The Great Tree of Avalon (21 page)

She concentrated harder on the twin circles of stars. One by one, she counted them, then gazed at their hues of green, scarlet, and lavender blue. All at once, she stopped. A particularly bright star, richly blue, drew her attention. She peered at it—when suddenly it seemed to flash.

A burst of blue light filled her mind. And with it, something more: an image, as visible as the Mysteries themselves. In the center of the inner circle, she could see a wide blue lake, shrouded by swirling mist. Then, emerging out of the mist, the form of a woman, very old but still tall and vibrant. And very beautiful. Her silver hair, bunched in countless curls, fell over her shoulders onto her shawl and gown of deep, textured green. Around her neck hung some sort of amulet made of leaves.

The Lady of the Lake.
It was she! As Llynia watched, breathless, the woman raised her hand, palm out, in greeting.

Llynia’s heart leaped. This was the very same vision that she’d had before the Council of Elders! But this time it was much more vivid and detailed. So she’d really seen the Lady. And her powers were, indeed, returning.

Suddenly, the image blurred. Mist rose off the lake, consuming the woman’s gown, her face, and last of all, her hand. An instant later, she was gone.

But Llynia clapped her hands in delight. She’d seen a vision. A vision of the Lady! And the great enchantress had welcomed her—yes, with an open hand. So she would get there after all! She would find the secret lair, the blue lake covered in mist. And whatever else happened, that meant that she would surely become the next High Priestess—and the first to meet the Lady face-to-face.

Meanwhile, at the very bottom of the knoll, another sort of spiritual experience was taking place. An experience with less talking and more listening.

Elli sat with her back against the beech tree. Its broad trunk, silver in the starlight, wore knots and gnarls from many seasons. Like all the other trees in these hills, its branches seemed brittle with dryness, its leaves bland in color. Yet the old tree still looked sturdy, and much of its bark felt as smooth as a stream-washed stone. She had started her meditation, as always, by just closing her eyes and relaxing. Breathing slowly. Listening with all her being to the living earth, the rooted tree, and the all-embracing air.

Centered now in that place, and that moment, Elli stretched out her senses even farther. As if she were casting a net, or a spider’s web as light as the threads in the High Priestess’s gown, she reached out to the rock beside her foot, the sprig of brown moss along its edge, and the lone beetle passing there on the way home. As her senses expanded, she could smell the dried rose hips and the stand of maples growing below the knoll. She could hear the far-off whisper of wings, sparrows perhaps, high above the beech tree. And she could feel the faint yearning for moisture in the soil, just as she could in her own skin.

Some words came to mind, words written long ago by Rhia, daughter of Elen the Founder:

Listen to Creation’s morning,
Waking all around you.
Feel the spark of dawn within,
Breaking day has found you.

That was Rhia’s description of what real meditation was like. It made Elli feel that she understood something about the early Drumadians’ way of connecting with their world. How she wished she could still talk with Rhia! Of all the people who had been alive when Avalon was born, Rhia—or, as she was called by some, Rhiannon—intrigued her most of all. Elli’s father had told her many stories about Rhia: how she lived most of her childhood in a great oak tree in Lost Fincayra; how she saved the life of Merlin during his Quest of the Seven Songs; and how she helped her mother, Elen, found the Society of the Whole, becoming its second High Priestess. Elli had heard, too, that Rhia had resigned in a huff as High Priestess, storming out of the Drumadians’ compound with a vow never to return. But if that had really happened, no one had ever been able to tell Elli why.

Something fluttered on her knee. She opened her eyes. Resting on the worn cloth of her robe sat a beautiful moth whose light green wings, rimmed with white lines, tapered gracefully at the back. Elli looked into the moth’s dark brown eyes. Its feathery antennae quivered, and its wings closed together.

Gently, she stretched out a finger and brushed the moth’s leg. “So, little one, you are meditating, too. And why not? You’re a living creature, just like me. And you can be a priestess, too! A priestess of your own kind. With plenty to learn from the Great Tree, and lots to teach the likes of me.”

A shadow suddenly fell across her robe, blocking the starlight. The startled moth beat its wings and flew off. Then Llynia’s voice shattered the stillness.

“That’s outrageous, Elli.”

She looked up into the stern face of the priestess. And shook her head. “Outrageous? Why?”

Llynia pointed her finger at Elli’s face, as if she were lecturing a child. “Priestesses must be human, that’s why! Among all the creatures of Avalon, we’re the only ones with the knowledge, skills, and wisdom to serve as emissaries of the Goddess and God. To carry on the sacred work of the Order.”

Elli scrunched up her nose. “Is that what you think we are? Emissaries of the gods?” She stood up and faced the priestess who held the title of Chosen One. “Well, I disagree. And I think High Priestess Coerria would, as well.”

The mention of that name made Llynia scowl. “You have no right to use . . . to be . . . anything! You’re not a priestess, Elliryanna. Just a homeless vagabond! Someone a dottering old woman took pity on, nothing more.”

Elli’s face flushed. “She is ten thousand times the person—the priestess—that you’ll ever be!”

“Oh? You’ll never last long enough to see what sort of priestess I will be.” A vengeful light came into Llynia’s eyes. “That I will see to myself.”

The long arm of Fairlyn, smelling of lemon balm, touched Llynia’s shoulder. But she brushed it off and glared at Elli for another moment. Finally she strode back up the knoll, muttering, “Moths as priestesses. Moths!”

From his seat by the cooking fire, Tamwyn had watched their encounter. For the first time in days, as he saw Elli standing alone under the beech tree, he felt a twinge of something other than anger. Something more like sympathy. Despite the fact that she’d given him two black eyes in less than a week, and most likely deserved whatever scolding she got, he wondered whether she might actually be more than just a violent hothead. But when she turned and looked his way, he averted his gaze.

Suddenly a small object sailed out of the night, swerved to avoid the stew pot, and crashed into Tamwyn’s shoulder. Whatever it was tumbled down onto his lap.

When he looked down, he saw what looked like a crumpled mass of old leaves. Then he noticed the subtle green aura that surrounded it. Touching it gently with his finger, he found a pair of thin flaps, one folded tight and the other pulled over a tiny, mouselike face with cupped ears. Wings!

A bat, then. Or some sort of bat spirit—shaped like its original host, as Fairlyn was shaped like a lilac elm, but different in many other ways. Whatever it was, it looked awfully scrawny . . . but still alive.

Gently, Tamwyn rubbed the back of the bat-thing’s neck, just behind his furry ears.
You’re going to be fine, little one. Picked a soft place to land, you did. A bit dirty, but soft.

The green aura grew steadily stronger. Tamwyn could see a subtle brightening, especially in the creature’s eyes. With a sudden jolt, the little fellow rolled over, shook his head, and flapped a crumpled wing.

Aglow with green light, he turned toward Tamwyn. Then he started to speak—not right into Tamwyn’s mind, the way other animals did, but aloud, in the Common Tongue. And he spoke very fast, with a strange accent that Tamwyn had never heard before.

“Woojaja lika see me do do do tricksies? Me lovey do tricksies! Woojaja woojaja woojaaa?”

The bat-thing seemed so enthusiastic that Tamwyn couldn’t help but smile. “So,” he whispered, “you like to do tricks, do you? Great, but not right now. I’m trying to finish cooking.”

“Ooee ooee ooee, manny man! I can doosy do most excellent tricksies.”

“Fine, fine. But not now. My stew—”

“Stewey gooey. Watchy watch, too! Please?” The batlike creature twisted his whole head upside down. “Pleeeeeasey please? Oh, manny man, pleeeeease?”

Tamwyn glanced down at the pot, which was simmering nicely. And smelling better by the minute. “Oh, all right then. Just one trick. But be quick about it.”

Instantly, the creature’s green glow swelled brighter. He flapped hard, took off, and started zipping around Tamwyn’s head in an erratic pattern. Once he did an aerial roll and twirl combined—which would have been perfect except that his wing clipped Tamwyn’s nose. Suddenly Tamwyn sneezed, spraying the creature, who spun out of control and landed with a splat right in the stew pot.

“Owwy wow, hot!” screeched the little beast, leaping straight out of the pot to land on the ground. He flapped hard to shake some globs of hot stew off his wings, then spun around to curse the pot. “You ucky mucky poopy pile!”

“Ah, well, sorry about that.” Tamwyn tried his best not to laugh out loud. “But my stew’s for eating, not for landing. Anyway, you did great up till then. What a trick!”

“It’s lotsy better,” the bat-thing said glumly, “when manny man no sneezy-goo all over me.”

“Right, I’m sure.” Tamwyn reached over to stir the stew again.

But the wacky little fellow flew up and landed on his forearm. “You really like me tricksies? Telly me truth.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied. “I liked them. Now let me work.”

The green eyes brightened again. “Goody good good! Then me doosy do some more!”

“No,” he pleaded.

“Butsy but, me do do better now. No more sneezy-goo.”

Tamwyn sighed heavily. “All right, how about this? You do tricks, just over there—and I’ll keep on cooking right here. That way I can watch you, but we’ll have no more sneezy-goo.”

“And no more poopy pile,” added the little beast.

“Right,” agreed Tamwyn. “So do you like this plan?”

The bat-creature rubbed his face with the edge of his wing. “Mmm . . . no! Me me no likey plan.” His little mouth opened in a yawn. “Me me too sleepy now for doing tricksies.”

Tamwyn shook his head. “Fine then. You go nap someplace, and I’ll finish cooking.”

“Nappy nap? Goody idea! Oh yessa ya ya ya. Meya Battygad, see? Battygad like nappy naps.”

With that, the furry fellow tottered over to a thick bunch of grass, lay down, and wrapped himself inside his wing. From under the leathery blanket came a muffled yawn, and a small voice. “Nice and softy warm here, ya ya ya.”

The young man just had to grin. Looking down at his newfound friend, he said, “Battygad, is it? More like a batty lad, if you ask me! Yes, Batty Lad—whatever you really are, that’s a perfect name for you.”

Tamwyn gave the stew a stir, tasted it, and added a pinch more garlic grass. Then, as it simmered over the fire, he glanced up at the stars.

So many of them . . . like luminous fields that stretched on and on forever. Even with one star less than he was accustomed to seeing, the night sky shone brilliantly. There was Pegasus, soaring with outstretched wings, flying like an eagle. Or, he thought suddenly, an eagleman.

A slight movement, barely a wink of light, caught his attention. It came from another constellation, a row of six stars not far above the horizon: the Wizard’s Staff. But now only five stars gleamed there.

Another star had gone dark.

17
•
Hoofprints

Tamwyn added a few more bay leaves to the stew, as well as the last of the bark strips, and stirred some more. But his thoughts were not on the pot below him so much as the night sky above him.

What was going on with the stars? What did it all mean?

Using a spare spoon, he nudged the glowing coals of his cooking fire. A pair of sparks flew up, then winked out, just as those two stars had done.

He turned to the small, furry creature who lay on the grass, wrapped in a leathery wing. What sort of beast was Batty Lad? Part bat, part something else... with those glowing green eyes, bright as sparks themselves? Well, whatever he was, he was certainly sound asleep.

Tamwyn pushed the coals together into a mound under the pot. They would keep the stew warm for a good twenty minutes—all the stew needed.

And all that he needed, as well, to do something that never failed to clear his head when he felt troubled. It was something that he’d been wanting to do all day, even before he’d seen the Wizard’s Staff. No—all week.

Run.

Just run.

He peered down the knoll and gave a wave to Fairlyn, whose boughs were entwined with those of the old beech. “Would you mind stirring for a while?”

The tall maryth regarded him solemnly, light from the evening stars in her eyes. Though her opinion of Tamwyn had clearly softened since the incident with the worms, she still treated everyone but Llynia with a certain aloofness. After a moment, though, she withdrew her boughs from the beech and bent her trunk in a nod.

Tamwyn smiled. As Fairlyn climbed up the knoll, he trotted down. At the bottom of the slope he leaped over a toppled trunk and started to run up a long, rock-strewn valley. His bare feet thumped the ground at first, then struck more softly as he picked up speed. Cool night air rushed over his face and pushed his hair behind his shoulders. He loped through a stretch of tall grasses, as dry as thatch but sweet as barley, that swished against his leggings. And jumped over a tightly woven spider’s web, glittering in the starlight.

Tamwyn’s legs churned harder as he ran up a steep rise. He felt his heart pumping, his breath surging, with every stride. When he reached the crest, he slowed just a bit, and saw that he was running at the same speed as a fluffy white seed caught by the wind. With a gust, the wind picked up speed; so did Tamwyn. All three of them—the seed, the man, and the wind—raced ahead. They flew along, moving as one, flowing smoothly over the land.

Now he belonged to the wind.

Tamwyn ran even faster. He jumped the mound of a badger’s den, and then veered to avoid a family of ptarmigan out for an evening stroll. As he took a high bound to clear a boulder, he thought of the tales he’d heard bards sing about the deer people—a clan in Lost Fincayra who could change themselves into deer whenever they wished.