The Lost Years by T. A. Barron Read Free Book Online

swept out of nowhere to stand between us. The boys, except for Dinatius, fell back. And I gasped in surprise.
    It was Branwen.
    Though a shadow of fear crossed his face, Dinatius spat at her feet. “Move aside, she-demon.”
    Eyes alight, she glared at him. “Leave us.”
    “Go to the devil,” he retorted. “That’s where you both belong.”
    “Is that so? Then it is you who had better flee.” She raised her arms menacingly. “Or I will bring the fires of Hell down on you.”
    Dinatius shook his head. “You will be the one to burn. Not me.”
    “But I am not afraid of fire! I cannot be burned!”
    Lud, watching Branwen nervously, pulled on Dinatius’ shoulder. “What if she speaks the truth? Let’s go.”
    “Not until I finish with her whelp.”
    Branwen’s blue eyes flashed. “Leave now. Or you shall burn.”
    He stepped backward.
    She leaned toward him, then spoke a single word of command. “Now.”
    The other boys turned and ran. Dinatius, seeing their flight, looked uncertain. With both hands, he made the sign to protect himself from the evil eye.
    “Now!” repeated Branwen.
    Dinatius glowered at her for a moment, then retreated.
    I took Branwen’s arm. Together, we walked in slow procession back to our hut.

5: S ACRED T IME
    Stretched out on my pallet, I winced as Branwen massaged my bruised ribs. Odd patches of light, streaming through the holes in the thatched roof, fell on her left shoulder and hand. Her brow wrinkled in concern. Those blue eyes studied me so intensely that I could almost feel them boring into my skin.
    “Thank you for helping me.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    “You were wonderful. Really wonderful! And you appeared just in time, out of empty air. Like one of your Greek gods—Athena or somebody.”
    Branwen’s wrinkles deepened. “More like Zeus, I’m afraid.”
    I laughed, which I regretted because it made my side hurt. “You mean you showered them with thunder and lightning.”
    “Instead of wisdom.” She gave a sullen sigh. “I only did what any mother would do. Even if you never . . .”
    “What?”
    She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
    She rose to prepare a poultice that smelled of smoke and cedar. I heard her chopping and grinding for several minutes before returning to my side. Then, placing the poultice against my ribs, she laid her hands on top, pressing gently. Gradually I felt a steady warmth flowing into my bones, as if the marrow itself had turned into fire coals.
    In time she closed her eyes and began to sing a low, slow chant that I had heard her use before in her healing work. In the past, I had never been sure whether she sang it to heal the person in her care or, in some way I could not understand, to heal herself. This time, studying her face, I had no doubt: The chant was for her, not for me.
    Hy gododin catann hue
Hud a lledrith mat wyddan
Gaunce ae bellawn wen cabri
Varigal don Fincayra
Dravia, dravia Fincayra.
    The words, I felt, came from another world, an ocean away. I waited until she opened her eyes, then asked what I had wondered so often before, not expecting to receive any answer.
    “What does it mean?”
    Again she examined me with eyes that seemed to pierce my very soul. Then, choosing her words with care, she replied, “It is about a place, a magical place. A land of allurement. And also illusion. A land called Fincayra.”
    “What do those words at the end say? Dravia, dravia Fincayra .”
    Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Live long, live long Fincayra.” She lowered her eyes. “Fincayra. A place of many wonders, celebrated by bards of many tongues. They say it lies halfway between our world and the world of the spirit—neither wholly of Earth nor wholly of Heaven, but a bridge connecting both. Oh, the stories I could tell you! Its colors are more bright than the brightest sunrise; its air more fragrant than the richest garden. Many mysterious creatures are found there—including, legend has it, the very first