Poseidon didn’t save you, thought Shangri. Promi did.
“And that reason,” he continued, “should be obvious to you now. So I could bring benefits untold and a richer life to you and all the people of Atlantis!”
“Ye sound like yer the king o’ this island.”
“No,” he replied with a smirk, “though I could be if I chose. I am content to be just a humble craftsman. But mark my words: I can do anything I want on this island. And one day, perhaps, beyond.”
A chuckle bubbled from his throat. “As long as the Divine Monk gets enough hot water for his baths, that is.”
Her heart pounding, Shangri objected, “Yer motto sounds like everythin’ about nature is here jest fer us humans—that the land an’ trees an’ all the other creatures are jest here to serve us.”
“Well, they are.”
“No! Every creature deserves our respect. They’ve jest as much right to live an’ breathe an’ survive as we do.”
Reocoles clucked his tongue. “So naïve, my dear. Humans know what is best! And everything in nature matters only in relation to how it helps us or hurts us.”
Shangri’s face reddened, though this time it wasn’t from blushing. But before she could reply, the master machinist spoke again.
“Here I am, babbling like an old fool! Please forgive me. Why, I haven’t even shown you what I most wanted you to see.”
Despite his ungainly limp, he set off briskly toward the other end of the room. With a last glance at the ship’s wheel, Shangri followed. The master machinist led her over to a large iron contraption that she recognized right away—although it was far bigger than any other she’d seen.
“An oven,” she said, wide-eyed. “An’ a thumpin’ big one.”
“That’s right, my dear. Did you know this stove can bake up to six times as many pies or cakes or loaves of bread as the old one your father uses now?”
“No.”
“And that the first baker I convinced to buy one tripled his business overnight?”
“No.”
“And yet,” said Reocoles, scratching his head in puzzlement, “your father has refused to buy one from me.”
“Well, he jest likes his old oven. They’ve worked together fer a long time, like a couple o’ friends.”
“How sweet,” said Reocoles. “But wholly impractical. If anyone deserves to have one of my new ovens, it’s your father, the most admired baker in the whole City of Great Powers. Why, if he got one, he’d be eternally grateful.”
Shangri’s eyes narrowed. “What ye really mean to say is, if he got one . . . ye’d sell a lot more to other bakers.”
Reocoles gave her a wink. “You are just as smart as you are pretty.” He stepped closer and put his hand on her shoulder. “Now, won’t you help me convince him to change his mind?”
“But I told ye, he jest doesn’t want one.”
“I’ve solved that smoke problem,” said Reocoles, speaking fast. “Now I provide a pipe that takes it all outside.”
She backed away. “He doesn’t want one, do ye hear?”
“What if I gave him one for a whole year free of charge? Just as a gesture of friendship.”
Shangri clenched her jaw, then said, “Yer not actin’ out o’ friendship. Yer actin’ out o’ greed.”
Reocoles made a sound like a rumbling furnace. “Show her out,” he commanded the man by the door. “Never let her in here again. And spread the word to watch for her in case she tries to cause any trouble.”
CHAPTER 27
To Be a Bard
In his room above the bakery, Lekko—his chosen name these days—wrote on a scrap of yellow-tinted paper. Though his job at the paper merchant down the street gave him a goodly supply of scraps (in exchange for half his pay), he still went through great quantities. And his room showed it: paper, crumpled or piled high, covered with writing or torn to pieces, lay everywhere.
Lekko sat in his chair by the window, scribbling with a charcoal pencil. The paper, sitting on an old book about the Divine Monk’s temple on Lekko’s lap, had lots more crossed-out words than legible ones. He’d been working on this page since before dawn, but several hours later he had very little to show for it.
Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his scraggly blond hair. Getting up early to write is the easy part, he told himself. Especially when you live right above a bakery that starts making such fabulous smells before dawn.
He chewed the end of the pencil. The hard part is actually writing something decent.
Right now the bakery smelled of fresh ginger cookies. He took a big sniff, enjoying the quiet thrill he always got from ginger in any form. And that was also true, these days, about a certain young woman with ginger-red hair.
Shangri would be back soon from her morning deliveries, he knew. In fact, she should have returned by now. Something must have delayed her.
Probably just her love of talking with people, he thought with a grin. He’d seen enough to know that many people ordered their pastries delivered not because they didn’t like to come by Morey’s shop—but because they liked chatting with Shangri even more. As Morey put it, “Who needs the sunshine when ye have the likes o’ Shangri?”
Lekko put down the page and pencil. He stood up, paced across the little room, and grabbed his water jug and glass from a low table beside his sleeping pallet. Pouring himself a glass, he took it over to the window.
From this spot overlooking the street, he could watch the parade of people on the cobblestones below. Shepherds leading their flocks to the marketplace, craftsmen carrying leather goods or jewelry or woven shawls, monks beating their prayer drums while chanting in worshipful monotones, and many other slices of life passed by every day. Plenty of inspiration for writing—except he wasn’t wanting to write about that.
Lifting his gaze, he looked over the rooftops to the smoky haze that always darkened a certain part of the City. The Machines District. The area where his fellow survivors from the shipwreck had settled five years ago. All except for him.
He could see, waving atop the roof of Reocoles’s headquarters, the flag of the blue dolphin. Though it was often hard to see through the haze, he sometimes glimpsed one or two of his former shipmates up on that roof working on one of the master machinist’s contraptions—either because that invention needed some wind to work or because there just wasn’t enough room inside the building.
Lekko gazed intently at the neighborhood populated by his fellow Greeks. While he missed a few of them, the people on the ship he’d been closest to had died in the whirlpool. And he certainly didn’t miss Reocoles, whose genius as an inventor was so often driven by his tyrannical urge to control everyone and everything around him.
That lame leg of his, guessed Lekko, didn’t just pitch him into plenty of ravines as a child. It pitched him into a life of craving power.
Lekko took another swallow of water. The trouble was . . . Reocoles’s unrelenting drive was destroying aspects of the City, as well as other people’s lives. While his inventions were often beneficial as well, that destruction continued to spread like a subtle, creeping disease.
Though Lekko was only twelve years old when the ocean had miraculously spared him, he could clearly remember what the City had been like then. And see how different it was now. Torch lamps on every corner was a good improvement. So was better plumbing.
But what about the increasingly foul air that made people cough and gag? The wasted machine parts or packaging that now littered too many streets? The diminished connections between people who used to pause to greet one another but now hurried on by?
Reocoles would say this was all nonsense, Lekko felt certain. Actually, he’d probably say it was heresy.
The young man pursed his lips, thinking. Which is why I want to write about those things. To be a bard who explores how societies can grow and change
. . . yet still protect what deserves to endure.
Wistfully, he scanned the rooftops. “Maybe,” he said aloud, “that will be my one great story. The one I’ve been searching for all this time.”
Even as he said the words, he knew that there was only one way to find out. To write! But that, he also knew well, was hard work.
Almost as hard, he thought with an ironic grin, as choosing my permanent pen name. Lekko, he felt, was close—but like so many other attempts, it wasn’t quite right.
Maybe I’ll just end up going back to Lorno, he wondered. It’s special, since that was the name I had when I first landed on Atlantis. And also on Morey’s head!
His grin widened, since that was the name Shangri still called him. She’d given up trying to keep track of whatever name he was using currently. So even if he didn’t feel satisfied with that, she’d be pleased.
And that, he told himself, counts for a lot.
Footsteps! He heard someone climbing the narrow stairs up to his room. Stepping over to the door, he opened it, knowing he’d be seeing Shangri’s joyful face.
It was Shangri, all right. But she certainly wasn’t joyful. Her typically bright eyes were clouded; her hands that usually brought him a treat from the bakery were wringing anxiously.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Oh, Lorno . . .” She fell into his arms and they embraced for a long moment. Then she pulled away and shook her head, swaying her long hair across her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“Everythin’! I jest came back from Reocoles’s place. And what I saw makes me sick with worry fer our homes, our fellow creatures—our whole island.” She drew a deep breath. “He has plans fer all o’ us . . . and fer his own empire.”
The young man scowled. “By the blood and bones of Zeus, it’s as if our ship brought an invasion to Atlantis! We should never have been allowed to land.”
She took his hand. “Don’t say that. At least one person on yer ship was certainly supposed to land.”
Meeting his gaze, Shangri added, “I am sure o’ that. Totally sure.”
CHAPTER 28
A Vivid Dream
Reocoles was soaring, riding the winds high over Atlantis. Like a powerful hawk, he sailed through the sky, rising on the swells and circling the landscape far below.
Though he didn’t have any wings or feathers, he rode the air currents with ease. His outstretched arms carried him wherever he chose. And with no need to walk upon the ground, he had left behind the clumsy metal brace for his leg.
Flying! he told himself giddily as the winds tousled his gray hair. I am, for once, moving freely!
And I am also dreaming, he thought lucidly. This dream feels so real, so true . . . I am certain it must be another dream sent to me from the gods on high.
Even as he flew into a cloud and out the other side, he smiled. The last divine dream helped me discover this island called Atlantis—and begin my climb to greatness. He banked a turn to the right. What discovery, I wonder, will this new dream bring?
Below him, he saw clearly the City of Great Powers, dominated by the Divine Monk’s temple. He saw, too, the market square, the City gates—and his great accomplishment, the Machines District. Despite the layer of sooty haze that for some inexplicable reason hung over that section of the City, he couldn’t miss seeing how it bustled with activity and industry.
The true heart of this place, he thought proudly. How these poor people ever managed to exist before his ship arrived, he could never understand.
The only irksome sight in the City was that dilapidated old bridge that the local folk had decorated with prayer leaves. Why, it didn’t even go all the way across the river gorge! Just seeing the bridge annoyed him, since there couldn’t be any purpose to having such a rickety, half-finished contraption.
When I’m finished with my more pressing projects, he reminded himself, it’s high time my men tear that bridge down and build a shiny new iron one in its place.
He chortled, guessing that the Divine Monk might hear some resistance from the locals to this plan. In their ignorance, they seemed to be attached to such old, useless structures. All I need to do to solve that problem, he told himself, is to name the new bridge after His Holiness the Divine Monk.
Banking another turn, he flew southward across the river. Soon he was sailing toward the Great Forest, that mass of unused trees and waterways. On the open land just north of the forest, he saw with pride, was the industrial complex he’d created over the past several years. Pit mines, ditches, and roadways hummed with the business of resource extraction and refining.
Suddenly—the whole scene shifted. The industrial complex expanded, pushing across the forest’s rim and deep into the thick mass of trees. As steadily as oil flowing over a body of water, the complex grew swiftly larger. Before long, instead of only a few mines, a network of dozens appeared, complete with new ditches and tailings ponds. The Great Forest, meanwhile, vanished under a maze of roads, dams, and clear-cut slopes, along with the rows of tenement houses to enable more workers to labor for longer periods.
The future! realized Reocoles. Thanks to Zeus, I am being shown a glimpse of the future.
Soaring overhead, the master machinist marveled at how completely the forest’s resources were being utilized. Why, even from this altitude he could see piles of glittering gemstones that had been mined! And he also took pride in how many of the roads, bridges, construction sites, and refineries he’d already been planning to build—and which could be found on the map labeled Great Forest Plan that graced the building he humbly called his “workshop.”
Yet there was much more going on in this vision of the future than he’d previously imagined. In particular, he could tell that some powerful new energy source was being extracted from the landscape. Though he couldn’t tell exactly what it was, he felt certain it was not merely coal, oil, or timber. No . . . this new form of energy, being processed under large domed structures, seemed both immensely powerful and deeply mysterious.
Just one of the many treasures that awaits my discovery, thought Reocoles. He swooped lower, pleased at how much more of the land was now visible without the nuisance of all those trees.
Then, miraculously, he heard in his mind a voice. The voice, he felt certain, of Zeus himself.
“All this and more awaits you, Reocoles. And with this progress will come all the power you desire—as well as the empire you deserve.
“But lo,” the godly voice intoned, “heed this warning! The future you have seen will come to pass only if you work much faster. For change is coming to your world—and you must be ready to seize every opportunity!
“Or else,” the voice concluded, “you and all your works shall perish forever.”
At that, Reocoles woke up. He wiped his face, drenched with perspiration, with his bedsheet. Though dawn was still several hours away, he strapped on his leg brace, dressed himself, and went straight to work.
CHAPTER 29
Triumph
Hitch me, you fools!”
At Reocoles’s bellowed command, six of his uniformed aides reached for the bundle of straps connected to a thick rope. After considerable fumbling and tripping over one another, they secured the straps to their leader’s waist and chest. Then, in unison, they backed away.
“Finally,” he growled. “Now raise me up there so I can see.”
The men started pulling on the rope, which ran through a pulley atop an observation tower, lifting Reocoles into the air. He scowled impatiently until they set him down on a wooden platform just below the top. There two more uniformed aides unfastened him.
Reocoles limped over to the railing at the platform’s edge. He gazed out on his growing industrial complex. Before him stretched the vista he’d seen at the start of his recent dream—although not now, alas, from the height of a soari
ng hawk. While that dream had come to him over two weeks ago, its memory remained as vivid as ever.
He could see a vast network of open pit mines, ditches, piles of tailings, and buildings that spewed black fumes from their smokestacks. Directly in front of his tower sat a large waste pool that gleamed putrid yellow. Whatever toxic substances bubbled in the pool produced a stench like rotting flesh.
“Beautiful,” he proclaimed.
Viewing the complex, he watched with pride as three huge mining vehicles, each the size of a house, tore at the rocks exposed in the pit mines. These machines, with jawlike scrapers protruding from their fronts, resembled giant, rock-eating beasts that constantly spouted black smoke. One of them worked at the edge of its pit, enlarging the mine by ripping out bushes and scraping away the rich brown soil.
Over the past several years, the mining complex had steadily expanded. Though still confined to the open plain north of the forest edge, the complex included three vast pits and a maze of ditches and dams, all gouged out of the land. To some, the aerial view might have looked like an open wound. But to Reocoles, it looked like a monument to human ingenuity and progress. He smiled at the sight.
Then, recalling the severe warning from Zeus he’d received at the end of his dream, the smile vanished. “As good as this is, it’s not nearly enough! We must work faster and harder. We must push deep into the wasteland forest and turn it into what it can be—the hub of a new civilization. The heart of an empire.”
As Reocoles scanned the scene below, there was one thing he didn’t notice. Though all this activity was happening near the border of the Great Forest, no birds or any other forest creatures came near. Except for one, apparently. The twisted carcass of a young bear cub lay beside the waste pool. Lured there by curiosity on a recent night, it had probably pawed the strange liquid, hoping to find a fish. Then, intrigued by the unusual smell, it must have taken a drink.
A small but plucky river, whose origins were deep in the forest, flowed out of the woods and into the complex. For countless years, it had cascaded northward to the Deg Boesi canyon, where it poured from the heights in a glittering waterfall. Locals who visited the place called it Rainbow Falls.