Atlantis Rising (20 page)

Prayer Leaves

What would you have done, Promi, if I had been there beside you? Probably the same utterly foolish thing.

But at least I could have warned you.

—From her journal

P
romi opened his eyes. The sound of rushing wind vanished and was replaced by the constant flapping of prayer leaves—and, far below him, the continuous rumbling of river rapids.

Right away, he recognized the bridge where he was sitting, though it seemed rather ghostly in the glimmer of the night’s first stars. It looked just as dilapidated as when he’d first seen it a week ago, after his escape from the dungeon. Maybe even more dilapidated, since now he was close enough to see all the broken planks, collapsed rails, and tattered leaves of the unfinished bridge.

The Bridge to Nowhere.

Gingerly, he felt the sore spot on his chest where Grukarr had pushed a knife point into his skin. Just a scratch, no more . . . yet it seemed to hurt more than it should. Had it somehow bruised his ribs? Or wounded, in some way he couldn’t fathom, that mark of a soaring bird?

Rubbing his tunic, now stained with blood on the spot, he thought back to the final part of the Prophecy:

One alters the balance

Between light and dark:

The person who carries

The soaring bird’s mark.

He bit his lip.
Is that really me?
All around him, prayer leaves rustled and flapped.
The one who could alter the balance?

“Well, now,” a gruff voice said directly into his ear. “You do pick some odd destinations, I must say.”

Kermi’s voice shook him back into the present moment. For a change, Promi actually felt relieved to hear the blue kermuncle’s insult, since it felt good right now to have some company. Even perpetually grumpy company. Not that he’d ever say that to Kermi.

“So tell me,” the kermuncle continued, wrapping his long tail around himself, “just what did you sacrifice to get here in one piece?”

Promi hesitated, feeling the ache of his loss—an ache that he knew would stay with him forever. It felt like a kind of hole deep inside himself that he’d never be able to fill.

“I’m not going to talk about it,” he answered at last. “Certainly not to you.”

“Aw, come on, Promi.” The creature’s fuzzy tail tickled his earlobe. “Tell me. I’m just curious.”

“Not on your life.”

“Please? As a gesture of kindness to me, your loyal friend?”

“No! All you’ll do is torture me about it. And believe me, it feels bad enough already.”

“Harrumph. Some friend you are.”

Promi ignored the growling on his shoulder and rose to his feet. As always, he checked his sheath; his knife was still there. Grasping hold of the broken wood railing, he looked down into the steep gorge.

Crashing below him, many man heights beneath the bridge, ran the river Deg Boesi. Brimming with melted snow from the high peaks, perhaps even from the glaciers on the summit of Ell Shangro itself, the river frothed and churned, creamy white in the starlight. Great clouds of mist lifted from its waters, sometimes blocking the view, other times sweeping over the unfinished bridge. That was why the prayer leaves and the strings that held them all glistened with droplets of mist.

Down below, he could see two smaller bridges, made from ropes with thin planks, over the water. Could one of them be the bridge Grukarr had mentioned?

He hesitated, trying to remember the priest’s exact words about the Starstone’s location. To find it now, Grukarr had said,
would require a leap off that bridge.

Something about those words made Promi feel that they referred to this rickety, half-built bridge. He might be wrong about that—and he really wished that were so. But he couldn’t ignore what his instincts as a Listener told him.

Grukarr meant this one,
he thought grimly.

He watched the prayer leaves around him flap and flutter. Looking more closely, he could see the intricately written prayers that monks had inscribed on each and every leaf. Often those words were accompanied by drawings of a loved one who had died or a particular immortal spirit to whom the prayer was directed.

Promi sighed with admiration—both for the monks’ skill at calligraphy and the people’s faith in the power of these prayers. With each gust of wind, those people believed, the messages on prayer leaves would travel all the way to the spirit realm. Yes, and they would be carried on that journey by wind lions tiny enough to bear one message per lion.

How ridiculous!
He shook his head, now so wet from misty vapors that he sprayed drops in all directions. Even if he could somehow accept the idea of all those little wind lions roaming between the worlds in vast, invisible prides—which was crazy enough—he’d never felt comfortable with the notion that immortal spirits actually cared about what happened to anyone on Earth. Why should they?

And yet . . .

After everything he’d seen recently, he found himself wondering about that very notion. Thanks to Bonlo, Atlanta, Grukarr’s mistwraith, the river god, and Shirozzz . . . he’d encountered a lot of evidence that there wasn’t so much separation as he’d thought between the mortal and immortal realms.

Studying the silver prayer leaves all around him, he felt sure about something else—the great devotion of the people who had so carefully placed them on this bridge. Whose enduring faith inspired so much work. And whose actions sprang from the purest of motives, to honor the memory of someone they loved who had perished in the raging river.

Many of those lost ones had died by accident, by a flipped boat or a step too close to the canyon’s edge. But there were others, too, who believed the legends so wholeheartedly that they had willingly leaped off this bridge, hoping to land somewhere in the spirit realm.

Promi frowned.
How crazy can you get?
he asked himself, glancing down at the mighty rapids far below.
Who would even think about doing such an idiotic thing?

His dark eyes narrowed.
You would, Promi.

But why? Was it for Atlanta? The forest? The Prophecy? Or for something else, something he could only describe as
hope
?

He shuddered, peering down into the gorge and at the roaring river at its bottom.
There’s no other way.

Even if he survived this leap, he knew, it could be the least of his challenges. If, by some miracle, he landed in the spirit realm, he needed to find the Starstone quickly—before it was forever corrupted by Narkazan. Or else there would never be any chance to keep it from falling into evil hands, let alone return it to the Great Forest.

On top of that, if he ever needed to use Grukarr’s magical disc, he’d have to be within sight of the Starstone. And he’d also have to figure out how the disc actually worked—or he would surely, to use Grukarr’s word,
perish.

He gulped. First things first. He had to make the leap.

Slowly, carefully, he started to move closer to the unfinished end of the bridge. With each footstep, the planks beneath him creaked and groaned as if warning him of his folly. Prayer leaves snapped and rustled, joining in the chorus, urging him to go back. To firm ground, to the mortal life he knew so well.

He kept walking. The end of the bridge, opening to darkness and certain death, drew nearer. Boards creaked, leaves fluttered. And still he kept walking.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you sacrificed, Promi?” The kermuncle’s voice was insistent. “That way I’ll know before you leap off this bridge and die.”

“Not on your life.”

“Harrumph. You mean not on
your
life.”

Promi bit his lip, glancing down over the end of the bridge into the churning waters. “What I need right now,” he muttered, “is a miracle.”

“Or at least,” said Kermi darkly, “a quiggleypottle.”

Grasping the end of the railing, Promi stood at the very edge. His bare feet rested on the final plank. Each of his toes could feel the cold spray rising from the raging waters of the Deg Boesi River.

“All right,” he said glumly, “it doesn’t matter now anyway. So I’ll tell you what I gave up.”

Kermi’s whiskers quivered with anticipation, brushing against the young man’s neck. “Yes?”

Promi sighed. “I gave up sweets! Pies, cookies, fresh fruit, cakes, cinnamon buns, honey tarts—everything.”

“All your most favorite things to eat?”

“Afraid so.” Promi smacked his lips, trying to remember the taste of that apple he’d eaten just that afternoon, or the first sugary bite of Shangri’s cinnamon bun. “But it couldn’t be for just a day or even a year. No, to get us out of Grukarr’s clutches, to live long enough to try to get the Starstone, I gave up sweets
forever.
”

“Forever?”

“Right. Had to make sure the sacrifice would be big enough to work, since there wasn’t any room for error.”

“Well,” said the kermuncle, sounding—for the first time—genuinely impressed. “That
was
a major sacrifice.” Attempting to be helpful, perhaps, he added, “Life hardly seems worth living without any sweets! So, Promi . . . it really is a good thing you’re going to die.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Anytime, manfool.”

Promi glanced behind him. Through the fluttering prayer leaves, he could see the mud and stone walls of the City and the temple towering behind. Would he ever see those cobblestone streets again? Or the Great Forest? Or a certain young woman who lived there?

He turned back to the end of the bridge and peered down at the sheer drop into the gorge. Vapors rose steadily from the tumultuous rapids, parting like elusive curtains, forming into strange shapes and wispy scenes. His skin felt burning hot. Yet he kept staring straight into the rapids.

Tighter than ever, he gripped the wooden rail. Just to feel the press of wet wood against his living hand.

Then he leaped.

Crossing

The most perilous journey is not to someplace far away, but to someplace always near.

—From her journal, written with unusually dark strokes

A
tlanta trekked deeper into the swamp, trudging through murky pools and around the rims of quicksand pits. All around her stretched the desolate bog, broken only by the skeletons of dead trees and rotting carcasses. Noxious fumes, thicker than smoke, belched into the air.

She stumbled on a dead branch, but caught herself before falling. Even so, the action made her pant with exertion, as if she’d been running for an hour. Puzzled, she frowned. Why should she feel so tired?

Anxiously, she chewed her sprig of sweetmint, feeling grateful for its protective powers. For there was one thing even more bitter than its charcoal taste on her tongue—the knowledge of what this dreadful place had taken away from her. At least, she reminded herself, she wouldn’t be fooled again by some deadly swamp illusion of her parents. But what comfort was that in the face of so much loss?

And,
she added somberly,
so much fear?

While Atlanta stood there thinking, a thick black snake slithered toward her from behind. Silently, it came closer, its orange eyes gleaming.

What if I’m wrong,
she worried,
about Grukarr’s lair?
What if she really should be back in the Great Forest, doing everything possible to protect it from harm? Or at Promi’s side, facing Grukarr? Had she made her choice to go to the priest’s lair out of wisdom . . . or out of a stubborn desire to prove she could do what her parents could not?

The snake advanced stealthily, flicking its tongue over its fangs. In seconds, it could strike at the back of her leg, paralyzing her with venom. Then it could easily strangle her, just as it had done so often to other creatures.

Deep inside her pocket, the faery stirred. Sensing some imminent danger, he fluttered one of his wings.

Abruptly, a gust of wind blew over the swamp. Vapors scattered, revealing for the first time in days a patch of blue sky overhead.

Encouraged by this sight, Atlanta shook herself and started walking again—just as the snake hissed and hurled itself at her. Hearing its attack, she jumped aside barely in time. She glanced back and saw its orange eyes glaring at her vengefully. That was enough to propel her ahead, practically running across the bog.

Finally, she paused, panting hard. Once more, she wondered why she was feeling so tired. Maybe the sweetmint wasn’t doing its job? She spat out the sprig in her mouth and quickly replaced it with another.

Chewing harder than ever, she wondered if the problem was really this terrible, toxic air. Maybe even the strongest sweetmint couldn’t shield her completely from all these noxious fumes. Such bad air was bound to make her feel a bit weak.

With determination, she vowed,
But I’m still plenty strong enough to get to Grukarr’s lair.

Continuing to tramp through the bog, she placed her hand over her pocket. Gently, she said to the faery, “I promise you this, little friend. We will make it back! To the forest, to the home we love.”

The faery stirred, drumming against the pocket with his wings. A rush of gratitude filled Atlanta’s heart, along with a feeling of renewed hope. Despite her tired and aching body, she felt suddenly more confident than she had at any time since parting with Promi.

She blew a long breath, thinning the vapors before her face. What was it about that young man she liked so much? Enough to feel his absence as she would a missing part of herself?

She scowled. He was, after all, truly a loner. A thief. And on top of that, a City dweller. Why, he’d never even set foot in the forest until . . .

Until he saved me.
Her scowl melted a bit, even as she stepped over the rotting remains of a once-beautiful bird now buried in muck.

“I hope you’re all right, Promi,” she said aloud. “Wherever you are now . . . I hope you’re safe.”

Yet even as she spoke her wish, she knew it hadn’t been granted. He was in grave danger, just as she was. This time, the reassuring wave of confidence from the faery was not enough to make her feel any better.

Then, seeing a glimpse of lavender light on a nearby mound of dead grass, her spirits lifted a bit. For she knew that the light came from one of the iridescent snails who lived in this swamp—and who, despite everything, continued to glow with beauty.

She strode faster. Pushing herself harder than ever, she trekked through the quagmire, never pausing, though she often felt out of breath.

Keep moving, Atlanta.
She skirted a boiling cauldron of mud, blacker than a bottomless hole. Her eyes stung, her throat burned. And her legs seemed weighed down by stones.

Keep moving.
Avoiding a quicksand pit, she lurched sideways. Mud sucked at her feet, trying to drag her down. But she pressed on.

Suddenly she slipped, lost her balance, and slid down the bank of a boiling mud pit. She shrieked, losing her sweetmint. Her foot hit a dead branch that lay halfway down the bank, barely keeping her from plunging into the frothing muck. She lay by the branch, covered with mud, coughing uncontrollably.

Eyes watering, she forced herself to stop coughing. Her head spun from the poisonous air; her vision swirled. But she was not defeated.

Clumsily, she placed a hand on the branch to support her weight—when suddenly it tightened into a coil and hissed at her.

A snake!

She rolled aside as the snake struck. Its deadly fangs gleamed as it bit the hem of her gown, just a hair’s breadth from her leg. As it loosened its grip to bite again, she gave it a desperate kick.

The snake flew into the air, hissing angrily, and landed in the boiling mud. Weakly, Atlanta clawed her way back up the bank, coughing all the while. It took all her remaining strength to reach the rim.

Exhausted, she lay in the mud. Her coughs wouldn’t cease, and her mind spun. Dizzily, she tried to sit up. But even that was more than she could do right now.
Must get . . . more sweetmint,
she told herself.

She reached for another sprig. But all her sweetmint was gone! And without it, she was at the mercy of this swamp. This foul air. And this terrible place that had killed her parents.

She fell back, weaker by the second. Tears welled in her blue-green eyes. No chance now she’d reach the lair and learn Grukarr’s secrets. Just as there was no chance she’d survive and see her beloved forest—or Promi—again.

Slumping on the mud, her only movement now came from the spasms of coughing. Her legs curled into her chest; her head lay on her forearm. Darkness seeped into her mind, obscuring everything like a cloud of poisonous gas.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the faery in her pocket. “So . . . sorry.”

Her eyes closed. Her mind blackened. Her heartbeat slowed, ready to stop.

And then . . . something pricked the outermost edge of her thoughts, nudging her back to consciousness.

A hard lump pressed into her forehead. It was inside her sleeve. The gift from the river god!

New energy surged through her, flowing like a river. She opened her eyes. Pulling the tiny, radiant globe out of her sleeve, she watched it glow in her hand. A bubble of liquid light.

And she knew, at last, just what it was meant for.

Atlanta opened her mouth, placed the bubble on her tongue, and swallowed. Instantly her mind cleared and she stopped coughing. Her throat felt cleansed, as if she’d taken a cool drink of water from a mountain stream. A stream that renewed her strength, restored her balance, and revived her spirit.

Best of all, she could breathe again! She drew a deep breath, filling her lungs. Instead of the rancid fumes of the swamp, all she tasted now was the pure, misty air of a forest cascade.

“River god,” she said gratefully, “I bless your eternal qualities.”

Within her pocket, the faery’s antennae quivered as he added his own blessing.

Slowly, she rose, though her legs still wobbled from weakness. Yet none of that troubled her now. She had only one thing on her mind—to find Grukarr’s lair.