Atlantis in Peril (15 page)

Poison

S
hangri thought long and hard about what she should do after seeing Reocoles's map. The words
Great Forest Plan
alone would have been troubling enough, for all its underlying assumptions of aggression and domination of a place that had always been wild and sacred—as well as magical. But when she remembered, as well, that phrase about an empire, on top of Reocoles's penchant for control . . . she knew that she had to act.

But how?

Telling her father what she'd seen would surely spark his outrage. Yet without more hard evidence, it would simply be the word of a teenage girl against one of the City's most powerful men. And without that sort of evidence, they simply wouldn't be able to rouse the support of their fellow citizens—let alone the Divine Monk.

No, too many people (including His Holiness) were much too comfortable with their hot baths and big ovens to raise any concerns about Reocoles. They'd rather not rock the boat. Which was just what the master machinist was counting on.

The only thing that could change that balance, Shangri knew, was if she could provide some facts too compelling to deny. And the more she thought about it, the more she felt sure that those facts could be found out in Reocoles's mining area across the river canyon. Problem was, nobody who worked at the mines would talk about it. They'd been sworn to secrecy—or they'd lose their jobs.

So if nobody will tell me the truth,
she concluded one morning as she walked back to the bakery after finishing her deliveries,
I'll jest have to go find the truth myself.

She gulped, knowing it wouldn't be easy or safe: Reocoles wouldn't be pleased to have any intruders.
But,
she told herself,
it must be done.

She chose a day when her father was planning to close the bakery so he could barter for new spices and other ingredients, which meant he wouldn't be needing her. Of course, she couldn't tell him about the dangerous plan she'd hatched for that day, since he'd surely object.

The other person she couldn't tell was Lorno. He, too, would object—and if he couldn't convince her to change her mind, he'd insist on joining her. But the last thing she wanted to do was to put him—and his whole future as a famous bard—at risk. No, this was a job for her alone.

On the chosen day, Shangri waited for her father to go to the market square. When she felt certain that he'd gone, and that Lorno was hard at work writing upstairs, she slipped away unnoticed.

She darted through the alleyways to one of the bridges across the Deg Boesi. As always, the river crashed through the chasm below, sending up towering plumes of vapor. But she was surprised to see that Rainbow Falls, which she remembered clearly from the last time she'd crossed that bridge, wasn't there at all.

On the river's southern bank, she faced an open plain that stretched to an endless swath of green hills—the Great Forest. On the plain, it wasn't hard to find the way to Reocoles's mines, since a wide and rutted road cut across the land, snaking around boulders and deep gullies. What few trees had once grown on the plain had been cut down, and the sight of those lifeless stumps made Shangri's heart sink. Much of the topsoil on both sides of the road had washed away, so hardly even a tuft of grass could be seen.

This,
thought Shangri as she walked somberly along,
is what Reocoles is callin' progress.

Suddenly she heard a loud, screeching sound. A vehicle! Hidden by a big boulder, the vehicle was fast approaching—and just seconds from turning the bend where the driver would certainly see her. But where could she hide?

Unable to get to the boulder in time, Shangri did the only thing she could. She dived into one of the muddy ruts on the side of the road. No sooner had she flung herself facedown in the rut, her long red hair splayed across her back, the vehicle appeared.

It was a heavy mining cart, powered by a coal-fired boiler, loaded with coal and iron ore. Concentrating on avoiding the deepest ruts, the driver barely noticed the unusual splash of color—something red—on the side of the road. He kept driving, splattering Shangri's back with mud as he passed.

Seconds later, after the vehicle had left, she lifted her head. When she felt sure the driver wouldn't look back and see her, she pulled herself out of the rut. Mud dripped from her hair, her freckled cheeks, and her bakery apron, which she'd forgotten to remove. But otherwise she was fine—and more determined than ever to see those mines.

Shangri crossed the road to the other side where the ruts looked deeper, in case she needed to dive for cover again. She rounded another bend and then—

Froze. The new vista almost knocked her over backward, as if a mining vehicle had rammed right into her.

As far as she could see stretched gigantic pits with enormous piles of rocks all around. Huge vehicles with metal jaws, spouting clouds of black smoke, dug the pits steadily deeper. Meanwhile, other vehicles, plus dozens of workers with shovels, toiled to rip out rocks and bushes around the edges to widen the mines. Several buildings jammed the area between the pits, belching more smoke from their chimneys.

People moved everywhere, like a colony of ants, carrying rocks and tools, pushing carts of ore or stoking bonfires of timber. Every worker was busy—except for the men who wore brown tunics with sea-blue arm bands, the same uniforms she'd seen men wearing at Reocoles's building. Hefting whips in their hands, the uniformed supervisors watched over groups of workers, shouting commands.

Then Shangri saw someone else—a woman crumpled by the edge of a rock pile. Hunched as she was, her face buried in her hands, she was either coughing or sobbing. It was hard to tell which.

Just then Shangri caught the scent of something horrible. It might have been the decaying body of a dead animal . . . but no single animal could possibly smell that bad.

Puzzled, she wiped a clump of mud off her nose and sniffed the air.
What in the name o' the Divine Monk's beard is that?

Deciding the smell was coming from behind one of the huge rock piles, she darted off the road and up a huge mound of dirt where she could see better. Aware that the higher she climbed, the more visible she'd be to the supervisors, Shangri made sure to duck behind any stray boulders she could find. At last, she stood high enough to see the source of the putrid smell.

A yellow lake.
She shook herself, unable to believe her eyes. The lake seemed unnatural—even poisonous.
How could somethin' like that happen?

Then she saw, pouring into the lake, a stream of yellow liquid. It flowed out of one of the smoky buildings. Whatever they were doing in the building was producing that foul liquid!

By the side of the putrid pool, she glimpsed a strange shape. All at once, she recognized it—the carcass of a young bear. Poisoned by the lake!

Hovering over the carcass was a small flying creature. At first, Shangri guessed it was a blue-winged moth. Then, in a flash, she realized what it really was. A faery! Perhaps the faery had been a friend of the cub, and when it had gone missing from the forest, went to find it—only to discover that the bear had died a horrible death. Even from such a distance, Shangri could feel a wave of sorrow emanating from the grieving faery.

Shangri's mind spun. If that deadly pool had killed the bear, what were its fumes doing to the workers nearby? And what might its poisons do to the ground, to the neighboring forest, and maybe even to the water used by people in the City?

I've seen jest about enough,
she decided.
All I'm needin' now is a quick look inside that place where the poison's bein' made.

Stealthily, she started back down the mound. But as she descended, her foot kicked loose a small rock that rolled downward. Seeing it, she caught her breath, hoping no one else would notice.

The rock tumbled downward, gathering speed. Shangri watched, standing rigid. As the rock neared the bottom, it looked likely that it would fall harmlessly into a ditch. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Just above the ditch, the rock hit a lip of stone and bounced higher. It flew through the air—and smacked the shoulder of a supervisor who was facing the other way. He whirled around.

Seeing Shangri, he shouted, “Intruder!”

Several uniformed men bounded up the mound. Even as Shangri started to dash away, strong hands caught hold of her and threw her to the ground. Grabbing her clothes, as well as her hair, they dragged her down the hillside. Laughing and shouting in triumph, they dropped her at the feet of their foreman, Karpathos.

Hearing the commotion, the faery by the carcass looked over and sized up the situation. A whir of blue wings—and the faery flew back to the forest.

Karpathos, meanwhile, twirled one end of his mustache, chortling with delight. “Well, well,” he said. “Look who has paid us a visit! The red-haired wench who recently insulted our leader so rudely—when all he was offering was kindness.”

“He offered nothin' like that,” spat Shangri. “He's a greedy monster! An' when people hear what he's really doin' out here—”

“That won't happen,” declared Karpathos firmly. Smoothing his mustache, he explained, “People won't be hearing
anything
from you, my dear. Ever again.”

He bent lower, so that his face was practically on top of hers. “I know exactly what to do with you, wench. There will be nothing left of you, no evidence at all.”

Allowing himself a grin, he added, “The master will be very proud of me.”

Though his words made her shudder, Shangri rose to her feet and faced him squarely. “You won't succeed,” she said bravely.

“Really? Just wait.”

Raising his voice, Karpathos commanded, “Take her to the waste pool! Tie rocks around her limbs. Then . . . give her a swim.”

Rising Wind

O
n the same day Shangri was captured, Atlanta sat on the front step of her home. As she sipped some fresh elderberry tea that Etheria had prepared, she watched a family of squirrels who sat poised in the branches of a nearby tree. The squirrels' dark eyes studied Atlanta's house with clear amazement, waving their tails and chattering among themselves—no surprise, since the house in question was a giant acorn.

“Yes, yes,” said Atlanta softly. “I really do live here.” Then, after a barrage of chattering, she added, “But you cannot.”

Seeing their tails droop, she shook her head. “You can't eat it. Etheria would have an earthquake if you tried! And besides . . . my old friend Grumps, the squirrel who lives in the cupboard, wouldn't hear of it.”

Several of the squirrels sighed sadly. Then, after another burst of chattering, the family scampered off.

Atlanta grinned, then took another swallow of tea from her burl mug. “See there?” she said in a raised voice. “It's not necessary to frighten our guests—or smell like a huge pile of manure, as you did for those poor centaurs—to protect our privacy.”

The whole house, front step included, started to shake violently. The shutters on all the windows slammed in unison, scaring off a pair of larks who had just landed nearby.

“Go ahead and shudder,” said Atlanta calmly, as she tried to keep from spilling her tea. “But I'd like you to try—just try—to be a little more friendly to strangers.”

Etheria fell still for a few seconds—then suddenly shook one more time.

“Yes!” insisted Atlanta, now annoyed. “
Including
centaurs.”

From inside the acorn house, all the floorboards sighed.

“Good.” Atlanta shook some spilled tea off the sleeve of her gown of lilac vines. “Now I expect you to do better.”

She took another sip of elderberry tea. “After all,” she added, “you are quite simply the most intelligent and devoted house anyone could have.”

The shutters opened with a merry round of squeaks. From the chimney came a proud little puff that smelled like fragrant cedar.

Atlanta couldn't resist a grin. “By the way, Etheria, do you have a slice of lemon? It goes so well with this elderberry.”

From the kitchen came a loud rattling, followed by the sound of cupboard drawers being opened and closed. As well as Grumps's voice as he muttered, “Can't anybody take a nap in peace around here?”

Just then, with a soft whir of wings, Quiggley flew out from the kitchen. Holding a slice of lemon in his tiny arms, he wobbled in the air from the strain of such great weight. Yet he managed to make it safely to Atlanta. With a final frenzy of wings, he dropped the lemon in her mug, then promptly landed on her wrist.

“Thank you, little friend.” She nodded at the faery as he shook some drops of lemon juice from his arms. “You are the best!”

Quiggley's antennae quivered. Atlanta felt a wave of pleasure flow through her, enough to make her beam. “What would I ever do without you?” she asked.

The faery shrugged his shoulders as if to say he couldn't imagine how she'd ever survive. Then he fluttered up to her shoulder. He settled close enough to her neck that she could feel the familiar brush of his wings on her skin.

Atlanta pulled the lemon wedge out of her mug and squeezed. As the juice drained into the tea, the air filled with the sharp yet sweet smell of lemon. She drew a deep breath, savoring the aroma, long one of her favorites.

All at once, the smell brought back a nearly forgotten memory: the freshly baked lemon pie Promi had given her on the day they first met. Hungry, lost, and huddled in a deserted alley, Atlanta had certainly needed that gift—more for the gesture of kindness than the pie itself. In that moment, she'd filled her nostrils with the aroma of lemon. Nothing had ever smelled so good.

Promi,
she mused.
Where are you now? What's happened to you in the years since you left? And why, exactly, did you leave?

She sighed, blowing on her tea. For she knew the answer to the last question.
You left because we fought.

Sure, Promi had acted like a selfish, wooden-headed fool on that day. Imagine being so cavalier about destroying the veil! He simply disregarded all the dangers.

Yet . . . I was just as much a fool myself.
Atlanta peered glumly into her mug.
If only you'd given us a chance to make amends. Or at least to try.

She shook her head of brown curls. For she knew that would never happen. Not now, after five whole years. Too much time had passed.

What I know for sure now,
she thought somberly,
is that whatever we had—or might have had—just wasn't that important to you. Otherwise . . . you'd have come back at least one more time.

Against her neck, feather-soft wings quivered. Compassion flowed through her, a big wave to have come from someone so small as a faery.

She heard, in her memory, part of the unicorns' saying about the human soul:

More tangled than the vine,

More mysterious than the sea.

Those words reminded her of Gryffion, the old unicorn who had paid her a visit not long after Promi's departure. The newborn he described that day had grown into a strong young colt, full of bounce and curiosity about the world. She'd seen the young unicorn only a few weeks ago, frolicking on the Indragrass Meadows, his luminous horn sparkling in the sunlight.

She sipped some elderberry tea.
Hard to believe,
she thought,
that such a joyful creature could have been born with such a grim prophecy.

Despite Quiggley's trembling antennae, urging her not to think about the upsetting prophecy, she pondered those words. They'd been said both by Gryffion and the centaur Haldor. And no matter how many times she'd recalled them, they never lost their sting.

A terrible day and night of destruction.

Suddenly, a breeze rushed through the trees around her house. That, at least, was how it sounded. Yet no leaves stirred. Not a single tree bent with the rising wind.

For this, Atlanta knew, was no wind at all.

She set down her mug and stood. At that instant, hundreds of faeries—more than she'd ever seen in one place, even at the ancient Faery Glens—flew out of the forest. The sound of all their wings humming and whirring was so loud that Etheria slammed closed her shutters. Meanwhile, the air in front of the house glittered with vibrating little bodies.

Some wore translucent cloaks like Quiggley, while others sported purple vests, rust-colored leggings, or streaming green ribbons in their hair. Many wore hats made from cotton or flakes of bark, made with tiny holes so their antennae could protrude. But none of this colorful garb was nearly as striking as the faeries' unadorned wings, which glowed like shimmering rainbows.

Atlanta watched, amazed by this whole experience. “What does this mean?”

Quiggley leaped off her shoulder and plunged into the flock of faeries. His antennae waved frantically as he communicated with the others—especially one blue-winged faery who seemed very distraught.

Seconds later, he buzzed back to Atlanta. Hovering before her wide eyes, he sent her a sharp pang of danger, urgency, and panic—all caused by something that was happening in the forest.

“Show me,” she demanded. “Take me there!”