A Wizard's Wings (26 page)

Gladly, I wrapped my hand around the shaft. The smell of wet hemlock wafted over me, as did another scent, one I couldn’t quite identify. It smelled of magic, powerful magic, unlike any I’d encountered before. It might have come from the mer people. Or perhaps . . . from the island itself.

Spinning around, I scanned the cliff rising from the back of the cove. It rose sharply, like a shark’s fin jutting out of the sea. Its craggy face, with no trace of shrubs or grasses, showed not even the slightest softening from wind or water, as if it had just been severed from another wall of rock. Above the cliff, set back some distance, I spied the upper rim of the crown-shaped hill I had seen from afar. The hilltop looked strange somehow—unnatural. Yet I couldn’t put my finger on why.

No plants, no green, anywhere. Not even any sign of the golden mistletoe that my friend Gwri had long ago promised grew on this isle.

With a sudden pang, I wondered how the children would fare here after I left. They were safe now from Slayer, that was assured. But if the island held no fresh water and no firewood, they couldn’t long survive. For food, they could always dig for mussels and clams, and find stalks of kelp, but that alone wouldn’t be enough. Even if my mother chose to stay and help them for a while, as I suspected she would, they would need lots more supplies than this beach could provide.

My gaze followed the narrow stretch of black sand. Most of the children had already started inventing games and challenges for themselves. Thanks to the sun, and the lack of wind, only a few seemed cold. Several, including Lleu, were busily erecting towers out of colorful shells. One red-haired girl had built a glistening bridge from wet sand, and was pretending to walk an orange starfish across its span.

Other children, meanwhile, waded in the shallows, splashing and cavorting. Still others reached their bare arms into tide pools, trying to catch the tiny fish living there. A knot of boys had just run a race across the cove, and were panting heavily, slapping each other boisterously. Several older girls, led by Medba, performed somersaults and headstands on the sand, while Cuwenna walked hand in hand with my mother, stopping frequently to examine a snail, crab claw, or sea cucumber carried ashore by the tide.

I turned back to the cliff towering over us. Somehow I must get to the top. The only way to judge whether this island was livable was to explore up there. Pacing back and forth on the sand, I examined the sheer face from several angles. It looked impossibly steep.

At last, I spotted a jagged, diagonal cleft running almost to the top: a possible climbing route. Cautiously, I tapped the rock face with my staff. Several chunks broke off—not a good sign. Nevertheless, I had to try. Thrusting my staff into my belt, I called to my mother that I’d return soon. She knew better than to try to dissuade me, but I couldn’t miss the concern in her eyes.

I started to climb. The rock wall was slick with spray, making it difficult to find a reliable grip. Worse, the stone sometimes crumbled without warning, pulling apart in my hands. Even so, I managed to climb gradually, wedging my body into the cleft for support as I moved higher. When I reached three times my height above the cove, I paused to rest my bruised fingers and shake some of the chips of rock out of my hair. I pretended not to notice Elen’s pacing below the cliff.

A moment later, I continued, working my way higher. Every so often my knee or foot would slip on the wet rock, or a hold would break off, but I managed to keep myself from falling. At length, my head bumped against a fiat lip of stone that protruded slightly from the wall. There seemed no way around it. Judging from my height above the sand, I felt sure I was very close to the top. Wrapping one hand, then the other, around the edge, I put as much weight as I dared on the outcropping. A few shards broke loose, but it held. Gingerly, I threw one leg over and started pulling myself up.

My heart raced, less from the strain than from eagerness. At last, I’d learn the truth about this island—whether it held anything that resembled food. And, less likely, anything that justified those old myths about wings.

Rolling onto the flat stone, I gasped. Before me lay nothing but wreckage and ruin. The crown-shaped hill was, in fact, the remains of an enormous mound. Ripped apart, its contents scattered everywhere, the mound now resembled some sort of immense, violated grave.

All across the steep, grassless slopes, mixed together with the dirt, broken timbers, and huge blocks of granite, lay an endless array of iron cauldrons, brightly painted masks, silver-handled drinking vessels, sounding horns, and shards of pottery. I could see bejeweled swords, several of which had been snapped in two, plus the pieces of an ox’s yoke. Strewn among the wreckage were broken bowls, beaded necklaces, shoe ornaments, neck rings, golden belt covers, numerous crushed shields, armored plates, and daggers darkened with rust. Smashed statues lay among the debris, along with at least two upturned wagons—and more than a few twisted skeletons, some still draped with armor.

I stepped closer, avoiding the fragment of a skull, and lay my hand on the side of a block of stone more than twice my height. By the deep scoring on the granite, I could tell that it had served as the lintel stone of an entryway. To what, though? An underground fortress, perhaps. Or a community of some kind, where many people once lived, together with all their prized possessions.

A community that had been utterly destroyed.

Studying the block of granite, I noticed something. Its shape resembled the sarsen stones that people in ancient times placed at the entrances of burial mounds! Imbued with magic of their own, sarsen stones acted as sentries to guard the spirits of whoever lay buried within the barrows. Was it conceivable that this whole hill had been a burial mound? No, that was absurd. The largest barrow I’d ever seen or heard described was less than one hundredth this size.

I slid my fingers along the stone, leaving tracks in the dirt that had settled on its face. To my surprise, I felt some subtle depressions. I blew away the dirt—and found rows of carved runes, as intricate as spiders’ webs. I bent closer and read aloud:

Enter ye and worship here:
Lords divine dwell deep entombed.
Ever more their lives revered,
Never cursed with mortal doom.

My gaze fastened on a single word:
entombed.
So this had been a barrow after all! And yet, given its size, it could easily have served other purposes, as well.

I pursed my lips, wondering.
Lords divine . . . their lives revered.
Perhaps this place was also some sort of sacred monument. A place for worship. But of whom?

Lords divine
surely sounded like they were gods. Perhaps this was a monument to Dagda and his chieftains. But no, great spirit though he was, Dagda wasn’t the kind to encourage, or even allow, such heavy-handed worship. He was far too humble. And besides, if the old legends were indeed true, it was he who destroyed this place and set it forever apart. Surely he wouldn’t have done that to a monument in his own honor.

I turned again to the skull fragment lying on the ground. With the toe of my boot, I nudged it. The sun, rising high overhead, glinted on part of the bone, giving it an eerie gleam.

All at once, a new puzzle occurred to me: If the beings this monument glorified were indeed gods, and thereby immortal, why had they been entombed?
Never cursed with mortal doom,
claimed the inscription. Yet . . . either they were truly divine and only their mortal forms had been buried here, or they weren’t really gods at all.

Pulling my staff from my belt, I started to climb up the side of the mound. As I ascended, I searched for any more clues that might help explain the origins of this place. Surely the answer lay around here somewhere! At one point I paused to glance behind me, following the line of my footprints, the only ones to mark this slope. Below me, I viewed the edge of the cliff I had scaled, and beyond, a wide expanse of whitecaps that stretched all the way to Fincayra’s western shore.

I continued tramping up the slope, stepping over broken pottery, a cauldron full of dirt, and a crumbling thigh bone. Frowning, I imagined what my shadow would be doing if it were here right now: creeping cautiously ahead of me, shrinking to avoid any skeletons. Bravery was not one of its virtues. Nor was dependability. Even so, I had to admit that I felt strangely alone without its company.

At last I reached the top of the mound. As I approached the gap between two great piles of earth, rock, and splintered wood, the ground under my boots shifted. I edged closer to the gap, and found myself staring down into a steep-walled pit. It seemed almost bottomless. It was perfectly rectangular, except for a long, narrow passage which bisected it on a north-south axis. Protruding from the walls were numerous timbers and jutting stones, all that remained of the chambers—several floors of them—that had once filled the pit. Around the edges, mostly covered by debris, stood several more sarsen stones, along with scattered uprights and capstones that might have lined the entries. But I still didn’t know what it all meant.

Then, near the edge of the pit, I noticed the first living plant I’d seen since arriving on this island. Its leaves, quivering in the breeze off the sea, were not green, but glittering gold. Mistletoe! Cautiously, testing my weight on the loose earth, I drew nearer. It was, indeed, the golden bough, emblem of the spirit world. Strangely, it lay not on the soil, but wrapped around a shiny black stone.

Something crunched under my boot. I leaped backward, sending a tremor through the unstable soil that caused a blue-painted shield to slide over the edge of the pit. In disbelief, I listened to the long silence before the shield finally hit bottom.

I stooped down, looking for whatever had struck my boot. More bones—this time the remains of someone’s hand. Bleached white by time, the hand wore an emerald ring upon one of its lifeless fingers. Lightly, I touched the bones, wondering who had moved them, and for what purposes.

In a few more steps, I reached the mistletoe. I halted in surprise. The black stone around which it curled was actually the head of a statue! Painstakingly carved from black obsidian, the life-size statue depicted a man—who now lay facedown in the dirt. Even so, he carried an unmistakable air of power and wealth. He stood regally, wearing flowing robes, a mantle studded with rubies and flecks of copper, and a belt made from spun gold. I could see, even from the back, that he wore a wide, thick beard, the kind I dreamed of growing myself one day.

Something about this man seemed appealing. Familiar, almost. Crowned by the shimmering wreath of mistletoe, he seemed both strong and frail, dignified and humiliated. Then I noticed a strange, chipped point emerging from his back, almost like a spear shaft between his shoulder blades.

I reached down and touched the point. As I pricked my finger on its edge, I felt a subtle throb between my own shoulders. Instantly, I understood. These had been wings! Sure enough, when I scraped away the soil by the statue’s side, I found several jagged fragments, carved with graceful feathers. Fitting some together, I knew beyond any doubt that I was holding the remnant of wings.

Lost wings.

On an impulse, I grasped the statue’s shoulders and heaved. The figure rolled over, crushing the fragments of wings underneath. Seeing the man’s face, I caught my breath. Not because it scowled at me, with stern brow and dangerous eye, but because it was a face I recognized. This was the face of Stangmar. The face of my father.

Horrified, I peered at the visage. Was it merely a coincidence, someone who resembled him uncannily? Or was it really one of his ancient forebears?

My
ancient forebears.

I dropped to my knees. With a quivering hand, I touched the jaw, shaped so much like my own. My fingers moved down the beaklike nose, and across the wide brow that wore the mistletoe. This was, I knew, the face of my ancestor. My father. Myself.

Even the statue’s stance, its posture, looked so much like Stangmar. Such a man of opposites! He showed no mercy for anyone who dared oppose him, yet gave his own life to save Elen’s. He ruled with such wrath and brutality, yet showed, at the last, such tenderness. He tried to kill me—his own son—yet sought my forgiveness.

I clenched my teeth. No, I could never give him that. Not after everything he did. To Elen. To all the people of this land. And to me.

Angrily, I struck my fist against the statue’s shoulder, making the figure rock from side to side. The golden wreath fell off, landing with a puff of dirt on the ground. I scowled down at the man I saw in this statue. A man who gave me nothing in my whole life, except a heaviness in my heart.

A man who ruled this land ruthlessly.

A man who became the twisted tool of Rhita Gawr.

A man who hurt anyone who came too close to him . . . because, perhaps, of his own hurt.

A man who burned with rage at his father—a feeling I knew all too well.

A man who, also like me, always felt a gnawing pain between his shoulders.

A man who, for all his faults, never stopped loving Elen.

A man who might have loved me, too, if only . . .

I stared at the statue. A man who fell, facedown in the dirt, and yet still wore a glowing crown.

Moistening my dry lips, I thought of his dying words to the woman who loved him. I remembered the hopeful look on his face when he turned to me for the very last time. And I recalled the willingness of Lleu, so very young, to see the bully who had tried to hurt him as someone who deserved a second chance.
We ‘re all together here,
he had said.

Tenderly, I touched the statue’s brow. Then, so quietly it was more a breath than a whisper, I uttered a simple sentence. “My father . . . I forgive you.”

Nothing changed. Nothing, at any rate, that could be seen or touched or measured. And yet I felt something new, a strange feeling—of being lighter somehow. It began to fill me, expand within me, flow through my every vein. The feeling seemed delicate, even ethereal, and yet I knew somehow that it would last.