.”
I nodded. “And now I know you didn’t mean Rhita Gawr. You meant my harshest rage, my deepest fears, whether they involved my father, my old enemy . . . or my future.”
“You have leaped in more ways than one, my son.” Pensively, he stroked his lame arm. “And so you shall know, at last, your true na
me—a name that you have earned, and that will empower you always, though it will never be known by more than a trusted few. For to most people, you shall forever be Merlin.”
He inhaled deeply, drawing shreds of mist up his chest and arms. “I give you now your true name: Olo Eopia. In the language of the spirit lords, it means man of many worlds, many times. And it is a name that may be borne only by one such as you—a man who is complete, as the cosmos is complete.”
My eyes brimming, I stood rigid, holding my staff. Olo Eopia. Many worlds, many times.
With a profound mixture of love and sorrow, I scanned the faces surrounding me. Dagda, whose gaze warmed me as much as the afternoon sun. Rhia, who was talking with a hemlock at the edge of the circle, spreading and contracting her wings as she spoke. Hallia . . . watching me longingly. Trouble, whose bright eyes never left me, not for an instant. My mother, standing beside Lleu, who nestled in the folds of her robe much as I’d often done as a child. And the tip of Shim’s gargantuan nose, all that could be seen of him as he snored contentedly at the base of the hill.
“No matter how long I live,” I said to the spirit beside me, “I’ll never know another time as wondrous as these years on Fincayra.” I sighed heavily. “How can I even start to describe them? Impossible. They’re far too dear for words. And so I won’t speak of them—at all. No, forever more, I’ll think of them as my lost years.”
Dagda cocked his head slightly. “So it shall be, then. But the day may come when you change your mind.”
Resolutely, I shook my head.
He spoke quietly, his face aglow in the golden light. “You have done much in these years, to be sure. Why, you have learned to see without your eyes, taken the spirit of your sister into yourself, run with the grace of a deer—and now, with your own wings, you have flown.”
My shadow, hazy on the misty ground, drew itself up with pride.
“And,” continued Dagda, “you have almost learned to tame your shadow. Almost, but not quite.”
The hazy form quivered, then shrank down to its normal size.
Turning, the wise spirit waved his arm westward, into the light. He stood very still, peering at something beyond the towering pillars, beyond the distant hills, beyond even the lowering sun. And then he spoke to me, with words I have never forgotten:
“For all the wonders of your time in Fincayra, the wonders ahead shall be greater still. You will soar to heights even higher than wings would allow. You will create more marvels than your magical seed.” With a subtle smile, he added, “And yes, you will grow that great, flowing beard you have long dreamed of wearing.”
Instinctively, I touched my chin.
“For this I can say with certainty, my son. You yourself are the rarest of seeds, bound at last for your own true home.”
He smiled. “And that is why it is right you should have this.”
He extended his hand, and there was a sudden flash of glowing green. The Galator! The legendary pendant lay on his palm, its jeweled center gleaming with the radiance of a star.
“B-but,” I stammered, “it was lost under a mountain of lava.”
“Just where I found it,” Dagda replied matter-of-factly. “Here now, put it on.” He placed the leather cord around my neck, as Trouble looked on, whistling in approval. Then he tucked the pendant under my tunic, so that it lay directly on my chest, just above my heart.
I patted the green jewel through the cloth. “Tell me, please. What is its true power?”
“To see those you love, Merlin, no matter if they are worlds away. So even after you leave here, you can visit your dearest friends again in that crystal.”
Coughing, I cleared my throat. “Do you think . . . somehow, I could ever really come back to this world myself?”
The elder made no answer, though I did detect a curious glimmer in his eyes. Then he nodded in the direction of my companions. “Come now.”
Together, we walked back to them. Shreds of mist curled about my boots, as if trying to hold me back. My pace slowed; I wasn’t ready for farewells.
Hallia opened her arms to me. We embraced, rocking slowly from side to side. In time, our bodies trembling, we separated.
Gently, I touched the charred bracelet that I’d given her when our days held so few cares. And I spoke the words of the old riddle we’d often shared: “So where, indeed, does the source of music lie?”
In a raspy whisper, she replied, “Is it in the strings themselves? Or in the hands that . . . oh, young hawk, I can’t.”
I gave her a tender kiss. “I am with you, even after I’ve gone.”
“I know, my love.” She swallowed. “May green meadows find you.”
A shadow suddenly fell over me. I looked up to find myself staring at a huge, bulbous nose.
“You is leavings?” asked Shim, the force of his breath scattering the mist under our feet. “For goodly?”
I gave a somber nod.
“Certainly, definitely, absolutely?”
“Yes, old friend.”
“I says no!” he thundered, causing hundreds of birds perched on the pillars to take flight. Then, his voice quieter, he said earnestly, “I wants to comes with you.”
I chewed my lip. “You can’t, I’m afraid.”
The giant lifted a tree-sized eyebrow. “Who will watchly out for you, when you is full of madness?”
I reached up and placed my hand flat against his nose. “You will, Shim. I’ll still consult with you, in your dreams.”
“Really? You can do such wizardly things?”
“If not, I’ll learn,” I promised. “And when I come to you, I’ll bring a big tub of honey with me.”
Shim’s enormous mouth curled upward. “I’ll still miss you muchly, Merlin. You is my firstly friend! But . . . so you can visits more easily, I’ll tries to takes lots of naps.”
I started to smile, when I felt someone’s finger twirling the hair on the back of my head. I spun around to face Rhia. Placing my hand on her leafy shoulder—and being careful not to disturb the furry creature wrapped around her neck—I drank in the sight of her.
Finally, I said, “I’m going to miss flying with you, my sister.”
Her blue-gray eyes sparkled. “And I’m going to miss landing on you, my brother.”
We hugged each other. As my hand brushed the edge of her wing, I observed, “No more contraptions made from leaves and sticks for you.”
“No,” she replied with a bell-like laugh. She pulled back, studying my face. “Come to Avalon someday, will you?” With a mischievous grin, she added, “Plenty of vines there for swinging.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “No, no. Not that, please.”
Her gaze grew intense. “Come, Merlin. I’ll miss you.”
With effort, I swallowed. “I’ll try. Hard as I can.”
Someone tugged on my tunic. I knew, before turning, it was Lleu. Beside him stood my mother. She looked careworn, much older than I remembered.
The boy peered up at me. “Don’t go, master Merlin.”
“I must, Lleu.” Touching his head, I tousled his sandy curls. “You earned those wings, my friend. Enjoy them now.”
He frowned. “It’d jest be better if ye’d stay.”
Biting my lip, I faced Elen. She said nothing, but I couldn’t miss the sorrow in her eyes. “Do you remember,” I said softly, “all those years ago, when I left you to find my way here? You said to me, when we parted, that there comes a day for every bird . . .”
“To fly.” Slowly, she nodded, making herself stand erect. “Yes, it’s true. Every bird must fly.” Though her mouth quivered, she gazed at me proudly. “And you, my good wizard, will fly in more ways than I can imagine.”
Just then, a feathered wing brushed against my ear. “Trouble,” I said, meeting the bird’s unwavering gaze. “How can I ever say good-bye to you?”
The hawk’s beak clacked sharply, and he gave me a scolding whistle. For a moment he paced back and forth on my shoulder, pinching me with
his talons. At last, he settled again. He stretched out his wing, lightly nudging the side of my neck.
I reached up and stroked the edge of his wing. Then, with a final whistle, Trouble took flight, landing on Dagda’s own shoulder.
Squarely, I faced the elder spirit. “It is time.”
“Yes, Merlin, it is time.”
Dagda raised his hand, making a small spiral in the air. Instantly, my shimmering feathers melted away. A blaze of white light seared the ring of stones. All at once, I was soaring, with invisible wings, high over the mist, the hills, and the sunlit sea.
And so I flew, in that moment, into another world—and into my heralded destiny.
EPILOGUE
There you have it, the tale I have carried within me all these years—a tale that connects my life of many worlds, many times.
Those days happened long, long ago, yet they feel to me as fresh as this morning’s call of the curlew. All their glory, all their sorrow, all their moments of longing and hope, remain as bright as my home’s crystalline walls. How I miss that land and those precious faces, even now!
A story, like a feather, should be free, allowed to float wherever the winds may blow. That, in truth, is why I have chosen to share this tale at last. May it travel far, though it is but one tiny feather on the unending winds of time.
—Olo Eopia
T.A. Barron, A Wizard's Wings
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