Atlantis Rising (11 page)

“Who knows? One thing’s certain, though.” She stared worriedly at the trees surrounding them. “The person he called the next ruler—that means
him.
”

Promi shifted uneasily, feeling renewed heat on his chest. “And how did he get that—that
thing
from the spirit realm?”

“A mistwraith,” said Kermi ominously. His whiskers trembled, as if he knew more. But even if that was true, he wasn’t about to elaborate.

“I thought there was a strict law against any spirits coming to the mortal world,” said Promi. Recalling what Bonlo had taught him, he added, “Though we are getting close to Ho Byneri, when the veil grows thin, so maybe it’s easier to break that law now.”

Atlanta extended her arms wide. “There are plenty of spirits here already. Throughout this forest.” Then, gazing at him, she asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay and maybe meet some of them?”

“I’m sure.” He rubbed his belly. “Supper’s waiting for me back in the City. Now, just tell me which way to walk, and I’ll be going.”

“But if you stay here, Promi . . . you could help.”

“With what?”

“With stopping that evil priest! He’s coming back, I’m sure—searching for me and whatever he needs for his plan.” Her expression hardened, as water turns to ice. “And I am going to fight him.”

The Way

I really ought to know by now. One bite of a bad cookie spells trouble. The bite may be small, but the bellyache huge.

—From Promi’s journal (scrawled in the recipe book chapter titled “Dangerous Cookies: Bake Them Right or Not at All”)

F
ight him?” asked Promi, surprised. “I thought you’d do whatever it takes to avoid him! Are you crazy?”

“Maybe,” Atlanta replied. “But I know that if I don’t find some way to stop that madman, this whole forest—this whole world of magic and beauty—will suffer.”

She spun in slow circles, her arms extended as she gazed up at all the trees ringing the meadow. As she twirled, branches quivered and stretched toward her, the greeting of trees leafy and needled, ancient and young. One particular tree, a graceful birch, stretched so far that it was nearly horizontal, until at last it brushed the tip of her finger with its uppermost leaf.

Atlanta stopped, her finger still touching the birch leaf. “This is more than my home. This is my family.”

“Still crazy!” he declared. “How could you even start to fight him?”

Her blue-green eyes flashed with determination. “I’ve got to try.”

“But you’re just one person! Up against him and all his thugs. Not to mention that mistwraith.”

Stooping, Atlanta picked up an acorn from among the ferns at her feet. She twirled it slowly in her fingers, then said, “See how small this is? There’s simply no way to tell from its size what it could become. What magic it could hold.”

She dropped the acorn. “So I must try.”

He studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Then you’ll try alone.”

“But Promi—”

He looked down at the ferns by his feet, unwilling to meet her gaze. “I’m just a thief, Atlanta. A loner. Someone who survives by stealing pies and throwing a knife.”

“Even after what we heard about Grukarr’s plans?”

“Look,” he declared, “I don’t like him any more than you do. But at least I’m smart enough to stay out of his way! No, this battle for the forest is between you and him. It’s not my fight. Can you understand that?”

Icily, she glared at him. “No, I can’t.”

For an instant, Promi was tempted to tell her about the other battles he’d heard about recently, battles that were also not for him. Or for anyone remotely sane. Like the ones Bonlo had described, involving a new war in the spirit realm, a frightful prophecy, and a dangerous thinning of the veil between the worlds. Maybe that would convince her that some battles were just meant to be avoided—because they were too big, too dangerous, or just too unlikely to be real.

No,
he thought with a sigh,
she’ll never be convinced. Not when she still believes she can save her beloved forest.

Atlanta looked at him pleadingly. Gesturing at the trees, she said, “This is your forest, too. Even if you don’t live here.”

“My home is the City.”

“Sure, but where do you think the lemons for that pie you stole came from? And all the fresh vegetables, fruits, and nuts you see in the marketplace? The fuel you burn? The water you drink?”

She glanced up at the sky, shining blue between the branches. “Don’t you see, Promi? All the magic in this country ties together. From the highest summit of Ell Shangro to the lowest beach of the western shore—the magic of every place is connected.” Scanning the grove around them, she said quietly, “And this forest is the most magical place of all.”

A squirrel with very large eyes and a shaggy tail, seated on the branch of a nearby acacia, chattered loudly in agreement.

Suddenly, Atlanta flinched. Her gaze fixed on a young fruit tree that looked strangely withered. Its frail trunk bent from the weight of its shriveled, pale orange fruit. Even to Promi’s inexperienced eye, this tree seemed sickly. Now, one unhealthy tree wouldn’t seem so unusual in most forests—but in this richly verdant place, it felt like a violation.

Atlanta rushed over to the sapling. Gently, as if taking the hand of a friend, she clasped its lowest bough. She shook her head, aghast. Then she whispered, “No! Not here.”

She whirled around to face Promi. “You’ve got to join me! Now it’s not just that horrible priest endangering this forest. It’s the blight. And it’s spreading fast! Last week, it was only in a few groves on the eastern reaches. And now it’s here, deep in the interior.”

He frowned, shifting uneasily. “Sorry. But as I said . . . this isn’t my fight.”

“You are really that selfish?”

“I just want to stay alive, that’s all! And so, if you won’t tell me which way to go, I’ll just have to figure that out myself.”

“Lovely,” commented Kermi. “We’re about to get lost forever.”

The shaggy-tailed squirrel made a different sound this time, much more like a chuckle.

Even as Promi turned to go, Atlanta grabbed his sleeve. “Wait. What if . . . I offer you a gift before you go?”

He pulled free. “There’s no gift from you I’d want.”

“Not even supper?” Her eyes twinkled. “The most sumptuous supper you’ve ever had in your life?”

He froze, tempted. “In my life?”

She nodded.

“Will there be any dessert?”

“More than you can eat.”

“That I doubt.” He swallowed an imaginary bite of something wondrously sweet. “Will you also give me directions to the City?”

“Yes,” she promised. “First thing in the morning.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Don’t think for a second this is going to make me change my mind.”

“Why would I ever think that?” she shot back. But she gave the squirrel a sly wink.

Though Promi didn’t see the wink, he still felt suspicious. “How far away is this supper?”

“Not far,” she promised. “I’ll show you the way.”

He patted his belly, yearning to eat. “Well, all right. But no tricks.”

“No tricks.” Reaching down, she plucked a frond of sweet-smelling fern and slid it through a hole at the collar of her gown of woven vines. “Now, follow me.”

She turned, cast her gaze around the grove, and took the first step. But not the second one. With immense care, she placed her bare foot on a lush patch of moss, moving so slowly that a pair of green-backed beetles had plenty of time to scurry out of the way. Unhurriedly, she transferred more weight to that foot.

Holding that position, one foot in moss and the other in ferns, she almost seemed frozen in place. Her only movement came from her eyes, which slowly scanned the tracery of branches overhead, and from her nose, which sniffed several new aromas—a ripe bunch of grapes nearby, a bird just hatched from its shell, and a fragrant wild rose.

Surprised by her stillness, Promi asked, “Are you all right?”

Without turning, she replied, “Yes.”

“So,” he pressed, “will you show me?”

Again she replied, “Yes.”

He cocked his head, confused. But before he could say anything more, Atlanta stirred and lifted her other foot. With the same graceful slowness, she took another step.

This time, her foot landed in the midst of some pink-spotted toadstools, so gently that several of them slipped right between her toes. They stood in those spaces like tiny parasols. Meanwhile, a butterfly with rich purple wings and antennae as long as its whole body landed delicately on her neck. Feeling the light brush of its wings upon her skin, she grinned.

But Promi wasn’t pleased. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “You said you’d show me the way!”

“This is it,” she declared. “Come along.”

“How?” he cried, exasperated. “You’re just standing here, like one of these trees!”

“Thank you,” she replied, as if he’d just paid her a high compliment. “But they’re much better than me at being present.”

“Present?” He shook his head, more confused than ever. “What does that mean?”

From his perch on the branch, the squirrel snickered loudly.

“Come walk with me, and you’ll find out,” said Atlanta. She took another leisurely step. This time, she set down her foot on a fallen twig, so gently that it didn’t snap but merely sank into the soft soil.

“Oh, all right,” he grumbled. “But only because I’m so hungry.”

Following her example, he took three steps as slowly as he could. Even so, he moved much more quickly than she had done, his boots crunching on the ground. Seconds later, he’d caught up and stood by her side.

Bewildered, he said, “I don’t understand, Atlanta! Where are we going?”

She drew a long, full breath, then answered, “Within.”

Promi scowled at her. “Wherever you’re taking me, we’ll
never
get there like this.”

More snickering came from the squirrel.

Atlanta, meanwhile, took another gentle step, this one into some needles that had fallen from a mighty spruce. As her toes lowered, the needles crackled quietly. The tangy scent of spruce rose into the air. Turning to Promi, she explained, “This part of our walk isn’t about getting there. It’s about being here.”

“Curse you and all the crocodiles and cockles on the crashing coasts, Atlanta! Which is the way?”

“This is,” she declared. “Walking is the way.”

Ready to explode with frustration, Promi grabbed her shoulder and shook it, making the purple-winged butterfly take flight. “If you’re not going to take me to supper, I’m just going to leave.”

“Not a good idea, manfool.” Kermi blew a stream of small, blue-tinted bubbles. “You’re better off with her.”

“Then why don’t
you
just stay with her, bubblebrain?”

“Tempting,” said the kermuncle. “But . . . a promise is a promise. We’re stuck together, you and I, like sap to bark.” Under his breath, he added, “And I know who’s the sap.”

Again the squirrel snickered, waving his tail so hard he almost fell off the branch.

“All right,” Atlanta said resignedly. “You’re just impossible! I’d hoped that, as a Listener, you’d understand.”

“All I want,” he declared, “is that supper you promised.”

“Then follow me.”

She strode off, leading him out of the grove and into a wide meadow of lemongrass. The wispy blades brushed against her legs and Promi’s boots, while lemony scent filled the air.

For Promi, this was a new form of torment. The smell of the grass reminded him of the lemon pie he’d never tasted, stoking the fires of his hunger. He raised his sleeve to his mouth and tried chewing on the tattered cloth. It tasted nothing like that pie—more like a rancid mixture of mud, soot, and sweat, with a dash of dungeon stones and rat fur.

He spat out the sleeve.
What can I do,
he wondered,
to keep from going crazy with hunger?

At once, he knew. Even as he walked, he turned his thoughts inward, calling up the song from his childhood. The distant, quivering notes came quickly, filling his mind with their melody. And with them came that feeling of comfort he cherished.

Atlanta, meanwhile, was feeling her own hunger pangs. Though the afternoon light was beginning to grow dimmer, she spied a split oak she recognized and just beyond it, a cakefruit tree. Its boughs drooped low with succulent purple fruit shaped like little round cakes.

Veering toward the tree, she gracefully plucked one fruit without breaking stride. Though she felt a bit guilty to eat while Promi could not, the sweet fragrance of the fruit was just too much to resist. She took a bite, savoring every sensation. Her lips touched the fruit’s tender skin, her teeth broke through with a soft
plissssshhh,
and her mouth filled with a sudden burst of flavor like sun-warmed clover honey.

Furtively, she glanced over her shoulder at Promi. He was so focused on hearing the haunting notes of his song, he hadn’t even noticed that she was eating. So without hesitation, she took another bite, then another and another. Soon the cakefruit disappeared, right down to its seedy core. Tossing the core to a spot where one of the seeds might grow, she thought,
Now, that’s my kind of pastry.

As the light continued to dim, they kept walking. In time, they came to a clear stream flowing out of the depths of the forest. They followed it, listening to its constant splash, as the woods grew darker. Just when Promi started to have trouble seeing clearly, the waterway divided and then, a short distance later, came back together, forming an island in the middle. Moss, thick and soft as the richest wool, covered the island completely. Vapor from the embracing stream fell on its surface like a gentle rain, making it glisten in the dusky light.

The instant they stopped to look at the mossy island, both of them kneeled and plunged their faces into the water. After several swallows, Atlanta lifted her head and glanced over at Promi, who was gulping eagerly. Though she still felt angry at him, she was glad that his vow not to eat didn’t prevent him from having a good drink of water.

And who knows?
she thought hopefully.
He might still change his mind.

Finally, he pulled his face out of the stream. Tiny rivulets ran down his cheeks as he said, “Excellent.”

She nodded. “Just wait until you taste your supper. Which will be soon.”

“Not soon enough.” He shook his head, spraying her with droplets. “I’m so hungry I tried to eat my tunic back there.” Looking down at the soiled cloth, he decided, “Time to wash it, I think.”

He pulled the tunic over his head and dunked it in the water. Thick clouds of brown and red filled the stream, then vanished. As he tossed the tunic onto the bank, he splashed some water onto his chest, under his arms, and behind his neck.

Suddenly Atlanta gasped. “What’s that?” Anxiously, she pointed at the black mark over his heart. “It looks like . . . some kind of bird. With wings, a beak, and even talons.”

“Oh, that?” He grabbed his wet tunic and pulled it back over his head. “Just a weird birthmark I’ve always had. Nothing special.”

She watched him, unconvinced. “A mark like that doesn’t just happen.”

“Well,” he confessed, “it only appears when I’m hungry. And the more hungry I get, the bigger it grows.”

Atlanta raised an eyebrow.