The Lost Years (10 page)

I had nothing to lose except my life.

11:
S
AILING

Using the broken limbs of the ancient oak, lashed together with ropelike shreds of bark, I built my raft. Relying only on my second sight, I often misjudged the fit of limbs and the strength of knots. Yet plank by plank my raft came together. In its center, I placed a large slab from the hollow of the tree, which provided a slightly cupped seat where I could ride. Finally, I bound the edges with several long strands of kelp that I found among the rocks.

By the time I finished, the sun was starting to set. I dragged the meager craft to the edge of the waves. On a whim, before pushing off, I ran back to the tidal pool where the conch shell still drifted. Scooping it up, I dropped it on the sand so that the crab might find its home again.

Gulls screeched, in laughter it seemed, as I waded into the cold waves. Before climbing on my feeble vessel, I hesitated. Opposing worlds tugged at me. I stood exactly on the edge—of land and sea, of past and future. For a moment I lost my resolve. Water lapped about my thighs, the same water that had nearly drowned me before. Perhaps I was acting too hastily. Perhaps I should return to shore to think of a better plan.

Just then I noticed a hint of gold shining on the remains of the old tree. The sunset had struck the trunk, etching it in fire. It reminded me of another tree on fire, a tree whose flames still burned me deeply. And I knew I must try to find the answers to my questions.

I pulled myself aboard the raft. Settling into the cupped center, I folded my legs in front of me. I looked one more time at the black cliffs, then turned away from shore. Dipping my hands in the chilly water, I paddled for some distance, until my arms grew too tired. The fading sun, still strong enough to warm my wet skin, made the water sparkle with many more colors than I could detect. Yet even though I could not truly see, I could sense the web of pink and golden light dancing just beneath the waves.

As the tide carried me farther from shore, a breeze leaned against my back. Where the sea might take me, I did not know. All I could do was trust.

I thought about ancient seafarers like Bran the Blessed, Odysseus, and Jonah, whose tales I had heard from Branwen. And I wondered whether anyone but Branwen would ever care about my own ocean voyage. I wished that someday I might be able to describe it to her. But in my heart I knew that I would never see her again.

A black-headed gull swooped past, skimming the surface of the waves in search of supper. With a loud squawk, it careened toward the raft and settled on one of the strands of kelp dangling from the side. Clamping its beak on a green frond, it pulled and twisted madly.

“Away!” I waved my hands in its face. The last thing I needed at this moment was to have my little craft pulled apart by a hungry bird.

The gull dropped the kelp, lifted off with a screech, then circled the raft. A few seconds later it landed again—this time on my knee. The bird’s eye, which seemed as yellow as the sun, examined me. Apparently concluding that I looked too large (or too tough) for a ready meal, the gull cocked its black head and took flight, heading back to shore.

As I watched the gull depart, I yawned. The continuous rocking of the waves was making me drowsy, more so because I was spent from my days of trekking from Caer Myrddin. Yet how could I sleep? I could fall off the raft, or worse, miss something important.

I tried to rest without sleeping. Curling my back, I leaned my head against my knees. To keep myself awake, I concentrated on the slowly setting sun. By now the great burning globe was resting just above the water, sending a shimmering band of light across the waves, right to my raft. It might have been an avenue of gold, a pathway across the water.

I wondered where that path might lead. Just as I wondered where my own might lead.

Checking over my shoulder, I could tell that I had already drifted some distance from shore. Although the breeze had subsided, I realized that the raft might have caught a current. I bounced over the waves, which splashed me constantly. Despite the jostling, my lashings looked still taut, the wood still sturdy. Licking my lips, I tasted the salty spray. As I laid my head again on my knees, I could not help but yawn again.

The sun, swollen and scarlet, ignited the clouds with colors, colors that I could see only subtly. The shape of the sun I could sense more clearly, as it grew flatter on the horizon. An instant later, as if it were a bubble that had finally burst, it disappeared below the waves.

But I did not notice the onset of darkness, for I had fallen asleep.

A sudden splash of cold water woke me. Night had arrived. A host of stars clustered around the thinnest crescent moon I had ever known. I listened to the ceaseless heaving and sucking of the waves, to the bashing of water against wood. I slept no more during that night. Shivering, I drew my legs tightly to my chest. I could only wait for whatever the sea wished to show me.

As the sun rose behind me, I discovered that the coast of Gwynedd had disappeared. Not even the imposing cliffs were visible anymore. Only a faint wisp of a cloud stretched like a pennant from what I guessed might be the summit of Y Wyddfa, though I could not be sure.

I spied a timber that had slipped out of its lashing, and quickly bound it up again. As the day dragged on, my back and legs grew painfully stiff, but I couldn’t stand to stretch them without flipping over. Waves slapped relentlessly against the raft and against me. The hot sun burned the back of my neck. Meanwhile, my mouth and throat felt an even stronger burning, which increased as the day wore on. Never before had I felt so thirsty.

Just at sunset, I perceived a group of large, streamlined bodies leaping above the ocean surface. Although seven or eight individuals comprised the group, they swam in perfect unity. They moved like a single wave, surging and subsiding. Then, as they passed near my raft, they changed direction and swam a complete circle around me. Once, twice, three times, they ringed me, leaping in and out of the bubbles of their own wakes.

Were they dolphins? Or sea people, perhaps? The ones Branwen called
people of the mer,
who were said to be part human and part fish? I could not see well enough to tell. Yet the glimpse of them filled me with wonder. As they swam away, their bodies gleaming in the golden light, I promised myself that if I should ever live long enough, I would do whatever I could to explore the mysterious depths under the sea.

Another night passed, as cold as before. The crescent moon vanished completely, swallowed by the stars. Suddenly I remembered the constellations, and Branwen’s stories about their origins. After much searching, I managed to find a few, including my favorite, the winged Pegasus. I imagined that the constant rocking of my raft was the galloping, galloping of the steed across the sky.

I fell asleep, dreaming that I was carried aloft on the back of some great winged creature, although whether or not it was Pegasus I could not be sure. Suddenly we were swooping into battle. A darkened castle, manned by ghostly sentinels, rose up before us. And yes! The castle was spinning, turning on its foundation. It drew us down, down, toward its spinning edifice. I tried with all my might to change course, yet I could not. In seconds we would slam straight into the castle walls.

At that point, I woke up. I shivered, from more than cold. The dream filled my thoughts deep into the following day, though its meaning continued to elude me.

Late that afternoon, the western horizon grew dark. Waves rose to new heights, throwing my vessel this way and that, as winds hurled sheets of spray. The raft groaned and creaked. Several strands of kelp burst apart, and a crack appeared in the large slab of wood from the hollow of the old oak. Still, for the most part, the storm passed me by. With twilight, calmer waters returned. I was soaked, to be sure, and terribly thirsty, but both my craft and I remained intact.

That night, I did my best to repair the broken lashing. Then, as I sat cross-legged, a biting wind smacked my face. Another shadow, darker than before, swept across the stars. Swiftly it covered the southern sky, then the dome above me, until finally the entire sky went black.

As darkness swallowed me, my second sight flickered out, useless in such utter blackness. I couldn’t see! I was no less blind than I had been on the day I first arrived at the church.

Mighty waves began lifting and swirling, tossing my raft around like a mere twig. Water drenched my face, my back, my arms and legs. And this time the storm did not dissipate. Rather, it swelled, gathering strength with each passing minute. Bending low in my seat, I curled up as tight as I could, like a hedgehog fearing for its life. I wrapped my hands around the outermost edges of the raft, clinging to the scraps of wood that were keeping me afloat.

My powers! For an instant I considered calling on them. Perhaps I could bind the raft together, or even calm the waves! But no. I had promised. Besides, those powers frightened me deeply, even more than this terrible gale. The truth was I knew nothing about magic except its terrible consequences—the smell of scorched flesh, the screams of another person, the agony of my own burning eyes. However my powers might have helped me, I knew that I would never use them again.

All through the black night the storm howled and raged. Curtains of water fell on me. Enormous waves pounded me. At one point I recalled the story of Bran the Blessed surviving a fierce storm at sea, and it gave me a brief burst of hope that I, too, might survive. Yet this hope was soon drowned in the ocean’s onslaught.

Both of my hands went numb with the cold, yet I dared not release their grip to try to warm them. More of my lashing popped. One timber split down the middle. My back ached, though not as much as my heart. For something inside me knew that this storm would spell the end of my voyage.

The rising sun brightened the sky only a little, but it was enough that I could begin to sense shapes again. My second sight had only barely returned when a powerful wave crashed down so hard that it knocked the breath right out of me. The raft buckled and finally broke apart.

In that terrifying instant I was cast down into the seething sea, battered by the currents. By luck I touched a floating timber and grasped it. Another wave toppled over me, and another, and another.

My strength ebbing, I started to lose my grip. The wild storm continued thrashing and pounding. As the new day dawned, I felt sure that it would be my last. I barely noticed the odd-shaped cloud hovering low over the water, though it looked almost like an island made of mist.

With a plaintive cry, I let go. Water poured into my lungs.

P
ART
T
WO

12: FALLEN WARRIOR

Not swaying anymore.

Not drowning anymore.

Once again, I awoke to find myself on an unknown shore. The same sound of surf filled my ears. The same brackish taste soured my mouth. The same feeling of dread twisted my stomach.

Were the torments of my years in Gwynedd just a dream? A terrible, twisted dream?

I knew the answer, even before my sand-crusted fingers touched my scarred cheeks, my useless eyes. And the Galator dangling from my neck. Gwynedd had been real. As real as the strange, potent smell that spiced the air of this place, wherever this place might be.

I rolled onto my side, crunching a shell under my hip. Sitting up, I drank in the air. Sweet as a summer meadow it tasted, but with an edge to it. Sharper. Truer.

While I could hear the waves sloshing and slapping, not far away, I could not view them with my second sight. That was not because of my poor vision, however. The waves lay hidden behind a rolling wall of mist, mist so thick that it obscured everything beyond.

Within the wall of mist, curious shapes seemed to coalesce, hold together for a few seconds, then vanish. I saw something like a great archway, with a door swinging closed. As it melted away, it was replaced by a spiked tail, big enough for a dragon. Then, as I watched, the tail transformed into an enormous head with a bulbous nose. Like a giant made of mist, it turned slowly toward me, moving its mouth as if to speak, before dissolving into the shifting clouds.

Turning my stiff back, I looked around. This beach, unlike the north coast of Gwynedd, formed a gentle meeting of land and sea. No piles of jagged rocks littered the coast, only shells of pink and white and purple, strewn over the fine-grained sand. Next to my foot, a leafy vine crawled across the beach like a shiny green snake.

Pink. Purple. Green. My heart leaped. I could sense colors! Not so well as my memories before the fire, perhaps, but much better than before the sea tore my raft to shreds.

But wait. That could not be true. As I examined my own skin, and then the folds of my tunic, I knew that they were no more brightly colored than before.

With a glance back at the beach, I understood. It was not that I could see any better. It was that this landscape simply radiated color. The shells, the shining leaves, even the sand of this place felt brighter and deeper somehow. If they seemed this vivid with only my second sight, how vivid they would be if I had eyes that could truly see!

I picked up one of the spiral-shaped shells. Purple lines wound around its body of gleaming white. It felt comfortable in my hand, like one friend meeting another.

I put the shell to my ear, expecting to hear the watery sound within its chambers. Instead, I heard a strange, breathy sound, like the voice of someone far away. Whispering to me in a language I could not understand. Trying to tell me something.

I caught my breath. Lowering the shell, I peered into its chamber. It seemed ordinary enough. I must have just imagined it. Again I brought it to my ear. The voice again! This time clearer than before. In spite of myself, I thought I heard it say
bewaaare . . . bewaaare.

Quickly, I put down the shell. My palms felt sweaty, my stomach knotted. I stood up. My legs, arms, and back ached with stiffness. I glanced down at the shell, then shook my head. Seawater in my ears. Maybe that was it.