The Dragon of Avalon (6 page)

Warming to the idea, the lizard gave a nod. "And your name is?"

"Gullpiver," she declared. "Gullpiver, the great blue heron."

"Pleased to meet you," he replied, rearing up on his hind legs to give her a cordial bow. "And I am Basil, The extremely dangerous dragon faery."

6:
M
Y
W
ORLD

I learned something valuable that day—a lesson I've never forgotten. It's worth listening well to what you hear. No matter how bizarre the story . . . or how bizarre the storyteller.

Y
EAR OF
A
VALON 5

Furtively, Basil darted out of the sheltering leaves of cabbage and onto a root at the base of a towering hemlock tree. As he'd done many times before, he scurried up the root to the tree's massive trunk, where he spied his favorite hideaway, a tiny protected cavern formed by a burl in the tree's bark. Though his wings felt uncomfortably stiff, as if they were hardening right into his back, he managed to squeeze into the cavern's narrow mouth. As usual, he brought a meal with him—this time, a slightly bruised but meaty yellow mushroom he'd stolen from the den of a sleeping badger.

"He won't miss this one," said Basil, settling into a comfortable position on the cavern's smooth floor. Then he nodded, agreeing with his own remark. Conversing with himself, he'd found, could be a surprisingly pleasant pastime. And besides, with all the time he spent dodging predators, he had almost no opportunities to talk with anybody else.

"Fat old chump," Basil went on, "he could use a bit less to eat anyway."

He took a big bite of the mushroom's stem and chewed slowly, savoring the rich woodsy flavor. His eyes surveyed the dark grain of the cavern walls, glistening with hemlock resin. "Mmm, I sure do like eating in here. So quiet, restful, and alone."

Yet even as he spoke the words, he knew that they were a lie. Sure, he liked the privacy of this hidden niche. But why? Not for its restful isolation. For its
safety
. From outside the hemlock, this place was virtually impossible to see or sniff (thanks to the potent smell of hemlock resin he always released upon entering). The truth was, he lived alone not because he liked it—but because he feared living otherwise, out in the world inhabited by other creatures.

Taking another bite, he chewed thoughtfully. Ruefully, he wondered,
Will I always live alone? Always live in hiding?

He scowled, which made his cupped ears flop over onto his snout. Shaking his head, he sent the ears back to their usual upright position. Then he did something he'd never expected to do. Something he'd never done before.

Dropping the mushroom on the cavern floor, he crawled back outside. Slowly, hesitantly, he pushed his nose out into the humid air of the forest. Then, carefully checking for anything that might like to eat a lizard—and for any signs of an angry, overweight badger—he turned and started climbing up the tree.

Cautiously, he scaled the rough ridges of the trunk. Ignoring the stiffness of his wings, which made him less flexible as a climber, he concentrated on another, more serious danger. Predators. He released his strongest hemlock smell, hoping to disguise himself, but he knew that his vibrant green body shone like a flame against the dark brown bark. His heart pounded within his ribs, drumming incessantly, for he knew this was risky. Foolishly risky. Yet still he continued to climb.

"I need to see this forest," he whispered as he worked his way higher. "Not just run through it, seeing only whatever might eat me."

He scooted around a protruding knot, trying not to think about how exposed he was to birds, snakes, magic-tongued tarantulas (who could sing their prey to sleep in seconds), and other tree-dwelling hunters. "I want to know where I live," he panted. At least I can see it—really see it—just once."

With a deft maneuver, he swung himself onto a wide branch and scurried out to its nearest cluster of needles. At the same instant he ducked into the greenery, a great horned owl swooped past, silent as a feathered cloud. But the owl kept flying; neither Basil's bright scales nor his thumping little heart had given him away.

Seconds later, Basil settled into a bowl-shaped knot on the branch. Obscured by hemlock needles, he could see much of his surroundings without being seen by others. He swung his head to and fro, taking in the rich complexity of forest life.

Not far away, on a neighboring cedar, a purple-crowned woodpecker probed for insects in the bark. A pair of squirrels leaped from one bouncing branch to the next, while a family of bright-eyed raccoons watched from their hole in a chestnut trunk. Golden-winged butterflies fluttered past, while honeybees buzzed and teams of ants marched across the roots of a plum tree heavy with fruit. A few eyes glittered that Basil didn't recognize, although a pair of ruby slits, he felt sure, belonged to a tree-climbing adder. With a start, he realized that the thickened branch of a vine-draped oak tree was actually the body of a resting puma. Her belly, swollen from a recent meal, moved slowly up and down with every breath; her feline paws occasionally swatted insects who dared to fly too close.

More than the sights, though, Basil relished all the sounds and smells. Songbirds piped, thrummed, and whistled from branches above and below. Squirrels cracked open nuts, chattering to their neighbors. Sprigs of honeyfern, newly unfurled in the morning light, shivered softly with each breeze. And as they vibrated, the ferns gave off a scent so ebullient that it tickled Basil's nose as well as his mind: Trying to stay quiet, he had to bite his tongue so he wouldn't laugh out loud. Spiderwebs smelled dank and musty, while every kind of moss or lichen released an aroma of its own—sometimes as sweet as rivertang berries, sometimes as tart as lemongrass.

Suddenly, from the branch just above him, he heard a new sound. A loud rustle of feathers, as several birds landed at once. Then came voices—rough and cacophonous.

A flock of crows
, Basil concluded, seeing a flash of black wing tips through the needles.
Five or six of them, maybe more.

"Giants, caawww, huge and ugly," croaked one. "Climbin' up from the mists, they were, comin' to make their new home here in the root-realms. Bigger than hillsides, each one, with mouths that could swallow a lake! Saw them myself, I did."

"Caawww, I thought all that migratin' had stopped by now! The isle of Lost Fincayra must be empty as a buzzard's brain, with all the birds and beasts movin' up to Avalon." The crow clacked his beak for emphasis. "Wish they'd stop comin' here and leave us alone."

"Where do you think
you
came from then, you saggy-tailed lump of coal? Everybody came here from Fincayra—all but those creatures made from the magic soil of Malóch."

"You believe that nonsense, do you? Why, not even a pack of dog faeries, stupid tongues a-waggin', would fall for that story."

Above a barrage of caws, the crow continued: "Nobody in Avalon is makin' creatures from dirt, I tell you. Nobody! Maybe Merlin, powerful wizard that he was, could do magic that big—but he ain't around no more. Gone to see that other place, far beyond the mists."

"He's comin' back, I hear," cawed a hoarse voice that, to Basil, sounded distinctly female. "When he's had enough of Earth, he'll come home to Avalon." Over the sputtering squawks of her companions, she declared, "He's got a reason to return, a very good reason."

"What, to check on the size of the tree he planted? Ca-ca-caawww! Merlin the gardener!"

"No, acorn head." She flapped her wings, waiting for the flock to quiet down before she delivered her news. Gradually, the crows fell silent. Even Basil, on the branch below, lifted his head so he wouldn't miss whatever she was about to reveal.

"Merlin has a mate! I know, I saw them together, just before he left. A woman with big doe eyes. Ca-ca-caawww! Named Hallia. I promise you, he's comin' back to her."

"Why?" croaked a skeptical companion. "Does she owe him money?"

"No, beetle brow!" The female crow's voice softened to a rough whisper. "He's in love."

"Merlin? In love? Caawww, no chance!"

"Caawww, I thought he was smarter 'n that."

"Just goes to prove that even a wizard can be stupid."

With that, the crows started laughing, so rancorously that their voices blended into one big cacophony. Now it was impossible to hear more than snatches of words here and there. But Basil didn't mind. He had heard enough to be enthralled.

How could he have lived for years in this forest realm—and know so little about its creatures, its magic, and its stories? And what about those other realms the crows had mentioned? Where exactly were they, and what mysteries did they hold? Would he ever get to see them, even if he couldn't fly? And if he could someday fly—a wish so ardent he could barely think about it—just where would he go? Would he hear more tales about Merlin? Was the wizard really going to return to Avalon?

All these questions and more surged through his mind like a spring flood, He listened some more to the crows overhead. They had finally gone back to gossiping. He promised to come back to this spot, as often as possible, in case they ever returned. And, in addition, he promised to find more places where he could witness more of his world—preferably without getting eaten.

"It's worth the risk," he whispered beneath his veil of hemlock boughs. "After all, this is my world, too! An amazing world. I want to know it better."

A sudden surge of doubt flowed over him. Was it
really
his world if he didn't know where he fit in it? Why, he couldn't even say what kind of creature he was! Let alone what might make him special.

He growled, making his slender throat vibrate and his ears tremble. "It
is
my world," he resolutely declared. "It belongs to me, just as much as it belongs to the crows. The puma. Or even the wizard."

Casting aside his doubts, he thought about his new awareness—and his new appreciation for gossip. The forest began to darken, until the golden light of starset filtered through the groves, stretching luminous beams between sky and soil. Though he knew he should find somewhere more protected, he vowed to stay right here on this branch and experience the new sounds and smells of night.

A bat flew just above him; the jagged wings came close enough to make the hemlock needles over Basil's nose quiver. But he didn't notice. He had fallen into a wary, uneasy slumber.

7:
D
AGGERS

Who was it who warned, be careful what you wish for? Whoever they were, I'd like to crush them under a mountain of boulders. Tear out all their innards. Roast them over searing hot flames. And then . . . I'd tell them they were right.

High in the branches of the hemlock tree, Basil slept fitfully. Whether from the unsettling experiences of the day, the discomfort of his useless wings, or the overriding fact that he lay high above the ground—exposed to nighttime attackers, unseen terrors, or sudden storms that could knock him to the ground at any moment—he barely slept at all.

Dozing under the gauzy blanket of needles, he rolled and kicked and moaned. And throughout all this, he dreamed. Yet the images seemed too vivid, and the pain felt too real, to be just a dream.

He lay on his back, on a bed of hemlock needles. But the needles weren't lying flat, as they do on a forest floor. No, these needles stood straight up, like daggers, jabbing into the scales of his back. Hard as he tried to flip over, he couldn't budge. All he could do was writhe painfully on the blades.

"Stop!" he cried into the darkness that shrouded him. "Set me free!"

No one heard him. No one came. He was utterly, completely alone.

The pain of that realization stabbed deeper than any dagger. Not in his back . . . but somewhere within.

"Stop!" he cried again, more weakly this time.

No answer.

No help.

The more he writhed, the greater the pain. And the greater his pain, the deeper his loneliness.

Hours passed, filled with struggle and torment. Nothing he did seemed to matter. Nothing he said reached anybody else. He might have been disconnected from the universe, suspended in a private realm of his own. Only the visceral reality of his pain, and the ever-present smell of hemlock, convinced him that he was still alive.

But why stay alive? Just to struggle? To ache for something else, something more?

No answer.

No help.

Until . . . at last, a figure strode out of the surrounding gloom. He carried a glowing flame—a torch. Upon his shoulders hung a cape, strewn with glittering stars. And on his face, under a thick black beard, his mouth curled in a grim but gentle smile. Even before Basil looked into his eyes—dark eyes, blacker than the spaces between stars—he knew exactly who this was.

"Merlin!" he cried. "You're back. You're really back!"

The figure said nothing. For a long moment, they stared silently at each other. Basil started to wonder if he'd been wrong. And yet . . .

Quietly, uncertainly, he said, "Merlin, can you help me? With your magic?"

The wizard stepped nearer. As one of his hands raised his torch, the other reached out toward Basil. Closer it came, and closer, until the fingertips nearly met Basil's nose. In another second, they would help him, free him, that much Basil knew. He waited, quaking, for the touch of that magic.

Just as Merlin touched him—

A deadly creature, darker than darkness, appeared! Waving huge, batlike wings, it viciously attacked Merlin—pummeling and biting, eager to kill. Hard as the wizard fought back, he was clearly overwhelmed.

"No!" shrieked Basil above the terrible din. With all his might, he battled to break free of his invisible bonds. At last, wrenching his whole body, he broke loose. He rolled off the dagger points and fell on top of Merlin's assailant.

Furiously, Basil fought—whipping his tail, snapping his jaws. Even his own pitiful, ragged wings seemed to move at his command. Though the beast was many times larger than himself, he battled furiously. Yet all Basil's strength, and all the wizard's, were no match for the batlike creature. Its powerful wings, hooked at the joints, folded over them . . . squeezing . . . smothering them completely.