The Lost Years (5 page)

Out of the mists curling among the steepest hills rose the great mass of Y Wyddfa, its summit gleaming, cloaked in white. Cloud shadows, dark and round, moved across its ridges like the footprints of giants. If only I could see the giants themselves! If only I could witness their dance!

In the western sky the clouds themselves gathered, though I could still see the occasional glint and sparkle of light on the sunlit sea. The sight of the endless ocean filled me with a vague, indefinable longing. Somehow I knew. My true home, my true name, lay out there . . . somewhere. Currents as bottomless as the sea itself churned within me.

Reaching for the next limb, I struggled to pull myself higher. I clasped my hands around the base of the branch, then threw one leg over. Several twigs broke off and spiraled gracefully to the ground. With a grunt, I pulled as hard as I could and finally mounted it.

Ready to rest, I wedged myself into the notch of the branch and leaned back against the trunk. Feeling my hands, so sticky from pine sap, I brought them to my face. I filled my lungs with the sweet, resiny smell.

Suddenly something brushed my right ear. I spun my head around. A bristling brown tail disappeared around the trunk. As I stretched to peer behind the trunk, I heard a loud whistle. The next instant, I felt tiny feet scamper lightly across my chest and down my leg.

I sat up again, just in time to see a squirrel leap from my own foot to a lower branch. Grinning, I watched the bustling animal chatter and squeak. The squirrel dashed up the trunk and then down and then up again, waving its tail like a furry flag, all the while chewing on a pinecone almost as large as its head. Then, as if it had just noticed me, it stopped short. It considered me for a few seconds, squealed once, and jumped to the outstretched bough of a neighboring tree. From there it scurried down the trunk and out of sight. I wondered whether I had looked as amusing to the squirrel as the squirrel had looked to me.

The thrill rose in me again, driving me to climb. As the wind lifted, so did the elixir of scents from the trees. Resins from chafing branches on every side poured over me, immersing me in a river of aromas.

Again I saw the hawk, still circling overhead. I could not be sure, but I felt somehow that it was watching me. Observing me, for reasons of its own.

The first rumble of thunder came as I hauled myself up to the highest branch that could support my weight. With it came a rumble more powerful still, the collective calling of thousands of trees bending with the same wind. I gazed across the sea of trees, their branches rippling like waves on water. I found that beneath the rumble I could hear their varying voices: the deep sighing of oak and the shrill snapping of hawthorn, the whooshing of pine and the cracking of ash. Needles clicked and leaves tapped. Trunks groaned and hollows whistled. All these voices and more joined to form one grand, undulating chorus, singing in a language not so distant from my own.

As the wind swelled, my tree started to sway. Almost like a human body it swung back and around, gently at first, then more and more wildly. While the swaying intensified, so did my fears that the trunk might snap and hurl me to the ground. But in time my confidence returned. Amazed at how the tree could be at once so flexible and so sturdy, I held on tight as it bent and waved, twisted and swirled, slicing curves and arcs through the air. With each graceful swing, I felt less a creature of the land and more a part of the wind itself.

The rain began falling, its sound merging with the splashing river and the singing trees. Branches streamed like waterfalls of green. Tiny rivers cascaded down every trunk, twisting through moss meadows and bark canyons. All the while, I rode out the gale. I could not have felt wetter. I could not have felt freer.

When, at last, the storm subsided, the entire world seemed newly born. Sunbeams danced on rain-washed leaves. Curling columns of mist rose from every glade. The forest’s colors shone more vivid, its smells struck more fresh. And I understood, for the first time in my life, that the Earth was always being remade, that life was always being renewed. That it may have been the afternoon of this particular day, but it was still the very morning of Creation.

4:
T
HE
R
AG
P
ILE

Late afternoon light heightened the hues and deepened the shadows before I felt a subtle pang in my abdomen. Quickly the pang grew. I was hungry. Hungry as a wolf.

Taking a last look at the vista, I could see a golden web of light creeping across the hills. Then I began to climb down from my perch. When at last I reached the bottommost branch, still wet from rain, I wrapped my hands around the bark and let myself drop over the side. For a moment I hung there, swaying like the tree in the gale. For some reason, I realized, the usual ache between my shoulder blades had not bothered me since I had first ascended the branches. I let go, falling into the bed of needles.

Gently, I placed my hand upon the ridged trunk of the old tree. I could almost feel the resins moving through the tall, columnar body, even as the blood moved through my own. With a simple pat of my hand, I gave thanks.

My gaze fell to a bouquet of tan mushrooms wearing shaggy manes, nestled among the needles at the base of the pine. From my forages with Branwen, I knew them to be good eating. I pounced. In short order, I had consumed every one—as well as the roots of a purple-leafed plant growing nearby.

I found the deer trail and followed it back to the rivulet. Cupping my hands, I drank some of the cold water. It chilled my teeth and awakened my tongue. A new lightness in my step, I returned to the towpath leading to the village.

I crossed the bridge. Beyond the mill, the thatched roofs of Caer Vedwyd clustered like so many bundles of dry grass. In one of them, the woman who called herself my mother was probably mixing her potions or tending to someone’s wound, ever secretive and silent. To my own surprise, I found myself hoping that, one day, this place might yet feel like home.

Entering the village, I heard the playful shouts of other boys. My first impulse was to seek out one of my usual hideaways. Yet . . . I felt a new surge of confidence. This was a day to join in their games!

I hesitated. What if Dinatius was about? I would need to keep a wary eye on the smith’s shop. Still, perhaps even Dinatius might soften in time.

Slowly, I approached. Beneath the great oak tree, where the three main pathways converged, I saw farmers and merchants gathered, peddling their goods. Horses and donkeys stood tethered to posts, their tails swishing at flies. Nearby, a bard with a somber face was entertaining a few listeners with a ballad—until one of the swishing tails slapped him right in the mouth. By the time he quit gagging and composed himself again, he had lost his audience.

Four boys stood at the far side of the square, practicing their aim by throwing rocks and sticks at a target—a pile of torn rags stuffed against the base of the oak. When I saw that Dinatius was not among them, I breathed easier. Soon I drew near enough to call out to one of the boys.

“How is your throw today, Lud?”

A squat, sandy-haired boy turned to me. His round face and small eyes gave him the look of being perpetually puzzled. Although he had not been unfriendly to me in the past, today he seemed cautious. I could not tell whether he was worried about Dinatius—or about me.

I stepped nearer. “Don’t worry. No birds are going to empty themselves on your head.”

Lud watched me for an instant, then started to laugh. “A good shot, that was!”

I grinned back. “A very good shot.”

He tossed me a small stone. “Why not try your aim?”

“Are you sure?” one of the other boys asked. “Dinatius won’t like it.”

Lud gave a shrug. “Go ahead, Emrys. Let’s see you throw.”

The boys traded glances as I hefted the stone in my palm. With a snap of my arm, I threw at the rag pile. The stone flew high and wide, hitting the goose pen and causing a great commotion of honking and flapping.

I muttered sheepishly, “Not too good.”

“Maybe you should get closer,” ridiculed one of the boys. “Like right under the tree.”

The others laughed.

Lud waved them quiet and tossed me another stone. “Try again. Some practice is what you need.”

Something about his tone restored my confidence. As they all watched, I took aim again. This time, as I positioned myself, I took a moment to gauge the distance to the target and the weight of the stone in my hand. Keeping an eye on the pile of rags, I wound back my arm and released.

The stone made a direct hit. Lud clucked in satisfaction. I could not keep from smiling proudly.

Then something odd caught my attention. Instead of sailing through the rags and hitting the trunk of the tree behind, my stone had bounced away, as if the rags themselves were made of something solid. As I looked more closely, my heart missed a beat. For as I watched, the rag pile shifted. From it came a piteous groan.

“It’s a person!” I cried in disbelief.

Lud shook his head. “That’s no person.” He waved carelessly at the rag pile. “That’s a Jew.”

“A filthy Jew,” echoed one of the other boys. He hurled his own stone at the rags. Another hit. Another groan.

“But—but you can’t.” I started to say more, then caught myself. That would risk losing any chance I might have to be accepted by the group.

“Why not?” Lud reared back to throw a weighty stick. “The Jew should never have come through here. They are Hell born, like demons, with horns and tails. They carry diseases. Bring bad luck.”

The rag pile whimpered.

I swallowed hard. “I don’t believe it. Why don’t we let the beggar go and aim at something else instead?”

Lud eyed me strangely. “You’d best not defend the Jew. People might wonder whether . . .” He paused, picking his words. “Whether you come from the same stock.”

Before I could reply, Lud let fly the heavy stick.

With a sweep of my arm, I cried out. “No! Don’t hit him!”

The stick abruptly stopped its flight in midair and fell to the ground.

It was as if the stick had slammed into an invisible wall of air. The boys stood astonished. My jaw dropped. I was no less amazed than they were.

“A spell,” whispered one boy.

“Sorcery,” said another.

Lud’s round face whitened. Slowly, he backed away from me. “Get away, you—you—”

“Demon’s child,” finished another voice.

I turned to find myself face-to-face with Dinatius, his tunic ripped and splattered with mud from his long trek through the forest. Despite his grimace, he looked satisfied at having cornered his prey at last.

I straightened my back, which only made me more aware of his considerable size advantage. “Let’s not be enemies.”

He spat on my cheek. “You think I would be the friend of a demon’s whelp like you?”

My dark eyes narrowed as I wiped my face clean. It was all I could do to contain my anger enough to try again. My voice shaking, I declared, “I am no demon. I am a boy just like you.”

“I know what you are.” Dinatius’ voice rolled down on me like a rock slide. “Your father was a demon. And your mother does the wicked work of demons. Either way, you are a child of the devil!”

With a shout, I lunged at him.

Deftly, Dinatius stepped to one side, swung me into the air, and threw me hard to the ground. He kicked me in the side for good measure, sending me rolling in the dirt.

I could barely sit up for the pain in my ribs. Above me towered Dinatius, his bushy head thrown back in laughter. The other boys laughed, too, even as they urged him on.

“What’s your trouble, demon’s child?” taunted Dinatius.

Though my pain was great, my rage was greater. Clutching my side, I struggled to roll onto my knees, then rise to my feet. I growled like a wounded beast, then charged again, arms flailing.

An instant later, I found myself facedown in the grass, barely able to breathe. I could taste blood in my mouth. The thought of playing dead crossed my mind, in the hope that my tormentor would lose interest. But I knew better.

Dinatius’ laughter ceased as I forced myself to stand, blood trickling down my chin. I planted my unsteady feet and looked into his eyes. What I found there caught me off guard.

Beneath his belligerence, he was clearly surprised. “God’s sweet death, but you’re stubborn.”

“Stubborn enough to stand up to you,” I replied hoarsely. My hands clenched into fists.

At that moment, another figure swept out of nowhere to stand between us. The boys, except for Dinatius, fell back. And I gasped in surprise.

It was Branwen.

Though a shadow of fear crossed his face, Dinatius spat at her feet. “Move aside, she-demon.”

Eyes alight, she glared at him. “Leave us.”

“Go to the devil,” he retorted. “That’s where you both belong.”

“Is that so? Then it is you who had better flee.” She raised her arms menacingly. “Or I will bring the fires of Hell down on you.”

Dinatius shook his head. “You will be the one to burn. Not me.”

“But I am not afraid of fire! I cannot be burned!”

Lud, watching Branwen nervously, pulled on Dinatius’ shoulder. “What if she speaks the truth? Let’s go.”

“Not until I finish with her whelp.”

Branwen’s blue eyes flashed. “Leave now. Or you shall burn.”

He stepped backward.

She leaned toward him, then spoke a single word of command. “Now.”

The other boys turned and ran. Dinatius, seeing their flight, looked uncertain. With both hands, he made the sign to protect himself from the evil eye.

“Now!” repeated Branwen.

Dinatius glowered at her for a moment, then retreated.

I took Branwen’s arm. Together, we walked in slow procession back to our hut.

5:
S
ACRED
T
IME

Stretched out on my pallet, I winced as Branwen massaged my bruised ribs. Odd patches of light, streaming through the holes in the thatched roof, fell on her left shoulder and hand. Her brow wrinkled in concern. Those blue eyes studied me so intensely that I could almost feel them boring into my skin.