I just finished reading T.A. Barron’s The Lost Years of Merlin for the first time. I’ve heard about this particular book many times over the years and had many people recommend it to me, but never picked it up until this morning. It is an utterly magnificent book and I regret it took me so long to read it.
All my life I have been drawn to tales of King Arthur, his knights, Camelot and Merlin. Especially Merlin. Barron’s tale brought Emrys to life and as I read I could see the man he would become. The actions a young boy on a quest to find his past took shaping his future.
A longing in my heart I can’t explain arose while I read of Fincarya. Ancient memories? The wistful dreams of a would-be bard and adventurer? Or just the longing of a child to visit a place found only in dreams and tales? I honestly don’t know. I do know a part of me mourned as I read the last page of The Lost Years of Merlin.
What is it about Merlin that calls to people of all ages? Is he a mere myth, a real person? No one really knows, but it doesn’t stop writers from penning tales of him, or children of dreaming of following in his footsteps. For me, he is real. As real as anything in this world.
