The Lost Years (6 page)

“Thank you for helping me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You were wonderful. Really wonderful! And you appeared just in time, out of empty air. Like one of your Greek gods—Athena or somebody.”

Branwen’s wrinkles deepened. “More like Zeus, I’m afraid.”

I laughed, which I regretted because it made my side hurt. “You mean you showered them with thunder and lightning.”

“Instead of wisdom.” She gave a sullen sigh. “I only did what any mother would do. Even if you never . . .”

“What?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

She rose to prepare a poultice that smelled of smoke and cedar. I heard her chopping and grinding for several minutes before returning to my side. Then, placing the poultice against my ribs, she laid her hands on top, pressing gently. Gradually I felt a steady warmth flowing into my bones, as if the marrow itself had turned into fire coals.

In time she closed her eyes and began to sing a low, slow chant that I had heard her use before in her healing work. In the past, I had never been sure whether she sang it to heal the person in her care or, in some way I could not understand, to heal herself. This time, studying her face, I had no doubt: The chant was for her, not for me.

Hy gododin catann hue
Hud a lledrith mat wyddan
Gaunce ae bellawn wen cabri
Varigal don Fincayra
Dravia, dravia Fincayra.

The words, I felt, came from another world, an ocean away. I waited until she opened her eyes, then asked what I had wondered so often before, not expecting to receive any answer.

“What does it mean?”

Again she examined me with eyes that seemed to pierce my very soul. Then, choosing her words with care, she replied, “It is about a place, a magical place. A land of allurement. And also illusion. A land called Fincayra.”

“What do those words at the end say?
Dravia, dravia Fincayra
.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Live long, live long Fincayra.” She lowered her eyes. “Fincayra. A place of many wonders, celebrated by bards of many tongues. They say it lies halfway between our world and the world of the spirit—neither wholly of Earth nor wholly of Heaven, but a bridge connecting both. Oh, the stories I could tell you! Its colors are more bright than the brightest sunrise; its air more fragrant than the richest garden. Many mysterious creatures are found there—including, legend has it, the very first giants.”

Shifting my hips on the straw, I rolled so that my face was closer to hers. “You make it sound like a real place.”

Her hands tightened against my ribs. “No more than any other place I’ve told you stories about. Stories may not be real in the same way as this poultice, my son, but they are real nonetheless! Real enough to help me live. And work. And find the meaning hidden in every dream, every leaf, every drop of dew.”

“You don’t mean that stories—like the ones about the Greek gods—are true?”

“Oh, yes.” She thought for a moment. “Stories require faith, not facts. Don’t you see? They dwell in sacred time, which flows in a circle. Not historical time, which runs in a line. Yet they are true, my son. Truer in many ways than the daily life of this pitiful little village.”

Puzzled, I frowned. “But surely the Greeks’ mountain Olympus is not the same as our mountain Y Wyddfa.”

Her fingers relaxed slightly. “They’re not so different as you think. Mount Olympus exists on land, and in story. In historical time, and in sacred time. Either way, Zeus and Athena and the others can be found there. It is an
in between place
—not quite our world and not quite the Otherworld, but something in between. In the same way that mist is not really air and not really water, but something of both. Another place like that is the Isle of Delos, the Greek island where Apollo was born and makes his home.”

“In story, sure. But not in reality.”

She eyed me strangely. “Are you sure?”

“Well . . . no, I guess not. I’ve never been to Greece. But I’ve seen Y Wyddfa a hundred times, right out that window. There are no Apollos walking around here! Not on that mountain, and not in this village.”

Again she eyed me strangely. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” I grasped a handful of straw from my pallet and threw it in the air. “This is the stuff of this village! Dirty straw, broken walls, angry people. Ignorant, too. Why, half of them think you really are a sorceress!”

Lifting the poultice, she examined the bruise running down my ribs. “Yet they still come here to be healed.” She reached for a wooden bowl containing a greenish brown paste that smelled pungent, like overripe berries. Tenderly, using two fingers of her left hand, she began to apply the paste to my bruise.

“Tell me this,” she said without taking her eyes off my wound. “Have you ever been out walking, away from the clatter of the village, when you felt the presence of a spirit, of something you couldn’t quite see? Down by the river, perhaps, or somewhere in the forest?”

My thoughts drifted back to the great pine tree swaying in the storm. I could almost hear the swishing of branches, the wafting of resins, the feeling of bark on my hands. “Well, sometimes, in the forest . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ve felt as if the trees, the oldest trees especially, were alive. Not just like a plant, but like a person. With a face. With a spirit.”

Branwen nodded. “Like the dryads and hamadryads.” She gazed at me wistfully. “I wish I could read to you some of the stories about them, in the Greeks’ own words. They tell them so much better than I can! And those books . . . Emrys, I have seen a room full of books so thick and musty and inviting that I would sit down with one on my lap and do nothing but read all day long. I would keep on reading late into the night until I fell asleep. And then, as I slept, I might be visited by the dryads, or by Apollo himself.”

She stopped short. “Have I never told you any stories about Dagda?”

I shook my head. “What does that have to do with Apollo?”

“Patience.” Taking another scoop of the paste, she continued working. “The Celts, who have lived in Gwynedd long enough to know about sacred time, have many Apollos of their own. I heard about them as a child, long before I learned to read.”

I jolted. “You are Celtic? I thought you came from . . . wherever I came from, over the sea.”

Her hands tensed. “I did. But before I went there, I lived here, in Gwynedd. Not in this village but in Caer Myrddin, which was not so crowded as it is today. Now let me continue.”

I nodded obediently, feeling buoyed by what she had said. It wasn’t much, but it was the first time she had ever told me anything about her childhood.

She resumed both her work and her story. “Dagda is one of those Apollos. He is one of the most powerful Celtic spirits, the god of complete knowledge.”

“What does Dagda look like? In the stories, I mean.”

Branwen took the last of the paste from the bowl. “Ah, that’s a good question. A very good question. For some reason known only to him, Dagda’s true face is never seen. He assumes various forms at various times.”

“Like what?”

“Once, in a famous battle with his supreme enemy, an evil spirit named Rhita Gawr, both of them took the forms of powerful beasts. Rhita Gawr became a huge boar, with terrible tusks and eyes the color of blood.” She paused, trying to remember. “Oh, yes. And a scar that ran all the way down one of its forelegs.”

I stiffened. The scar under my eye, where the boar’s tusk had ripped me five years ago, started to sting. On many a dark night since that day, the same boar had appeared again, and attacked again, in my dreams.

“And in that battle, Dagda became—”

“A great stag,” I completed. “Bronze in color, except for the white boots. Seven points on each side of its rack. And eyes as deep as the spaces between the stars.”

Surprised, she nodded. “So you have heard the story?”

“No,” I confessed.

“Then how could you know?”

I exhaled long and slow. “I have seen those eyes.”

She froze. “You have?”

“I have seen the stag. And the boar as well.”

“When?”

“On the day we washed ashore.”

She studied me closely. “Did they fight?”

“Yes! The boar wanted to kill us. Especially you, I would guess, if it really was some kind of evil spirit.”

“Whatever makes you say that?”

“Well, because you were . . . you! And I was just a scrawny little boy then.” I cast an eye over myself and grinned. “As opposed to the scrawny big boy I am now. Anyway, that boar would surely have killed us. But then the stag appeared and drove it off.” I touched the spot under my eye. “That’s how I got this.”

“You never told me.”

I glanced at her sharply. “There is much you have never told me.”

“You’re right,” she said ruefully. “We may have shared a few stories about others, but very few about ourselves. It’s my fault, really.”

I said nothing.

“But I will share this much with you now. If that boar—Rhita Gawr—could have killed just one of us, it would not have been me. It would have been
you
.”

“What? That’s absurd! It’s you who has such knowledge, such powers to heal.”

“And you have powers more vast by far!” Her gaze locked into mine. “Have you begun to feel them yet? Your grandfather told me once that his came in his twelfth year.” She caught her breath. “I did not mean to mention him.”

“But you did! Now can you tell me more?”

Grimly, she shook her head. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“Please, oh please! Tell me something, at least. What was he like?”

“I can’t.”

My cheeks grew hot. “You must! Why did you mention him at all unless there was something about him I should know?”

She ran a hand through her yellow locks. “He was a wizard, a formidable one. But I will tell you only what he said about you. Before you were born. He told me that powers such as he possessed often skipped a generation. And that I would have a son who . . .”

“Who what?”

“Who would have powers even greater than his own. Whose magic would spring from the very deepest sources. So deep that, if you learned to master them, you could change the course of the world forever.”

My jaw fell open. “That’s not true. And you know it. Just look at me!”

“I am,” she said quietly. “And while you are not now what your grandfather described, perhaps you will be someday.”

“No,” I protested. “I don’t want that. I only want my memory back! I want to know who I really am.”

“What if who you are involves such powers?”

“How could it?” I scoffed. “I’m no wizard.”

She cocked her head. “One day you might be surprised.”

Suddenly I remembered what had happened to Lud’s stick. “Well . . . I
was
surprised. Out there, before you came. Something strange happened. I’m not even sure I did it. But I’m not sure I didn’t, either.”

Without saying a word, she retrieved a torn piece of cloth and started wrapping it around my ribs. She seemed to be observing me with new respect, perhaps even a touch of fear. Her hands moved more gingerly, as if I were almost too hot to touch. Whatever she was feeling, whatever I was sensing, it made me very uncomfortable. In the same moment that I had started to feel closer to her, it made her seem more distant than ever.

At length, she spoke. “Whatever you did, you did from your powers. They are yours to use, a gift from above. From the greatest of the gods, the one I pray to more than any other, the one who gave each of us whatever gifts we have. I have no idea what your powers might be, my son. I only know that God didn’t give them to you without expecting you to use them. All God asks is that you use them
well.
But first you must, as your grandfather put it, come to master them. And that means learning how to use them with wisdom and love.”

“But I didn’t ask for powers!”

“Nor did I. Just as I did not ask to be called a sorceress. But with every gift comes the risk that others may not understand it.”

“Aren’t you afraid, though? Last year in Lien they burned someone they said was a sorceress.”

She raised her eyes to the shafts of light coming through the holes above our heads. “Almighty God knows I am no sorceress. I only try to use whatever gifts I may have as best I can.”

“You try to blend the old wisdom with the new. And that frightens people.”

Her sapphire eyes softened. “You see more than I realize. Yes, it frightens people. So does almost everything these days.”

She gently tied off the bandage. “The whole world is changing, Emrys. I have never known a time like this, even in . . . the other place. Invasions from across the sea. Mercenaries whose loyalties shift overnight. Christians at war with the old beliefs. Old beliefs at war with the Christians. People are afraid. Deathly afraid. Anything unknown becomes the work of demons.”

Stiffly, I sat up. “Don’t you sometimes wish . . .” My voice disappeared, and I swallowed. “That you didn’t have your gifts? That you weren’t so different? That nobody thought you were a demon?”

“Of course.” She bit her lip thoughtfully. “But that’s where my faith comes in. You see, the new wisdom is powerful. Very powerful. Just see what it did for Saint Brigid and Saint Colombe! Yet I know enough about the old wisdom to know it has great power, too. Is it too much to hope that they can live together, old and new? That they can strengthen each other? For even as the words of Jesus touch my soul, I cannot forget the words of others. The Jews. The Greeks. The Druids. The others, even older.”

I watched her somberly. “You know so much. Not like me.”

“There you are wrong. I know so little. So very little.” A sudden look of pain crossed her face. “Like . . . why you never call me
Mother
.”

An arrow jabbed my heart. “That is because . . .”

“Yes?”

“Because I really don’t believe you are.”

She sucked in her breath. “And do you believe that your true name is Emrys?”

“No.”

“Or that my true name is Branwen?”

“No.”

She tilted her head upward. For a long moment, she stared into the thatch over our heads, blackened with the soot of countless cooking fires. At length, she looked at me again.