The Seven Songs by T. A. Barron

can say is that, splishhh, the Seven Songs were inscribed by Tuatha himself on a great tree in Druma Wood.”
    “Not . . . Arbassa?”
    “Yes.”
    “I know that tree! It’s Rhia’s house.” I furrowed my brow, recalling the strange writing that I had found there. “But that writing is impossible! I couldn’t read a word of it.”
    “Then you must try again, Merlin. It is your only chance, splashhh, to save your mother. Though it is a very small chance indeed.”
    I thought of my mother, lying in the shadow of the dune, afflicted with the death shadow, her breath growing shorter and shorter. I had done this to her. Now I must try to undo it, whatever the risks. Even so, I shuddered to recall Cairpré’s description of the qualities of a true wizard. Qualities that I surely lacked. Whatever the Seven Songs might be, I had almost no chance of mastering them—certainly not in the brief time before the death shadow completed its terrible work.
    “It’s too much,” I said despondently. “I am no wizard! Even if I somehow succeed at the Seven Songs, how can I possibly find this Otherworld Well, elude Balor, and climb up to the realm of Dagda, all within four phases of the moon?”
    “I should never, sploshhh, have helped you.”
    I thought about the faint new moon that I had glimpsed last night. Only the barest sliver, it had been nearly impossible for my second sight to find. That meant I had until the end of this moon, and not a day beyond, to find the Elixir of Dagda. On the day the moon died, my mother would die as well.
    As the moon grew full, my time would be half gone.
    As it waned, my time would be almost ended. And when it disappeared at last, so would my hopes.
    “I wish you all the luck, splashhh, in Fincayra,” said the shell. “You will need it, splashhh , and more.”

9: R OSEMARY
    Since my mother was already too weak to walk, Rhia and I made a rough-hewn stretcher by weaving some vines from the dune between my staff and the branch of a dead hawthorn tree. As we worked, threading the vines from one side to the other, I explained some of what I had learned from the shell, and asked her to lead us through the forest to Arbassa. Yet even as I said the name of the great tree, I felt a strong sense of foreboding at the thought of returning there. I had no idea why.
    Rhia, by contrast, didn’t seem concerned or surprised to learn that the writing on Arbassa’s walls held the secrets I would need to find the Otherworld Well. Perhaps because she had seen Arbassa give so many answers to so many questions before, she merely nodded, continuing to tie off the vines. At last, we finished the stretcher and helped my mother slide into place. Laying my hand on her brow, I could tell that she had grown hotter. Yet despite her worsening condition, she did not knowingly complain.
    The same could not be said about Bumbelwy. We had barely started walking, with him taking the rear of the stretcher, when he began doing his own imitation of a speaking shell. When at last he realized that his audience did not find this at all amusing, he switched to describing the intricacies of his bell-laden hat, as if it were some sort of royal crown. When that, too, failed, he began complaining that carrying such a heavy load might strain his delicate back, hampering his abilities as a jester. I didn’t respond, although I was tempted to silence both him and his jangling bells by stuffing his hat into his mouth.
    Rhia led the way, with the Flowering Harp slung over her leafy shoulder. I took the front of the stretcher, but the weight of my own guilt seemed the heaviest burden of all. Even crossing the dune, passing beside the bell-shaped flower, felt like a strenuous march.
    Before entering Druma Wood, we passed through a verdant meadow. Ribbed with streams, the grasses of the meadow moved in waves like the surface of the sea. Every rivulet splashed and rippled, lining the plants along the banks with sparkling ribbons of water. I