“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, und
er 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.
“Not really. The point is, this stupid mark doesn’t mean a thing.”
She shook her curls. “So you keep telling me. Say, Kermi has been awfully quiet recently.”
He tapped the bulge down in his boot. “As I said, these special boots adjust themselves to fit. And judging from how far down inside he is, I’d guess he decided to take a nap.”
“Poor little fellow,” she said with sympathy. “He must be exhausted.”
“Maybe,” mused Promi, “I should dump him into the stream?” Seeing her scowl, he added quickly, “Just to give him a drink, I mean.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If you weren’t so mean to him, he’d be nicer to you. He’s really very sweet.”
“Right. Sweet as poison hemlock.”
“Well,” she said, “maybe I should add that to the menu for supper.”
“No thanks. But speaking of supper—”
She clapped her hands. “Come, cross over the stream. There’s no finer place to dine than Moss Island.”
CHAPTER 20
A Whistle in the Woods
Have you learned yet, Promi, the paradox? Natural magic holds both joy and sorrow. There is nothing so beautiful as its flowering . . . and nothing so terrible as its end.
—From her journal
Grukarr stomped through the forest. Around him rose the glittering boughs of star cedars, a grove of massive trees whose every cupped needle held a drop of morning dew. On a sunny day like this, those dewdrops caught the light and sparkled, trembling with the slightest breeze, filling the grove with a rich yet subtle radiance. Travelers who passed through this place often felt as if they were walking through a galaxy of thousands and thousands of stars.
But not Grukarr. He didn’t even notice the glittering cedars, the dewdrops, or the radiance. Just as he didn’t see the rare clusters of spiraling moss that draped from the cedars’ boughs or the orange eyes of three young owlets who watched him from their nest hidden inside a hollow burl. He barely even noticed the black shadow that hovered beside him, floating above the carpet of fallen needles.
“Curse those two young wretches! Curse their blood and bones, poison their next meals, and stifle their very last breaths!”
Grukarr growled the curse viciously for at least the hundredth time that morning. It happened to be one of his favorites, a balm that always soothed his mind and lifted his spirits in troubled times. Not today, however. Today things felt so bleak that not even a cherished curse could help.
Angrily, he marched ahead. One of his boots crushed a sprig of ripe boatberries, each one shaped like a tiny golden hull with a billowing sail. Indigo juice splattered his boot and the mud-stained hem of his robe—already so dirty from his trek through the forest that it looked more brown than white.
Hearing the squelch of the berries, he glanced down at his boot and cursed again. “Cut out my enemies’ intestines, tie them in knots, and burn them to ashes! I hate this filthy forest. And all the magic wielders who hide here!”
He paused, vengefully smashing under his boot a family of yellow mushrooms with transparent stems. “How,” he puzzled, “could those two criminals have vanished like that? What was the source of that magic? Not her, since we were deep in the City, much too far from the forest for her to use its magic. Yet . . . I can’t believe it could have come from him, either—that ignorant pie thief. So how did they escape?”
Kicking the remains of one mushroom off the toe of his boot, he asked the mistwraith, “You didn’t detect any other immortals nearby, did you?”
The shadow being quivered and brushed against his legs. Black sparks flew into the air, sizzling whenever they hit leaves or soil.
“So they don’t have anyone from the spirit realm to help them.” He ground his teeth angrily. “All the better. When I finally do catch them—I can crush them completely. After the forest girl helps me, that is.”
The mistwraith crackled again, shooting more sparks.
“Yes, I’m sure she will do it! Or else she will see her precious forest wither away and die.”
Malevolently, he grinned. “Killing those two will be lovely. But what I’m going to do to that old witch Araggna—that will be even better.” He wiped his boot in some grass, eliminating any trace of the mushrooms. “Of course, I must choose the perfect time and place. She has too many spies . . . as well as those infernal temple guards always around her.”
His grin twisted into a frown. “For now, I must continue to endure her insults. As if that escape from the alley was somehow my fault! Curse the Divine Monk’s navel! I wish I could have strangled Araggna right there. But no, not yet.”
The mistwraith writhed impatiently. It passed through the trunk of a young oak tree, killing it instantly.
“Not yet, I said.” Grukarr growled like a wounded tiger. “Right now, our highest priority is to find those two. Especially her! The day, the dawn, draws near! So we will keep searching this cursed forest, while Huntwing and my minions scour the City. And while we are here, perhaps you can—”
A sudden, high-pitched crackle interrupted him. By his side, the shadow being turned a lighter shade.
Grukarr peered down at his immortal companion. “Nearby? Are you certain?”
More crackling.
“Well, well,” said the priest with the faintest hint of satisfaction. “We won’t rest until we find the forest girl, of course. But finding that would make this long day of slogging worthwhile. Take me there!”
The mistwraith surged ahead, floating out of the grove and into a grassy meadow. A family of field mice suddenly scattered as it approached, while a pair of mirror-winged butterflies took flight, the dark shadow reflected on their wings.
At last the mistwraith slowed. Near the edge of the meadow, where three streams converged, it stopped. Stealthily, it hovered just above the grass.
Grukarr hurried to catch up, almost stumbling on a fallen branch that held a parade of red-capped mushrooms. Halfway across the meadow, he too halted. For he saw what the mistwraith had found.
Faeries. Hundreds of them—a whole colony of these secretive creatures, each one no bigger than a man’s thumb.
They were doing all the things faeries love to do most in their secret hideaways—zipping playfully through the air, drawing magical flowers that sprouted on the water, and telling stories to their bright-eyed children. They danced on the rapids. Dined on rose nectar. Used their magic to make sculptures out of honeycomb. Sang ethereal harmonies that flowed like streams of sound.
Grukarr’s brown eyes opened wide. He fingered his necklace of golden beads eagerly, knowing that very few creatures held as much magic as faeries. Only baby dragons, unicorns, and mysterious beings called starsisters—whose power to make light was so great, it was said, that they could make sunbeams look like shadows—possessed as much magic as faeries.
And here were hundreds of them.
Turning toward the hovering mistwraith, Grukarr nodded. The shadowy immortal began to float silently toward the faery colony.
To avoid frightening their prey, the priest stood as still as a tree. He watched, noticing for the first time that most of the faeries wore some sort of garb. Many sported thin, translucent cloaks wrapped around their necks and the base of their wings. All but the youngest wore tiny shoes of hollowed-out red berries and amulets made from various seeds.
One faery, a mother, carried her honey-h
aired child in a backpack made from an acorn. Its smooth surface had been decorated with colorful paintings of clouds, trees, and summer flowers. As the child slept, the faery mother sang a soothing song to bring peaceful dreams.
Females tied their flowing hair with green or pink ribbons fashioned from flower petals or woven moss. Males wore rust-colored leggings and fluffy cotton hats with tiny holes to allow their antennae to protrude. Yet no clothing could match the beauty of the faeries’ unadorned wings, whose shining blue surfaces glowed like crystals as delicate as the air itself.
Trash, thought Grukarr with a sneer. Forest trash. How, by the Great Powers, such insignificant creatures ever gained such enormous magic, I will never understand. His mouth twitched malevolently. But that will soon change.
At that instant, the mistwraith reached the streams. A few faeries suddenly noticed the intruder and shrieked in alarm. Dozens of them rose into the air, their wings buzzing as they started to fly away. The mother faery stopped singing to her child in the painted acorn, screamed in fright, and joined the escape.
Too late.
Even as the shrieks began, the mistwraith expanded. In the blink of an eye, it stretched into a deadly blanket that blocked the sun, while shooting out dark tendrils that surrounded the fleeing faeries. All across the shadowy blanket, black sparks exploded. With each spark, a single faery cried out—then fell into the water or onto the grass, its wings now drab and motionless, devoid of light.
The faeries were not dead. Not yet, at least. For now, they lay on the ground or floated helpless on the water, unable to fly or sing or conjure even the smallest spell. The mother lay stunned on the bank, unable to reach out and touch her child who had fallen out of the acorn and rolled down to the water’s edge.
What had happened to them was, in fact, worse than death. They would gladly have died instantly to avoid this fate.
They had been robbed of their magic—and consequently, their ability to move or speak. All their magic had been devoured by the mistwraith. Its shadowy folds rippled with satisfaction, making a contented, swishing sound.