Merlin's Booke by Jane Yolen Page B

us. I think you will be a very fine addition to our collection.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” gasped Merrillin.
    â€œNot sir. My name is Ambrosius, because of my amber eyes. Did you notice them? Ambrosius the Wandering Mage. And what is your name? I cannot keep calling you ‘boy.’”
    â€œMy name is Merrillin but …” he hesitated and looked down.
    â€œI will not hit you and you may keep the coin whatever you say,” Ambrosius said.
    â€œBut I would like to be called Hawk.”
    â€œHawk, is it?” The mage laughed again. “Perhaps you will grow into that name, but it seems to me that you are mighty small and a bit thin for a hawk.”
    A strange sharp cackling sound came from the interior of the wagon, a high ki-ki-ki-ki.
    The mage looked in and back. “Viviane says you are a hawk, but a small one—the merlin. And that is, quite happily, close to your Christian name as well. Will it suit?”
    â€œMerlin,” whispered Merrillin, his hand clutched tightly around the coin. Then he looked up, his eyes gone the blue of the aster. “That was the hawk in my dream, Ambrosius. That was the sound he made. A merlin. It has to be my true name.”
    â€œGood. Then it is settled,” said the mage standing. “Fly off to your pie, Hawk Merlin, and then fly quickly back to me. We go tomorrow to Carmarthen. There’s to be a great holy day fair. Viviane will sing. I will do my magic. And you—well, we shall have to figure out what you can do. But it will be something quite worthy, I am sure. I tell you, young Merlin, there are fortunes to be made on the road if you can sing in four voices and pluck flowers out of the air.”
    The road was a gentle winding path through valleys and alongside streams. The trees were still gold in most places, but on the far ridges the forests were already bare.
    As the wagon bounced along, Viviane sang songs about Robin of the Wood in a high, sweet voice and the Battle of the Trees in a voice deep as thunder. And in a middle voice she sang a lusty ballad about a bold warrior that made Merlin’s cheeks turn pink and hot.
    Ambrosius shortened the journey with his wonder tales. And as he talked, he made coins walk across his knuckles and found two quail’s eggs behind Viviane’s left ear. Once he pulled a turtledove out of Merlin’s shirt, which surprised the dove more than the boy. The bird flew off onto a low branch of an ash tree and plucked its breast feathers furiously until the wagon had passed by.
    They were two days traveling and one day resting by a lovely bright pond rimmed with willows.
    â€œCarmarthen is over that small hill,” pointed out the mage. “But it will wait on us. The fair does not begin until tomorrow. Besides, we have fishing to do. And a man—whether mage or murderer—always can find time to fish!” He took Merlin down to the pond where he quickly proved himself a bad angler but a merry companion, telling fish stories late into the night. All he caught was a turtle. It was Merlin who pulled up the one small spotted trout they roasted over the fire that night and shared three ways.
    Theirs was not the only wagon on the road before dawn, but it was the gaudiest by far. Peddlers’ children leaped off their own wagons to run alongside and beg the magician for a trick. He did one for each child and asked for no coins at all, even though Viviane chided him.
    â€œDo not scold, Viviane. Each child will bring another to our wagon once we are in the town. They will be our best criers,” Ambrosius said, as he made a periwinkle appear from under the chin of a dirty-faced tinker lass. She giggled and ran off with the flower.
    At first each trick made Merlin gasp with delight. But partway through the trip, he began to notice from where the flowers and coins and scarves and eggs really appeared—out of the vast sleeves of the mage’s robe. He started watching