Atlantis Rising (16 page)

She didn’t say a word, though her look of gratitude was enough to make him feel a bit better. “At least,” he said, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt, “I still have my journal.”

“I wonder,” said Atlanta darkly, “whether you’ll want to write about what happens next . . . or just forget about it.”

“For once,” said the blue kermuncle, “I agree. This really is terrible.” Facing Promi, he added, “I am genuinely sorry, manfool, that you had to make such a sacrifice.”

Taken by surprise at such sympathy, Promi raised an eyebrow.
Well, well. He’s actually concerned about my well-being.

“Thanks,” Promi replied gratefully. “But really, you don’t need to—”

“Truly terrible,” Kermi interrupted. “Now I’ll have to ride on your shoulder, so much less comfortable.”

Promi scowled.
So much for my well-being.

“Let’s go, then.” The young man stood up, wincing at the twigs and poky bits of bark that seemed to impale his feet. He shot a glance at Kermi. “Climb on if you must. And try to stay quiet.”

“Tut, tut, manfool. Have some respect.”

“For a bubble-blowing demon like you?”

“For your superiors, whatever their form. You simply have no idea how lucky you are to share my company.”

The kermuncle blew a string of big, wobbly bubbles. Then he scampered up to Promi’s shoulder. Thumping his tail against the young man’s back, he said, “What are you waiting for? Time to toughen up those tender feet of yours.”

Promi sighed and said to Atlanta, “Ready when you are.”

“Almost,” she replied. Carefully, she placed the bedraggled faery in her only pocket, a small pouch on her hip. She stretched the lilac vines of the pocket to create a cozy space for him. And just to make sure he’d be comfortable, she slipped in a few sprigs of watercress and a wild raspberry.

Patting the outside of the pocket, she said softly, “There, now. You just rest quietly until you feel better. One day, you’ll be strong enough to fly again.”

“Are we going or not?” Kermi thumped his tail impatiently on Promi, as if he were urging an ox to get moving. “Normally, I don’t like to watch someone suffer. But this will be an exception.”

Swamp Specters

What makes an excellent pastry? It’s part ingredients, part oven, and part baker. And of those, the one that matters most is the baker.

—From Promi’s journal

D
eep into the forest they walked, through the rest of that day and the next. Atlanta led them through sunlit groves of cedar and birch, over hillside trails, and down fern-laden pathways favored by unicorns. Driven by the nearness of Ho Byneri, they moved fast—although Promi’s tender feet slowed him down enough that Atlanta had to stop regularly so he could catch up.

“Can’t you go any faster?” asked Kermi from his perch on Promi’s shoulder.

“Maybe you should try to carry me,” he replied testily. “Then you’ll—ouch!—see what it’s like to have your feet impaled every step.”

“No thanks,” gloated the kermuncle. “I’m enjoying this ride too much.”

Gingerly stepping through a pine grove, where the floor was covered with the poky remains of countless cones, Promi grimaced. This pain in his feet was constant—much like the hunger he’d endured before the feast on Moss Island. Was this what the life of a Listener was destined to be like? Going from one sacrifice to the next, one form of agony to another?

Atlanta, meanwhile, was immersed in her own questions as she trekked. Did she really have the strength to follow the path that led to her parents’ death? Had they died in the swamp . . . or at the Passage of Death? And would she be able to find Grukarr’s lair without being discovered by his mistwraiths? Her stomach knotted with fear, growing tighter with every step.

Often, she would kneel by a stream, open her pocket, and offer the wounded faery a drink of water. By dipping her finger into the stream, she could give him a few drops without requiring him to move. He looked just as weak and bedraggled as ever, but each time she did that, she felt a small rush of gratitude that warmed her heart. And he gave her the same response whenever she picked him a leaf of fresh basil, always a favorite of faeries.

Once in the late afternoon, she stepped through a boggy patch near a lake. Something about the bog’s smell reminded her of the swamp, and her stomach tightened. Without thinking much about it, she placed her hand over the pocket and said to the faery, “It’s all right, little friend. The real swamp is still a long way from here.”

Instantly, she felt a rush of warmth and reassurance. The fears seemed to fade, and the knot in her stomach loosened.

“Am I comforting you, little friend?” she asked with a grin. “Or are you comforting me?”

Midmorning on the third day, they passed a steep, rocky slope that rose swiftly above the forest floor. Highmage Hill. Though there wasn’t time to climb it, Atlanta still wondered what the view from the top might tell her about the forest—and, in particular, about the spread of the blight. She had seen far too many ravaged trees on this trek.

It’s bad enough,
she thought as she padded across a meadow of flytrap flowers,
to see one tree in trouble. But to see the dying stands we’ve passed . . . that’s almost too much to bear.

“Come on,” she called impatiently to Promi as he climbed a knoll to join her. “We’ve got to find that lair! And then do whatever it takes to save this forest!”

“I know, I know,” he replied. His feet felt impossibly tender from constant abuse. “Why did I ever give up those boots? By the Divine Monk’s hairy armpits, I wish I had them!”

“So do I,” agreed Kermi, blowing a bubble that popped in Promi’s ear. “The boots, I mean—not the armpits.”

As they entered a stand of baobab trees, Atlanta suddenly changed directions. She led Promi to a hidden spring bubbling out from the baobab roots. Spying an unusual herb with leaves shaped like tiny green hands, she smiled.

“This herb,” she explained while picking all the sprigs she could find, “is called sweetmint. My parents showed me where to find it . . . just in case I ever needed to enter the swamp.”

“Really?” asked Promi, puffing as he joined her. “How does it help?”

Slipping the sprigs into her sleeve, she replied, “As long as you keep it in your mouth, the sweetmint stops the poisonous vapors in the swamp from harming you. Don’t know how it works, but it does.”

“Well,” said Promi as he leaned against a baobab’s smooth trunk and rubbed his sore foot, “with a name like
sweetmint,
I know I’ll like it.”

“What matters most,” she reminded him, “is that it keeps those vapors away. And maybe even the swamp specters.”

“Specters?” He stopped rubbing his foot. “Really?”

“Yes,” she answered grimly. “Legends say they are angry spirits who feed on human misery. Or maybe they’re the same spirits who are stuck at the Passage of Death.”

Promi shuddered. “How far to the swamp from here?”

“Oh, we’re still at least a day’s walk away. The swamp is a long way past the headwaters of the Deg Boesi, which we’ll cross at the eastern edge of this baobab grove.”

He cocked his head, taking in the sounds and smells of the grove. “I think I can hear the headwaters flowing nearby.”

“You really do have a Listener’s ears,” she commented. “I can’t hear the river at all.” Then, on second thought, she said, “But it could be a trick of these trees, you know. Some believe these baobabs are enchanted, full of their own schemes for travelers.”

Promi raised an eyebrow, wondering. He pulled his journal from his pocket and scrawled (in the margins of a recipe for oatmeal molasses cookies) a description of the enchanted baobabs—their enormous trunks, the facelike burls that sprouted from their bases, their gray bark that seemed to pulse with life, and their gently rustling leaves. To finish off the entry, he drew a quick sketch of a baobab ringed with sweetmint.

Kermi thumped his tail on Promi’s back. “What are you writing, manfool?”

“Oh, just listing all the ways I love you. It’s very short.”

Finished, he closed the journal and gave its cover a gentle stroke, just as he would the face of a friend. Then he replaced it in his tunic pocket.

“Ready?” asked Atlanta. “Once we cross the river, we keep going east for the rest of the day. By tomorrow afternoon, we’ll get to . . .” She paused, as if something were caught in her throat. “The swamp.”

Through the rustling baobabs they walked. Suddenly, Atlanta ran ahead—then stopped abruptly. She stood at the edge of a river channel that was more mud than water. And beyond it lay a vast swath of murky pools, twisted trees, and rising clouds of noxious fumes. Bog grass, yellowish brown, grew in sickly patches among the reeking pools. Dark vapors swirled everywhere.

“The swamp,” said Atlanta, aghast. “It spread . . . all the way here.”

Equally stunned, Promi and Kermi stared at the Unkhmeini Swamp. What few skeletal trees were still standing looked at the very edge of death. Some of the murky pools bubbled and frothed, spewing gases, while others held the carcasses of stricken animals and birds. Yet not a single vulture dared to go near those decaying bodies.

“How . . . ?” asked Promi.

“The blight has spread,” answered Atlanta. “And with it, the swamp.” She shook her head. “I had no idea.”

“Is it possible,” Promi wondered aloud, “that whatever evil work Grukarr is doing at his lair made this happen?”

All at once, the baobab trees started to moan and sway as if struck by a wicked wind. Branches twisted and creaked all around them, shaking off loose leaves, until finally the grove quieted again.

Promi winced. “Said his name, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” whispered Atlanta. “But I have a feeling these trees weren’t just reacting to that.” She locked gazes with him. “I think they were answering your question.”

Nodding, he replied, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Looking again at the swamp that stretched all the way to the hazy outlines of mountains in the distance, Atlanta frowned. “It smells putrid, doesn’t it? Even from here.”

Gently, she laid her hand over the pocket that held the wounded faery. “Don’t worry, little friend. I’ll keep you safe.”

Even as she felt a wave of thanks from the tiny creature, she slid a sprig of sweetmint into the pocket. “Chew on this until we leave the swamp.”

Offering another sprig each to Promi and the kermuncle on his shoulder, she reminded them, “This will keep you safe. But only as long as you keep it in your mouth.”

“That won’t be hard,” replied Promi. “I love sweets and adore mint.”

He popped the sprig into his mouth, chewed once—and promptly gagged. “Yeccchhh! This tastes like charcoal!”

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “I guess whoever named it had a sense of humor.”

“Or,” he groaned, “a sense of torture.”

Atlanta took his arm. “Listen, now. Bad as it tastes, it
works.
And each sprig should last a long time. Keep it in your mouth, and those fumes won’t kill you.”

Scowling, he gave a nod.

She swallowed nervously. “All right, then. The Passage of Death is all the way on the other side of the swamp, at the base of the high peaks.”

“Lovely,” grumbled Kermi. “Sounds like a journey to a vacation resort.”

Taking a last breath of partially fresh air, Atlanta took her own bite of sweetmint and started to cross the muddy ravine. Promi followed, surprised at the coolness of the mud that swathed his feet and oozed between his toes. And more than anything, he felt a mounting sense of dread.

As they climbed onto the opposite bank, mud slurping at their feet, they suddenly found themselves staring into a boiling mud pit. Like a cauldron of poisons, it bubbled and churned, blacker than the darkest night. Rancid fumes belched into the air, darkening the sky.

“This way,” said Atlanta, skirting the mud pit’s edge.

Promi came right behind, doing his best to avoid the ghastly pit. When the rancid vapors drifted toward him, he chewed his sweetmint with new vigor.

Soon they came to another pit, this one not boiling. As they stepped past, Promi noticed something strange. The mud inside it seemed to be moving, even though there were no signs of heat and no cloud of fumes.

How could that be?
he wondered, pausing at the edge to look more closely.

Snakes! He leaped backward, almost tumbling into a different pit. The skin around the mark on his chest burned with fear.

“Manfool!” cried Kermi, barely clinging to his neck. “What’s wrong?”

In answer, Promi merely pointed as he crept closer to the pit. Within its depths, dozens of shiny black bodies slithered. Every so often, the snakes’ orange eyes would gleam in the shadows.

Atlanta came over to see what had caught their attention. Seeing the snakes, she stiffened.

“Must be over fifty of them,” said Promi.

“Let’s not stay to count them, all right?” Kermi settled himself again on the young man’s shoulder, then thumped with his tail. “Keep moving.”

“Good advice,” said Atlanta.

She went back to leading them, keeping a good distance away from any mud pits, whether hot or cold. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Bad as this is . . . it will be worse after dark. That’s when the swamp specters—
aaahhh
!”

Shrieking, she slipped and fell into a pool of muck that dragged her deeper and deeper. Quicksand! Clawing at the edge of the pool, she tried desperately to pull herself out. But the quicksand sucked at her legs, drawing them irresistibly downward.

“Promi!” she cried, flailing wildly in the muck.

He dashed forward, almost sliding into the pool himself. He veered and grabbed a dead branch that lay on the ground. Kneeling at the edge, he stretched his arm with the branch as far as he could toward Atlanta.

“Take it!” he shouted. Ignoring the burning skin on his chest, he stretched farther over the quicksand.

“Can’t reach it!” She lurched toward the branch, but every movement made her sink deeper. Now the quicksand covered her knees and would soon reach her thighs.

Promi spun his head, searching for any way to reach farther. But he saw nothing. Only more muck and deadly pools.

Suddenly an idea struck him. “Kermi!”

The kermuncle, clinging to Promi’s neck, read his thought. “Let’s do it.”

Kermi jumped down and grabbed the end of the branch. At the same time, he placed his long tail in Promi’s hand. “Go ahead, manfool, before I change my mind.”

Taking the tail, Promi squeezed tight. The kermuncle crawled forward. Together, they pushed the branch toward Atlanta, stretching as far as they could.

She grabbed it! Bracing himself, Promi tugged with all his might. Atlanta waded closer, struggling against the quicksand. At last, she rolled onto the firmer ground by Promi’s side. Seeing that she was safe, both her rescuers fell flat, exhausted.

Panting, she turned to Promi. “Thank you! I would have . . .”

He nodded. “Just glad this branch was here.”

She gazed at him. “And I’m just glad
you
were here.”

“Ahem.” Kermi cleared his throat. “And what am I? A marsh marigold?”

She smiled at the little fellow. “Thank you, too, Kermi. You were heroic.”

He blew a bubble, seeming to be embarrassed. “Well, not really.”

“That’s right,” agreed Promi. “It was really his
tail
that was heroic.”

Atlanta and Promi burst into laughter. Meanwhile, Kermi wiped some of the muck off his whiskers.

They pressed on, moving deeper into the swamp. Doing their best to avoid noxious fumes and deadly pits, quicksand and poisonous snakes, they advanced slowly. Though no more disasters struck, the light faded swiftly. Before long, they were trekking in twilight.

“No farther today,” announced Atlanta. She pointed to a slight mound not far ahead. “That looks solid, a good place to spend the night.”

As they settled on the mound, covered with scraggly grass, Promi said, “This is a lot different from Moss Island.”

Atlanta sighed. “A lot.”

Still chewing the herb she’d given him, he asked, “Will this sweetmint last until morning? What if I fall asleep and it falls out of my mouth?”