The Great Tree of Avalon

  Tamwyn grinned. Even colder, you say? Well then, why don’t you get in there close with the others? They’ll warm you up.

  The goat gave a sharp snort. Or a sneeze. It was hard to tell which.

  Tamwyn’s grin broadened. Family feud, eh? Well look here, there are lots of other places you could go, you know. The gate’s wide open.

  He pointed to the pen’s wooden gate, left open in keeping with the Drumadians’ law that no creature, unless it had intentionally wrought harm, could ever be confined against its own will. So the goats and geese and pigs, and even the plow horses, stayed in this human village purely by choice. In exchange for plenty of food and protection against marauding gobsken or trolls, they gave humans milk, eggs, and occasional meat (and, in the case of this shaggy fellow, lots of good knitting yarn).

  Mmm-a-a-a-a-a.

  Tamwyn raised an eyebrow. Is that so? Well, they probably feel the same way about you! They’d butt you into that smelly old dung heap if they could. He paused. Say, there’s an idea. Dung heaps are warm, you know. Why don’t you just go over there and crawl in?

  Another sharp snort.

  Ah yes, your dignity. What you really mean is your stubborn pride! Who cares how bad you smell? If you really want to get warm . . .

  Tamwyn caught himself, midthought. Then he finished—not to the goat, but to himself: If you really want to get warm, you should just climb into the heap.

  He turned to the heap of goat droppings, garbage, and who knows what else, piled against the side wall of the stable. And yes, it did smell awful. Truly awful! But then, after his long day’s labor, Tamwyn hardly smelled much better. And no matter how wretched a dung heap smelled . . .

  It was warm. Really warm.

  Wearily, he checked over his shoulder to be sure no villagers—or that miserable hoolah—were watching. Seeing no one, he gave the goat a broad wink (and got a rude snort in return). Then he strode over to the heap. It steamed invitingly.

  He crawled onto it, sinking his legs into the warm muck. A wave of horrific, rotten smells washed over him, and for an instant he felt nauseous. He almost pulled himself back out into the cold night air.

  The nausea passed swiftly, though. And the warmth against his bare feet made his toes tingle. With a squirm, he plunged in deeper. And so... at the very same moment that the priestess Llynia, in another part of Stoneroot, sank into her herbal bath, Tamwyn sank into something entirely different.

  Shoving aside some rotten ears of corn, he slid down into the muck until his whole chest was buried to his armpits. As he stretched his arms out on the dung, his long hair brushed the top of the heap. Tamwyn’s back felt supported, comfortable at last; his nose grew used to the smell. He sighed, imagining himself lying in those knee-deep beds of foxtail fern near the Angenou hot springs, one of his favorite places to camp.

  Suddenly he sneezed. Some lice had crawled up his nostril! Tamwyn rubbed his nose very hard. And did his best to ignore the goat who stood watching him with laughing eyes.

  Tamwyn grimaced. There wasn’t any doubt about where he was really camped.

  In a dung heap. A pile of rotten vegetables and goat droppings.

  And lice.

  Maybe that old hoolah, worthless scum that he was, had been right about one thing. Darker than a dead torch on a moonless night. Those were the words he’d used. But the hoolah didn’t understand Tamwyn’s real darkness, not at all. For it had nothing to do with all the soot on his face and feet and everywhere between. Nor with his coal black hair and eyes.

  No, Tamwyn’s real darkness couldn’t be seen. Only felt. It sprang from the mother he barely remembered, the brother he sorely missed, and the future he couldn’t imagine. And at times it felt dark, indeed. Dark as a dead torch.

  Tamwyn shivered, despite all the warm muck surrounding him. His name, after all, meant Dark Flame in the tongue of his mother’s people, the flamelons. He kept it, because it was the only thing she’d given him that he still possessed. Yet sometimes he wished she’d given him another name. A brighter name—something more befitting an explorer of the stars, instead of a homeless wanderer.

  He closed his eyes, seeing in his memory the bright fires of the distant land where he’d been born. Fireroot—the place his mother called Rahnawyn—seemed so far away now that it was almost imaginary, like his confusing dream of that night on the fiery mountain. And yet, he knew in his heart that Fireroot was real—as real as the brother he longed to find.

  Even now, in his mind, he could see the fires burning all along the rim of that crater, with towers like crooked teeth, where he and Scree used to play. Or, just as often, to fight. He flinched, remembering the big fight they’d had on their final day, seven years ago, right before the attack—and right before Scree had made his sudden, bold choice. The choice that had saved Tamwyn’s life, and sent him hurtling into a new realm.

  That day, and that choice, had changed everything. Absolutely everything. And left Tamwyn struggling with a host of unanswered questions.

  Was Scree still alive? And if so, where? Somewhere here in Stoneroot, or in another realm? Was he still the strong young man that Tamwyn had known seven years ago—who was the same age as Tamwyn, but bigger and more muscular due to his eagleman’s heritage?

  And what about that walking stick of his? Scree had carried it everywhere he went, even when he took flight as an eagleman, refusing to let anyone else even touch it. There was something odd about that gnarled piece of wood . . . something Tamwyn could never quite put into words. It had always intrigued him.

  He opened his eyes and plunged his hand into the muck. As he drew the dagger from his belt sheath, he thought of the old farmer who had given it to him years before. Tamwyn had been helping with some plowing when, right in the middle of a cornfield, he’d plowed up the dagger, which the farmer had called “a gift from the land.” The blade was battered even then, and rusty at the hilt. But it worked well enough in his young hands, and it was all he needed for cutting fresh stalks of eelgrass, slicing open a fistnut, or carving his own water gourd.

  Or just for whittling.

  He spied a shard of wood, part of a broken branch, on the heap. In the stars’ dim light it looked blacker than the dung, and just within reach. A squirm, a stretch—and he grabbed it.

  Just why he always felt better when he whittled, he couldn’t say. But it never failed to help. Even when he sliced his poor thumb, which he’d done too many times to count, he found this work somehow soothing.

  He turned the wood in his hand, feeling its contours, then started shaving the bark. Thin, twisting curls fell away. Tamwyn gripped harder and cut a few deep notches at the base of the shard. Were it not for the stench of the dung heap, he could have told what sort of wood it was by its scent. Or, if it hadn’t been nighttime, by the color and grain.

  Probably ash, he thought. Or some of that thorny spikewood, the sort that always rips my tunic. He grinned. Already he was feeling better.

  A sound by the stable made him stop whittling and look up. There, beyond the far side of the goat pen, five or six shadowy figures were passing by.

  Tamwyn squinted, peering into the darkness. They weren’t humans. Nor elves. Nor gobsken. These figures didn’t move with the sway or bounce of two-legged creatures. And not four-leggeds, either. No stag or doe would stand so upright.

  A clutch of young ogres, perhaps? No—these people, whatever they were, moved far too smoothly. Silently. As if they were not walking at all . . . but rolling. Or floating upon a breath of magic.

  Tree spirits.

  Tamwyn watched, his heart thumping in wonder. The spirits, though varying heights, all had the same lush hair that swept down their sides and swished from side to side as they floated along. That, plus their lithe forms—and the sheer grace of their movements—made him guess that they had once been willows.

  As a regular wanderer in the wilderness, Tamwyn knew that it was rare indeed to see tree spirits moving about freely. In all his time trekking through
Stoneroot, he’d seen only one: a maple spirit who was the maryth of a Drumadian priest. And to see so many at once—this was truly extraordinary. For tree spirits only traveled freely when their host trees died or were gravely ill. Even then, they often stayed very near the spot where they had so long been rooted, hiding themselves away in hollow trunks or abandoned burrows.

  Something else struck him, as well. If tree spirits ever did travel far from home, it was usually because their host tree and all of its surroundings had been so badly damaged, or made so unlivable, that they just couldn’t remain there any longer. Maybe that was why these willows seemed, beneath their grace, so very sad.

  Tamwyn swallowed. These creatures were beautiful, to be sure. But they were also a sign. Of what, he couldn’t guess . . . though he felt sure it wasn’t good.

  At that moment a new figure appeared, striding in the opposite direction. A man—and a strange one from the look of his silhouette. He walked in a jaunty, carefree way, like a young fellow just come of age. Yet he wore a thick beard that looked wider than it was long. Its pointed tips glowed silver in the starlight. Was he young or old? Tamwyn leaned forward in the dung heap, trying to see better, but he just couldn’t tell.

  Then there was his hat. If it really was a hat! Wide-brimmed, with a crown that curled like one of Tamwyn’s wood shavings, it hung down over one ear, as lopsided as any hat could be.

  To Tamwyn’s surprise, the tree spirits didn’t scatter and hide. They simply flowed around the man, moving as smoothly as honey poured from a bowl. All at once they joined their long arms, enclosing him in a circle. There they stood, swaying expectantly under the nighttime stars, as if waiting for him to perform.

  Of course! A bard.

  Sure enough, the man pulled a small lute from his cloak and plucked a single resonant chord. Then, his face grave but respectful, he gave the willowy figures a deep bow.

  As he bent forward, his hat fell off. Tamwyn started to chuckle, then caught his breath. For sitting on top of the bard’s bald head was a small, teardrop-shaped creature with bluish skin, flecked with gold. It wore nothing but a long translucent robe that shimmered in the starlight. And though the features of its narrow face were delicate, they seemed also very flexible—and very expressive. Right now, the creature’s wide mouth was curled downward, in a mixture of impatience and boredom. Or maybe lack of air from being too long under the hat.

  Just then, the creature started to hum—a rolling, layered hum that was both far deeper and much higher than any sound Tamwyn had ever heard. It vibrated in his ears, and even more, in his bones. He felt slightly giddy, as if he’d drunk too much mead, caught up in a swirl of emotions too strange to name. And he knew, without doubt, just what sort of creature this was.

  A museo, he thought, feeling a new surge of awe. He knew about them, of course—who in Avalon didn’t?—but he’d never seen one before. Or heard one hum, in that amazing voice. Now he truly understood the old saying As rare as the note from a museo’s throat.

  And besides, as Tamwyn knew well, museos themselves were rare, even in their native realm of Shadowroot. People disagreed about whether they had always been so few in number, or whether they had been hunted down by the dark elves, death dreamers, and other savage creatures in Shadowroot who had no use for songs of any kind. Some people believed that the museos been driven out of Shadowroot altogether, centuries ago, after some of them sided with the humans, wood elves, and eaglefolk in the bloody fighting of the Age of Storms.

  Whatever the truth, this much was agreed: What few museos existed no longer lived in Shadowroot. Over the centuries, they’d been reported in most of the other realms of Avalon—even, it was said, in faraway Woodroot. They usually traveled with a bard, but not just any one would do. Only the wisest and most skillful bard could hope to win the loyalty of a museo.

  Tamwyn shifted in the dung heap, suddenly puzzled. Could that silly old man with the sideways-growing beard really be enough of a bard to carry a museo?

  As if in answer, the bard strummed a new chord on his lute. He swayed jauntily, though his face remained serious. Starlight glinted off his horizontal whiskers. And he began to sing, more clearly than a meadowlark on a summer morn.

  The oldest song I sing ye now

  Of dreams that yet survive,

  Of yearning, suff’ring, hopes long lost—

  And spirit still alive.

  So that’s what they’ve chosen, thought Tamwyn. It was “The Ballad of Avalon’s Birth”—his world’s oldest and most cherished song. He’d heard it many times before, to be sure. But never like this.

  He leaned farther forward. And opened himself to the song, at once so old and so new.

  7 • The Ballad of Avalon’s Birth

  Tamwyn stretched forward, listening.

  The night air remained cold, but he felt warmer than before. Not just from the heat of the dung surrounding him, nor from the pleasing sight of all those thousands of stars above. Instead, this new warmth came from the music itself—music made from the voice of a bard, the hum of a museo, and the pluck of a lute. And from something else . . . something more magical still.

  The oldest song I sing ye now

  Of dreams that yet survive,

  Of yearning, suff’ring, hopes long lost—

  And spirit still alive.

  The mythic birth of Avalon,

  A world begun a seed,

  Embraces all we might become

  And lo, what all we need.

  Yet in the seed is found as well

  The greed and rage and fears

  That make the freely flowing rill

  Become a trail of tears.

  What shall become of Avalon,

  Our dream, our deepest need?

  What glory or despair shall sprout

  From Merlin’s magic seed?

  The seed that beat just like a heart

  Was won by Merlin’s hand

  When he the magic Mirror saved

  And found a distant land.

  The wizard Merlin lost his home,

  Fincayra wrapped in mist—

  But gained the seed, a simple sphere,

  By endless wonders kissed.

  So even as Fincayra fell,

  And heard his parting speech,

  The Isle Forgotten joined the shore

  Impossible to reach.

  A day of miracles emerged

  From winter’s longest night—

  A day of wings, and children brave,

  And dazzling dreams so bright.

  Yet none of these could e’er outshine

  The secret of the seed.

  It held a Tree of boundless size

  And lo, a whole new creed:

  That creatures all might live in peace,

  With Nature’s bounty theirs;

  That here between the other worlds

  Exists a world that dares

  To celebrate the sweep of life

  That walks or swims or flies,

  To honor ev’ry living thing

  That breathes and grows and dies.

  Fair Avalon, the Tree of Life

  That ev’ry creature knows—

  A world part Heaven and part Earth

  And part what wind that blows.

  The bard paused, allowing his words to echo through the night: And part what wind that blows . . . what wind . . . that blows . . . that blows . . . that blows.

  His eyes glistened darkly. Then he turned just a bit so that he almost faced the stable and the dung heap. Tamwyn couldn’t be sure, but he felt that maybe the bard had seen him. And was watching him from the edge of those dark eyes.

  Tamwyn sat utterly still, hardly daring to breathe. Please, he thought. Please don’t leave. Let me hear more!

  Just then, the tree spirits surrounding the bard began to dance. Their willowy shapes spun in slow, graceful circles; their long hair flowed outward, gleaming in the light of the stars. All at once, they kicked their rootlike legs, arching their backs li
ke saplings bent with snow. Yet their faces, still and somber, never changed. Around and around the bard they spun, their slender feet never touching the ground.

  The museo, meanwhile, leaned back a bit on the bard’s bald head so that its narrow face turned toward the stars. It started to hum louder than before. Just one note—a single note that rolled right underneath the bard’s echoing words, carrying them farther and farther, like a swelling wave on a boundless sea.

  The note pierced Tamwyn’s heart, emptied it out, then filled it up completely. Feelings swept through him, one after another. First loneliness, then hope, then yearning for something powerful—something he couldn’t quite grasp, nor even name. Yet he wanted it, longed for it, ached for it dearly.

  At last, the bard strummed again upon his lute. The museo’s hum grew quieter; the tree spirits stopped their dance. Then the bard tilted his head slightly, half of his beard shining with starlight, and began to sing:

  Now mist surrounds another world—

  The world of Avalon.

  Its roots enormous are the realms

  That all may live upon.

  Above the root-realms stands the trunk,

  A bridge that binds us all:

  Between the Earth and Otherworld,

  Our Avalon stands tall.

  And so the Tree’s foundation is

  The Seven Realms of lore:

  First Mudroot, where new life begins,

  Malóch its name of yore.

  Then Shadowroot, so dark and cold,

  Lastrael was its name;

  And Stoneroot with its mountains high

  Olanabram became.

  Now Waterroot, so wide and deep,

  Brynchilla called at first;

  And Fireroot, fair Rahnawyn,

  By foes too often cursed.

  Next Airroot, home to sylphs afloat

  In Y Swylarna’s skies;

  And Woodroot, most remote of all,

  El Urien so wise.

  I ask again and asked afore

  The question ages old—

  The question clear whose answer still

  Has never been foretold:

  What shall become of Avalon,

  Our dream, our deepest need?