pillow.”
The man eyed him with amusement. “You don’t often fall out of branches.”
“The branches don’t often stand up and shake me out! And look, Papa! They’re loaded down with apples.”
The man gasped. Like the boy, he stared, jaw dangling, at the transformed trees. I too began to smile. This was the reaction that I had hoped to get from Rhia and the others—the reaction that I would have surely gotten from my mother. She had always delighted in the beauty and flavor of fresh apples.
“ ‘Tis a miracle, son. ‘Tis a gift from the great god Dagda himself.”
I stepped out of the shadows. “No, Honn. It is a gift from me.”
The man gave a start. He looked from me to the tree spreading above us, then back to me. At last he turned to his son. “It’s him! The lad I told you about.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “The one who crushed the evil king? Who calls himself after a hawk?”
“Merlin,” I declared, cuffing the boy on the shoulder. “Your father helped me once, when I badly needed it.”
Honn ran a hand through his hair, flecked with dirt. “Good gracious, lad. Until I heard the tales of your success, I had given you up for dead thrice over.”
Leaning on my twisted staff, I grinned. “With good reason. If it hadn’t been for that handy blade you gave me, I surely would have been dead thrice over.”
Rubbing his strong chin, Honn examined me for a moment. Below his bare chest he wore nothing but loose brown leggings. His hands, cracked and calloused though they were, looked as powerful as tree roots.
“I am glad the old dagger proved useful, my lad. Where is it now?”
“Somewhere in the ruins of the Shrouded Castle. It failed to slay a ghouliant, one of Stangmar’s deathless soldiers. But it did buy me a few precious seconds.”
“Of that I am glad.” His gaze moved to the magical instrument. “I see that you found the Flowering Harp.” He nudged the boy. “You see, my son, it was indeed a miracle! No mere mortal, not even one so talented as the young hawk here, could have done such a thing. It was the Harp, not the lad, that revived our orchard.”
I cringed, then started to speak. Before I could say anything, however, Honn continued.
“To my mind, son, all the Treasures of Fincayra are the stuff of miracles, wrought by Dagda himself.” In a quiet, almost reverent voice, he added, “There is even a plow, one of the Seven Wise Tools, that knows how to till its own field. Truly! It is said that any field it touches will yield the perfect harvest, neither too much nor too little.”
The boy shook his head in amazement. Waving toward the rickety wooden plow that lay beside the ditch, he laughed. “No chance of mistaking it for that one, Father! My back hurts just to watch whenever you pull it.”
Honn beamed. “Not so much as my own back hurts after you jump on me from a tree.”
The pair laughed together. Honn wrapped a burly arm around his son’s shoulder and turned to me, his face full of pride. “The truth is, I have a treasure of my own. My young friend here. And he’s more precious to me than an ocean full of miracles.”
I swallowed, running a finger over my mother’s leather satchel. I could smell its sweet herbs even over the aroma of ripe apples. “What would you do, Honn, if you ever lost that treasure? That friend?”
His face became as hard as stone. “Why, I’d do everything in my mortal power to get it back.”
“Even if it meant leaving your work unfinished?”
“No work could be more important than that.”
I nodded grimly. No work could be more important than that.
Stepping over the ditch, I started walking. When I reached the edge of the orchard, I paused to face the Dark Hills, glowing like coals in the setting sun. The long, thin shadow of my staff seemed to point straight at the notched hill where I had turned aside from my task.
Slowly, I swung around to the north. I would return to those hills, and to my task, before long. And
The man eyed him with amusement. “You don’t often fall out of branches.”
“The branches don’t often stand up and shake me out! And look, Papa! They’re loaded down with apples.”
The man gasped. Like the boy, he stared, jaw dangling, at the transformed trees. I too began to smile. This was the reaction that I had hoped to get from Rhia and the others—the reaction that I would have surely gotten from my mother. She had always delighted in the beauty and flavor of fresh apples.
“ ‘Tis a miracle, son. ‘Tis a gift from the great god Dagda himself.”
I stepped out of the shadows. “No, Honn. It is a gift from me.”
The man gave a start. He looked from me to the tree spreading above us, then back to me. At last he turned to his son. “It’s him! The lad I told you about.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “The one who crushed the evil king? Who calls himself after a hawk?”
“Merlin,” I declared, cuffing the boy on the shoulder. “Your father helped me once, when I badly needed it.”
Honn ran a hand through his hair, flecked with dirt. “Good gracious, lad. Until I heard the tales of your success, I had given you up for dead thrice over.”
Leaning on my twisted staff, I grinned. “With good reason. If it hadn’t been for that handy blade you gave me, I surely would have been dead thrice over.”
Rubbing his strong chin, Honn examined me for a moment. Below his bare chest he wore nothing but loose brown leggings. His hands, cracked and calloused though they were, looked as powerful as tree roots.
“I am glad the old dagger proved useful, my lad. Where is it now?”
“Somewhere in the ruins of the Shrouded Castle. It failed to slay a ghouliant, one of Stangmar’s deathless soldiers. But it did buy me a few precious seconds.”
“Of that I am glad.” His gaze moved to the magical instrument. “I see that you found the Flowering Harp.” He nudged the boy. “You see, my son, it was indeed a miracle! No mere mortal, not even one so talented as the young hawk here, could have done such a thing. It was the Harp, not the lad, that revived our orchard.”
I cringed, then started to speak. Before I could say anything, however, Honn continued.
“To my mind, son, all the Treasures of Fincayra are the stuff of miracles, wrought by Dagda himself.” In a quiet, almost reverent voice, he added, “There is even a plow, one of the Seven Wise Tools, that knows how to till its own field. Truly! It is said that any field it touches will yield the perfect harvest, neither too much nor too little.”
The boy shook his head in amazement. Waving toward the rickety wooden plow that lay beside the ditch, he laughed. “No chance of mistaking it for that one, Father! My back hurts just to watch whenever you pull it.”
Honn beamed. “Not so much as my own back hurts after you jump on me from a tree.”
The pair laughed together. Honn wrapped a burly arm around his son’s shoulder and turned to me, his face full of pride. “The truth is, I have a treasure of my own. My young friend here. And he’s more precious to me than an ocean full of miracles.”
I swallowed, running a finger over my mother’s leather satchel. I could smell its sweet herbs even over the aroma of ripe apples. “What would you do, Honn, if you ever lost that treasure? That friend?”
His face became as hard as stone. “Why, I’d do everything in my mortal power to get it back.”
“Even if it meant leaving your work unfinished?”
“No work could be more important than that.”
I nodded grimly. No work could be more important than that.
Stepping over the ditch, I started walking. When I reached the edge of the orchard, I paused to face the Dark Hills, glowing like coals in the setting sun. The long, thin shadow of my staff seemed to point straight at the notched hill where I had turned aside from my task.
Slowly, I swung around to the north. I would return to those hills, and to my task, before long. And
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