Willow (27 page)

In that instant she cried out her fury and frustration, and something even more terrible—an echo of lost innocence, a sound like water gurgling over stones, or like the laughter of a child . . .

Then the lightning struck, a single, quivering, jagged spear that pierced Bavmorda from head to foot and stayed, writhing above and through her.

She neither exploded nor flamed. She incandesced. She turned white hot like some magic metal, and when her flesh had gone her skull and skeleton hung intact in that white aura before they also vanished, leaving only drifting particles of ash.

The lightning became a ray of sun; the thunder, a roar of victory from the courtyard.

Sorsha revived as Madmartigan rushed in and gathered her into his arms. Fin Raziel returned to life as Willow touched her hand. “Willow . . . where’s the child? Where’s Elora Danan?”

“Here,” he said. “Safe.” He reached into the secret inside pocket of his cloak and drew out the smiling child. Wonderingly, he gazed at her and at the surrounding death and chaos caused by the sorceresses. “It . . . it was just the old disappearing-pig trick,” Willow said.

EPILOGUE

A
fter the defeat of Bavmorda, all those lands grew natural again, even the black slate valley of Nockmaar. Renewal came like the thawing after a hard winter, so gently that no creature could be sure when it began. All living things felt it, and responded, and added their songs to the resonant hymn of Earth. Old rhythms returned. Old cycles revived.

Fresh winds blew over Nockmaar, sweeping away the stench of death. Bright wildflowers sprang up on the crags and in the slate crevasses. New shrubs and bushes bloomed. Clear springs welled up from deep underground to sweeten the caustic moat.

Despite this revival, no one stayed at Nockmaar. So dreadful were the memories of it, and so frightful would be the legends surrounding it, that the valley would never be inhabited again. Even when forests towered there and hawks soared, no roads would lead to Nockmaar, no hunters would venture close. In time the fortress would be overgrown and crumble to ruin. The green world would claim it once again; but until then Bavmorda’s tower remained—a stark warning of awful possibilities . . .

When the last of the dead had been buried, and the sally ports and main gates of Nockmaar Castle had been sealed, Willow and Raziel, Sorsha and Madmartigan rode west, toward Tir Asleen.

That was a triumphal procession. In the vanguard fluttered the proud standard of Airk Thaughbaer. Behind, ringed by banners, rode Willow Ufgood with Elora in his arms. Then came Fin Raziel, then Sorsha and Madmartigan, and then the Galladoorns, their pennants high. All the way, at every village, people strewed flowers in their path and crowded close to see and touch Elora. All the way, her laughter joined the laughter of the brooks and streams.

Two stately eagles escorted them all the way to Tir Asleen, bearing two proud brownies.

Tir Asleen was most miraculously transformed. Bavmorda’s maze had vanished, as had all traces of the battle. The broad avenue was thronged with citizens. Royal banners flew on the towers of the castle, and music and laughter drifted across its battlements. The gates stood open, and as Willow and his party approached, an equerry bearing the king’s standard rode out to greet them.

Many days the festivities continued in that valley, for there was much to celebrate—the joyous reunion of Sorsha and her father, the commencement of the reign of Elora Danan, and the restoring of Madmartigan to knighthood and to honor.

Urged by his friends and by the king to stay with them, Willow lingered for three days. Then, on the evening of the third day, he confessed his great yearning for Nelwyn Valley, and for Kiaya and his children. The king smiled. “You shall have our best pony,” he said.

So, next morning, Willow bade farewell to Sorsha and her father. He accepted the gift of a sacred book from Fin Raziel, and heard her tell him that he could, in the fullness of time, be a great sorcerer. He kissed Elora Danan. Madmartigan lifted him onto the white pony and he rode away down the broad avenue and through the valley toward the banks of the Freen. He was going home, toward the Lake of Fin Raziel and the Woods of Cherlindrea where he said good-bye to the brownies. He was going back to Nelwyn Valley, home to Ufgood Reach.

There is no need to dwell on his arrival—how Vohnkar was the first to greet him and question him about the child and Tir Asleen; how Meegosh welcomed him soon after, and how his two friends led the pony down the last stretch of the river road, where it came out of the forest as if from the end of a long tunnel; or how, as they passed the old burial ground in the meadow, the High Aldwin materialized, saying, “What? What?” and led the little procession to the village, holding his staff high and shouting, “Triumph! Triumph! Sound the gongs! Beat the drums! Music and revelry!”

There is no need to describe how warmly Willow was welcomed by all, even by Burglekutt; or how the Council declared a festival in his honor; or how the High Aldwin, beaming with pride, insisted that he change a stone into a white dove; or how the bird spiraled higher and higher above Ufgood Reach until it was lost to sight.

The honor, the acclaim, the gratitude—these embarrassed Willow Ufgood, for he was, after all, a modest and private person. His most important welcome came later, when he was free at last to walk with Kiaya and the children down the path to Ufgood Reach, and when, laughing wearily, he promised to look at all Mims’s new paintings the very next morning, and to answer all Ranon’s questions, and to tell them both the story of Elora Danan as often as they wished.

Then, when the children were settled for the night, Willow embraced his beloved Kiaya, and they walked a little distance away from the house to a spot where they could watch the moonlight on the bountiful fields of Ufgood Reach and the silver eddies of the Freen. There they stood a long time in one another’s arms, content with that simple life, at peace in the Mystery of that green world.

W
AYLAND
D
REW
was born in Oshawa, Ontario, and received his early education there. He began to write seriously in high school and continued while studying English language and literature at the University of Toronto. Since graduation he has combined high school teaching and writing. He is the author of
The Erthring Cycle
, a trilogy published by Del Rey books.

Mr. Drew and his wife Gwendolyn live in Bracebridge, where he has taught English for eleven years at Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School. They have four children.