Atlantis in Peril (8 page)

Gryffion's Tidings

S
top that, Etheria!” commanded Atlanta. She grabbed hold of the table for support against the violent tremors shaking the acorn house. “Right
now
.”

After a few grudging creaks and moans from the floorboards, Etheria settled down to a constant tremble. Rolling her eyes, Atlanta grabbed her mug of tea (which was just about to slide off the table) and moved it away from the edge.

She strode over to the door. Before opening it, she cast a withering glance around the house, as if to say,
Behave yourself.
Then she lifted the latch.

Facing her in the doorway stood an elegant unicorn, his silver coat tinged with white and his prominent horn shimmering with subtle radiance. Atlanta recognized him immediately: Gryffion, the oldest and wisest of the unicorns. Yet while they had talked occasionally near his home on the Indragrass Meadows, she never expected to find him at her door.

“Gryffion. What a surprise to see you!” For the benefit of Etheria more than the unicorn, she added, “This is a great honor.”

The unicorn nodded in greeting. “Apologies for the loud knock,” he said in his rich baritone voice. “I'm just not used to rapping on doors with this horn of mine.”

Atlanta grinned. “And my apologies to you for Etheria's little earthquake. She gets, well, carried away sometimes.”

Gryffion's lavender eyes glittered with amusement. In a voice loud enough that Etheria would be sure to hear it, he said, “You are fortunate indeed to have a house so protective and devoted to your well-being.”

Etheria's trembling grew noticeably quieter, though the house continued to rumble.

“And I might add,” he said with a wink at Atlanta, “that I take great care to keep houses clean whenever I visit. Besides . . . unicorn manure is much more fragrant than that of horses and other creatures.”

Instantly, Etheria's trembling ceased. Atlanta could hear the sounds of a new place being set at the table and something being prepared in the kitchen.

“Your manners are impeccable,” she told the unicorn with a smile. “As is your understanding of, shall we say,
tricky
personalities.”

Gryffion chuckled, rustling his white mane. “You can thank my mate for that! She's given me lots of practice over the years.”

“Please come in.” Atlanta stepped over to the table, where a large bowl sat next to her mug. The teapot had been refreshed and the woodstove was baking something that filled the house with a delicious aroma.

“Ah, fresh banana bread,” observed Gryffion as he walked in, hooves clomping on the floorboards. “Only a supremely talented house could provide such a treat.”

Every candle in the kitchen flared brighter.

Atlanta almost laughed. “Some tea?” she offered.

“Lovely,” he answered. “With plenty of honey. But,” he said good-humoredly, “no need to fetch me a chair.”

“Then I'll stand, too,” offered Atlanta.

“Gracious of you, my dear.” Seeing the faery on the tea cozy, Gryffion gave him a respectful tip of his luminous horn. In return, Quiggley nodded and clapped his antennae together, a faery's sign of high esteem.

Turning to Atlanta, the unicorn remarked, “I see you have a quiggleypottle in your life. Very good luck.”

“Most of the time, at least,” she replied, remembering her big fight with Promi. “But even he can't protect me from my own stupidity.”

“Our fate as mortals,” said Gryffion with a flick of his tail.

Quiggley promptly flew over and landed on the collar of Atlanta's robe. As he perched there, she could feel the gentle brush of his wings against her neck . . . as well as the wave of understanding he sent to her.

Pouring some tea into the bowl, as well as her mug, Atlanta asked, “Are things going well with the unicorns?”

“We are blessed. A healthy new colt was born only last week.”

She stirred in the honey. Just then, the woodstove jumped slightly off the floor—just enough to toss a steaming loaf of banana bread onto the table. It landed with a thud and the bread knife slid over to join it.

The unicorn swished his tail in delight. His silver coat gleamed. “Thank you ever so much.”

The walls and floor of the house sighed with satisfaction.

“You are most welcome,” said Atlanta as she sliced some banana bread for her guest. “So what brings you here today?”

“Tidings,” Gryffion replied. He took a swallow of tea from the bowl, then frowned. “Not good ones, I fear.”

Atlanta caught herself just before taking a bite of banana bread. Setting the bread back down on the table, she peered at her guest. “Tell me.”

Gryffion's lavender eyes looked suddenly sad. “A new unicorn is born only rarely, every thousand years or so. And when that occurs, we have a tradition of reading its placenta for signs of the future.”

On Atlanta's shoulder, the faery stiffened. Even his antennae seemed frozen.

“What did you see?” Atlanta asked.

“Destruction.” He sighed grimly. “The signs, repeated over and over, predicted
a terrible day and night of destruction
.”

Atlanta caught her breath. “Those were the same exact words the centaur Haldor said in his prophecy for Atlantis! Until now, I thought that was probably just one of his pessimistic ramblings. But—”

“Now you know otherwise,” completed the unicorn gravely. “As do I. Any prophecy deserves attention—but a repeated prophecy, all the more.”

The kitchen candles quivered, making all the shadows in the room tremble.

“What else,” Gryffion asked, “did the centaur say?”

Atlanta took a long, slow breath, trying to recall that night on Moss Island when Haldor had spoken. “He said this island—he predicted that, too—would touch the wider world. Not through its wondrous creatures and places, or even its magic. And not through its buildings and great inventions.”

She paused, gazing at Gryffion. “No, he said the lasting power of this place would come from its
stories
. The tales of Atlantis, he promised, would long survive and be cherished by people all over the world.”

“But the land itself?”

“Would be lost forever. He said it would sink deep into the sea and disappear. After ‘a terrible day and night of destruction'—Atlantis would perish.”

The candlelight dimmed further, making the room almost as dark as the forest outside. For a long moment, no one talked. Finally, the unicorn took another sip of tea, then spoke again.

“Something tells me that this will happen soon. And that humans will be at the center of it all.”

“That's true too often,” said Atlanta glumly. “How can the same species be capable of so much good and so much evil? Create such beauty and powerful tools—and also cause so much damage and suffering?”

The old unicorn shook his head, tossing his mane. “We have a saying about the human soul:

More tangled than the vine,

More mysterious than the sea;

Bright and dark, large and small,

Imprisoned yet free.
”

He touched Atlanta's arm with his horn, sending a warm, renewing tingle through her body. Even the faery on her collar felt it and fluttered his wings. Then, in a voice no less warm, Gryffion explained:

“The tools people make can be powerful, indeed. But what is
truly
powerful are their choices about how those tools will be used. After all, a hammer can be used to build a neighbor's home—or to crush that neighbor's skull. As a gift . . . or as a weapon. And the difference lies not in the hammer, but in the choice.”

Atlanta swallowed. “What then can I do? I'm just one person . . . and the times are so dark.”

“You can be a candle,” offered Gryffion. “Bring some light into the dark.”

He looked at her with compassion. “And try to make the best choices you can.”

One Great Story

A
s they walked through the cobblestone streets of the City of Great Powers, Promi, Morey, and Shangri grilled young Lorno. Eager to know more about the boy's shipmates and home country, especially since they'd never met anyone from another land, they peppered him with questions. Lorno would barely finish answering one when his companions asked him another.

Except for Kermi. While the others tossed a stream of questions at Lorno, the kermuncle sat in silence on Promi's shoulder, his long blue tail draped down Promi's back. He barely moved, except occasionally to blow a few bubbles or stroke his whiskers. Despite the continuous chatter around him, Kermi just sat there, too glum even to make his usual snide remarks.

“Are ye sure,” the baker asked, “ye don't want to stay with the monks at the temple, like the rest o' yer shipmates?”

“No,” Lorno replied. “I want to find something more . . . well, independent. Where I can come and go as I please.”

Promi grinned. “That I understand.”

Chewing on his last slice of apple crisp, Morey offered, “Well then, lad. Why don't ye stay with us? We have a nice little room above the bakery, which ye can have at least till ye find somethin' better.”

The boy's whole face brightened. “Really?”

Shangri nodded so energetically that her braids flapped like wings.

“Yes, lad. We'd much enjoy yer company.”

“Thank you. To think that I fell out of the sky onto such a generous family!”

Shangri giggled, hopping over a dog who was fast asleep on the cobblestones.

“Always choose with care who you fall on,” said Promi jauntily. “That's my motto in life.”

Kermi rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

“I thought yer motto,” said the baker as he elbowed Promi, “was to find whatever pastry's jest come pipin' hot out o' the oven—and eat it.”

“That's my
other
motto.” Promi took another bite of the clump of cinnamon buns in his hand. “Especially if the pastry is covered with cinnamon.”

“That's another spice we don't have in Greece,” said Lorno through his own mouthful of pastry. “But I'm sure glad to discover it now.”

“You really came all that way to find cinnamon?” asked Shangri.

“Well, it was supposed to be a voyage of discovery,” Lorno explained. “That's why the ship was loaded with so many of our best scientists, architects, engineers, and inventors. Why, even our captain, Reocoles, is a master machine builder. He told us many times that our goal was simply ‘to find nature's bounty and make the best use of it all.'”

“Includin' good pastries,” joked Morey.

“
Especially
that,” the boy replied. Then, midway through a bite, his brow furrowed. “We just didn't expect to get lost at sea, run out of supplies, and then almost drown in a huge whirlpool.”

Morey patted him on the shoulder. “Yer here now, lad.”

He nodded. “And I'm glad of that! But I sure do wish I knew how we happened to get saved.”

Shangri shot a knowing glance at Promi.

“Just one of those fluke waves,” said Promi casually, thinking of the watery whale's tail of the sea goddess. He smirked at the pun, doubting anyone else would get it. But on his shoulder, Kermi groaned painfully.

“Amazin' things happen sometimes,” added Shangri, giving Promi a wink. “Ye jest never know what'll happen next.”

“Story of my life,” said Lorno as the group turned down another street, this one lined with windows with colorful flower boxes.

“What was
your
reason to be on that ship?” asked Promi. “You're not old enough to be one of your country's great scientists or inventors, are you?”

“Not at all. My job on the ship was, well . . . not so highly skilled. I was the apprentice to the assistant deck mopper.”

Promi grinned. “You were very good at it, I'm sure.”

“Terrible, actually.”

“So tell us . . . what do you
want
to be?”

Lorno hesitated. “Well, someday, if I'm lucky, I'd love to . . .”

“What?” pressed Shangri. “What do ye really want to be?”

He took a deep breath. “Well . . . a bard. A storyteller of great fame.”

Frowning, he shook his head. “Trouble is . . . I haven't found the story I really want to tell. Somewhere out there,” he said wistfully, “it exists, I keep hoping.
My one great story.
But I don't have any idea where.”

Shangri sidled up to him and took his hand. “Ye'll find it, Lorno. I jest
know
ye will.”

He managed a small smile. “Thanks. And by the way, my name isn't Lorno.”

“What?” she asked, perplexed.

The baker chimed in, “I heard ye meself say that's yer name, jest after ye landed on top o' me.”

“That was then,” answered the boy, “and this is now.” Seeing the bewildered looks all around him, he explained, “Every great writer needs a pen name, you see. And I haven't found the right one yet. So I keep changing my name, trying new ones on for size.”

Promi laughed out loud. “So what's your name right now? Quick, tell us—before it changes again.”

The boy, not seeing the humor, said crustily, “It's Vasto.”

Shangri scrunched her freckled nose at him. “I liked Lorno better.”

“Really? Well, I guess then I could try something else. How about . . . Tello?”

She just shrugged. “Whatever ye like, I s'pose.”

Trying to keep a straight face, Promi asked, “How can you have a name that's famous and celebrated as a bard if you keep changing it?”

“Someday, I'll find a name that
everyone
will remember!” the boy answered. Suddenly, looking confused, he turned to Shangri. “What was that last name I told you? I, um . . . forgot it.”

Kermi, unable to resist a barb, finally spoke up. “Before you find a name everyone will remember, you'll need to remember it yourself.”

Tello, formerly Vasto and Lorno, blushed almost as red as the awning of the shop they were just passing, a provider of herbs and spices. He ran his hand through his blond curls. “I guess,” he admitted, “you have a point.”

“Kermi
always
has a point,” Promi observed. “And believe me, it's never dull.”

The kermuncle's tail reached up and batted Promi's ear. “You're the only one around here who's dull, manfool.”

“Now that's another amazing thing about this island,” said the boy. “Animals who talk! We don't have anything like that in Greece.”

“My sympathies,” grumbled Kermi. “So you have no choice but to listen to people like this manfool all the time.”

Tello winced as he glanced at Promi. “I see what you mean.”

“Oh, he's just getting started,” Promi said, rubbing his earlobe. “You should see him when he's not in such a happy mood.”

Though Kermi's eyes narrowed, he said nothing. He merely blew a stream of bubbles.

Shangri pointed at the bubbles and exclaimed, “I jest love it when ye do that.”

Instantly, Kermi stopped. He turned away and pretended to be sound asleep.

“Here we be,” announced Morey as they strode up to his bakery. “This is where I make all the food ye've been eatin'.” He pointed at the floor above the awning. “And that's yer new home, lad.”

“Thank you again.”

“No trouble,” the hefty fellow replied. “Come settle yerself inside, Lorno—er, no, Totto.”

“
Tello.
For now, anyway.”

Shangri faced Promi. “Will ye be comin' in, also? Ye must be hungry for another pastry er two.” Her eyes glowed with their shared secret—and also a look of mischief. “I mean . . . after all the
hard work
ye've done today.”

“You're referring to that heavy sack I carried up the hill, right?” he replied with an equally mischievous look.

“Right, Promi. What else?”

He grinned. “But, no, as much as I love your pastries, I'm totally full.”

“At least,” added Morey, “fer an hour or two.”

Shangri tapped Promi's tunic pocket, which she knew held the journal she'd given him. “Guess ye'll have a few new things to write 'bout after today.”

“Just a few.” He tousled her red hair. “You really do know how to make an amazing picnic.”

Looking up at him, she grinned. “Anytime.”