The Mirror of Fate (21 page)

At last, having untangled himself, he gazed at me. “Now, my lad, before we speak of things future—or is it things past?—let us have a meal, a genuine repast. Shall we? One doesn’t often join oneself for dinner, after all.”

“Yes, oh yes!” exclaimed Arthur, clapping his hands. “Except for that, well . . .” He waved a hand at me. “That whatever-it-was you gave me under the trees, I haven’t eaten for three days.”

“Which, to a boy your age feels like three centuries.” The elder snapped a pair of bony fingers. “And which, to a man my age, feels like next to nothing. Oh, but it’s a lovely way to gain perspective on life, this living on endlessly! Interminably, I should say. Only a fossil could tell you more—if, indeed, a fossil could speak.”

“Fossil?”

“Why yes, my lad. You’ll learn to think not in terms of life spans, or centuries even, but geologic time. Truly! Periods so vast that even the present era, Cenozoic, started sixty-five
million
years ago.” Seeing my puzzled expression, he went on: “Of course, I agree, it can be unnerving, and confusing at times. Especially when you add in the living backward part.”

I caught my breath. “The what?”

“Later, my lad, later.” He stroked the forested knob of his chin. “We must have a bite to eat. But first, we need some light, what what?”

Once again he waved his arm, this time keeping clear of his beard. Light suddenly flashed, filling the entire chamber. All around us, assorted objects glittered (despite the layers of dust covering many of them)—whether they rested on the stone floor, the high wooden cupboard whose shelves sagged with leather-bound volumes, the lavishly decorated walls, or the ceiling itself. Some of the objects I recognized immediately, such as the strings of drying roots, herbs, and bark shavings—tied in bundles with a sprig of cedar, just as my mother always did to keep her ingredients fresh—that dangled above our heads. Other objects, though, remained utterly obscure: a silver chalice, whose two handles seemed to quiver restlessly; a shallow bowl holding two twirling red arrows; and a ragged manuscript on the oaken table beside us whose pages were busily turning themselves. Even the many rows of bottles and pots, which at first glance seemed unremarkable, bubbled with strange and colorful chemicals that I couldn’t possibly identify.

Suddenly my attention turned from the objects within the chamber to the chamber itself. The walls, the ceiling, the nooks—all glowed with a powerful, pulsing radiance. Awestruck, I clambered to my feet, nearly tripping over my staff that lay on the floor. Slowly, I moved closer to the nearest wall. As I pushed aside a silken drapery, decorated with intertwining blue snakes and silver-green leaves, my heart raced. For I had already guessed what lit the drapery from behind.

Crystals. Thousands upon thousands of them. Utterly different from the crystals of the ballymag’s underground home, this was an immensely varied array, in more colors, shapes, and sizes than I had ever seen. Gently, I ran my fingers over the facets. Some, sharply angled, pricked my skin; others gently arched, felt as smooth as icicles. Each crystal glowed with color—sometimes several colors at once—and all of them sparkled and shimmered continuously. The walls themselves danced with light and movement, as luminous as rainbows, as ever-changing as waterfalls.

Always, crystals had moved me, kindling a light within me as bright as themselves. Yet here radiated crystals beyond even my greatest imaginings. So many of them surrounded me—each one so deep, so rich, worth a lifetime of pondering. And each one blessed with a light, as well as a mystery, of its own.

“Well now,” announced the old man, observing me. “How do you like it?”

He stood by the nearest wall of the chamber, his flowing hair and beard aglow, no less than the crystals. He leaned on a staff, much like my own but far more gnarled and scarred. With a start, I realized that it
was
my own staff, covered with dozens of additional runes, emblems—and what appeared to be teeth marks. Underneath all the new markings, however, I could still recognize the seven symbols of wisdom that I had struggled so hard to gain.

“How do you like it?” he repeated, with a wave of his hand. “A bit cluttered, perhaps, but not altogether uncomfortable.”

“It’s magnificent.” I gave the hint of a grin. “One might even say . . . incomparable.”

He gave a slight bow, swishing the folds of the dark blue cape, sparkling with embroidered stars, that overlay his tunic. But far more impressive than the movement of his cape was the movement of the great, dark form behind him: his shadow. Majestically, it swept across the opposite wall, rising almost to the very ceiling. Even more striking to me, the shadow seemed perfectly obedient, bowing precisely in time with the man.

With the wizard. For that, I now knew, was what he truly was—and what I could one day become. I glanced at my own shadow, so much smaller than his. To my chagrin, it was waving its hand at me in a mocking gesture. My eyes narrowed vengefully, but I could do no more. My day would have to wait. Still, I now had hope that the wait, while it could be very long, might someday be rewarded.

“So,” declared the wizard, “let the feast begin.”

As Arthur nodded eagerly, the old man pressed together the palms of his hands and whispered some secret command. An instant later, a pinewood table—shaped like a circle, of all things—appeared in the middle of the floor. Beside it rested three polished stools. Viewing his new furniture with approval, he pressed his palms again. A bouquet of blue, bell-shaped flowers appeared on one side of the table, with a basket of plump, golden apples on the other. He repeated the motion, producing a sudden burst of aromas. I smelled roasted chicken, mince pie, buttered river trout, steaming hot loaves, and even my childhood favorite, bread pudding. I smelled them, but couldn’t see them. For nothing but the smells had arrived.

“Pigs and paddlewheels!” My elder self growled in frustration and pressed his hands together again, this time so forcefully that his shoulders started shaking and his cheeks took on a crimson hue. Seeing no result, he stopped. Then, breathing hard, he snarled, “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just cook things up the traditional way.”

Arthur, looking famished, glowered. “You can’t cook, that’s why.”

“Er . . . yes, well, you have a point.” He shook himself. “I never was much for tradition anyway.” His brows came together. Staring hard at the table, he muttered a few phrases and pressed his palms yet again.

This time food erupted on the slab of pinewood. All the delights I had smelled appeared, along with many more. There were tall flasks of water and wine (plus some dark, foaming brew that I couldn’t imagine swallowing). A wooden platter held several loaves of steaming hot bread, all baked in the Slantos style; ambrosia bread was the first one I broke apart. Nut cakes and bowls of vegetable soup, honeyed chestnuts and strawberries with cream, mashed beetroot and cheese wrapped in dill, baked turnips and assorted greens—all crowded the table. Immediately, Arthur and I leaped to the stools and fell upon the feast.

The old man watched us approvingly for a while, then pulled up his own stool. He reached for the flask of foaming liquid, poured himself a mug, and—to my amazement—drank deeply. As he lowered the mug, his gaze met my own. With a knowing look, he offered me a swallow.

“No thank you,” I replied, wiping some gravy off my cheek. “It doesn’t look, well, right for me.”

He took another sip. Foam clung to his whiskers as he tilted the mug. “
Ahhh.
Are you certain, my lad? I like it ever so much.”

I shook my head. “No. But the rest of this feast is extraordinary.”

“It’s an acquired taste, I suppose, one of those inexplicable phenomena.” He laid down the mug, almost toppling the plate of beetroot. “Takes a few centuries of getting used to, that’s all.”

Arthur, chewing on some cheese while holding a chicken leg in one hand and a large carrot in the other, nodded. “It’s your best banquet ever, Master.” He tilted his head imploringly. “Could we, perhaps, have a little of that. . .
mmm
, what did you call it? Cold cream?”

The old mage grinned. “Ah, you mean ice cream. Next to helicopters, the most remarkable invention of the twentieth century.” He tugged on his ear thoughtfully. “Even so, a helicopter is still nothing compared to a hummingbird! Did you know their little wings can beat the air more than fifty times per second? And that the
Rufous,
while no bigger than the palm of my hand, can migrate over seven thousand miles every year?”

“Errr . . . no,” I answered truthfully, having absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

“Well then,” he declared. “What about that ice cream?” He winked, and three wooden bowls appeared. A soft, tan sort of pudding filled them, topped with sauce—light brown for us and amber yellow for him. Arthur dropped the chicken leg and plunged straight into his bowl, lifting it to his face. Cautiously, I touched mine first with my finger. So cold! It seemed more like snow than food. I drew back my hand, frowning uncertainly.

“Coffee flavor,” said the elder as he downed a spoonful. “With honeycomb topping on yours.” His grin widened. “And a touch of Armenian cognac on mine.”

“Armenian . . . what did you say?”

“Cognac, my lad. You’ll find out in another millennium. And believe me, it’s worth the wait. It’s even worth the wretched all-day bus ride to that vineyard.”

I frowned. “Bus ride?”

Before he could reply, Arthur lowered his bowl. The honeycomb sauce smeared his chin, cheeks, and nose. He looked ever so much more serene than the frightened boy who had accosted me in the marsh.

“Fumblefeathers!” cried the wizard. “How could I forget? We can’t dine without music, what what?”

With a flourish, he pointed at an elegant harp that hung from the wall above a small bed, or nest perhaps, strewn with downy feathers. Instantly, the harp lifted higher on the wall, revealing its glittering strings. But for the oaken sound box, inlaid with bands of ash, its heart-shaped frame was made from living vines, twined securely around each other. Slender leaves from the vines, vibrant green, draped over the harp’s edges. As the wizard’s fingers snapped, the leaves curled downward—and began to pluck the strings. A soft, drifting melody, as soothing as a splashing stream, filled the crystal cave.

For a moment I watched the plucking leaves, then turned to the elder who sat across the table. “You made that harp yourself, didn’t you?”

“Aye,” he answered wistfully, “but only a power far greater can make the music.”

Just then a flutter of wings descended on us. A plump white goose landed on the table’s edge, not far from the roast chicken. She curled her neck around to face the wizard, her yellow eyes glowering at him. She squawked once, then spoke a single word in her nasal voice: “Disgusting.”

Very nearly, I dropped my bowl. “She speaks?”

The old man raised an eyebrow. “Indubitably.” He took another spoonful of ice cream, being careful not to miss the sauce. “Now, Mary, you don’t have to eat it yourself.”

A white wing slapped angrily, splattering some leeks on the floor. “Marigaunce, if you please. There are strangers present.”

“Marigaunce it is, then. Didn’t I give you that name myself? But, as some bard or other said, what’s in a name, what what? Besides, they aren’t strangers so much as guests. You already know young Arthur. And this handsome young lad is, in truth, my younger self.”

The goose swung her head toward me, stretching her neck to its fullest length. “
Hmmm
,” she muttered. “Handsome isn’t the word I would use.” Her eyes squinted at me. “I only hope you’re less foolish than the old gander over there.”

Dismayed, I considered returning the compliment. But the mage spoke first. “Don’t mind her, lad. When the last of my owls, nineteenth in his line, finally took the Long Journey to join Dagda, I swore I’d never have another bird. They had lived under my roofs (and, come to think of it, under my hats) for several centuries, but enough is enough. Too many droppings—in the hair, in the soup, in the . . . oh well, you understand. Then Mary came along, barely a fledgling, and a half-starved one at that. And though her manners weren’t nearly as developed as her neck, I took pity on her.”

“Bah!” spat the goose. “It was I who pitied you, not the other way around.”

He scratched the end of his beaklike nose, pondering. “I was wondering, my lad, since you’ve come all the way here . . .”

“Yes?”

“Would you like a closer look at my—er, your? No, no . . .
our
crystal cave?”

I beamed at him. “Oh yes.”

“Good then.” He curled his arm around mine. “Let’s take a little tour, shall we?”

Together, we strode over to the tall wooden cupboard loaded with books of every thickness and color. The smell of worn leather grew stronger as we approached (as did the sound of harp strings, since the leaf-draped instrument hung on the cupboard’s far side). With the tip of his finger, my elder self touched the bindings of several volumes, greeting them like venerable colleagues.

For my part, I stood gaping at the sheer number—and diversity—of books on those shelves. The cupboard itself was three or four times larger than any I’d seen before, covering a good portion of the wall. The shelves, and the volumes stacked upon them, glowed with the light of the crystals that seeped through the cracks in the wood. Drawing closer, I could tell that the books had not been separated according to subject. On the contrary, they were shelved with no apparent logic: a botany text sat beside a treatise of Aristotle; a pictorial history of a place called the Ganges River lay in between two volumes titled
Astrophysics: The Long View.
There were books on sea voyages, rare birds, cloud formations, someone named Leonardo da Vinci, healing herbs—and one, called
The Wind in the Willows,
that must have been about weather patterns along riverbeds. Many more books displayed titles in languages that I couldn’t comprehend; of those, most left me with the feeling that I couldn’t understand them even if the tongues had been familiar.

And yet . . . it was clear that
he
understood them. A quiet thrill passed through me as I watched the white-bearded man beside me perusing the shelves. Might I really know so much one day?