A Wizard's Wings by T.A. Barron

Author:T.A. Barron [Barron, T.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Puffin Books
Published: 2000-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

20: FIN’S BALLAD

Together, Cairpré and I strode down the sand to the lee of the dune, facing away from the sea. As we dropped lower, the noise from the water birds’ shrieking and honking lessened, though we continued to hear their clamor along with the sloshing waves. We sat in a small gully at the base of the dune, near a stand of trees drowned by one of the River Unceasing’s spring floods. Their whitened trunks, stripped of most of their bark, stood like gigantic arrows shot into the ground. Beyond the dead trees stretched the floodplains, a quilt of dry grass and hardened mud.

“Cairpré,” I announced, “I have a plan to save the children, a place where they’ll be safe.”

“Good, my boy. May whimsical fate not destroy but create.”

“I just have to figure out—”

“Later, Merlin. You must hear what I’ve found.”

The gravity of his tone caught my attention. “All right, then. What is it?”

He leaned closer. “It’s an ancient ballad, so obscure I’d forgotten about it completely. Until you spoke about your vision, that is.” Urgently, he took my hand. “It’s written by the bard Fin Gaillion!”

I shook my head. “Who?”

He frowned, scratching the tip of his nose—a look I’d seen occasionally during our tutorial sessions over the years, and which I knew meant something akin to you blockhead. More slowly this time, he said, “Fin Gaillion, seer of the western shores.”

Blankly, I stared at him.

Cairpré ground his teeth impatiently. “He was a prophet, a seer. Famous—at least to some of us. He wandered the coast centuries ago, putting his prophecies to verse. Unfortunately, most of his predictions are about as clear as the misty shores where he wrote them. But every so often, he gives quite a vivid glimpse of the future.” Under his breath, he added, “Though it may be a glimpse we’d rather not have.”

“What does this ballad say?”

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the words, as his fingers drummed against his thigh. At length, he recited:

On solstice that summons

The year’s longest night,

Fincayra shall suffer

The Otherworld’s might.

For spirit and mortal

True sighted and blind,

There cometh a battle

Of ultimate kind.

At Dance of the Giants

A gate doth appear

On worlds out of balance,

Now riven by fear.

When dawn’s light caresses

The circle of stones,

The fate of Fincayra

Shall truly be known.

If land long forgotten

Returns to its shore,

And ancient opponents

Stand allies once more,

Then all through the heavens

Grand music may sound:

The balance restored;

The hidden wings found.

Yet tidings, more likely,

Are vilely reversed—

All hope torn asunder,

The Treasures all cursed.

Then over the heavens

A shroud shall descend:

The longest of evenings,

The uttermost end.

His eyes reopened, watching me with concern. “The stakes could not be higher, my boy.”

I nodded. “You heard him mention wings? Just as Dagda did. I just don’t understand how that fits in.”

The poet rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. “Nor do I. The part that puzzles me most, though, is that earlier reference: If land long forgotten returns to its shore.” Turning, he gazed at the bone-white trees. To himself, he muttered, “It couldn’t possibly mean the Forgotten Island.

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