Atlantis Rising

  Mist arises all around,

  Forest deep I roam—

  Music made from ev’ry sound

  Fills the

  Singing hills of home.

  Creatures gather as I sing,

  Seedlings spring from loam—

  Music flies like birds awing

  In the

  Singing hills of home.

  Endless magic touches life:

  Muscle, flesh, and bone—

  Music lift us out of strife!

  Bless the

  Singing hills of home.

  As she sang, the first stars glowed through the gaps between the willow branches. Meanwhile, birds began to gather in those boughs. A woodland grouse with a puffy chest, a family of red-feathered sparrows, two small owlets, a rainbow-winged beecatcher, and a great hornbill with an enormous crown all settled in the willow. As soon as they landed, they ceased chirping or rustling so that Atlanta’s voice could carry farther. One of the first to arrive, a young hawk with iridescent green bands on his wings, floated down to the island and perched right beside Promi on a broken branch in the moss.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. A small woodpecker hit against a branch, keeping perfect rhythm to Atlanta’s song.

  The original blessing drum, thought Promi.

  Meanwhile, more animals came. A monkey with yellow fur leaped onto the island from a forest vine, his tail clutching a bunch of plump pink berries. Gently, the monkey stretched out his tail and placed the berries on Atlanta’s thigh. Without breaking the rhythm of her song, she gave him a grateful wink.

  Before she’d finished the second verse, a butterfly floated over and landed on her shoulder. Even in the subtle starlight, its wings flashed rich shades of green. Its antennae bobbed with the music, as if they were keeping time.

  A mountain gazelle with her newborn, still wobbly on his thin legs, crossed the water to stand beside Atlanta. A huge black crab clambered out of the stream and sat on the bank, watching with extended eyes. And a thin green snake, whose color precisely matched the moss, slithered out of the shadows to listen.

  Then came a rare smelldrude, a creature resembling an oversized otter with vibrant blue eyes, who was almost never seen . . . but was occasionally smelled. Promi had never believed the tales he’d heard about smelldrudes, who supposedly showed their moods by producing smells. But just to be safe, he scooted a bit farther away. For while a happy smelldrude, like this one, smelled like fresh peaches or popping corn, an anxious one could make a whole meadow reek of dead fish. And a genuinely upset one could fill a forest grove with a fragrant mixture of rotten eggs, stale monkey brains, and curdled vomit. Hence the old saying Beware a smelldrude in an ugly mood.

  Warily, Promi eyed the creature. The smelldrude, a female with wide, webbed feet, did the same to him. Her aroma took on the slightest hint of fish.

  Even as Atlanta finished her song, more creatures arrived. Some, such as the family of iridescent beetles shaped like tiny crowns, came by air; others, such as the red-spotted turtle, by water. And many more came by land, trotting and scampering out of the forest.

  The largest creature was a centaur whose white hooves glowed in the starlight. Not bothering to cross over to the island, he settled himself on the far side of the stream. While he nestled his lower body, shaped like a horse, in the grass, his upper body, shaped like a muscular man, leaned over the water to look closely at Promi.

  Peering into the centaur’s ebony eyes, the young man swallowed. “Pleased . . . to meet you,” he said uneasily.

  The centaur folded his arms across his chest and rumbled in a deep voice, “There is more, and less, to you than appears.”

  Surprised, Promi asked, “What does that mean?”

  Atlanta, sitting beside him, chuckled. “Meet Haldor. He sees visions—usually dark ones.”

  Before Promi could reply, the centaur continued, “All of which will change after you die.”

  Now totally confused, Promi gazed at the harsh face looking down at him. “Well . . . thanks. That explains a lot.”

  Haldor studied him, unblinking. “Fear not. Your death will come soon and be terribly painful.”

  “How nice,” muttered Promi. With a glance at Atlanta, he added, “This fellow could ruin anyone’s appetite. Even mine.”

  Kermi poked his furry blue head out of the boot. He stretched his tiny arms, blew several bubbles, then turned to Promi. “Hello, manfool. Did I just hear something lovely? About someone’s painful death?”

  “No,” the young man replied. “It wasn’t about you.”

  Atlanta waved her hand at the centaur. “That’s enough for now, Haldor. It’s time for the meal I promised him.”

  The great beast nodded knowingly. “Enjoy it, for it shall be one of your last.”

  Promi just shook his head, more unsure than ever what to make of this dour supper companion.

  “A feast!” proclaimed Atlanta. Facing the assembled creatures, she asked, “Would you help, my friends? Go quickly and return with the very best foods you can find.”

  With that, the birds took flight and the animals departed. Even the turtle slid back into the stream. Only one remained—the centaur. Too comfortable to move, he just stayed in the grass, staring glumly at Promi.

  Meanwhile, Atlanta reached up and clasped a dangling bough of the willow. Gently, she tapped it, using three fingers. At the same time, she whispered in a strange language full of whooshes, swishes, and clacks of her tongue.

  Seconds later, a slight breeze seemed to stir the tree’s branches. Several of them started to sway, making their own whooshing and clacking sounds. The noise swelled, spreading to the trees across the stream. More trees made sounds—sycamores and elms, acacias and thornberries, cedars and banyans. One bodhi tree started to hum in deep, resonant tones. Before long, all the surrounding forest joined in the chorus that had started with a few taps of Atlanta’s fingers.

  Promi leaned back on the moss. “That’s nice, Atlanta, but I really need some food. I’m feeling faint.”

  “Just watch,” she said.

  A luminous purple bird swooped down through the waving branches. In its slender beak, it carried a single raspberry. Though it circled to land on Atlanta’s shoulder, she tilted her head toward Promi and whistled softly. The purple bird veered, its wings flashing in the light of the setting sun, then dropped the raspberry into the young man’s lap before flying back to the forest.

  Surprised, he glanced at Atlanta, then immediately popped the berry into his mouth. Sweet, fruity flavor exploded on his tongue, while juices slid down his throat. His whole body tingled from the sensation. Food! I’d almost forgotten.

  “Just a small taste to give you strength,” she explained.

  “Strength to wait?”

  “No. Strength to eat.”

  She’d hardly spoken the words when a pair of bushy-tailed starlings floated through the trees, each bearing a sprig of wild mint. Along with them came a silver falcon whose talons clasped a large cabbage leaf. As soon as the falcon placed the leaf on the ground beside Promi, the starlings glided over and dropped their mint. The sprigs spun slowly downward, and by the time they landed on the leaf, several more birds had arrived. They brought with them a variety of edible flowers, along with spinach, parsley, chives, and baobab leaves—all of which they piled on the leaf.

  “Might as well start on your salad,” suggested Atlanta. “Just don’t forget the dressing.”

  “Dressing? You’re not serious.”

  At that instant, a large, bronze-hued squirrel hopped over some stones in the stream and scampered onto the island. Its dark eyes glinted, and its ears twitched constantly. In its forepaws, it held a strip of bark that had curled into itself, forming a shallow bowl. And within that bowl lay some thick, tan-colored cream sprinkled with nuts.

  “What’s wrong, Promi? Never seen hazelnut cream before?” She tried to sound disappointed. “Poor boy, you’ve only experienced human bakeries.”

  Taking the squirrel’s gift
, Promi dipped his finger in the cream. White lather, along with a few bits of nut, clung to his skin. “Mmmmm,” he said, licking the finger clean. “Wonderful.”

  “It’s made from milkfruit, well shaken, with a squeeze of lemon juice,” she explained with satisfaction. “And of course, only the best local hazelnuts.”

  All at once, more food arrived. From every direction came a feast from the forest. A hollow burl piled high with wild mushrooms, brought by a white ibex. A leaf full of raw grains soaked in meadowblossom honey, carried by a scarlet bird of paradise. A root filled to the brim with guava juice, delivered by the same yellow monkey who had been one of the first creatures to arrive. Curled in his tail, he also brought a bark bowl of baby plums—the sweetest ones Promi had ever tasted, even without the bits of honeycomb sprinkled on top.

  Watching him devour the plums, Atlanta asked drily, “Like them, do you?”

  Promi glanced at her, his mouth crammed full of fruit. “Wup ebah gabe you dat idea?”

  She nodded. “Looks like you could just live on those plums. Or anything sweet.”

  “Right,” he replied after a big swallow. “When it comes to food, the sweeter the better.”

  “Typical,” said Kermi, who had climbed up to a willow branch. Hanging by his tail, he crinkled his furry blue snout. “That’s all you think about, manfool. The next sweet! The only place you could ever get enough of them is the spirit realm.”

  “Perhaps,” said the centaur in an unusually optimistic tone, “you will find your way there after your violent and brutal death.”

  Ignoring him, Promi mused, “A land of sweets is my kind of place.”

  “Then the spirit realm is for you,” commented Atlanta. “I’ve heard stories that the rivers there flow with nectar, sugar cakes grow on trees, and all the flowers are sweeter than honey.”

  The green butterfly, who had perched again on her shoulder, shook its antennae with delight.

  “Too bad it’s impossible for mortals like you to get there,” said Kermi with a vengeful grin.

  Promi looked up at him. “Well, maybe I’ll just have to find a way.”

  The kermuncle rolled his eyes. “I won’t hold my breath.”

  “Good. If you held your breath too long, you might turn blue. And nobody with any sense wants to be blue.”

  “Harrumph. Better to be blue than you, manfool.” For emphasis, he blew a stream of bubbles.

  Promi went back to eating—not because he couldn’t think of a few good curses, but because the meal had only just begun. Food was piling up fast all around him.

  Animals and birds arrived in droves, bringing freshly picked watercress, the smallest (and juiciest) tomatoes Promi had ever eaten, an extremely tart apple, and a cinnamon root so potent that one bite popped his eyes wide open. Plus a bunch of rosehips sprinkled with nutmeg. A ripe persimmon that tasted surprisingly like vanilla. Three pears, so juicy they dribbled all over his tunic. And half a stalk of sugarcane, brought by the smelldrude. (What had happened to the other half, Promi didn’t need to ask, since she smelled deliciously sweet.)

  As if that weren’t enough, animals delivered a bunch of miniature bananas, some golden almonds, and one fiery hot chili pepper. Along with a stack of fresh butterpetals, an enormous nut Atlanta called coco de mer, and some more sprigs of mint.

  Every so often, Promi leaned over and drank from the freshwater stream. Then, without delay, he went right back to eating. On the rare occasions when he paused briefly, it was just to close his eyes and savor the smells around him. Which included the pleasing scent of fresh ginger, thanks to a young unicorn who emerged from the forest with a ginger root on the tip of his horn. Shyly, he dropped the gift by Atlanta’s side and then trotted back into the forest, his golden mane sparkling.

  At last, Promi couldn’t possibly take another bite. Feeling fully satisfied, he turned to Atlanta. She was sitting in the moss, playing with a family of small golden birds who kept fluttering around her, landing on her nose and ears and curly hair. She laughed at their antics.

  Turning to Promi, she said, “Well, well. Ready for more?”

  He grinned. “Not a chance. Never thought I’d say this, but . . .” He patted his belly. “I’m completely full.”

  “Yes,” agreed Kermi. “But the question is, full of what?”

  “Was it worth all the wait?” asked Atlanta.

  Promi considered the question, then shook his head. “No.” He smacked his lips. “But what a way to end it!”

  She smiled at him, still encircled by the playful birds. “So . . . any chance you might consider changing your mind? To help save this wondrous place?”

  His grin melted away. “I already told you. That’s, well . . . not my fight.”

  She glared at him. “Your meal. But not your fight.”

  Uncomfortably, he shifted. “Well, I—”

  Atlanta’s shout cut him off. “There!” she cried. “Look there!”

  CHAPTER 23

  A Story Whispered by the Wind

  It’s easy to be an idiot. Believe me, I know from experience. But to be a complete, total, hopeless idiot? Now, that takes constant practice.

  —From Promi’s journal

  Atlanta was pointing at the stream. Seeing what had caught her attention, Promi froze. Even Kermi, dangling from the willow branch above their heads, watched in astonishment.

  The water flowing around the island began to bubble and churn. Soon the stream was rising above its banks—not with more liquid, but with vapors that sparkled with starlight . . . as well as another kind of light that radiated from within.

  Enthralled, they watched as luminous walls of mist rose out of the stream all around them. The walls climbed higher, reaching over the top of the willow tree. Somewhere above the highest branches, the walls of mist bent inward and closed together, forming a protective dome. Now it sheltered Atlanta, Promi, and all the creatures who had joined them (except for the centaur, who had glumly watched the rising vapors from the outer bank).

  The gleaming walls of mist began to undulate. Promi caught his breath. Strange shapes, like living bodies, formed and then melted away, only to form anew and melt away again. There he saw an arm . . . a hip that curved into a waist . . . and a partial face with long, flowing, vaporous hair.

  “What are they?” he asked Atlanta, without taking his eyes off the elusive shapes.

  “Mist maidens,” she answered quietly. “I’ve only seen them once before—years ago, the very first time I came to this island.” Stroking the antennae of the luminous butterfly on her shoulder, she whispered, “They appear only at the request of the river god.”

  Promi started. “An immortal? Here?”

  “Throughout this forest,” she replied. “They almost never show themselves. But they are here nonetheless.”

  Watching the mist maidens, Promi was too amazed to speak again. He could only gaze at the vaporous beings who encircled them, moving with a graceful, dreamlike rhythm. Their dance, he thought in wonder. This is their dance.

  In time, the wondrous beings ceased dancing and melted back into the vapors. The undulating walls of mist retracted, pulling back down into the stream. Seconds later, the whole magical display had vanished.

  They sat in silence, watching the flowing water, for a long moment. Finally, Atlanta spoke again, her voice a mixture of awe at what they’d just witnessed and resentment at Promi for his unwillingness to help in her quest.

  “Another example,” she said, “of the magic of this place.”

  Knowing that anything he said would make her even more angry, he merely nodded. How could he ever explain that he simply wasn’t made for battles as big as saving her beloved forest? Just as he couldn’t bring himself to believe old Bonlo’s wild tales of wars between immortals, magical crystals, and prophecies of doom—he couldn’t imagine giving up the life he’d always known to help Atlanta. And now, having finally figured out how to use his Listener magic, he intended to save it for only the most dire emerg
encies, when his everyday skills weren’t enough to do the job. Or to save his skin.

  The fewer sacrifices I need to make, he told himself, the better.

  Pulling his journal out of his tunic pocket, he drew a quick sketch of the mist maidens rising out of the water. Underneath, he scrawled, Magical creatures everywhere in this forest. Plus amazing foods. Hope they all can survive whatever is to come.

  Slipping the charcoal pencil back into the recipe book’s binding, he stiffened. For some reason he couldn’t explain, writing that entry hadn’t made him feel better, which writing had always done before, regardless of the situation. That was why he considered his journal to be his dearest possession—except, of course, for that thin sliver of a song from his childhood.

  Puzzled, he replaced the book in his pocket. Instead of making him feel better, writing that particular entry had made him feel worse. How could that be?

  The centaur, who had been morosely watching the vanishing mist maidens, shifted his gaze to Atlanta. He clacked his two white forehooves together and rumbled, “You should tell us a story.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Now, Haldor?”

  “Yes,” the centaur answered. “Before something bad happens.”

  With a sharp glance at Promi, she grumbled, “It already has.” Then, seeing the eager faces of the animals and birds surrounding her, she asked the group, “Would you like a story?”

  All around her, wings fluttered, tails bounced, and creatures chattered and growled and piped their approval.

  “All right, then. Just a short one.” Atlanta drew a breath and announced, “This is a story whispered to me by the wind.”

  • • •

  The great bird soared high overhead, its golden tail feathers flashing in the sun.

  Far below, on the dry plains of Abuya, a lone boy watched its flight. He was a lowly shepherd, he knew, just one person sitting on a rock while a flock of sheep grazed on stubbly grass. To the winged bird on high, he was no more than a speck of dust, a meaningless shadow.

  The boy’s shoulders sagged beneath his ragged tunic. For he had nothing. No family. No honor of his own. Though he worked as a guardian for other people’s sheep, he did not possess so much as a shepherd’s staff. He even lacked a name and was called simply Boy by the people of his tribe.