Atlantis in Peril (17 page)

One of those faeries, after pounding his fists on the foreman's earlobe, flew back over to Atlanta. She sat on the ground, watching the faeries' rout with a broad grin. Instantly, she recognized the lone faery as he arrived.

“Quiggley!” she cried gratefully. “You came back for me!”

He landed on her thigh, placed his tiny hands on his hips, and waved his antennae at her. Even if she hadn't felt the wave of loyalty he was sending, she knew he was saying something like,
What else did you expect?

She reached over so he could hop onto her wrist. Bringing him close to her face, she said with quiet appreciation, “Everyone needs a friend.”

Meanwhile, Shangri stood just a few paces away, watching Atlanta and Quiggley with amazement.
I wonder,
thought the red-haired girl,
if that could be her.

Continuing to talk to the faery, Atlanta said, “I certainly needed a friend today.” With a glance over at Shangri, she added, “And so did she.”

Then she looked out across the scene of devastation where all the work had ceased, at least for now. “And so did the land.”

A Wave of Gratitude

S
hangri ambled over to Atlanta and sat down beside her—being very careful not to disturb the tiny faery resting on her wrist. Shangri had never been so close to a faery before, and was naturally amazed by the creature's luminous wings, delicate antennae, and translucent cloak. But what caught her attention most of all were his shoes made from hollowed-out red berries.

Those are jest the cutest shoes I've ever seen,
she thought.

Quiggley, who had read her thoughts, promptly clicked his little shoes together. Then he bowed gallantly.

Atlanta chuckled, “Always a show-off, aren't you?” Nodding at the faery on her wrist, she said to Shangri, “This is Quiggley.”

Bowing her head of carrot-red hair, the young woman said, “Pleased to meet you, Quiggley. My name is Shangri.”

Completing the introductions, Atlanta said, “And my name is—”

“Atlanta,” finished Shangri. Looking into Atlanta's eyes, she added, “I know who you are.”

Surprised, Atlanta asked, “How?”

Shangri brushed back some of her hair, and smiled bashfully. “From Promi.”

That name struck Atlanta like a body blow. “Promi?” she asked, confused. “You know him?”

Before Shangri could answer, Atlanta felt a sharp pang of fear. Promi had replaced her with Shangri! That was why she hadn't seen or heard from him in so much time!

Atlanta stiffened, and her grin disappeared. Sensing her upset, Quiggley sent her a wave of compassion.

Shangri, too, sensed the change. Perceptive as ever, she suddenly realized what Atlanta must be thinking. Taking a deep breath, she explained.

“I knew him a long time ago, Atlanta. When I was jest a little tramp with braids! But I haven't seen him fer five whole years now.”

Atlanta laughed with relief, a resounding laughter that rang like a bell. “I'm such a fool.” She grinned at the red-haired young woman seated beside her. “So you were friends.”

Shangri nodded. “I used to bring him pastries from Papa's bakery, 'specially cinnamon buns.” She smiled at the memory. “What a thumpin' big sweet tooth he had!”

“That's Promi, for sure.” Atlanta laughed again. “When I met him, he'd just stolen a pie.”

“O' course,” said Shangri quietly, “that's to be expected fer someone who is . . . immortal.”

Atlanta caught her breath. “So you know about the Prophecy?”

Shangri nodded, loosening a clump of mud from her hair that fell in her lap. “A little. He told me about it on the last day we spoke—right after he'd had a terrible fight with someone.”

Atlanta swallowed. “Who?”

Shangri took her hand. “Someone he loved a whole lot.”

Clearing her throat, Atlanta asked, “He told you that?”

“With his words, his eyes, an' also . . . his whole way o' lookin' whenever he'd so much as
think
about ye.”

“What else did he say?”

Shangri grinned, thinking back to that day on the cliffs above the sea. “He called you ‘a true nature spirit.'”

At that, the faery on Atlanta's wrist fluttered his radiant wings.

Atlanta gazed at their surroundings—the vast open pit mines, the abandoned vehicles, the sooty buildings, and the putrid yellow pool. She sighed. “He was right about that.”

“An' he also said,” Shangri continued, “that you were the smartest an' bravest person he'd ever met. An' also . . . the most frustratin' person he'd ever met.”

Smiling sadly, Atlanta said, “He was right about that, too.”

Quiggley sent her a new burst of compassion. But this time it didn't help. Atlanta wasn't ready to be consoled.

For a long moment, they sat there on the muddy ground, immersed in their thoughts. Finally, Shangri squeezed Atlanta's hand and said, “Ye know what I remember best about what he told me?”

Atlanta peered at her, waiting.

“Yer name. Jest the way he said it . . . with so much feelin'.”

A flicker of light returned to Atlanta's eyes—then abruptly vanished. “Something must have happened to him in the spirit realm for him to stay away for so long. Something serious.”

“It could be jest a few days fer him,” Shangri reminded her. “Time up there is different.”

Atlanta blew a long sigh. “
Too
different.”

Hoping to change the subject, Shangri nudged her companion's shoulder. “By the way, thanks fer savin' my life today.”

Atlanta grinned. “You did a good job saving mine, as well.”

Shangri blushed. “Well . . . I'd have done better if we were in Papa's bakery. I'd jest fetch one o' our biggest pans an'—
slam!
—no more attackers.”

“If I'm ever in trouble in a bakery,” chuckled Atlanta, “I'll call for you.”

“Good. An' if I'm ever in trouble in the forest, I'll do jest the same.”

“Well,” said Atlanta, “it's time I go back to the forest and soak this ankle in a cold stream.” She glanced at the swollen joint, then at Shangri. “Someday, I'd love to show you where I live.”

Quiggley fluttered up to Atlanta's shoulder, nodding in agreement.

“I'd love that,” replied Shangri. “An' someday, let me show you where the best cinnamon buns around are made.”

“That's a deal.”

With Shangri's help, Atlanta stood. Though she couldn't put her full weight on the ankle, she found that she could still walk without much pain. The two young women hugged, then Atlanta turned and headed back into the forest.

Shangri watched her go, the radiant little faery riding on her shoulder. Just before Atlanta disappeared behind the tresses of the old willow tree, Shangri felt a sudden wave of gratitude pour over her. She knew, instinctively, that it was Quiggley's parting gift.

Must be gettin' back to the bakery,
thought Shangri.
Before Papa and Lorno start to get worried.
She straightened her back with resolve.
But first . . . there's somethin' I need to do.

She strode back down the rutted road, now free of vehicles, thinking about what she was planning. Crossing the bridge back into the City, she went straight to the market square and found an old monk selling prayer leaves. Since she had no money, she promised to come back the next day with payment in the form of his favorite pastries. Knowing he could trust her, he gladly agreed.

Speaking softly so no one would overhear, she dictated to the monk a personal prayer which he inscribed on the precious leaf. As she explained, it was an important message to a certain spirit in the immortal realm. Though the monk had never heard of a spirit by that name, he complied and addressed the prayer to Promi.

A few minutes later, Shangri stood at the edge of the rickety bridge that stretched halfway across the gorge—and, as Promi had described, all the way to the spirit realm. The Bridge to Nowhere, he had called it.

Far below in the chasm, the river thundered; mist billowed all around the bridge. From every post and railing, lines of prayer leaves fluttered in the vaporous wind.

“This is fer you, Promi,” said Shangri quietly. She tossed the prayer leaf into the air, watching as it floated off into the mist, spinning and twirling until, at last, it disappeared.

In the distance, Shangri thought she heard the slightest sound—almost like the faraway roar of a lion. But there was no way to be sure.

One Faulty Gear

R
eocoles, standing in the middle of his room of machinery and inventions, glared at his foreman with all the intensity of Zeus about to hurl a thunderbolt. He swore in Greek and slapped his metal leg brace angrily.

“You
what
?” he demanded.

Nervously, Karpathos clawed at his mustache. He swallowed meekly and said, “I hid in a ditch, Master. Those cursed birds were so deadly, they—”

“Birds?” fumed Reocoles. “You were routed by a flock of
birds
?”

“But, Master, these were not ordinary birds! They attacked without warning, pecking out men's eyes and biting off their ears. Why, they poured out of the forest like the winged gods in the old myths.”

“Gods!” shouted Reocoles. “The gods favor
us,
you fool! Do you think Poseidon saved us for no reason? Do you think Hephaestus put his divine essence into my mortal body for no reason?”

Too nervous to speak, the thin foreman merely shook his head. But now he was convinced that he'd been right not to tell Reocoles about the troublesome red-haired girl, only the young woman dressed in forest garb. For if Reocoles knew that he'd bungled the red-haired girl's punishment . . . it would be Karpathos's turn to be punished. Most severely!

Reocoles took a wobbling step closer so that he stood face to face with Karpathos. For a long moment, he glowered at his aide, watching the man fidget. Then, in a voice frighteningly calm, he spoke again.

“Your incompetence has cost me valuable time. How long do you expect it will take to hire a new team of workers?”

“T-two weeks, M-m-master.”

Reocoles slapped his brace again. “Why so long?”

“These local urchins,” explained Karpathos, “are superstitious. They don't have our great Olympian gods to guide them.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“They are troubled by the sudden attack of those deadly birds, Master. Cowards that they are, they're afraid the forest spirits are angry at them for digging up the land and cutting the trees.”

The scowl on Reocoles's face looked as grim as King Agamemnon's would have looked if his army had lost the Trojan War. “Offer them double wages, then. We can get that money back in other ways later.”

“Yes, Master.” Karpathos tugged on his mustache. “And what do you want me to do about that rebellious girl? She's bound to cause more trouble.”

“Ah yes, the one who wore what you called ‘forest garb.'” The master machinist stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Young people can, unfortunately, act as if they have minds of their own.”

Karpathos's expression darkened as he remembered that young woman with the striking blue-green eyes. She had incited the workers to rebellion, freed the redhead, and caused great delay in the work. All of which made her a dangerous troublemaker.

“Tell me about her,” commanded Reocoles. “What was she like?”

“Arrogant,” spat the foreman.

So,
thought Reocoles,
she is passionate.

“And insolent,” added Karpathos. “More insolent than anyone I've ever known.”

That means,
Reocoles told himself,
she is brave. Very brave.

“And also,” added the foreman, “she is deceptively attractive.”

So she is also beautiful,
Reocoles concluded.

“All that,” said the inventor firmly, “makes her very dangerous.”

“Yes, Master.”

Reocoles stroked his chin again, then beckoned. “Come with me, Karpathos. There is something I want to show you.”

The master machinist limped across the room. Anxiously, Karpathos followed, pulling on his mustache the whole way. They passed the bellows, the furnace, and the experimental pesticides before finally stopping at the mass of gears that Reocoles called his astrolocator.

“Do you see this device?” asked the inventor with a wave of his hand.

“I do, Master.”

“Eventually, I will perfect its mechanism so it can accurately predict the motions of the stars and even eclipses of the sun and moon.”

Karpathos peered at the complex device. “Amazing.”

“Yes,” continued Reocoles. “It
is
rather amazing. But hear me out. If, after this machine is complete, even one small gear doesn't function properly—then
the entire machine is worthless
.

He moved closer to the contraption and tenderly stroked its gears. Then he turned back to his foreman and asked, “Do you follow my meaning?”

Karpathos shifted his stance nervously. “Er . . . well, no.”

“All the gears must serve the larger purpose,” explained Reocoles. “That is true for machinery, as well as society. If there is one faulty gear . . . it must be
eliminated
. Removed and destroyed.”

Karpathos raised his eyebrows. “Now, Master, I understand.”

“Good.” Reocoles limped toward him. With a wicked gleam in his eyes, he declared, “That is why we need to engage the help of Zagatash.”

Karpathos started. “Zagatash? But he's a criminal—a murderer, scheduled to be executed.”

Calmly, Reocoles said, “He is all those things, yes. But he is also a great master of disguise . . . and an
expert
assassin.”

Warming to the idea, Karpathos grinned. “You want me to offer to break him out of prison if he will do this new task?”

“That's right. If he fails, we will see that he is thrown back into prison. And if he succeeds—”

“That insolent young woman will never bother us again,” finished Karpathos. “She will be dead and gone.”

Reocoles nodded grimly. “A faulty gear eliminated.”