The Seven Songs by T. A. Barron Read Free Book Online Page B

have wings of his own.” She breathed against my neck. “And now I must fly.”
    Somberly, I tossed aside the tuber. “I’ve heard that Fincayrans once had wings of their own. Maybe it’s just an old fable, but I wish it were true. I wish they had never lost them. Then I might have some myself, so I could fly with you.”
    I felt an eddy of wind across my shoulders. “Ahhh, Emrys Merlin, you know about that, do you? To have wings and then lose them. Such a tragedy that was! Even if many Fincayrans have forgotten how it happened, they cannot forget the lingering pain between their shoulders.”
    I stretched my arms stiffly, feeling the old pain. “Aylah, do you know how it happened? Even Cairpré, with all the many stories he has heard, doesn’t know how the Fincayrans lost their wings. He told me once that he’d give away half of his library just to find out.”
    The warm wind encircled me now, spinning slowly. “I know the story, Emrys Merlin. Perhaps one day I might tell you. But not now.”
    “You’re really leaving? It’s always like this with me. It seems whatever I find, I lose.”
    “I hope you will find me again, Emrys Merlin.”
    A sudden gust of wind flapped the sleeves of my brown tunic. Then, just as swiftly, it was gone.
    I stood there for a long while. Eventually, my stomach growled with hunger. I ignored it. Then, hearing it again, I bent down to retrieve the tuber I had discarded. I took another bite, thinking about Aylah, sister of the wind. At last, when I had finished it, I started walking—east, toward the Dark Hills.
    All around me, the Rusted Plains rose and fell in great rolling waves. I shuffled along, dry grasses snapping beneath my feet. A soft wind blew against my back, cooling the heat of the sun, but it was not the wind that I wished for. And even more than Aylah’s company, I missed the feeling of joy in my task that I had only just regained—and lost once again. The Harp felt heavy on my shoulder.
    Sometimes, as I walked, I touched the pouch of healing herbs that my mother had given to me just before we said farewell, in that dank room of stone in Caer Myrddin. I missed her more than ever. And I also knew that she missed me. If she were here, she would not desert me as the others had done. Yet she was as far away as the farthest wind.
    As the golden sun dropped lower in the sky, I neared a scraggly group of trees planted in six or seven rows. Although I could see no fruit among the branches of the orchard, a few white flowers gleamed, wafting a familiar scent in my direction. Apple blossoms. I took a deep, flavorful breath. Yet it did little to lift my spirits. Perhaps playing the Harp, feeling again the joy of bringing new life to the land, would help.
    I cradled the instrument in my arms. Then I hesitated, remembering my strange experience in the darkened meadow. Merely a fluke, I assured myself. Slowly, I drew my fingers across the strings. All at once, a luminous paintbrush swept across the trees and the grassy fields surrounding them. Apples burst from the branches, swelling to hefty size. Trunks thickened, roots multiplied. The trees lifted skyward, waving their fruited branches proudly. My chest swelled. Whatever had happened at the darkened meadow was certainly not a problem now.
    Suddenly a voice cried out. A bare-chested boy, about my own age, fell out of one of the trees. He landed in an irrigation ditch that ran beneath the branches. Another shout rang out. I ran to the spot.
    Out of the ditch clambered the boy, with hair and skin as brown as the soil. Then, to my surprise, another figure emerged, looking like an older, broader version of the boy. He was a man of the soil. He was a man I recognized.
    Neither he nor the boy noticed me as I stood in the shadow of the apple tree. The shirtless man straightened his broad back and then clasped the boy by the shoulders. “Are you hurt, son?”
    The boy rubbed his bruised ribs. “No.” He smiled shyly. “You made a good