Atlantis Rising (9 page)

“
To hear the unheard,
” repeated Promi. “You mean . . . like the real path of a storm. Or the real motives of a person.”

“Or,” she added, “the original condition of bones and muscles and organs . . . so that they can return to health.”

Now it was Promi’s face that suddenly looked grim. “What was that you said about a cost?”

“It’s simple,” she said with a sigh. “Every time you use this power to hear the deepest vibrations of the world . . . you must make a sacrifice.”

“Like what?”

“For something easy, like reading someone’s thoughts or seeing a hidden object like a sword behind a curtain, your sacrifice could be small. But for something more difficult, like healing someone’s broken body, the price would be higher.”

He eyed her with gratitude. “Like giving up all your hair.”

Tenderly, she rubbed her bare scalp. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. But as I said, it was always so troublesome. I’m glad to be rid of it.”

“Liar,” said Kermi, peering down at her.

She sighed. “The point is, your sacrifice must be in
proportion
to what you are seeking. The more important the goal, the greater the cost.”

In a voice tinged with compassion, she warned, “Just remember, if you ever choose to do something very large—then your sacrifice will also need to be very large.” Quietly, she added, “There are other things about how to use this power that you will have to discover for yourself. But soon enough, you will learn.”

“Harrumph,” said the little creature hanging from the torch. “That assumes he
can
learn.” He blew a wobbly blue bubble that floated slowly upward. “Within his lifetime.”

“Oh, he can learn,” insisted Jaladay. With genuine fondness, she ran a finger across Promi’s cheek. “Much depends on it.”

She looked at him so piercingly that Promi shifted with unease. It felt as if she could see right through him, to secrets he didn’t even know he held within himself. “You have no time to spare. Do you hear me?
No time.
For when the sun rises on the high summer holiday of Ho Byneri, just two weeks from now—”

“Ho Byneri?” he interrupted. Glancing down at the old monk, he recalled Bonlo’s words. “When the veil between the worlds grows thin?”

“Perilously thin. That is when the Prophecy will—”

Suddenly they heard footsteps clumping down a nearby corridor. Another guard! Coming closer with every step.

Promi started. “We’ve got to escape!” he whispered urgently.

But Jaladay shook her head. “There is no escape. Unless . . . you use your new power.”

His eyes widened. “B-but . . . I don’t know how.”

“Then learn how,” she commanded. “Use it now!”

The footsteps grew louder, echoing in the dungeon. “Jobo,” called the approaching guard. “Where are you?”

With a quick glance at the unconscious guard beside them, Promi thought fast. What had she told him to do?
Make a sacrifice. Then say those words.

Quickly, he chose to give up his gold earring, acquired so recently from the temple guard. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the earring, thinking about its golden sheen and its weight on his earlobe.

With great determination, he whispered, “Listen one, listen all.”

Nothing happened.

He opened his eyes, puzzled. Hearing the footsteps steadily approaching, he looked pleadingly at Jaladay. “Help me!”

She merely crossed her arms and said nothing.

Mind racing, Promi wondered what he’d done wrong.
Maybe I need to get rid of the earring, to prove this is really a sacrifice.

He pulled it off and threw it away. The earring clinked and rolled down the torchlit corridor.

“Jobo,” called the other guard. “Talk to me, you big oaf! Where are you?”

Again Promi whispered, “Listen one, listen all.”

Still nothing happened.

Frantically, he thought,
Try something bigger! That’s the answer.

He pulled open his tunic, revealing the mysterious scar. In the flickering torchlight, the bird’s black wings seemed to beat, as if flying. As soon as she saw this, Jaladay caught her breath.

“I’ll sacrifice this scar,” said Promi. “I’d be just as happy without it, anyway.”

Jaladay didn’t respond. She just continued to stare at the strangely beating wings on his chest.

Hurriedly, he said the Listener’s chant.

Seconds passed. The guard’s footsteps grew ever louder. He was close now—just around the corner.

Nothing! No magic at all.

Growling with frustration, Promi said to Jaladay, “What do I do? You’ve got to tell me!”

She shook her head. “That I cannot do. What remains for you to learn, you must find out yourself.”

“But the guard—”

Abruptly, the footsteps stopped. Looking straight at them from the other end of the corridor was the guard just as brawny as his companion slumped on the floor.

“Jobo!” he cried, enraged. Drawing his broadsword, he raced headlong toward Promi and the others.

“Now,” said Kermi dryly, “would be a good time to learn how the magic works.”

“I can’t!” Promi shouted, staring fearfully at the oncoming guard.

Jaladay sighed. “All right, then. I’ve saved just enough magic to do this. So now . . . I will make my final sacrifice.”

Something about the way she said
final
rang ominously, but Promi didn’t have time to think about it. Desperately, he looked around the dungeon for a weapon—anything he could use to shield them from the deadly sword. But he couldn’t find anything.

With the guard only a few paces away, Jaladay glanced at the blue kermuncle. “Remember your promise.”

Kermi nodded grudgingly.

“And also,” she added, “keep yourself hidden.”

Again, he nodded.

“Listen one,” she declared, “listen all.”

A sudden whooshing sound, like a distant wind, swept through the dungeon. Promi heard the wind—then only silence.

The Bridge to Nowhere

If only I had known what was really there! Then again, maybe that was more than any person—any mortal, at least—should know.

—From Promi’s journal

P
romi opened his eyes, though it didn’t make much difference. Everything was dark. So dark that his first thought was,
No! I’m still in the dungeon.

As before, he was lying on his back. And as before, there was something pointed pressing into the back of his head. He sat up, reached for the offending object—then realized that his hands could move freely.

He wasn’t bound. And he wasn’t in the dungeon! He grabbed the object, a rock as before, and hurled it into the blackness. It clattered, rolling along what sounded like a lumpy, hard surface.

A street,
he realized. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the bumpy rows of cobblestones, abandoned mud-brick houses on both sides, and what looked like some sort of structure beyond.
All right, so I’m on a lonely side street in the middle of the night. But where exactly? And how did I get here?

He scratched his head and pulled a clump of mud out of his long hair. All at once, the memories flooded back to him. Jaladay, mysterious but kind, neither young nor old. Dear old Bonlo, who had believed in him without any reason. The horrible dungeon of Ekh Raku. That brutal guard, the broken ribs. That annoying blue beast who wouldn’t stop insulting him. And strangest of all . . . Listener magic.

Had it all been a dream? That made the most sense. After all, the whole experience had an improbable, dreamlike quality. Even the sounds of those scurrying rats, the flickering torches, and the relentless dripping seemed unreal.

What a dream! Next time I write in my journal, I’ll try to describe it—if that’s even possible.

Thinking back, the last thing that seemed absolutely real was stealing the Divine Monk’s prize smackberry pie. And gobbling down every juicy, delectable bite as he sat on the hillside. Maybe he’d just eaten so much pie so fast that he fell into a deep but troubled sleep? And dreamed that whole terrible time in the dungeon?

Yes,
he thought, more and more convinced.
Next time I eat a whole pie, I’ll go more slowly.
He felt a powerful pang of hunger. High time to find another meal! A big one. All that wild dreaming had made him ravenous.

He looked around for any landmarks he might recognize.
If I just figure out where I am, then I’ll know a nearby bakery.

Staring into the darkness beyond the street, he realized that the structure he’d noticed seemed to be . . . well,
moving.
Wavering somehow, like a dark flame. Although the night was moonless, a few stars had begun to appear, shining dimly on whatever was out there. And in that light, it really looked like it was moving. Almost . . . alive.

He picked himself up, patted his tunic to make sure his journal was still in its pocket, started to walk down the cobblestones to get a closer look. Suddenly he stopped, recognizing the wavering structure.

It’s that bridge! That old, half-finished one with all those prayer leaves.
Indeed, it was the fluttering of those leaves in the night breeze that made the bridge seem to be constantly moving.

He studied the unfinished bridge. It stretched part of the way across the canyon of the Deg Boesi River, many man heights above the endlessly crashing rapids. Now, in early summer, that river constantly surged with melted snow from Ellegandia’s highest mountains, sending up huge clouds of mist from its roiling waters. Promi knew that the rapids had claimed more than a few lives of people foolish enough to try to swim across it—including some who had decided to explore this very bridge, crawled out too far, and disappeared forever into the thick mist that always swirled around the unfinished end.

That explained all the prayer leaves, rows and rows of them, each inscribed with a prayer and affixed by the stem to a line of string. Placed on the bridge by the families and friends of those who had fallen off or who had otherwise perished in the river’s deadly rapids, the silver leaves were more than memorials to loved ones. Like all prayer leaves that flew from treetops, bridges, hillsides, windows, and temple roofs across Ellegandia, these leaves were a form of communication with the spirit realm. For every time the wind blew over them, people believed, the prayers on the leaves were spoken again. Like an endless song to the heavens, their words continued to reach beyond the mortal world.

Of course,
he thought with a smirk,
that’s all nonsense.

He remembered the young priestess he’d met very near this spot a couple of years before. He’d been sitting by himself at the edge of the gorge, feet dangling over the cliff, eating a stolen loaf of pumpkin bread, when she walked by. She wore her hair in the longest braid he’d ever seen, long enough to wrap around her waist like a belt. Her eyes seemed so kind, her manner so gentle, that he did something that surprised himself: he offered her a piece of bread. They sat together for a while, listening to the roar of the rapids, watching the fluttering prayer leaves. And she told him the legend of wind lions—magical creatures who continuously lope from this world to the spirit realm, carrying all those prayers.

He’d listened intently, intrigued by her description. But of course, he didn’t believe a single word of it.

Now, in the dim light, Promi watched the silver leaves tied to the dilapidated bridge. Trying to imagine all the tiny, invisible lions that would be needed to carry so many prayers, he gave a snort of disbelief.
Poetic idea, I’ll admit. But still nonsense.

Gazing at the structure, he felt more sure than ever that the only things that moved on the bridge were the lines of leaves. And that the only place the bridge could lead was nowhere.

He chuckled to himself.
The Bridge to Nowhere.
Maybe that was why nobody lived at this end of the City. Too many invisible lions running past all the time!
Or,
he thought more grimly,
too many ghosts of people who fell off that rickety old thing and died.

Time for that meal! He could feel his empty stomach churning.

He turned and started to walk away from the bridge. Just then he felt something bulky inside his boot—not down in the bottom, but in the wide rim around his calf. As always, the magical boot had shaped itself to fit perfectly. But this time, it had expanded to hold something he didn’t need. Probably a rock or a clump of mud.

“Poverty and pestilence!” he cursed. “What’s in my boot?”

Leaning against the wall, he yanked off his boot and shook it upside down. But nothing fell out. Nothing at all. Puzzled, he brought it close to his face and peered inside.

Two bright blue eyes blinked at him from inside the rim. “Took you long enough, you fool! Do you think it’s comfortable riding in your smelly old boot?”

Promi shouted in surprise and dropped the boot on the cobblestones. His heart pounded, while the truth burned in his brain.

Real. It was all real!

Thievery

You couldn’t possibly have known what would happen next, Promi. If you had, everything would have changed.

—From her journal

I couldn’t possibly have known what would happen next. But even if I had, nothing would have changed.

—From Promi’s journal

P
romi opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and closed it again—all the while staring into his boot. Right back at him stared those bright blue eyes below two round, swiveling ears.

Still not willing to believe what he was seeing, he stammered, “Y-y-you? Kermi?” he said at last.

“Right, you fool.” The little creature pulled up his long tail and, with its tip, calmly scratched the tip of his nose. “And in case you’re confused—more than usual, I mean—that name is short for kermuncle, not curmudgeon. Which wouldn’t fit me anyway, since that term applies to somebody who is always grumpy and criticizing. Totally unlike me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Promi mockingly. “You’re just about the sunniest creature I’ve ever met.”

The kermuncle snorted rudely. “Anyway, you can’t call me Kermi. Only
she
was allowed to call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I want,” snapped the young man. But the mention of the kermuncle’s former companion softened his mood. “Jaladay,” he said quietly, thinking about her generosity . . . as well as her mysterious ways. “Where is she now?”

The blue eyes blinked slowly. “I’d rather not discuss that.” In a harsher voice, he added, “Certainly not with you.”

“Great, then. We feel the same way about each other.” He tried to shake the little beast out of his boot. “Go on, now. Run off and find someone else to torture.”

But Kermi held tight to the inside of the boot, his small claws digging into the leather rim. “I’ll do no such thing, much as I’d like to go.”

Promi raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because, you idiot, she asked me to stay with you. And in a moment of weakness, I agreed.”

“That promise, right?”

Kermi’s whiskers twitched. “A big mistake. Now I’m stuck with you, for better or worse. And something tells me it’s going to be a whole lot of worse.”

Remembering their final few seconds with Jaladay, Promi asked, “Why did she tell you to stay hidden?”

“None of your business, manfool.”

“Well, then,” offered Promi, “I relieve you of your promise. Now, go! Get out of my boot and also my life.”

The blue eyes narrowed. “Can’t do that.” His little blue face looked genuinely sad. “I made the promise to her, not you. Only she could take it back. And, well . . . she’s not around to do that.” 

Promi furrowed his brow. “What happened to her? Tell me.”

Kermi folded his tiny paws on his chest. “I told you already. I’m not going to discuss that.” As if to emphasize his point, he blew a big, wobbly bubble that floated up and popped on Promi’s nose.

“Aaaak!” cried Promi in disgust, wiping off the oily residue. “Just go away, will you? I have enough on my mind without having to haul you around in my boot.”

“Harrumph. That would imply, first, that you have a mind. And second, that it’s in your foot.” He scratched his blue cheek. “The second part, I suppose, could be true.”

“Go away, I said. Now!”

Kermi shook his head. “Have you no decency, man? I cannot leave your imbecilic side!” Heaving a sigh of deep regret, he declared, “I am honor bound. And the honor of a kermuncle is worth—”

The rest of his words were muffled by the scrunching sound of Promi shoving the boot back onto his foot. “Fine, then,” said the young man as he started to walk down the cobblestone street. “Hope you enjoy the ride.”

Two small paws and a blue, furry head poked out from the rim. “I certainly won’t enjoy the smell.”

But Promi didn’t hear the insult. He was already occupied with a far more important task—finding that next meal. The bigger and sweeter, the better. His stomach rumbled with anticipation.

Briskly, he strode through one darkened street after another, walking in the direction of people’s homes . . . and, more to the point, their kitchens. It wouldn’t be long, he knew from years of experience, before he smelled someone’s early morning cooking. A nice big tray of corn muffins with raspberry jam? A honeyed filo dough pastry? A sweet cream and banana pie? It didn’t matter, so long as he’d be eating soon.

Too bad he’d lost his knife back at the temple; having one always made his job easier. He’d need to find a new one soon. Maybe, with luck, someone would have left a knife along with his breakfast.

As he walked along, keeping as always to the darkest parts of the streets so he wouldn’t be seen, he found himself wondering about Grukarr. Throwing Promi into the dungeon was cruel enough. But to put Bonlo, that loving old man, down there—that was beyond cruel. That was sheer malice combined with an insane thirst for power. Which sounded exactly like Grukarr.

Someday,
he vowed angrily,
we’ll meet again. And then I’ll do more than steal your belt buckle.

To calm himself, he tried to recall that haunting, half-remembered song that had so often comforted him. To his relief, the notes came to him right away this time, sounding louder and clearer than ever. As if someone was singing them right into his ear! Could the Listener magic be helping him hear his own thoughts better?

Turning a corner, he passed the first people he’d seen on the street—an elderly couple carrying a fresh loaf of darkseed bread. The smell of those seeds, so much like roasted almonds, along with the sweet molasses in the bread, made his nose tingle. He took a deep breath, but kept on walking. Tempting as it was to grab their loaf and run, he never stole from elders, children, or mothers with infants. Why, he wasn’t really sure. Probably because it just seemed too easy. Besides, it was much more fun to take food away from wealthy merchants, grumpy bakers, overstuffed monks, or witless magistrates.

That whiff of freshly-baked bread, though, was a good sign. Maybe there was a bakery nearby? That would be fair game—as long as it wasn’t the bakery of Shangri, with her carrot-colored braids and easy giggle, and her papa, the new owner of a lifetime supply of sapphires.
Those people,
he promised,
I’ll never rob again.

Besides, there were always plenty of bakeries to choose from. And at this time of day, there would be so many hot pastries coming out of the ovens at once, the bakers might not even notice if several of them mysteriously vanished. His mouth watered at the thought.

As if on cue, he entered a small square marked by a stone fountain—and, right behind the fountain, a bakery. The smells of wildflower honey, melted butter, cinnamon, roasted grains, and sugar glazing all filled the square . . . as well as his nostrils. He grinned, knowing that he’d soon be eating breakfast. That thought so inspired him that he even forgot, for the moment, the unwelcome passenger in his boot.

Though sunrise was still more than an hour away, women in thick shawls and men in heavy cloaks were already lining up for bread and pastries, squeezing loaves to test the crust, asking for samples, and paying for their purchases before hurrying home. So much activity was happening inside the shop that the hapless old fellow at the counter scurried around frantically, trying to deal with it all.

Perfect.
For an instant, Promi wondered if he should try to take something by using Jaladay’s gift of magic. If she’d been able to send him out of that dungeon all the way to the street by the bridge, why couldn’t he simply send a tasty loaf of bread right into his arms?

He shook his head. The truth was, he didn’t even know how to use the magic. If Jaladay hadn’t sent him to safety just in time, he could never have done it himself. On top of that, didn’t she make it quite clear that every use of Listener’s magic required a price? A sacrifice of some kind? And the whole point of being a thief was to get things for free, not give them up.

“What are you waiting for?” asked a gruff voice from the rim of his boot. “Are you going to stand here in the shadows all day, or will you get us some breakfast?”

Promi scowled down at the little creature. “Who said anything about
us
?”

“Well, I’ll be a buzzard’s brother!” exclaimed Kermi. “Such rudeness. And after all the kindness and patience I’ve shown you.”

Promi rolled his eyes. “Just keep out of sight,” he growled. “And stay quiet.”

Judging the right moment, Promi sauntered up to the bakery’s open door. Casually, he slipped by other customers and up to the counter. Shelves of steaming hot pastries, stacked from the floor to the ceiling, filled the air with luscious smells.

He licked his lips, wondering what to choose. At that instant, the harried baker brought out an enormous tray of steaming hot sugar buns. To Promi’s delight, the tray also held one more item—a fat lemon pie. It bulged within a butter crust thick enough to have been a meal itself. Lemon filling bubbled over the edges, scenting the air with a wondrous blend of tartness and sweetness.

Promi reached for the pie, ready to snatch it before anyone even realized what he’d done. His hand wrapped around the side of the pie’s wooden plate. Meanwhile, his thumb brushed against the butter crust, which released a puff of lemony steam. He grasped the plate, slid it off the tray, and deftly hid it behind his back—all without the busy baker noticing.

With practiced ease, Promi slipped through the press of people and out to the street. Once his boots touched the cobblestones, he allowed himself a smile. The tangy smells of lemon, butter, and sugar filled every breath. His stomach, at long last, stopped churning with hunger and instead seemed to vibrate with sheer excitement.

“Not bad,” piped up a voice from the rim of his boot. “You’ve done this sort of thing before?”

“Once or twice,” Promi replied, striding down the cobblestones.

Now,
he thought,
the only question left is where to eat this pie.
He wasn’t going to make the same mistake as last time and place himself where he could be seen. So where should he go?

This wasn’t a sacred pie from the Divine Monk’s table, of course, so there wouldn’t be anyone actively searching for him. Yet he did have a few enemies to avoid. Especially Grukarr’s band of men—“faithful minions,” he’d called them. As newly freed prisoners, they didn’t look as battle hardened as temple guards. But they seemed just as dangerous, maybe more so because of their debt to Grukarr. And then there was that blood falcon, the bird who had spotted him eating on the hillside.

Instinctively, Promi glanced upward. Between the roofs of mud-brick homes, he saw nothing but empty sky, touched by the first golden rays of dawn.

All clear. He strode down the street, looking for just the right spot to have his long-awaited meal. The pie, still steaming, felt warm in his hands.

He turned into an alley, completely empty except for a beggar slumped against the wall. Striding past, he noticed it was a young woman around his age. Oddly dressed, she wore a soiled purple gown made from some sort of plant. The robe, streaked with dirt and clumps of something sticky like tree sap, testified to an arduous journey. So did the young woman’s bare feet, toughened by a great deal of walking.

Her brown curls looked as tangled as a thornbush. And her expression, deeply sad, couldn’t be missed. Nor could her look of hunger when she caught a whiff of Promi’s pie and lifted her head.

She watched him walk past, full of longing—but too proud or exhausted to call out. Yet what Promi noticed most was not her hungry, disheveled appearance, but something else.

Her eyes. A rich shade of blue-green, they seemed to combine the blue waters of a sunlit lake and the green leaves of a sapling in spring.

The eyes gazed at Promi. He started to think again about where to eat his sumptuous meal. Then, so suddenly it surprised even himself, he turned on his heels and went back to the young woman.

Without really knowing why, he gave her the lemon pie. He simply slid it onto her lap as if it belonged to her.

She blinked up at him in astonishment. “For . . . me?”

“For you,” he said brusquely, already feeling his hunger pangs returning.

He turned to go, forcing himself to think about where to find another bakery—and not about what a stupid thing he’d just done. But she grabbed the sleeve of his tunic. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s too kind of you.”

“I know,” he said grumpily, pulling away. “I only did it to keep you from dying of hunger right here on the street.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right,” he declared. “Dead bodies always get in my way when I’m moving fast.”

She watched him, clearly not believing a word.

“And don’t expect this to happen again,” he warned, “because it won’t. Just eat that pie and go back to wherever you came from.”

“I will,” she said gratefully. “This will give me the strength I need to go back to the Great Forest.”

He hesitated. “You live there? I didn’t know any people actually did.”

“My whole life. Until . . .” The sadness returned to her face. “Recently.”

“Well,” he said, “good luck. Try not to go around dying on the street anymore.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I’ll try. And . . . what’s your name?”

“Promi.”

“Well, Promi, I am Atlanta.” She smiled for the first time, a beautiful smile that illuminated her face. “And I bless your eternal qualities.”

Still feeling grumpy, he said, “Just bless that lemon pie and be on your way.”

“Would you like some for yourself?”

“No,” he lied. “Not really hungry. And besides . . . I never share food with anyone.”

“Right,” she answered. “Just like you never give away your food to anyone.”

“Good-bye.” He spun around, ready to go—just as a heavy net fell on top of them.

Men pounced on the net, holding down the prisoners, all the while cursing loudly. A blood falcon screeched from somewhere nearby. Finally came another sound, one Promi remembered all too well—the sound of someone’s merry whistling.