In time, I emerged and quickly rinsed my clothes. And also my staff, my leather satchel, and—though it gave me a pang to see it empty—my scabbard, studded with purple gemstones. I marveled at how, despite all the putrid muck we had washed off, the liquid of the bowl shone as clear as ever.
I dressed and gave the ballymag a slight bow. “Whatever magic you used to fill that bowl, and us, with liquid light, it was marvelous indeed. If I didn’t thank you properly before, I do now.”
His tails curled and uncurled in unison. “Don’t flatterwoo me, manmonster.”
“It’s true,” added Hallia, leaning her back against the soft, glistening wall. “You have great magic, as does this place. I’ve never seen or heard of a spot like this. To think it’s right beneath that swamp! It’s really the reverse of all that horror above, and yet somehow connected to it, too.”
I ran my open hand along the flowing contours of the floor. “It’s so lush, so verdant, so rich in here. Like a garden. No, no, that’s not it. More like . . . a womb.”
Hallia’s eyes danced in the light. “Yes. Like being inside of a womb.”
I moved closer to her side. “Even that doesn’t quite describe it. Maybe it’s just one of those things that simply can’t be reduced to a word.”
“Wrongfoolish,” grumbled the ballymag. “There be a verilous, perfectsay word.”
Annoyed, I glared at him. “All right, then. If there is a word, what is it?”
The ballymag’s whiskers lifted slightly. “Mooshlovely.”
PART TWO
11: A TRAIL MARKED UPON THE HEART
We slept, nestled against the soft walls of the ballymag’s underground home. When finally I awoke, however many hours later, I felt pinched with hunger. And painfully stiff in the tender spot between my shoulder blades. As I stretched my arms, Hallia, who was already awake and seated next to the ballymag, handed me a thick brown roll. It was a leaf, stuffed with a doughy substance that smelled like a mixture of honey, nuts—and mud.
Hungry as I was, I took several quick bites. The ballymag, his tails rhythmically coiling and uncoiling, watched me expectantly.
“It’s very . . . filling,” I said, trying not to offend our host.
“You thankously welcomesay,” he replied, proudly twirling his whiskers. “Thisotreat cametook from winterstores, callit gobblejoy.”
“Gobblejoy.” I tried, with difficulty, to swallow my mouthful.
“And heretaste for drinksome.” Using three claws, the ballymag scooped up a wooden drinking bowl. He rested it on his prominent paunch, which protruded like a shelf. “Makeyou easytime for gulpchew.”
“Mmmff,” I answered, still trying to swallow the first course.
Hallia took a sip from her own wooden bowl. “It’s like spice soup, but cold. Try it.”
Taking the bowl, I peered into it cautiously. On the surface of the clear broth, I saw my own wavering reflection. My face, even my hair, had taken on the green hues of the walls around me. Then, bringing the bowl to my lips, I drank. A burst of cloves, or possibly anise, struck my tongue. Then marigold, the low-lying sort that thrives in wet turf; a strong flavor of mushroom; and delicate hints of singing-rush and gingerroot. Lowering the bowl, I looked approvingly at the ballymag.
“Did you collect all the ingredients yourself? From up there, in the swamp?”
Quite suddenly, his customary look of fear returned. His eyes, glistening with green, narrowed slightly. “Somotime soonshort they findcome.” The coiled tails lining his spine flexed tightly. “And killoscream horribulously.”
I shook my head. “Really, I don’t understand.” I turned my face toward the ceiling of the chamber, watching the waves of light flow over it like a waterfall. “Why do they want to kill us?”
Hallia, still sipping her soup, grunted. “Because they are marsh ghouls.”
“No, no, there’s something more. You heard that woman in the forest. They have never acted so viciously before.”
“Verilously,” intoned the ballymag, giving his whiskers a stroke. “Butathey plentylots viciousmaim now.”
Putting down her bowl, Hallia looked sullen. “The ghouls may be worse now, for some reason. But they’ve always been the bane of the marsh. Even in ancient times, when my people made the trek to the Flaming Tree—even then, marsh ghouls made sure that some never returned.”
“Flaming Tree?” I asked. “What is that?”
“A wonder,” she answered. “A tree, deep in the heart of the marsh, that was always aflame, since before the first fawn came to run upon this land.” Her steady gaze swallowed me. “Long ago, when Fincayrans still wore their wings, the deer people were plentiful. So plentiful that we lived everywhere that grass could grow—even, it is said, on the shores of the Forgotten Island far to the west. Except for one place: this very swamp. But to prove their courage when they reached adulthood, every deer maiden and man came to this place all alone, and spent three full days by the Flaming Tree.” She frowned. “Even though the marsh ghouls only stalk by night, they still waylaid many.”
“Is that why,” I asked gently, “the rite was abandoned?”
Shaking her flowing hair, she looked down at the floor. “That had to do, my father told me, with the same wickedness that cost us all our wings. And while your kind was doomed to remember your fall by the ache within your backs, in the spot where wings might have sprouted, my own kind received a different punishment. For us, the Flaming Tree—symbol of our lost courage and freedom—lurks always in our dreams. Though many generations have passed since deer people trekked there, it is said that any one of us could still find the way, for the trail is forever marked upon our hearts.”
Pondering her words, I worked my stiff shoulders. To my dismay, my shadow leaped away from me and started dancing across the luminous walls, turning cartwheels and somersaults, spinning as lightly as a blowing seed. Although no one else seemed to notice its gyrations, I knew that my second sight hadn’t deceived me. That shadow, once again, was mocking me! I wished I could tear it away from myself completely. Yes! And cast it into the remotest part of the swamp.
Hallia lifted her head—just as the shadow leaped back to my side. “Now you can see why I’m not surprised by the marsh ghouls’ latest behavior. They are terrible creatures. Worthless creatures.”
“Worthless?” I bristled at the word. “Are you certain?”
“You don’t know them.”
“I know enough.” I pursed my lips. “Long ago, in the most desolate land you can imagine, I was very nearly killed by a creature that everyone, including me, considered worthless. But later, when I had the chance to destroy it, I didn’t—because I had discovered something about it that was valuable, truly valuable.”
Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “And what creature was that?”
“A dragon.” I watched her expression slowly change. “The same dragon who became the father of Gwynnia.”
She swallowed. Then, her face full of wonder, she gazed at me for a long moment. “Young hawk, you will make a fine wizard one day.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Still observing me, she began braiding her locks. “I didn’t mean to upset you. But isn’t being a wizard still your dream?”
“Yes, yes. It’s just that, these days, everyone else seems to see my dreams more clearly than I do.”
She paused in her braiding. “They’re still your dreams, you know. Your visions of the future. You can change them if you want to.”
“I don’t want to! Can’t you see? But the future itself, that can change. For years now, whenever I look into the future, what looks back at me is a wizard—and yes, a great wizard. That’s what I see. Or, at least, what I want to see.” I chewed on my lip for a moment. “Yet . . . what if that doesn’t turn out to be true? Maybe it was only a false vision to begin with.”
“Maybe it was,” she replied. “And maybe not.”
With a sigh, I said, “We should go now.”
Tying off her
braid, she nodded in assent.
Suddenly the ballymag leaped into Hallia’s lap. His eyes at their widest, he moaned, “Nowoewoe, please! Makedon’t mepoorme riskycome. Oh, nowoewoe.”
“We won’t,” she answered, stroking his curved back. Gently, she entwined her fingers with one of his tails. “You’ve done enough for us already. And you have given us a gift we won’t forget.”
The ballymag wriggled closer to her and gave a high squeak that echoed in the luminous chamber. “Well . . . truthsay is, you diddo muchously wellogood to savehelp my lifetender.” Then, with a glance, at me, he clacked two of his claws. “Thoughnearly you maimkilled mepoorme thenafter.”
“My apologies.” I extended my hand. “If we must part company, then, let’s do so as friends.”
The ballymag watched me cautiously. Suddenly, in one swift motion, he slapped his tail across my cheek, so hard I fell into the wall. Before I regained my balance, he had jumped off Hallia’s lap and vanished down a thin crevasse in the floor. For a few seconds, the sound of his body sliding through moist tunnels came back to us. Then—nothing.
Hallia, her eyes laughing, stroked my cheek. “Something tells me that’s not his usual good-bye.”
I scowled. “He must save that for his dearest friends.”
For a moment, we scanned the glowing surfaces, rippling with shades of green, all around us. When again would we see a place so lush, so alive—yet so near to another place reeking of death and decay? Then, as one, we turned toward the end of the chamber where a large passageway opened. From the movement of light, I could see that it angled upward. “That’s our route, I think. Are you ready?”
“No,” came her hushed reply. “But I’m coming anyway.”
Together, we entered the passageway. Soon the walls drew closer and the ceiling bent downward, forcing us to crouch. And before long, to crawl. In time, the green illumination of the walls began to fade, overpowered by the tentacles of darkness that probed ever nearer. The air grew rancid, heavy with the smells of things rotting.
At one point, Hallia hesitated, wiping her watering eyes with her sleeve. I started to speak, but her severe glance cut me off. An instant later we were crawling again, moving upward into the gloom. All at once, both of our heads bumped into something. Hard yet flexible, its slimy surface bent to our touch, like the peeling bark of a tree. It was, I realized, a slab of peat. Bracing myself against the wall of the passage, I prepared to push the slippery barrier aside.
Hallia, crouching by my side, squeezed my hand. “Wait. Just a moment longer. Before we go out there.”
Under my breath, I cursed, “By the breath of Dagda, I’d rather not leave this place at all.”
“I know. Down there, down deep, it’s so safe and quiet and, well, complete. I haven’t felt that way since . . . long ago, when we sat on that beach together, at the shore of my clan’s ancestors. Do you remember?”
I drew a slow, thoughtful breath. “The shore where the threads of mist were woven together.”
“By the greatest of the spirits himself,” she whispered. “My father used to say that Dagda used as his needle the trail of a falling star. And his weaving became a living, limitless tapestry—containing all the words ever spoken, all the stories ever told. Each thread glowing, richly textured, holding something of words and something else, as well. Something beyond all weaving, beyond all knowing.”
Listening to the echo of her words, I wondered about my own story, my own place in the tapestry. Was I a weaver? Or merely a thread? Or perhaps a kind of light within the thread, able somehow to make it glow?
“One day, Hallia, we’ll go back to that shore. And to others, as well.” I pulled my hand from hers. “Not now, though.”
Pressing my shoulders against the soggy mass of peat, I heaved. A sucking, squelching sound erupted. At the same time, muddy water flowed over us. Plus a new wave of odors, more putrid than ever. Sputtering, Hallia crawled out into the swamp. I followed, dropping the slab behind us with a cold splash.
12: TOO SILENT
Quiet lay the marshes—strangely quiet, like a heart at the very edge of beating. Gone were all the wails and moans, as well as the backdrop of pipings and creakings, that we had heard before. Hallia and I traded uncertain glances as we stepped into the swamp, our feet squelching loudly.
Steaming vapors rose all around, tying knots of mist, churning endlessly. Judging from the vague light filtering through the clouds, it seemed to be late afternoon, though it could easily have been some other time of day. While I felt a surge of gratitude that at least some daylight brightened the swamp, keeping the marsh ghouls at bay for the moment, I knew that it wouldn’t last long. Soon darkness, thicker than the mud on my boots, would return. As would the ghouls.
We stood in a putrid pool, listening to the eerie quiet. The swamp seemed empty, a lifeless receptacle of molding plants and debris. So different from the vibrant underground world we had left behind! For an instant, I recalled the tingling touch of liquid light on my skin: my forearms, my lower back, the soles of my feet. Then the memory vanished, replaced by the reality of muck oozing inside of my boots.
Hallia stepped closer, sending ripples of slime across the pool. “It’s so silent.”
“Too silent.”
Concentrating hard, I stretched my second sight as far as I could into the swirling vapors. Past the murky pool, banked with peat. Past the moss-splattered boulder where a lone crane perched, never blinking, ready to fly at the first sign of trouble. Past the gnarled tree in the distance, tilting almost to the point of toppling into the marsh grass. The tree shone as white as a skeleton, with only a few shreds of bark on its trunk and a mass of dead leaves clinging to one of its branches.
For the briefest instant I caught the scent of something new. Unlike the rest of the aromas assaulting us, this smell was actually pleasant—almost sweet. Although it vanished before I could be sure that I hadn’t just imagined it, the smell reminded me of blossoming flowers. Yes, that was it. Rose blossoms.
Hallia leaned closer. “Where do we go now?”
Again, I tried to gauge the light. It seemed to be growing darker. I smiled sardonically, telling myself that at least for the time being I wouldn’t be facing any more trouble from my shadow. What trouble we would be facing, though, I didn’t want to think about.
“Best we find someplace to wait out the night.” I pointed toward the leaning tree. “Over there, beyond that dead tree, is some sort of rise.”
“Dry enough to have no snakes?”
“I think so. All I see growing there is some sort of shrubbery, dotted with berries, I think. Red ones.”
Hallia followed the line of my gaze. “Your vision is so much better than mine in this mist,” she lamented. “I can’t even see the tree, let alone what lies beyond.”
I sighed, stirring the murky water with my boot. “The most important things that lie beyond, I can’t see either.”
We started slogging through the muck, our footsteps echoing over the watery terrain. Rather than breaking the silence, our movement seemed to emphasize it, deepen it. After each step, the quiet took hold again, as if its own relentless steps were following just behind ours.
Through the steaming pools we trudged, doing our best to avoid the decaying branches floating there. At one point I saw, hanging from a branch, a single leaf that seemed to glow in the half-light. I paused to watch it swaying slowly, like a long-forgotten flag. Its fleshy interior had almost completely disintegrated, leaving only a delicate tracery of veins. Placing my hand behind it, I marveled at how much I could see through the open places—and yet how much of the shape of the original leaf still remained. How could so much of it be invisible, and yet visible, at the same time?
Suddenly I heard Hallia groan. I whirled around to see her standing rigid, staring at something at the edge of a murky pool. Slogging to her side, my attention fell to a rotting, dismembered carcass that lay on the peat. What little of the hide remained shone tan and gray. A tw
isted leg, stripped of all its meat, stretched toward us, its hoof stained with blood.
Hallia groaned again and pressed her face against my shoulder. “A deer, poor thing. How could anyone have done that?”
I merely held her, the image of the glowing leaf now replaced by the gruesome scene before us. In time, without looking back, we started to plod again. Once more, we heard nothing but silence apart from our own movements. But now it seemed clearly the silence of death.
We crossed a mound of peat, which jiggled with our every step, then entered the field of marsh grass surrounding the tilting tree. Stiff stalks brushed against our legs as we approached the tree itself. As Hallia leaned against its trunk, I stood beneath its twisted boughs, trying to find a path we could follow to the rise—and, I hoped, to relative safety. In time, I picked out a suitable route. Pushing aside some brittle grass that reached to my chest, I turned to Hallia.
Suddenly the sharp cry of the crane echoed across the swamp. It lifted off from its perch on the nearby boulder, slapping the fog with its broad, silvery wings. Puzzled at what could have frightened it, I scanned the grasses, but saw nothing. Hallia’s eyes told me that she, too, was puzzled, as well as frightened.
We stood rigid, listening. The beating of the crane’s wings slowly faded away, swallowed by the silence. Then . . . I thought I heard something else. Merely an echo of the bird’s flight? No, this sound seemed closer. Much closer. Rhythmic, like shallow, ragged breathing.
At that instant, something dropped out of the tree and thudded into my back. I fell face-first into the grasses, splattering mud in all directions. Before I could recover, I was tackled by a wiry form shrouded in a mass of torn robes. Over and over we rolled through the muck, each of us vying for control. The layers of tattered robes made my assailant hard to see—and even harder to grasp. At last, I felt my arm wrenched tightly behind my back. A strong hand clamped around my neck.