Atlantis Rising (14 page)

“Yes,” agreed Kermi. “But the question is, full of
what
?”

“Was it worth all the wait?” asked Atlanta.

Promi considered the question, then shook his head. “No.” He smacked his lips. “But what a way to end it!”

She smiled at him, still encircled by the playful birds. “So . . . any chance you might consider changing your mind? To help save this wondrous place?”

His grin melted away. “I already told you. That’s, well . . . not my fight.”

She glared at him. “Your meal. But not your fight.”

Uncomfortably, he shifted. “Well, I—”

Atlanta’s shout cut him off. “There!” she cried. “Look there!”

A Story Whispered by the Wind

It’s easy to be an idiot. Believe me, I know from experience. But to be a complete, total, hopeless idiot? Now, that takes constant practice.

—From Promi’s journal

A
tlanta was pointing at the stream. Seeing what had caught her attention, Promi froze. Even Kermi, dangling from the willow branch above their heads, watched in astonishment.

The water flowing around the island began to bubble and churn. Soon the stream was rising above its banks—not with more liquid, but with vapors that sparkled with starlight . . . as well as another kind of light that radiated from within.

Enthralled, they watched as luminous walls of mist rose out of the stream all around them. The walls climbed higher, reaching over the top of the willow tree. Somewhere above the highest branches, the walls of mist bent inward and closed together, forming a protective dome. Now it sheltered Atlanta, Promi, and all the creatures who had joined them (except for the centaur, who had glumly watched the rising vapors from the outer bank).

The gleaming walls of mist began to undulate. Promi caught his breath. Strange shapes, like living bodies, formed and then melted away, only to form anew and melt away again. There he saw an arm . . . a hip that curved into a waist . . . and a partial face with long, flowing, vaporous hair.

“What are they?” he asked Atlanta, without taking his eyes off the elusive shapes.

“Mist maidens,” she answered quietly. “I’ve only seen them once before—years ago, the very first time I came to this island.” Stroking the antennae of the luminous butterfly on her shoulder, she whispered, “They appear only at the request of the river god.”

Promi started. “An immortal? Here?”

“Throughout this forest,” she replied. “They almost never show themselves. But they are here nonetheless.”

Watching the mist maidens, Promi was too amazed to speak again. He could only gaze at the vaporous beings who encircled them, moving with a graceful, dreamlike rhythm.
Their dance,
he thought in wonder.
This is their dance.

In time, the wondrous beings ceased dancing and melted back into the vapors. The undulating walls of mist retracted, pulling back down into the stream. Seconds later, the whole magical display had vanished.

They sat in silence, watching the flowing water, for a long moment. Finally, Atlanta spoke again, her voice a mixture of awe at what they’d just witnessed and resentment at Promi for his unwillingness to help in her quest.

“Another example,” she said, “of the magic of this place.”

Knowing that anything he said would make her even more angry, he merely nodded. How could he ever explain that he simply wasn’t made for battles as big as saving her beloved forest? Just as he couldn’t bring himself to believe old Bonlo’s wild tales of wars between immortals, magical crystals, and prophecies of doom—he couldn’t imagine giving up the life he’d always known to help Atlanta. And now, having finally figured out how to use his Listener magic, he intended to save it for only the most dire emergencies, when his everyday skills weren’t enough to do the job. Or to save his skin.

The fewer sacrifices I need to make,
he told himself,
the better.

Pulling his journal out of his tunic pocket, he drew a quick sketch of the mist maidens rising out of the water. Underneath, he scrawled,
Magical creatures everywhere in this forest. Plus amazing foods. Hope they all can survive whatever is to come.

Slipping the charcoal pencil back into the recipe book’s binding, he stiffened. For some reason he couldn’t explain, writing that entry hadn’t made him feel better, which writing had always done before, regardless of the situation. That was why he considered his journal to be his dearest possession—except, of course, for that thin sliver of a song from his childhood.

Puzzled, he replaced the book in his pocket. Instead of making him feel better, writing that particular entry had made him feel
worse.
How could that be?

The centaur, who had been morosely watching the vanishing mist maidens, shifted his gaze to Atlanta. He clacked his two white forehooves together and rumbled, “You should tell us a story.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Now, Haldor?”

“Yes,” the centaur answered. “Before something bad happens.”

With a sharp glance at Promi, she grumbled, “It already has.” Then, seeing the eager faces of the animals and birds surrounding her, she asked the group, “Would you like a story?”

All around her, wings fluttered, tails bounced, and creatures chattered and growled and piped their approval.

“All right, then. Just a short one.” Atlanta drew a breath and announced, “This is a story whispered to me by the wind.”

• • •

The great bird soared high overhead, its golden tail feathers flashing in the sun.

Far below, on the dry plains of Abuya, a lone boy watched its flight. He was a lowly shepherd, he knew, just one person sitting on a rock while a flock of sheep grazed on stubbly grass. To the winged bird on high, he was no more than a speck of dust, a meaningless shadow.

The boy’s shoulders sagged beneath his ragged tunic. For he had nothing. No family. No honor of his own. Though he worked as a guardian for other people’s sheep, he did not possess so much as a shepherd’s staff. He even lacked a name and was called simply Boy by the people of his tribe.

Yet as he watched Erolien, the mighty golden bird, soaring among the clouds, he realized that there was one thing he surely did have. Something that belonged to him, and him alone.

A dream.

He wanted to do what no one from his tribe had ever done before: to find the secret nest of Erolien, high on the smoking summit of the mountain Ell Shangro. There he would meet the great bird, three times taller than even the biggest man. And he would take one of the bird’s golden feathers—a treasure more precious than a chest full of jewels. Then he would return to his tribe, surprising everyone with his great prize, the golden feather.

He clucked his tongue in satisfaction. “Yes, they will treat me like a god. And if they want to worship me, I will let them. For that would be right.”

The boy stood up and started walking toward the mountains, leaving behind the sheep and the tribe and the life he had known. Whatever happened, he knew, he would never return without the golden feather.

Across the plains, he walked and walked and walked still more. Many days passed, melting into weeks. The terrain was mostly flat, though he crossed several parched riverbeds where only a trickle of water flowed. His legs ached and his bare feet stung. Worst of all, the distant mountains never seemed any closer.

Yet he continued to walk, eating only locusts and ants and the occasional worm. More days passed, more than he could bring himself to count. The mountains, at last, seemed closer. He could even see Ell Shangro, jutting up like a sword of stone—high, steep, and treacherous.

Then he came to a deep canyon that blocked his path. He gazed down, studying the sheer cliffs and the dark line of a river far below. Despite the dryness of his throat, he swallowed in fear. And for the first time in many weeks of walking, he looked back over his shoulder in the direction he had come.

“I will not give up,” he declared. “Not after I have come so far.”

So he climbed into the canyon, slowly working his way down the cliff. His hands and feet bled, while his leg muscles trembled from the strain. But somehow he held on.

Suddenly the ledge beneath him broke. He fell headlong down the cliff, smashing into rocks. With a splash, he landed in the river and weakly pulled himself ashore.

When he awoke, hours later, the river roared beside him, as if it were enraged that he had somehow escaped death. He coughed painfully and tried to crawl higher on the shore. But a sharp pain exploded in his ankle and he collapsed onto his back.

Beaten. He knew he was beaten. Even though he had somehow survived that fall, he still needed to climb out of this canyon and then go even farther if he hoped to realize his dream.

But there was no more hope. No more strength. He coughed again, racked with pain. He lay on his back, looking up at the sky.

A flash of gold flew above him, like a sun racing across the heavens. Yet this was no sun. It was Erolien, the great golden bird!

With a sudden burst of passion, he shouted to the sky: “Hear me, Golden One! Hear my plea! If you give me the strength to climb out of here and complete my quest . . . I will not keep your precious feather for myself. No, I will give it to my people! They will try to honor me for this magnificent gift. Yet I will refuse. For the gift came not from me—but from you.”

All at once, he felt a new surge of strength. It flowed through his arms, his legs, even his injured ankle. And it had come, he knew, from Erolien.

Though he could not explain how, he climbed out of that canyon. And though his body was frail and broken, he limped onward, heading toward the mountains. All through that night he walked, guided by the light of the moon, over rising hills and through forests of spruce and fir.

Higher he climbed, and still higher. Rising above the last stand of twisted trees, he topped a ridge. Between the weathered rocks scattered across the ground, he saw a lone purple flower that trembled in the alpine breeze. Nodding, he said, “You, too, have survived.”

Now, rising beyond the ridge, he could clearly see Ell Shangro. Its mighty shoulders lifted high above the surrounding peaks, while the jagged crater on its summit spewed enormous plumes of smoke into the sky. Snow and ice draped its upper slopes, a pure white robe that only centuries of winter could weave.

Onward he trudged, climbing through drifts of snow. He thought about the great golden bird, imagined its powerful wings soaring above the clouds. And he savored the vistas that he could now see, vistas that belonged to Erolien: endless mountains, rolling plains, and the sparkling waves of a faraway ocean.

He continued to climb, higher than any mortal man had climbed before. Soon his feet, frozen by the snow, lost all feeling. Yet he pushed ahead. The snowfields grew deeper, making every step a challenge. Often he broke through and sank up to his waist. It took all his remaining strength to pull himself out and keep moving.

At long last, he spied a towering buttress that rose out of the snow. Like the head of a mighty bird, it lifted proudly skyward, shining bright in the sun. And at the very top of the buttress sat an enormous tangle of branches, glittering with golden feathers.

The nest!

He gasped in awe. Though his body was weak and frozen, his spirit soared. For he had found the nest of the great golden bird. He had seen what no other person had ever seen. And for the first time, he knew the truth of his quest.

Kneeling in the snow, he peered up at the luminous nest. “I need no golden feather!” he cried triumphantly, though only the wind and snow could hear his words. “I need only this moment.”

He fell forward, his face in the snow, his arms spread wide as if they were wings. Sunlight played across his skin, touching it with gold.

Wind blew across his body, tousling his hair and rippling his torn tunic. But in all other ways, he lay perfectly still. He no longer breathed. He no longer dreamed.

Until . . . he took flight. His arms became powerful wings; his eyes saw the world beyond.

And the great bird soared high overhead, its golden tail feathers flashing in the sun.

A Most Unlikely Vision

I love eating a rich new pastry. But I don’t always love digesting it afterward.

—From Promi’s journal

W
hen Atlanta’s story ended, silence enveloped Moss Island. No one stirred or made any sound louder than breathing; not a single wing rustled. Meanwhile, starlight touched the island and all the creatures there with a gentle radiance, softer than a candle’s glow through a veil.

Promi turned to Atlanta, meeting her gaze. For a long moment, they looked at each other, neither one speaking. The story had disturbed Promi deeply, more than he could even start to explain. Anxiously, he rubbed the strange mark over his heart.

The centaur clacked his forehooves, breaking the silence. He seemed to be in a trance, gazing at something far away, beyond the island, beyond the forest. “Someday,” he intoned, “this country will change. It will become an island, set completely apart from the rest of the world.”

Now Promi and Atlanta exchanged puzzled glances. “An island?” whispered Promi. “Really?”

Atlanta shook her head and whispered back, “That’s just Haldor’s vision language. He doesn’t mean it literally. Anyway, this country is so remote, it’s already a kind of island.”

“Yet even as an island,” the centaur continued, still gazing into the distance, “this place will touch the wider world. But mark my words: its enduring power will spring not from its landscape, so rich in magic. Not from its towering buildings and great inventions of the future. And not from its magnificent creatures who are as varied as the world itself.”

Haldor’s voice dropped lower. “No, the lasting power of this place will come from its stories. People from every land will seek those stories, share them, and cherish them.”

Still in a trance, he clacked his hooves again. “And when the island is no more, those stories will live on for the rest of the world.”

Sounding even more somber than usual, he concluded, “Be warned, though. Our magical island will not survive! No, it shall be lost forever, sinking deep into the sea, after
a terrible day and night of destruction.
”

The centaur’s final words lingered in the air for a moment, echoing in the forest as well as the minds of everyone who heard them.

Kermi, dangling by his tail from the willow, stroked his whiskers. “Delightful fellow. I love to hear him speak in that triple-bass voice. Too bad nobody has any clue what he’s saying.”

“For once,” said Promi, “I agree with you.”

Kermi blew a large, wobbly bubble. “Then I must be wrong.”

Promi’s eyes narrowed. But before he could reply, Atlanta gasped and grabbed his wrist. Following her gaze, he, too, gasped.

Something new was emerging from the stream. It wasn’t a sea animal. Or a mist maiden. Or anything Atlanta or Promi had ever expected to see lifting out of the water.

“A hand!” Promi blinked, astonished, as an enormous, watery hand rose higher. Water cascaded off its liquid fingers, flowed over its wrist, and swirled in a spiral down the arm beneath it.

Quickly, Promi glanced at the others. Atlanta was entranced, watching closely. All the animals and birds sat motionless and silent. Even Kermi was at a loss for words, his round ears quivering.

Promi cocked his head, now soaked with spray from this watery being. “What in the name of Ellegandia,” he asked, “is that?”

“That,” answered Atlanta, her voice full of awe, “is Bopaparruplio. The spirit of freshwater rivers and streams. I’ve never actually seen him before, just heard about him from the trees.”

Hearing this, Kermi quickly climbed higher, where he’d be completely hidden by the willow’s branches.

“The river god?” asked Promi. “Why would he show himself now?”

At that instant, something gleamed in the center of the river god’s liquid palm. A tiny globe the size of a pearl took shape, hardening as they watched. A fluid form of light sparkled inside it, as if the moon’s reflection on a river had been captured within a bubble.

With a flick of the spirit’s wrist, the bubble of light flew into the air. It landed perfectly in Atlanta’s hand, which lay open on her lap. She gasped, closing her fingers over the watery jewel.

“For me?” She stared at the radiant bubble and then at the liquid hand.

“Fffffor jussssst you,” splashed the watery voice that rose out of the stream. “Sssssave it fffffor the time you need it mossssst.”

“Bu-but . . .” she stammered. “What does it do?”

“You mussssst dissssscover that fffffor yourssssselfffff.”

Before she could ask anything else, the hand twisted sharply and rubbed two watery fingers together. A shiny, pointed object appeared between the fingers. With another flick of the wrist, the object flew into the air—and landed, point down, in the moss beside Promi.

“A knife!” He wrapped his hand around the dagger’s silver hilt and drew it out of the moss. Holding it high, he could see it shimmer with translucence, more like an icicle than any kind of metal.

He hefted the knife, gauging its weight and balance. Like ice, it was surprisingly cold to the touch. Yet it didn’t slip at all in his grasp, resting securely upon his fingers. Then something else about it caught his attention—a thin line of dewdrops that dangled freely from the base of the hilt, gleaming like a silver string.

Curious, Promi reached out to touch the string. The instant his fingertip made contact, the string tensed, curled, and wrapped itself around the wrist of the hand holding the dagger. Meanwhile, the portion that now connected his wrist to the knife’s hilt started to stretch and contract, again and again, as if it were magically breathing.

He grinned, guessing what its purpose might be. Pushing himself to his feet, he stood on the moss. With barely a glance across the stream at a dead spruce tree whose branches had long ago fallen to the ground, he lifted the dagger and snapped his wrist.

The dagger flew straight at the tree. With a
kthunk,
its blade plunged into the trunk.

Unable to resist a chance to annoy his companion, Kermi said from his hiding place in the branches, “Nice throw, manfool. Too bad now you have to go all the way over there to get your knife back.”

“No, I don’t.” Promi winked at Atlanta. “Watch this.”

He gave his wrist a sharp tug. The silver string, which had extended to the tree, suddenly tightened. It plucked the dagger out of the trunk and snapped back to Promi, whose waiting hand caught the hilt once more. When he touched the string with his free hand, it immediately untied from his wrist and dangled loose again, making it easy for him to slide the magical dagger into its sheath.

“Well, I—harrumph,” sputtered the voice in the branches. “Never saw anything like that.”

“Nor have I.” Promi turned toward the immense hand of the river god. “You have given me a great gift. And I thank you.”

“So do I,” chimed in Atlanta, springing to her feet. She studied the luminous bubble for a few seconds, then slipped it securely under her sleeve. “Whatever it’s for, I’m grateful.”

“Jussssst remember thisssss.” The fountainlike hand turned toward them, dousing them with spray. “Your giffffftsssss are worthlesssss without courage, fffffortitude, and love.”

The liquid fingers of Bopaparruplio curled, making a fist, then started to drop back into the stream. Just before the hand sank away completely, the splashing voice declared, “I give you thessssse treasssssuresssss fffffrom the water . . . but I cannot, alasssss, give you hope.”

With barely a ripple, the hand of the river god vanished. Atlanta and Promi stared into the stream, hearing the watery echo of those words.

“No hope,” said Atlanta solemnly. Turning to Promi, she asked, “Not even from you?”

He swallowed, then slowly shook his head. “I’m still going to leave in the morning.”

She waved at the stream. “After all this?”

He said nothing.

Blue-green fire ignited in her eyes. Pointing at the knife from the river god, she cried, “Then you should give that back! That, and all the other things you’ve taken from this forest your whole life.”

“I can’t help, Atlanta. Not against so much—the priest, the blight, and whatever else.”

“You mean you
won’t
help,” she shot back. “You think only about yourself! Do you even care if all these creatures survive?”

“Sure I do. But like I said before—”

“I know,” she finished. “Not your fight.”

His face hardened. “That’s right.”

She glared at him so fiercely that he backed away on the moss. On top of that, he couldn’t miss the unhappy look of the monkey and the angry hiss of the snake. The young hawk on the broken branch raked his talons, chipping off some bark. And most frightening of all, the smelldrude’s aroma was starting to carry a hint of rotten eggs.

“This,” rumbled the centaur, “is the kind of behavior that precedes a violent death.”

Meanwhile, the hawk screeched angrily. The monkey bared his teeth, growling. And the snake hissed louder.

“Wait.” Atlanta held up her hands and spoke calmly. “No one will fight or die tonight.” She shot Promi a disgusted look. “Even if it’s deserved.”

She lowered her hands. “No, let’s all try to get some sleep.” Whether to Promi or herself, she added, “If we can.”