PRAISE FOR
the ancient one
“Morality, in all its splendor and sadness, is T. A. Barron’s subject…Interesting and august.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Readers young and old will enjoy the adventure, relish the characters, and ponder the meaning of this book.”
—Madeleine L’Engle
“T. A. Barron has applied his own unique imagination to evoking the power of Native American moods and mythologies. The result is a combination of ancient strength and modern vision; on an epic scale and on a human scale. Absorbing story, vital characters—and also a pioneering work opening paths we didn’t know were there.”
—Lloyd Alexander
“We enter a world that informs, entertains, lifts spirits, and engages the reader…There are battles between good and evil, wisdom, greed, death, magic, a walking stick of power, and, above all, love. The mythic home of the Ancient One in Lost Crater is filled with mystery, an island that moves, a circle of stones, fumaroles, falls, a secret tunnel, a swamp, a dark valley, a broken touchstone, a riddle, and a wicked beast named Gashra…When T. A. Barron dipped into that great bubbling cauldron of story ideas, he selected originality and boldness.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“High adventure—secret passageways and hidden tunnels, an ‘evil’ pond and speaking stones, the shock of time travel and the challenge of a nearly Herculean task…The Ancient One is surprisingly thoughtful for all its derring-do. T. A. Barron gracefully intertwines contemporary issues with Native American imagery and beliefs, without painting the development/environment conflict in black and white.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“A relentless tale of excitement that becomes so intense at times that the only solution is to put the book down…Barron’s novel succeeds on every level. It’s an exhilarating adventure.”
—Colorado Daily
“The strongest feature of this novel is…the colorful cast, especially the nonhumans—boulderlike Stonehags, many-eyed underwater Guardians, lizard-folk, owl-folk, and (best of all) the monstrous Gashra, a delicious combination of tyrannosaur, octopus, and two-year-old—who add a strong dash of humor as well as occasional prophecies and rescues.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“In the best tradition of science fiction and fantasy, this is a classic struggle between good and evil. Although that would be enough to keep readers turning the page, Barron’s masterful interweaving of contemporary themes—involving the conflict between loggers and environmentalists—and Native American traditions gives the book real relevance and power.”
—Parents
“All the elements of a true fantasy are here: the hero, allies and enemies, strange creatures, battles, deaths, and a struggle between good and evil. Barron’s descriptions of the Northwest wilderness are wonderful, and he conveys the spirit of Native American mythologies…Enjoy this absorbing tale.”
—The Book Report/Library Talk
“Barron has again masterfully combined fantasy with real human issues, issues that require us to go a step deeper to resolve.”
—Chinaberry Book Review
“Wonderfully lively and suggestive—full of wisdom, written with grace and subtlety…a moral fable rendered evocatively and poetically. All of us urgently need to attend to this beautifully told, thoroughly enjoyable story, and hear its urgent and convincing message.”
—Robert Coles, M.D.
“T. A. Barron is a storyteller, a modern mythmaker who allows us to see what is possible in a humane world. The Ancient One transcends genre. It is a journey of truth and compassion that shows us where we have been and where we might go if we choose to listen to the spirits of trees, owls, and all that is native…an environmental fable for our time.”
—Terry Tempest Williams
“T. A. Barron’s love and concern for the natural world shines from every page. No reader of whatever age could miss it or fail to be stirred by it.”
—Jan Slepian
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF T. A. BARRON
heartlight
“An ethereal quality pervades the entire Heartlight narrative with a glowing core of hopefulness…it flows like a strong, smooth river in continuous dreamlike motion to a satisfying yet poignant conclusion…an excellent story.”
—Brian Jacques
“Heartlight…crosses generational lines and becomes a vehicle for family discussions about love, death, independence, and integrity.”
—Rocky Mountain News
tree girl
“Barron is a wonderful storyteller, a maker of myths and fables who creates magical places where characters learn wisdom and power…rich and lyrical…an imaginative tale.”
—School Library Journal
the lost years of merlin
An ALA Best Book for Young Adults
and a Texas Lone Star Award Winner
“A novel rich with magic.”
—The New York Times Book Review
the seven songs of merlin
“A sparkling gem that shines with the multifaceted brilliance that is Barron’s.”
—Chinaberry Book Review
the fires of merlin
“Barron weaves a writer’s brand of magic that connects the past to the present, myth to humanity, and the human heart to the infinite universe.”
—Family Life
the mirror of merlin
“Inventive, intense, and riveting…sophisticated allusions to Celtic folklore and surprising touches of humor.”
—The Cincinnati Enquirer
the wings of merlin
“Wings of Merlin soars as the final volume in the series.”
—Deseret News
The Lost Years of Merlin Epic
by T. A. Barron
THE LOST YEARS OF MERLIN
THE SEVEN SONGS OF MERLIN
THE FIRES OF MERLIN
THE MIRROR OF MERLIN
THE WINGS OF MERLIN
Also by T. A. Barron
TREE GIRL
HEARTLIGHT
THE ANCIENT ONE
THE MERLIN EFFECT
VISIT T. A. BARRON’S WEBSITE:
www.tabarron.com
THE
ancient one
T. A. BARRON
ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE ANCIENT ONE
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Philomel Books,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Philomel Books hardcover edition / September 1992
Ace mass-market edition / January 2004
Copyright © 1992 by Thomas A. Barron.
Cover art by Yvonne Gilbert.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. F
or information address: The Berkley Publishing
Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-65133-9
ACE®
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my mother,
GLORIA BARRON
With special appreciation to
DENALI,
age three, for the name Kandeldandel
The Halamis, the Native American people who figure prominently in this book, are completely fictional. All aspects of their life, including their beliefs and their mysterious disappearance several centuries ago, were created exclusively for this book. For authenticity, certain aspects of their culture are drawn from the author’s research into the history of actual residents of the region, including the Tolowa, Takelma, Coos, Yurok, Wiyot, Hupa, Karok, Coquille, and Tututni peoples.
contents
PART ONE: INTO THE CRATER
1 The Brown Envelope
2 Fennel Seeds and Scottish Roots
3 Visitors
4 Lost from Time
5 The Forgotten Trail
6 The Legend of Kahona Falls
7 Deadly Water
8 The Hidden Forest
9 The Walking Stick
PART TWO: INTO THE ISLAND
10 Maidenhair
11 Ebony Eyes
12 The Time Tunnel
13 The Circle of Stones
14 Fallen Brethren
15 The Blue Lake
16 Thika the Guardian
17 The Black Island of Ho Shantero
18 The Tale of the Broken Touchstone
19 Airborne
20 Call of the Owl
21 The Crossing
22 The Burial
PART THREE: INTO THE TREE
23 Night Vision
24 Attack
25 The Sacrifice
26 Dying Flames
27 Alone
28 In the Lair of the Wicked One
29 Torrent of Fire
30 Torchlight
31 The Fire of Love
32 Laioni’s Promise
33 Deep Roots
34 New Light in the Forest
Afterword
PART ONE
Into the Crater
1
the brown envelope
FIRST, God created Rain. Then Drizzle. Then Mist, then Fog. And then: More Rain.
Kate smiled soggily at her own adaptation of the story of creation, Oregon style. Her sneakers were wet enough that they squelched like sponges as she walked. She could feel the warmish water sloshing between her toes. No use even trying to stay dry anymore.
She stepped deliberately into a muddy puddle that nearly filled the heavily rutted street. The splash of water slapped against her lower leg, pressing jeans against shin, as brown circles spread outward from her submerged sneaker. Only Aunt Melanie’s bright green shoelaces, reluctantly accepted by Kate when her own ones broke, remained visible in the muddy water.
Water everywhere. At this very moment, she could be curled up by the fireplace, stroking the shaggy gray cat Atha. But Aunt Melanie, usually delighted to spend a rainy afternoon warmed by fire coals, quilts, and homemade spice tea, was in no mood for such things just now. Something was troubling her, something serious. So serious she didn’t want to talk about it, even to Kate.
She had thought about calling her parents. They’d know what to do, what to make of all this. But they were on that ship, with only a radio telephone on board. Her mother had given her the number in case of an emergency, but Kate did not want to use it. She knew better than anyone how much they needed a few days together without telephone calls, faculty meetings, or research projects that kept them working until all hours. Besides, this was not an emergency, not yet anyway. She had to work this thing out on her own, without any help from Mom and Dad. And, she thought with a sigh, without any help from Grandfather.
A lone hound, squatting beneath a dripping wooden bench, shook himself vigorously. As Kate turned toward him, the dog ceased shaking and gazed back at her, watching her pass with expressionless eyes.
Just a few minutes ago, when Aunt Melanie had checked her watch and realized it was nearly five o’clock, she had beseeched Kate to run to the post office before it closed. Never mind the downpour, or the fact that Kate was warm and dry for the first time since arriving at the cottage five days ago. Muttering something about an important telephone call she had been waiting for all day, Aunt Melanie said she could not go herself. With an edge of urgency, she described the envelope she was expecting: long and brown, pretty thick, the kind lawyers like to use.
Why lawyers? Kate had asked, but her great-aunt didn’t answer. She merely ran a hand through her curls of white hair and glanced out the window toward the dark reaches of forest beyond, where the whine of distant chain saws mingled with the sound of swishing branches. Then she had handed Kate her rain jacket and pulled open the cottage door.
Kate leaped across a small stream flowing through a rut, only to land with a splash in another puddle. Without the slightest pause, she continued walking. Her many visits to Aunt Melanie over the years had developed in her a grudging appreciation for the gentle rains of this land. There was something she had come to expect and even, at rare moments, enjoy about the sound of soft rain on the old cottage roof, the awareness of lush greenery all around, the mist against her cheeks. So much rain back home would have depressed her thoroughly, especially if it meant canceling an after-school softball game. But here in the forest country of southwestern Oregon, the rain felt no worse than a nuisance. It was part of the landscape, just as much as the trees.
Trudging onward, Kate surveyed the scene on Main Street even as her mind played over and over again Aunt Melanie’s words. Long and brown, pretty thick, the kind lawyers like to use. Although Blade, Oregon, didn’t pretend to be a booming metropolis, it could claim most of life’s necessities. Blurred by mud and mist, the storefronts seemed to run together like an oversized watercolor painting. She passed the local Laundromat, right next to the Texaco station, where townspeople often gathered for good conversation. This afternoon, though, it was deserted. The street itself was strangely empty, nothing but a string of connected puddles.
As she turned the corner, the scene swiftly changed. A jumble of cars, Jeeps, and mud-splattered pickups lined the street outside of Cary’s Tavern. There was even a logging truck, bearing emblems of snarling tigers on its mud flaps, double parked near the entrance. Of course, thought Kate. It’s Saturday afternoon. She had seen Cary’s Tavern once before on a Saturday—packed to the rafters with loggers, fifty percent sober and one hundred percent boisterous, celebrating the end of another hard week’s work. Or, as Aunt Melanie had told her was the case more and more, mourning the end of another week without work.
As she approached the tavern, she could tell today’s mood was not one of celebration. She heard several angry voices rising above the downpour. Several loggers, wearing gray and yellow rain jackets, milled around outside in the parking lot despite the wetness. One pair sat behind slashing windshield wipers, engaged in heated conversation. But she had no time to investigate. It was five minutes to five.
Breaking into a jog, she splashed down the remaining block to the old brick building sporting a white cardboard sign in the window with the words Post Office. She scampered up the moss-coated wooden steps, slowing only to reach for the rusted door handle. At that instant, the door flung wide open and a lean, red-haired boy not much older than Kate’s thirteen years darted out, clutching a parcel of some sort under his arm.
They plowed straight into each other. Kate tu
mbled backward down the slippery steps, landing on her back in the muddy street. The boy cried out in surprise, almost landing on top of her.
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” he said accusingly, wiping some mud from his cheek with the sleeve of his yellow rain jacket.
“Watch yourself,” Kate retorted. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the parcel the boy had been carrying, now resting on the street only an arm’s length away. It was an envelope, brown and shaped like a long rectangle. She caught her breath as she read the name clearly typed on the mailing label: Melanie Prancer.
The boy snatched up the brown envelope, rose quickly, and started running down the street in the direction of Cary’s Tavern.
“Hey, come back,” Kate shouted. She leaped to her feet and flew after him with the speed of a shortstop dashing to snag a line drive. They raced past the buildings of the town, their feet pounding through the puddles. Kate gained on him, but slowly. Just before the parking lot outside the tavern, the boy swerved toward the assembled vehicles.
Kate stretched out an arm and barely caught him by the collar of his rain jacket. She pulled, and the boy lurched backward, his feet sliding out from under him. Before he had even hit the ground, she was on top of him.
“Give me that,” she demanded, pulling at the brown envelope.
“No way,” answered the boy, struggling to hang on. He kicked at her savagely, spraying mud into the air.
Finally, Kate loosened his grip enough to yank the envelope away. Just then the boy rolled to his knees and butted against her with such force that she fell back into a deep puddle. The brown envelope skidded across the muddy street, coming to rest at the edge of a rut just outside the tavern. Kate crawled madly after it.
As her fingers started to close on the edge of the envelope, a heavy boot slammed down on top of it. At once, Kate knew it was the boot of a logger—beat-up brown leather, without steel toes because if a tree trunk falls on a logger’s foot he prefers to have his toes crushed rather than sliced off by the steel lining. She raised her head, seeing the heavy denim pants, the burly chest wearing a yellow slicker over a white T-shirt saying I love spotted owls—for dinner, and the grinning face looking down on her from under a weather-beaten hard hat.