As night deepened, the cloud over the Marsh melted into the surrounding darkness. Krystallus watched, scowling. He knew better than to try to go into that swamp now. No, he’d stay safely camped under this ancient tree until dawn. Then, aided by the return of daylight, he would brave the Marsh.
In the quivering light of the stars, he studied the tree itself. Its knobby branches, once strong and sturdy, seemed to be sagging from age. Or was it from another, more sinister force? Clearly, where hundreds of healthy leaves once budded, only a few frail ones sprouted now. He rapped his knuckles on the root beside him. The wood felt hollow and distressed, making an echo that seemed to moan the words baaaaack, go baaaaack.
Krystallus placed his open hand on the tree’s trunk. Beneath the flaking strips of bark, deep gouges ran through the column, cutting all the way into the heartwood. And yet, despite everything—poor soil, lack of water, nearness to the Marsh—this tree had somehow survived.
“You picked a terrible place to grow,” he said, drumming his fingers against the old elm’s trunk. “But here you are, even now. Still alive.”
He nodded, part in admiration, part in sympathy. For he, too, knew something about growing up in difficult conditions—with an absent father whose love seemed always out of reach, with expectations for his own magic that he could never meet, and with the parched soil of a lonely life of aimless wandering. Until he’d met Serella.
Again he turned toward the Marsh. Now that the curtain of night had fallen, he could see almost no sign of the swamp. Almost. For unlike the desert dunes and plains surrounding him, no stars glittered above that place. No light at all penetrated the ominous cloud. Only the absence of light revealed the Marsh’s existence.
Of course, he noticed other signs, as well. That faintly bitter smell on the desert wind—a smell that carried hints of rotting plants, stale peat, and decayed flesh. And also that occasional whisper of sound, a warbling cry of anguish or a distant scream.
One of those sounds pierced the night, a bone-chilling shriek that seemed both far away and perilously close. Krystallus listened intently, scratching the stubble on his chin. That was, he felt sure, the aching cry of a marsh ghoul. Travelers—including the most worldly bards he knew, as well as the seasoned explorers who visited Eopia College of Mapmakers—considered marsh ghouls the most terrifying and irredeemably evil beings in Avalon.
Krystallus, however, didn’t agree. He knew better than to assume they were hopelessly evil . . . especially after he’d discovered the secret tale of their origins. For just a few months ago, he had found something precious. Something rich with information. Something he’d been searching for throughout his life.
Reaching into a tunic pocket, he removed a tattered, leather-bound book, so old that wrinkles creased its cover like the face of an elder friend. Gently, he ran his finger along the binding. Then, with one finger, he tapped the leather clasp that held the book closed, a clasp that wouldn’t open with any amount of force. Not even a mighty giant could have pulled it apart.
No, as Krystallus knew, the clasp would open only with the utterance of a secret password. After weeks of trial and error, and much frustration, he’d been lucky enough to guess the password. And he’d also been lucky in another respect: The password didn’t require any magic from whoever uttered it. All the necessary magic had been stored within the clasp by its maker—Merlin himself.
For this was Merlin’s lost journal, hidden away by the wizard in the final days of his youth in Fincayra. It had lain for centuries in the mist-shrouded trunk of an ancient oak tree—a tree that Krystallus suspected was, in fact, none other than the famous Arbassa. It had taken many years of searching to find the tree, and then, almost coincidentally, to find the old book, but at last he’d succeeded.
Krystallus drew a slow breath, then said quietly, “Olo Eopia.”
Hearing the password—Merlin’s true name, given to him by Dagda before Fincayra merged with the spirit realm—the clasp suddenly stiffened as if it had come to life. All at once, its leather laces untied themselves and the small metal buckle in its center clicked. The clasp fell open.
Krystallus smiled. It felt good, for once, to feel as if he could work a little bit of magic. But his smile quickly faded. He knew that the feeling was only an illusion.
Unlike my father, he mused, I don’t have a single shred of magic—something he never understood. Sure, I can use magical objects like this book or an enchanted map—but any fool can do that. There is no magic inside me. Merlin, he felt sure, never even thought about how much that fact had affected his son’s life. Or how difficult it had made growing up in the shadow of a great wizard. He never even wondered how hard it must be to have no magic of my own.
Even so, discovering the lost journal had given Krystallus a new perspective on his father. In reading the wizard’s own descriptions of events—many of which had become famous in folklore, stories he’d heard too many times to count—Krystallus realized that his father was, in fact, more than just a powerful figure of mythic proportions. He was also, at least in his youth, a passionate and impulsive person who could be unsure of himself, vulnerable, and even deathly afraid. He was, in sum, not just a wizard but also a human being.
Not so different, thought Krystallus, from me.
He opened the book, hearing the faint crackle of its binding. The pages, golden-edged and tattered from age, seemed to glow in the trembling light from the stars above. And also, it seemed, from a vague luminosity of their own.
He lifted the open book to his nose and inhaled. Its smell, something like a mixture of worn leather, parchment, and fire coals, filled his nostrils. The aroma, by now familiar, seemed to welcome him.
Lowering the book, he started to flip through its pages, looking for the passage about the marsh ghouls. He realized, with every turn of a page, that this volume was about much more than Merlin. It was, in truth, a treasure trove of stories, dreams, and histories of all sorts of people and places. Many of those stories had never been told before. Other than Serella and the young elf Tressimir, with whom he’d shared the journal, no one but Krystallus knew what marvels those pages contained.
Just before he came to the strange tale of the marsh ghouls, his gaze fell upon a page that had been folded against itself. Carefully, he opened the page, finding a passage that he’d never read before. In Merlin’s messy scrawl, more like the tracks of birds on a beach than penmanship meant to be legible, were these words:
In the days since I fought the magic-eating kreelix, a fight I only barely survived, I have wondered why I was cursed to be born a creature of magic. What do all these powers accomplish, except to make me a target for evil forces who want to kill or enslave me? Why must the people I love most, my mother and sister and beloved Hallia, suffer so much because of my affliction? How I wish I didn’t have any magic of my own!
Stunned, Krystallus blinked his eyes. Had he read correctly? Had his father, in his stormy youth, really called his magic a curse and an affliction? Refocusing on the passage, he read on:
I can only hope that fate has given me these magical powers for a reason. A reason I must discover for myself. Somehow, I need to perceive my magic not as a burden—but as a gift. Something I can use to help the people and places I love. If only I felt confident of measuring up to such an enormous task!
Never mind such doubts. If this is my challenge, I accept it. And I also realize that it is equally difficult, in very different ways, for creatures who are born without any magic. Worst of all, I think, would be the fate of a nonmagical child whose father or mother possesses great powers. The very idea of such a child makes my heart ache, and reminds me how fortunate I truly am.
Krystallus blinked again, clearing his vision enough to read that line again: The very idea of such a child makes my heart ache.
He shifted his weight, leaning back against the old elm. As he did so, the journal’s magical clasp brushed against his thumb. All at once, he realized something new about the clasp. Ab
out the journal. And about his father.
What if Krystallus hadn’t merely been lucky that the password required no magic beyond what already resided in the clasp? What if Merlin had planned it that way—so that even a person with no magic of his own could someday read this secret journal?
He swallowed. What if . . . Merlin had only wanted the journal to be read by someone who knew the wizard well enough to know his true name—Olo Eopia? Someone who could be his own child, a son or daughter yet to be born.
Me, thought Krystallus. He wanted this journal to come to me.
In the distance, a shrieking wail arose. Krystallus recognized the sound at once. With a final glance at the passage he’d just discovered, he turned to the section on the marsh ghouls. He’d read the description of their tragic history many times before, but never with so much interest as now.
Long ago in Lost Fincayra, on wondrous meadows filled with flowers, lived a community of enchantresses, the Xania-Soe. They lived peacefully, amassing their wealth not in jewels or weapons but in knowledge. So great was their wisdom, it was said, the wind itself refused to blow over their realm, to avoid spreading dangerous knowledge to others. They learned how to bend time in a magical Mirror, as well as how to coax magical perfumes from the flowers. In time, the very air of that place smelled of magic. Powerful magic.
So powerful that the warlord Rhita Gawr tried to conquer that realm. And nearly succeeded. Unable to stop his invasion, the enchantresses decided to make a terrible sacrifice. Just before Rhita Gawr took control, they threw a curse on their beloved homeland—a curse that made their magical flowers spew poisons and curses into the air. Because no wind blew there, the poisons seeped into the land itself, turning life into death, light into shadow. The enchantresses refused to leave their cherished home, even in its bitter transformation. So they, too, were poisoned. Twisted by rage and grief, they became deadly, ghoulish beings—the marsh ghouls.
Krystallus tapped on the root beside him, thinking about their plight. He knew that those creatures—once so beautiful and admired, now so ghastly and feared—had migrated to Avalon, settling in the place known today as the Haunted Marsh. Feeling only wrath and sorrow, they had continued to bring revenge on anyone who dared to come near them. Only one person in history had ever faced the marsh ghouls and survived.
My father. Krystallus pursed his lips, wondering about exactly what had happened. The marsh ghouls, somehow, chose not only to spare Merlin, but to help him—most likely the only act of kindness they had ever performed. But why? The journal’s description was sketchy; the only certainty was that their encounter had involved the magical Mirror.
Maybe someday, mused Krystallus, I’ll ask him to tell me.
He bit his lip. Or maybe not. After the way he’d spoken to his father the last time they had met, Merlin would never want to see him again—let alone tell him the secrets of his lost years.
Deep in thought, he leaned back against the old elm’s trunk. He didn’t notice the sharp edges of the flaky bark that poked into his back. He didn’t notice the rising chorus of chants that arose from the Marsh, pounding like distant drums. And he didn’t notice the dark, ghoulish figures that crept silently closer, like living shadows, preparing to attack.
Moments later, the chants grew louder. “DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM” echoed across the surrounding desert. But Krystallus didn’t hear. He was already unconscious from strangulation.
20: CONNECTION
Bravery, I can tell you, is not the absence of fear. It is doing all you can to overcome your fear . . . as well as your fondness for life.
Smells, putrid smells. Of decay, of rancid meat, of death. The smells of the Haunted Marsh.
Krystallus opened his eyes. Yet . . . he couldn’t be sure. Darkness still surrounded him, although it was a deeper, colder kind of darkness. He blinked, just to make sure his eyelids were actually open. They were—and what he saw made him wish they were not.
Shadowy forms, a shade or two darker than the thick fumes of the Marsh, floated nearby, sometimes passing directly over him. He lay in a shallow pit, a hollow filled with congealing ooze that reeked of decaying blood and bones. Sliding his body up a little higher against the boggy wall of the pit, he felt like he’d been dumped into a grave.
My own grave. He shook himself, spraying globs of muck. Watching the marsh ghouls circling, he tried to focus his eyes. But the scene kept floating back and forth, in time with the pounding ache inside his head.
He reached an unsteady hand up to his neck. The skin felt cold and clammy, as if his neck had been squeezed by frozen, deathly fingers. The marsh ghouls, he realized, rubbing the tender skin to bring back its warmth. They attacked me!
He swallowed, though it hurt. Strangled me. Then they brought me here. Why?
Willing his eyes to focus, he gazed at his new surroundings. Beyond the circling ghouls, he saw smoky columns of fumes and several pools of vile fluids that bubbled like boiling cauldrons. Following the rising columns, he saw the fumes widen into billowing clouds that eventually merged into a black, smoky fog so thick it blocked out the stars.
Yet somehow, there was light. Vague, pulsing, and red, like luminous blood that flowed through the swampy air.
This strange light, unlike anything he’d ever encountered, was strong enough that he could see. Or, at least, discern the shadowy layers of darkness surrounding him. Where in the Marsh did it come from? What was its source?
He tilted his head farther back, even though that angle made the pounding swell. Peering up into the gloom, he noticed an especially dark shape within the cloud, rising high above the ground. Though it was hard to be sure, the shape seemed long and cylindrical, like a gigantic worm that was standing on its base, stretching up into the sky.
Whatever it was, this shape was dark. Very dark. To the point of being a void, the utter absence of any light. Though it looked solid, it also seemed to be made of absolute emptiness.
Was it another kind of fume, thicker and darker than the rest? He squinted, studying it closely. Suddenly he gasped, driving his fingers into the moist peat beneath him.
Alive! It’s something alive! The gargantuan beast rose above him, writhing and twisting its dark body in some sort of sinister dance, an undulating column of darkness. Great Dagda, that thing is bigger than Basilgarrad! Several times bigger. What could it be?
As if in answer, the continuous pounding in his head started to subside—just enough that he realized that there was another pounding outside his skull. All around him, the fume-filled air was vibrating with an incessant, monotonous chant. It came from the ghouls, and also, it seemed, from the swamp itself.
“DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM. DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM.”
The chant continued to pound, as relentless as a beating heart. Yet this couldn’t have been less like a heart, with its purpose of sustaining life. No, this chant felt just the opposite, as if its purpose involved only death, destruction, and more death.
Krystallus found, in that instant, the source of the mysterious red light that permeated this part of the swamp. An eye! The beast of darkness possessed, so far up he could barely see it, a luminous red eye. Though nearly obscured by all the choking fumes, the eye shone darkly, sending a dull red glow through the fog.
Something else about the eye made Krystallus shudder. Unlike any other eye, this one pulsed to its own sinister rhythm, throbbing like an open wound. With every pulse came a wave of anger, aggression, and hatred.
All at once, he noticed an explosion of black sparks that sizzled in the air. They came from somewhere near the monster’s midsection. More black sparks erupted, falling into the swamp with a chorus of hisses. Then he saw the source of the sparks.
Something is growing! Like a serpent, one made from concentrated darkness, a long black thread was emerging from the being’s core. Reaching skyward, the thread surged higher and higher, groping ominously.
Krystallus watched, aghast. What the . . . ? What is that thing?
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nbsp; “DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM,” chanted the marsh ghouls. They tightened their circle, swooping close to the writhing beast’s body. Soon they seemed to merge with its skin, shrouding the utter blackness beneath as they circled.
The monster itself continued to rock on its base, grinding its weight into the Marsh. It groaned rhythmically, in time to the ghouls’ chants, all the while laboring to produce the evil thread. Meanwhile, sparks of black lightning erupted more frequently, showering the Marsh. All around Krystallus, fumes glowed with dark incandescence.
To his horror, he saw something else in the swirl of vapors near the monster’s eye. Another thread! This one was reaching downward, groping like the one that had sprouted from the body of the beast. Where this second thread was coming from, Krystallus couldn’t tell, but it must have been from somewhere far above, even higher than the rising fumes.
He shook his head in disbelief. His long mane, splattered with muck from the swamp, slapped against his neck. Could that new thread be stretching down from somewhere among the stars? From some source as evil as this monster of darkness?
In a flash, he understood. Whether he somehow caught an inkling of the monster’s thoughts, heard another kind of language beneath its rhythmic groans, or simply guessed—he suddenly felt sure. That new thread is coming from the Otherworld. From Rhita Gawr.
The monster released a hoarse, rasping laugh. Krystallus heard it with his ears, but also, somehow, inside his bones. Its sound, echoing through the Marsh, filled him with a heavy sense of despair. At the same time, the continuous pulse of the bloodred eye added another emotion, one he’d felt only rarely in his life. Terror.
More swirling shadows rose out of the Marsh. Whether they were ghouls or something else, Krystallus couldn’t tell. But he could see them rise, like ghostly beings, toward the gap that remained between the two dark threads. Then he heard, even louder than the chants of the marsh ghouls and the groans of the monster, a sudden explosion of energy.