The Seven Songs (15 page)

“Iiit iiis theee ooonly hooope youuu haaave.”

“Faro Lanna is so far away from here,” said Rhia despairingly. “It’s a good week’s walk, even if we don’t run into any more trouble.”

“A week!” I groaned. “We don’t have that much time to spare.”

A sudden explosion of white light filled the crystal cave.

15:
C
HANGING

We found ourselves sitting on a grassy field at the edge of a sheer cliff that dropped straight to the sea. As I peered over the edge, I viewed colonies of kittiwakes and silver-winged terns nesting on the cliff wall, screeching and chattering and tending to their young. A cool breeze smacked my face. The smell of salt water seasoned the air. Far below me, the white line of surf melted into bright blue and then into green as dark as jade. Across a wide channel of water, I could barely make out the shape of a small island, dark and mysterious. Behind it billowed the wall of mist that surrounded all of Fincayra.

I turned to Rhia and Bumbelwy, also investigating our new surroundings. To think that we had, only seconds before, been inside the Grand Elusa’s crystal cave! Wherever we were now, it was far away from there. Such a wondrous skill, to move people like that. She had even remembered to send along my staff. I made a mental note to pay close attention to the fifth lesson, Leaping, should I ever make it that far.

Rhia bounced to her feet. “Look there,” she cried, pointing toward the small island. “Do you see it?”

I stood, leaning against my staff. “That island out there, yes. Looks almost unreal, doesn’t it?”

Rhia continued to stare. “That’s because it
is
almost unreal. That’s the Forgotten Island. I’m sure of it.”

A shiver shook my spine. “The seventh Song! That’s where I must go to learn about Seeing.” I glanced at her briefly before turning back to the island, shrouded by shifting vapors. “Have you seen it before?”

“No.”

“Then how can you be so sure it’s the Forgotten Island?”

“Arbassa’s stories, of course. It’s the only piece of land in all of Fincayra that’s not connected to the main island. No one—not even Dagda himself, it is said—has set foot there for ages. And except for the mer people who live in this inlet, no one knows how to cross the powerful currents, and even more powerful enchantments, that swirl around it all the time.”

I dodged a gull that swooped just in front of my face. Yet I couldn’t take my gaze from the island. “Sounds like people aren’t supposed to go there.” My stomach churned uneasily. “For whatever reason.”

She sighed, still watching the island herself. “Some people believe it has something to do with how Fincayrans lost their wings long ago.”

“Too true, too true, too true,” intoned Bumbelwy as he walked mopily toward us, jangling with every step. “That was the saddest moment in the whole sorry history of our people.”

Was it possible that the dour jester knew how the wings were lost? I felt suddenly hopeful. “Do you know how it happened?”

His long face swung toward me. “No one knows that. No one.”

I frowned. Aylah, the wind sister, knew. But she hadn’t wanted to tell me. I wished I could ask her again. Yet that was impossible, as impossible as catching the wind. More than likely, she had blown all the way to Gwynedd by now.

Rhia turned at last from the island. “Would you like to know where we are standing right now?”

I gave her a nudge. “You still sound like a guide.”

“You still need a guide,” she answered with a half grin. “We’re in Faro Lanna, the strip of land that once was home to the treelings.”

Listening to the surging waves below us, I scanned the plateau. Steep, cream-colored cliffs bounded us on three sides. But for a few piles of crumbling stones, possibly all that remained of walls or hearths, nothing but grass covered the plateau. Far to the north, a line of dark green marked the edge of a forest. Beyond that, the horizon lifted in a purplish haze, possibly all that was visible of the Misted Hills.

A dingy brown butterfly fluttered out of the grass and landed on my wrist. Its legs tickled, so I shook my hand. Then it flew off, landing on the knotted top of my staff. Its motionless wings blended into the deeper brown of the wood.

With a sweep of my arm, I indicated the grassy plateau. “I don’t see how we’re ever going to learn about the treelings’ art of Changing. If they ever lived here, they didn’t leave much behind.”

“That was their way.” Rhia picked up a white pebble and tossed it over the cliff. “The treelings were wanderers, always searching for someplace better to live. Someplace to sink roots, like true trees, and call home. Their only settlements were here, by the cliffs, but as you can tell from those rock piles, they weren’t much. Nothing more than shelters for the very old and the very young. No libraries or markets or meeting halls. Most treelings spent their days wandering across Fincayra, only coming back here when they were ready to find a mate or to die.”

“So what happened to them?”

“They got so caught up in their exploring, I guess, that fewer and fewer of them ever bothered to come home. Eventually, nobody at all returned. The settlements fell apart or blew away, since there was nobody around to take care of them. And the treelings themselves died off, one by one.”

I kicked at a tuft of grass. “I can’t blame them for wandering. It’s in my blood, too. But it sounds as if they never felt at home anywhere.”

Rhia studied me thoughtfully, the wind off the water ruffling her leafy garb. “And is feeling at home somewhere in your blood, as you say?”

“I hope so, but I’m not sure. What about you?”

She stiffened. “Arbassa is my home. My family. All the family I’ve ever had.”

“Except for Cwen.”

She bit her lip. “Once she belonged to my family. But no more. She gave that up for a sackful of goblin promises.”

The butterfly lifted off from my staff. It flew over to Bumbelwy, who was still gazing glumly across the channel at the Forgotten Island. Just before landing, the butterfly apparently changed its mind and returned to the gnarled shaft of hemlock. I watched its dull brown wings, one of which was badly frayed, slowly opening and closing.

Looking again at Rhia, I declared, “We must find her.”

“Who?”

“Cwen. She might be able to tell me what those piles of stones cannot.”

Rhia made a face as if she had eaten a handful of sour berries. “Then we are lost. There is no way to find her, even if she did survive losing her arm. Besides, if we did find her, we couldn’t trust her.” Fairly spitting the words, she added, “She’s a traitor, through and through.”

Below us, an enormous wave crashed against the cliff, sending the kittiwakes and terns screeching from the spray. “Even so, I have to try! Surely somebody saw her after she left. If treelings are all that rare nowadays, the sight of one would be noticed, wouldn’t it?”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Treelings not only weren’t satisfied to stay in any one place. They weren’t satisfied to stay in any one body, either.”

“You don’t mean—”

“Yes! They knew how to change form! You know the way most trees change their colors in the autumn, and take on a whole new garb in the spring? The treelings went far beyond that. They were always swapping their treelike shape for a bear, or an eagle, or a frog. “That’s why they were named in the Song about Changing. They were masters of it.”

My hopes, already as fragile as the butterfly perched on my staff, vanished entirely. “So Cwen, if she’s still alive, could look like anything.”

“Anything at all.”

Bumbelwy, sensing my despair, spoke up. “I could sing you a song, if you like. Something light and cheery.”

Since I didn’t have the strength to protest, he started to sing, swaying his bell-draped hat in time to the rhythm.

Life’s unending curse:
It could be far worse!
Yet I’m full of glee.
None gladder than me.
Though death fills the air,
I do not despair.
It could be far worse:
Life’s unending curse.

Be merry! You see,
Far worse it could be.
So much worse than now!
Just . . . don’t ask me how.

“Stop!” shouted Rhia. “If you really feel that way, why don’t you just jump off this cliff and put an end to your misery?”

Bumbelwy frowned triply. “Weren’t you listening? That’s a joyous song! One of my favorites.” He sighed. “Oh dear, I must have botched the delivery. As usual. Here, I’ll try it again.”

“No!” a voice cried out.

But the voice did not belong to Rhia. Nor to me. It belonged to the butterfly.

With a frantic fluttering, the tiny creature left its perch, rose into the air, and started spinning downward. Just before it hit the grass, a loud
crraackk
split the air. The butterfly vanished.

In its place stood a slim, gnarled figure, part tree and part woman. Her hair, as rough as straw, fell over the barklike skin of her face, framing two dark eyes the shape of teardrops. A brown robe encircled her, covering her body down to her broad, knobby feet that resembled roots. Only one arm protruded from the robe, its hand wearing a silver ring on the smallest of six fingers. The sweet scent of apple blossoms clung to her, in stark contrast to the sour expression on her face.

Rhia stood as stiff as a dead branch. “Cwen.”

“Yessss,” whispered the treeling, her voice rustling like dry grass. “It issss Cwen. The ssssame Cwen who took care of you assss a baby, and nurssssed you through many a ssssickness.”

“And who tried to give me to the goblins!”

Cwen’s lone hand ran through her ragged hair. “That wassssn’t my dessssire. They promissssed they would not harm you.”

“You should have known they would lie. No one can trust a warrior goblin.” She stared at the twisted figure. “Now no one can trust
you.”

“Don’t you ssssee I know that?”

A kittiwake landed on the grass nearby and started tugging at some strands with its beak. Though the bird pulled vigorously, the grass wouldn’t budge. “Watch thissss,” said Cwen, taking a small step closer. In her most gentle voice, she asked, “If I tried to help you build your nesssst, good bird, would you let me?”

The kittiwake screeched and flapped its wings angrily at her. Only after carrying on for some time did it finally settle down and return to work, still watching Cwen warily with one eye.

Sadly, the treeling turned back to Rhia. “You ssssee? Thissss issss my punisssshment.”

“You deserve it, every bit.”

“I am misssserable, totally misssserable! I thought thingssss could get no worsssse. Then ssssuddenly you appeared.” She aimed a knobby finger at Bumbelwy. “With thissss . . . voicccce of doom.”

The jester raised his head hopefully. “Perhaps you prefer riddles? I know a terrific one about bells.”

“No!” shrieked the treeling. “Pleasssse, Rhia. I am sssso full of remorsssse. Won’t you forgive me?”

She crossed her leaf-covered arms. “Never.”

I felt a strange pang. The word
never
rang in my ears like a heavy door slammed and barred. To my own surprise, a feeling of sympathy rose inside of me. Certainly Cwen had done something terrible. Something she regretted. But hadn’t I also done things I deeply regretted?

I stepped close to Rhia, lowering my voice. “It’s hard, I know. Yet maybe you should forgive her.”

She stared at me coldly. “How can I?”

“The same way my mother forgave me after what I did to her.” At that instant, Elen’s parting words came back to me.
The butterfly can change from a mere worm to the most beautiful creature of all. And the soul, my son, can do the same.
I bit my lower lip. “Cwen did something awful, to be sure. But she deserves another chance, Rhia.”

“Why?”

“Because, well, she could change.
All of us, all living things, have the potential to change.”

Suddenly my staff flashed with bright blue light. The wooden shaft sizzled, as if it were burning. A split second later, both the light and the sound disappeared. As I twirled the staff in my hand, I found a marking, as blue as the sky at dusk, engraved upon the shaft. It was in the shape of a butterfly. I knew, in that moment, that Tuatha’s spirit still touched my staff. And that, somehow, I had discovered the soul of Changing.

Hesitantly, Rhia stretched her hand toward the treeling. Cwen, her slender eyes glistening, took it in her own. For a moment, they regarded each other in silence.

Finally the treeling turned to me. “Issss there any way I can thank you?”

“Seeing you two like this is thanks enough.”

“Are you ssssure there issss nothing I can do?”

“Not unless you know the power of Leaping,” I replied. “We must go now to the Lake of the Face, far to the north.”

“Ten days’ walk,” moaned Bumbelwy. “No, more like twelve. No, make it fourteen.”

Cwen’s teardrop eyes probed me. “I don’t know the sssskill of Leaping, but the sssskill of Changing may be usssseful to you.”

Rhia caught her breath. “Oh Cwen, if only we could swim like fish . . . “

“It would ssssave you sssseveral days.”

I jumped. “Is it really possible?”

A crooked grin spread over Cwen’s face as she wiggled her bony fingers at Bumbelwy. “You, voicccce of doom, will go firsssst.”

“No,” he pleaded, backing away. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”

“Flippna sssslippna, hahnaway sssswish,”
intoned Cwen.
“Kelpono bubblim tubblim fissssh.”

All of a sudden, Bumbelwy halted, realizing that he had backed up almost to the edge of the cliff. He looked down at the crashing surf, his eyes wide with fright, his sleeves flapping in the wind. He looked back at Cwen, and his eyes grew wider still.

“P-please,” he stammered. “I
hate
f-f-fish! So s-slimy, so v-very wet all over! S-so—”

Crraackk.

An ungainly fish, with enormous eyes and quadruple chins under its downturned mouth, flopped helplessly on the grass before finally plunging over the cliff. Yet I found it hard to laugh, for I knew I would be next.

16:
L
IQUID
T
HRILL