Atlantis in Peril (6 page)

The big man laughed heartily, even as he took the tray of tarts from Shangri and set them on the counter. “That decision's already been made, lad.” He patted his belly. “Many cakes an' pies ago.”

Leaning toward Promi, he added in a whisper, “Though thanks to a certain young rascal . . . I don't have to work for me livin' anymore.” He tapped the small bulge under his apron—which, Promi knew, was the sapphire-studded belt buckle he'd stolen from Grukarr and given to the baker.

“I'm glad,” said Promi as he finished off the bun. “So why do you keep baking?”

“Fer the simple pleasure of it, lad! Not so much fer the eatin' as the watchin'. I do love seein' others eat what I bake.”

Shangri, who had been searching through a box at the back of the stall, declared, “Found it!”

“Found what?” asked her father.

She held up a tattered old book. “That old recipe book you gave me way back when I was young.”

The baker chuckled. “Unlike now.”

Ignoring him, she pranced over to Promi and slid the book into his tunic pocket. “There,” she told him. “Now you can keep a journal again.”

“But . . .” Promi's words trailed away. There simply weren't the words for what he wanted to say. Or if there were, he didn't know them.

“And here, take this, too.” She handed him a small charcoal pencil from her pocket.

The grateful look on his face said everything Shangri had hoped to hear.

With a nod at his cinnamon buns, the baker asked Promi, “Want another?”

“Well, sure. But if I eat too many more, you won't have any left to sell.”

“A good thing,” announced the burly fellow. He wrapped his meaty arm around Shangri. “Seein' how I was fixin' to quit fer the day, close up the stall, an' go fer a picnic with me daughter.”

“Really, Papa?” squealed Shangri. She jumped with delight, making her braids bounce.

“Yes, really.” Turning to Promi, the baker added, “Will ye join us, lad?”

“Please do,” begged Shangri.

Unsure, he asked, “Won't I get in the way of your time together?”

“No,” Shangri answered. “Ye'll jest add to the fun.”

“What's the matter?” teased the baker. “Got some important thievin' to do?”

“Only when I'm hungry for pastry. And right now, I'm feeling just fine. Thanks to . . .”

He hesitated, surprised to hear himself start to say such words. But knowing they were true, he went ahead and said them. “Thanks to my friends.”

A Warning

N
ow I know why you invited me to come along, Master Baker.”

Promi paused, adjusting the heavy sack he was carrying up the trail. Steep and sandy, the trail seemed to climb endlessly. “You invited me so you wouldn't have to carry all this food up here yourself.”

The baker, huffing beside him on the trail, laughed. “Yer right, lad.” Patting his ample belly, he added, “I learned long ago it's much easier to carry yer food
after
a meal than before.”

“The hardest part isn't the weight,” Promi replied. “It's the smell of all those cinnamon buns you packed. I'm ready to eat the whole sack just to taste them!”

“'Twill be worth all yer trouble, lad. We're almost there.”

Shangri, jogging to keep up with them, tugged on her father's apron. “Shouldn't we stop an' give him a rest, Papa?”

“No, me little sugarcake. As soon as we reach the picnic spot I have in mind, we'll give our rascally friend plenty o' rest. I promise.”

“An' plenty o' food, as well?”

“Plenty, Shangri. Including cinnamon buns.”

Promi shifted the sack's weight on his back. Despite what he'd said, it was indeed heavy—and feeling heavier with every step.
Wherever that picnic spot is,
he grumbled to himself,
it's easier to fly there from the spirit realm than to walk there with this load.

“By the way, lad,” said the baker as he flung a meaty arm over Promi's shoulder, “it's time ye called me somethin' besides Master Baker.”

“How about Master Trickster? Or Master Loadmaker?”

“No, lad, ye can jest call me Morey.”

Promi breathed a sigh of relief—not because he now knew the man's name, but because the hefty arm had finally come off his shoulder.

“Ye'll like this place,” the baker promised. He reached over and toyed with one of Shangri's braids. “Yer ma an' me used to come here.”

“Why, Papa? It's so far outside the City.”

“Fer the views, mostly. She liked the sight o' such big grandeur. An' I,” he added with a wink at Promi, “liked the sight o'
her
.”

Promi was just about to ask what grandeur—since, with the heavy sack making him bow his head, all he could see was the sandy hillside beneath his feet. But before he could pose the question, a new scent tickled his nose. Salty, rich, and briny, it contrasted starkly with the sweetness of cinnamon. Right away, he knew what it was.

The sea.

At that instant, a strong gust of wind, full of that briny smell, struck his face. Lifting his head, he realized that they were almost at the top of the hill they'd been climbing. A few steps later, the gust swelled to a steady ocean breeze—and an expansive vista opened up before them.

Promi dropped the heavy sack and gazed at the endless sweep of dark blue waves. He'd never seen the ocean look so vast, so uninterrupted. But for the few traces of clouds in the distance, it was hard to draw any line between sea and sky.

At his feet, the ground dropped sharply into a sheer cliff. At its base far below, powerful waves crashed against the rocks with thunderous explosions of spray. Beyond the cliff, white-capped waves rolled without beginning or end, while pelicans, silver-winged gulls, and cormorants wheeled over the water's surface. The seabirds' cries, shrieks, and whistles rose above the pounding waves—a wild melody sung to the ocean's deep and enduring drums.

Shangri slipped her hand into her father's. “Now I understand, Papa.”

“So do I,” said Promi.

The baker blew a long breath. “'Tis even more wondrous than it was last time I came. Fer then we wasn't yet an island, way out in the middle o' the sea.”

“How,” asked Shangri in a voice as small as a young waterbird's, “did the island ever happen? I mean . . . one day we're a part of that place called Africa, then snap yer fingers, an' the next day we're not. Now we're not part o' anythin' but water an' sky.”

Morey shrugged his beefy shoulders. “By the wings o' the immortal spirits, lass, I wish I knew.”

Shangri turned her gaze on Promi. “Do ye know how such a wonder could happen?”

“Me? No.” He, too, shrugged . . . though there was a faint gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Catching that gleam, Shangri peered up at him. “Ye know more than yer sayin', methinks.”

“No, Shangri,” he protested, a bit too strongly. “You're wrong! I don't know much of anything . . . except how little I really know.”

Morey nodded, stooping to open up the sack. “Knowin' how little we know is the start o' wisdom, lad.”

“I don't believe you, Promi,” declared Shangri. Placing her hands on her hips, she gazed at him. “There's somethin', well . . .
special
about you. I'm sure of it!”

Brushing her freckled cheek with his finger, he said, “The most special thing about me is how
much
I love a good cinnamon bun.”

She peered at him skeptically.

“Speakin' o' that,” the baker announced as he pulled a clump of cinnamon buns from the sack, “here ye go.”

Eagerly, Promi took them. While they didn't look as appetizing as they had when freshly baked—especially since four or five had melded together from being jostled around in the sack—they still smelled as enticing as ever. And when he took a big, gooey bite, he could tell they hadn't lost any of their sweet flavor.

Before he even swallowed that first bite, he took another. Through his doughy teeth, he smiled at Shangri. “Goob av ebber!”

She giggled, putting aside her suspicions for the moment. Then, feeling hungry herself, she plunged into the array of picnic treats. There were pies (two each of strawberry, orange cream, and cherry—plus one lemon meringue), three large trays of apple crisp, persimmon tarts, a big bowl of double-sweet pudding, licorice and ginger cookies by the dozen, a box of coconut macaroons, three loaves of honey nut bread, and, of course, another huge clump of cinnamon buns. Not to mention three good-sized flasks of lemonade.

While Shangri and her father feasted and watched the rolling waves that stretched endlessly, Promi turned away from the sea to look at the view behind them. As he munched on the cluster of cinnamon buns, he surveyed the City. Even from this distance, he could pick out the market square and the Divine Monk's temple, as well as one of the huge prayer wheels at the settlement's big oaken gates. He spotted the deep gorge of the Deg Boesi River at the City's southern edge, impossible to miss with all the clouds of mist rising skyward.

Then he saw the faint outline of something he knew well: the rickety, half-built bridge that started at one side of the gorge and disappeared into the swirling mist. The Bridge to Nowhere, he'd called it—before discovering that it did indeed lead somewhere remarkable. For though it seemed unfinished and hopelessly dilapidated, that bridge stretched all the way to the spirit realm.

Chewing thoughtfully, Promi opened his inner ear and listened. He could hear, beyond the crashing surf and screeching gulls, a gentle, rhythmic sound that came from the bridge. It was the flapping of prayer leaves strung from the bridge's every post. And with each flap, a prayer for a loved one or a lost soul would be carried to the realm of the spirits, borne by a wind lion—the only immortal creatures with the special magic to cross between worlds without tearing the veil.

Or so we've been told,
thought Promi.
Maybe we all have that magic, and the rest is just my father's attempt to scare off travelers between the realms.

He took another bite.
Well, I'm not so easily scared.

Lifting his gaze, he viewed the deep green expanse that stretched south and west. The Great Forest looked immense, as well as mysterious, filled with more wondrous and bizarre creatures than anyone knew. As well as the precious Starstone, whose power permeated the whole forest and deepened its magic. And that place also held someone he was missing more than he cared to admit.

Atlanta.
Thinking of her, Promi stopped eating. He peered at the wide swath of greenery, wondering where in that forest she might be right now. More than that, he wanted to know how she was faring after their horrible fight. It had been a full day ago . . . but the feelings were still so raw that it seemed only a few seconds had passed.

What a complete idiot I am!
Promi dug his toes into the sand atop the cliff.
Sure, she's difficult sometimes. And what a temper! But . . . she deserved better from me.
Why couldn't he have listened to her more openly? And responded more honestly?

He swallowed hard around a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with eating pastry.
For the same reason I couldn't admit that she was right. I'm still a loner. Still . . . afraid.

Promi shook his head.
Still an idiot.

“Some things never change,” declared a sassy voice at his feet. “But at least you are starting to realize it.”

“Kermi!” Seeing the blue kermuncle, Promi jumped. “How the . . . what—how?” he sputtered. “How did you ever . . . ?”

Playing with one of his long whiskers, Kermi looked up at the bewildered young man. “If you spoke your mind, you'd be totally speechless.”

“Wheee!” squealed Shangri, spying their new visitor. She put down the slice of lemon meringue pie she'd been eating and started to approach Kermi. “What a thumpin' adorable creature!”

Promi, regaining his composure, muttered, “You don't know him like I do.”

Kermi just waved his long tail and blew a stream of blue bubbles. “Most people live and learn, manfool. But
you
—well, you just live.” Before Promi could even begin to reply, the kermuncle added dryly, “You'd need twice as much sense just to be a half-wit.”

Shangri kneeled beside Kermi. As she gazed at him, fascinated, she was joined by her father, who had reluctantly set aside what remained of a cherry pie. Gently, Shangri reached out and stroked the creature's tail.

Kermi watched her for a moment. Then, with no trace of the sassiness he'd heaped on Promi, he said, “You are rather adorable yourself.”

She blushed, even as she grinned from ear to ear.

“By Sammelvar's beard,” said the baker. “It speaks! Jest like you an' me.”

“Better,” replied Kermi. “And I'm not an
it
. I'm a
he
.”

“More like a he-demon,” corrected Promi. Glaring at Kermi, he demanded, “Why are you here? All the way from the sp—”

He caught himself, hoping Shangri or her father hadn't heard his gaffe. “I mean, from the spot where we last met.”

Kermi shook his little head, making his ears flap. “Don't worry, manfool, brains aren't everything. In fact, in your case . . . they're nothing.”

“Why,” Promi repeated angrily, “are you here?”

Releasing a pair of wobbly bubbles, Kermi waved at the ocean that stretched as far as they could see. “If my life were saner, I might have come here just for the view. But alas, I came because I needed to find you.”

“Why?”

His expression suddenly serious, Kermi announced, “Jaladay sent me. With a warning.”

Promi's brow furrowed. “What sort of warning?”

“You must not, under any circumstances, do anything to help save—”

“Look!” shrieked Shangri. She jumped up and pointed frantically at the waves below the cliff. “A ship! In trouble!”