I stiffened. “You mean . . . Tuatha?”
“Yes. Tuatha. The most powerful wizard Fincayra has ever known. The only mortal ever allowed to visit the Otherworld to consult with Dagda—and return alive. Even he was susceptible to hubris. And it killed him.”
The Flowering Harp felt suddenly heavier, the sling digging into my shoulder. “How did he die?”
Cairpré leaned closer. “I don’t know the details. No one does. All I know is he overestimated his own power, and underestimated Rhita Gawr’s most fearsome servant, a one-eyed ogre named Balor.”
He shook himself. “But let us speak of more pleasant things! My boy, tell me about the Harp. You’ve made quick work of the Dark Hills if you’re already down here in the plains.”
I shifted uncomfortably, rubbing my hand over the knotted top of my staff. As I felt the deep grooves, the scent of hemlock spiced the air, reminding me of the woman whose fragrances had filled my childhood. The time had come to tell Cairpré what I wanted to do—and what I had left undone.
Taking a deep breath, I declared, “I haven’t finished my work in the hills.”
He caught his breath. “You haven’t? Did you meet trouble? Warrior goblins on the loose?”
I shook my head. “The only trouble is of my own making.”
The bottomless pools of his eyes examined me. “What are you saying?”
“That I’ve discovered something more important than my task.” I faced the poet squarely. “I want to find my mother. To bring her to Fincayra.”
Anger flashed across his face. “You would place us all in danger because of that?”
My throat tightened. “Cairpré, please. I will finish the task. I promise! But I need to see her again. And soon. Is that so much to ask?”
“Yes! You are putting all the creatures of this land at risk.”
I tried to swallow. “Elen gave up everything for me, Cairpré! She loved her life here. Loved it to the depths of her soul. And she left it all just to protect me. During our time in Gwynedd, I was—well, her only companion. Her only friend. Even though I never did much to deserve it.”
I paused, thinking about her sad songs, her healing hands, her wondrously blue eyes. “We had our problems, believe me. But we were much closer than either of us knew. Then one day I left her there, all alone. Just left her. She must be miserable, in that cold stone room. She might even be sick, or in trouble. So while I want to bring her here for me, it’s also for her.”
Cairpré’s expression softened slightly. He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, Merlin. I understand. How many times I myself have longed to see Elen again! But even if we put aside the Dark Hills, to bring someone here from the world beyond the mists—well, to do that is impossibly dangerous.”
“Are you certain? The sea has spared me twice.”
“It’s not the sea, my boy, though that voyage is dangerous enough. Fincayra has its own ways, its own rhythms, that mortals can only guess. Even Dagda himself, it is said, dares not predict who may be allowed to pass through the curtains of mist.”
“I don’t believe it.”
His gaze darkened. “There would be dangers to anyone brought here from outside, and dangers to the rest of Fincayra as well.” He closed his eyes in thought. “What you may not understand is that anyone who arrives here—even the tiniest little butterfly—could change the balance of life on Fincayra and cause untold destruction.”
“You’re sounding like Domnu,” I scoffed. “Saying I’m going to be the ruin of all Fincayra.”
He swung his head toward the village gates, no longer aglow with golden light. Beyond them, the Dark Hills rolled like waves on a stormy sea. “You could be just that. Especially if you don’t finish what you’ve begun.”
“Won’t you help me?”
“Even if I knew a way, I wouldn’t help you. You’re only a boy. And a more foolish one than I had thought.”
I pounded my staff on the ground. “I have the power to make the Harp work, don’t I? You yourself told the Great Council that I have the heart of a wizard. Well, perhaps I also have the power to bring my mother here.”
His hand squeezed my shoulder so hard I winced. “Don’t say such things, even in jest. It takes far more than heart to be a true wizard. You need the spirit, the intuition, the experience. You need the knowledge—enormous knowledge about the patterns of the cosmos and all the arts of magic. And, even more, you need the wisdom, the sort of wisdom that tells you when to use those arts, and when to refrain. For a true wizard wields his power judiciously, the way an expert bowman wields his arrows.”
“I’m not speaking about arrows. I’m speaking about my mother, Elen.” I drew myself up straight. “If you won’t help me, then I will find another way.”
Cairpré’s brow creased again. “A true wizard needs one thing more.”
“What is that?” I asked impatiently.
“Humility. Listen well, my boy! Forget this madness. Take the Harp and return to your work in the hills. You have no idea of the risks you are taking.”
“I would take many more to bring her back to me.”
He looked skyward. “Help me, O Dagda!” Returning his gaze to me, he asked, “How can I make you understand? There is a proverb, as old as this island itself, saying that only the wisest shell from the Shore of Speaking Shells can guide someone through the mists. It sounds simple enough. And yet no wizard in history—not even Tuatha—has ever dared to try. Does that give you some sense of the danger?”
I grinned. “No. But it does give me an idea.”
“Merlin, no! You mustn’t. On top of all the other dangers, there is yet another. To you. Attempting such an act of deep wizardry will tell Rhita Gawr exactly where you are—and more, I’m afraid. When he returns, bent on conquering this world and the others, he will pursue you. Mark my words.”
I tugged on the sling of the Harp. “I don’t fear him.”
Cairpré’s brambly brows lifted. “Then you had better start. For with hubris like that, you will offer him the sweetest revenge of all. Making you one of his servants, just as he did your father.”
My stomach clenched as if I’d been struck. “You’re saying I’m no better than Stangmar?”
“I’m saying you are just as vulnerable. If Rhita Gawr doesn’t kill you outright, he will try to enslave you.”
Just then, a man’s shadow fell upon us. I whirled around to face Bumbelwy. Apparently he had finished his recital and approached us and we had been too absorbed in conversation to notice that he had been listening. He bowed awkwardly, causing his hat to fall to the ground with a noisy rattle. He retrieved the hat. Then, shoulders slumped, he faced Cairpré. “I did miserably, didn’t I?’
Cairpré, still glaring at me, waved him away. “Some other time. I’m talking with the boy right now.”
Turning his frowning chins toward me, Bumbelwy said glumly, “You tell me, then. Did I do miserably or not?”
Thinking that if I answered him, he would leave, I frowned back at him. “Yes, yes. You were miserable.”
But he did not leave. He merely bobbed his head sullenly, clanking the bells. “So I botched the delivery. Too true, too true, too true.”
“Merlin,” growled Cairpré. “Heed my warnings! I only want to help you.”
My cheeks burned. “Help me? Is that why you tried to dissuade me last time from going to the Shrouded Castle? Or why you didn’t tell me that Stangmar was really my father?”
The poet grimaced. “I didn’t tell you about your father because I feared that such a terrible truth might forever wound you. Make you doubt, or even hate, yourself. Perhaps I was wrong in that, as I was wrong in thinking you couldn’t destroy the castle. But I am not wrong in this! Go back to the Dark Hills.”
I glanced at the village gates. Shrouded by shadows, they stood as dark as gravestones. “First I am going to the Shore of Speaking Shells.”
Before Cairpré could respond, Bumbelwy cleared his throat, making his multiple chins qui
ver. Then he swirled his cloak about himself with dramatic flair. “I am coming with you.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “I don’t want you to come.”
“Too true, too true, too true. Yet I will come all the same.”
Cairpré’s dark eyes gleamed. “You will regret your choice even sooner than I expected.”
6: THROUGH THE MISTS
Like the sour taste that stays in your mouth long after biting in a piece of rotten fruit, Bumbelwy, his bells jangling, stayed by my side. Only with fruit, you can wash your mouth and get rid of the taste. With Bumbelwy, nothing I said or did would make him leave. Although I walked as briskly as I could, not even pausing to strum the Harp, . . . I could not escape his presence.
He followed me out of Caer Neithan’s gates, as Cairpré stood watching in silence. He followed me over the rises and dips of the plains, trekking until long after dark, camping with me beneath an old willow, and then continuing through the sweltering sun of the next day. He followed me all the way to the grand, pounding waterway that I knew to be the River Unceasing.
All the while, he mumbled about the heat, the stones in his boots, and the arduous life of a jester. As we approached the river, he asked me several times whether I would like to hear his famous riddle about his bells, promising it would lift my spirits. Whenever I told him that I had no desire to hear his riddle—or, for that matter, his bells—he simply sulked a bit and then asked me all over again.
“Oh, but this is a royal, ranting romp of a riddle,” he protested. “A riddler’s regular riddle. No, that’s backward. Curses, I botched the delivery again! It’s a regular riddler’s riddle. There, that’s right. It’s funny. It’s wise.” He paused, looking even more somber than usual. “It’s the only riddle I know.”
I shook my head, striding toward the River Unceasing. As we feared its steep, stony banks, thundering rapids boiled beneath us. The spray rose high into the air, lifting rainbow bridges that shimmered in the sunlight. The splashing and roaring grew so loud that, for the first time since the Town of the Bards, I could not hear Bumbelwy’s bells. Or his pleas to tell his riddle.
I turned to him. Above the pounding of the river, I shouted, “I have far to go, all the way to the southernmost shore. Crossing the river will be dangerous. You should go back now.”
Glumly, he called back, “You don’t want me then?”
“No!”
He made a six-layered frown. “Of course you don’t want me. Nobody wants me.” He peered at me for a moment. “But I want you, you lucky lad.”
I stared at him. “Lucky? That’s one thing I’m certainly not! My life is nothing but a string of disappointments, one loss after another.”
“I can tell,” he declared. “That’s why you need a jester.” Frowning gravely, he added, “To make you laugh.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, did I ever tell you my riddle about the bells?”
With a snarl, I swung at his head with my staff. He ducked, stooping lower than usual. The staff skimmed the back of his cloak.
“You’re no jester,” I shouted. “You’re a curse! A miserable curse.”
“Too true, too true, too true.” Bumbelwy heaved a moaning sigh. “I’m a failure as a jester. An absolute failure. A jester needs to be only two things, wise and funny. And I am neither.” A fretful tear rolled down his cheek. “Can you imagine how that feels? How it makes me ache from my thumbs down to my toes? My fate is to be a jester who makes everyone sad. Including myself.”
“Why me?” I protested. “Couldn’t you pick somebody else to follow?”
“Certainly,” he called above the raging rapids. “But you seem so . . . unhappy. More so than anyone I’ve ever met. You will be my true test as a jester! If I can learn how to make you laugh, then I can make anyone laugh.”
I groaned. “You will never make anyone laugh. That’s certain!”
He thrust his chins at me and started to swirl his cloak about himself with a flourish. At the same time, though, he tripped on a stone and pitched sideways, losing his hat and almost skidding over the bank. Grabbing his hat, he jammed it back on his head—upside down. With a snarl, he righted it, but not before he tripped again and plopped down on the muddy ground. Grumbling, he regained his feet, trying to wipe the clumps of mud off his bottom.
“Well then,” he declared with a jangle of bells, “at least I can give you the pleasure of my company.”
I rolled my eyes, then glanced over my shoulder at the River Unceasing. Perhaps, if I leaped into the rushing water, it might carry me far downstream. Away from this endless torment in the form of a man. Still, as tempted as I was, I knew better. The river at this stretch was flowing far too fast, and jagged rocks protruded like daggers. It would surely damage the Harp, and probably myself as well. Where was Rhia when I needed her? She would know how to speak to the spirit of the river and calm the waves. I cringed, thinking of how we had parted. Yet it was more Rhia’s fault than mine. She had been so sure of herself. It had delighted her, no doubt, to see me humbled.
I pulled the Harp higher on my shoulder. At least, once I crossed the river, I wouldn’t be surrounded by these parched plains, stretching on and on like the ashen sky above, that reminded me constantly of my unfinished task. South of here, I recalled, the river widened considerably. There I could cross. Then I would continue on to the Shore of the Speaking Shells. With or without Bumbelwy.
To my dismay, it turned out to be with him. The gloomy jester, sleeves flapping and bells clanging, shadowed me past a series of roaring falls, through soggy marshland, and over stretches of smooth stones in the river’s floodplain. Finally, reaching the shallows beneath a group of huge, egg-shaped boulders, we stumbled across the River Unceasing. Frigid water slapped against my shins, as the soft bottom sucked at my boots with every step. I felt, somehow, as if the river itself were trying to hold me back.
Emerging from the water, we continued to trek along the western shore. For several hours we plodded along avenues of jagged-edged reeds. To the right, towering trees of Druma Wood stretched skyward, covering the land with a blanket of green as far as the distant Misted Hills. Bright-winged birds flitted among the branches—birds that I knew Rhia could identify. All the while, I did my best to ignore the drooping figure and the jangling bells that followed me.
At last I spied a row of undulating dunes, with a rolling wall of mist behind. My heart leaped. Even with the limits of my second sight, I was struck by the strong colors ahead. Golden sand. Green leafy vines. Pink and purple shells. Yellow flowers.
My boots sank into the loose sand as I climbed the first dune. Reaching the crest, I finally saw the shore itself, rippling with waves.
The tide was low. Beneath the thick curtain of mist, clams and mussels covered the sand. I could hear them squirting and squelching, joined by the chatter and splash of water birds with long, scooped beaks. Tiny mussels by the thousands clung to the rockier places. Huge red sea stars, wide-mouthed whelks, and glistening jellyfish lay everywhere. Crabs skittered, dodging the feet of the birds.
Filling my lungs with the air of the sea, I smelled again the aroma of kelp. And salt. And mystery.
I bent down to grasp a handful of sand. It felt warm and fine as it poured through my fingers. Just as it had before, on the day I first landed on this very spot. Fincayra had welcomed me on that day, giving me refuge from the storms I faced at sea as well as those I carried beneath my brow.
I plucked a few grains of sand and watched them tumble down the slope of my fingertip, bouncing into my palm. They glittered brightly as they rolled, almost as if they were alive. Like my own skin. Like Fincayra itself. Somehow, I realized, I was beginning to feel attached to this island. As unhappy as I had often been here, I felt a surprising pull to its striking terrains, its haunting stories, and—despite the way they had often treated me—its varied inhabitants. And to something else, harder to define.
This island was, as my mother used to say, an in between place, a place where immortal and mo
rtal creatures could live together. Not always harmoniously, of course. But with all the richness and power and mystery of both worlds at once. Part Heaven, part Earth. Part this world, part Otherworld.
I stood there, drinking in the sounds and smells of Fincayra’s shore. Perhaps, one day, I might feel truly comfortable here. In some ways I already did, at least more than I had ever felt in that miserable village in Gwynedd. If only one particular person were here, Fincayra might even feel like home. Yet right now that person was far away. Beyond the mist, beyond the black rock coastline of Gwynedd.
Swinging the Harp around, I cradled it in my arm. I had not plucked its strings for some time now, since before I had left the arid plains. What, I wondered, could I produce in a place so rich, so teeming with life, as this?
I plucked a single string, the highest one. It tinkled, like an icicle shattering. As the note vibrated in the air, out of the seaward side of the dune popped a single red flower, shaped like an enormous bell. Seeing it sway in the briney breeze, I yearned to touch it, to smell it.
But there was no time. Not now. Dropping the Harp and my staff on the sand, I checked to make sure that Bumbelwy would not disturb them. He was already seated on the beach, frowning as he washed his swollen feet in the waves. His three-cornered hat, its bells silent at least for now, lay beside him. Though he wasn’t far away, he seemed fully occupied.
I scanned the beach in both directions. With every slap forward and wash backward of the waves, shells of all sizes and colors rolled across the sand. The sheer breadth and beauty of this beach awed me, just as it had on the day I first landed. On that very day, a shell from this beach had whispered some words to me, words I could barely comprehend. Would I find another one today? And would I understand what it said?
Somewhere out there was the right shell. The trouble was, I had no idea what it might look like. All I knew were Cairpré’s words. There is a proverb, as old as this island itself, saying that only the wisest shell from the Shore of Speaking Shells can guide someone through the mists.