Below the Moon

by Alexis Marie Chute

  Tessa and Ella learned that Timanfaya was one of Spain’s national parks, covering nearly a quarter of Lanzarote and butting up against the North Atlantic Ocean on the western coast. Their guide told them that the name translates to “Fire Mountains,” and with this memory, worry overcomes her.

  What if Ella doesn’t obey me, which is likely, Tessa thinks, and she comes here with the Olearons? The people of this island may call its volcanoes Fire Mountains for another reason. Who knows what the Lord of Olearon will do. Burn down the island? Burn the entire Earth? Ugh … No. Ella will listen. She’ll go on with the 30th Lord, Archie, and Ardenal to find the Star. They’ll locate her cure and right everything that’s gone wrong in that world, then do the same here. I’m worrying for nothing.

  A thundering crack shakes Haria as Zeno and fifty Bangols remove a chunk of mountain. It hovers ominously above the earth before they place it as a stronghold for the new fortress. The crust of Lanzarote breaks through civilization with clouds of orange dust, the upturned ground peppered with uprooted shrubs. Everything is dry, brittle, and crumbling. In the distance, the ocean batters the island with ferocious waves, though it cannot match the one that swept through the Fairy Vineyard.

  Along with worry, fatigue also tugs at Tessa. She recognizes the difference in time from Jarr to Earth. It is not the jet lag of changing time zones but of seconds that pace themselves in one place and race forward in another. Tessa cannot remember the last time she slept—peacefully, that is. Her dreams have become turbulent zones of unrest since she plunged into the frigid water of the Creek of Secrets, following the bubbling voice of Rolace and the evil that dwelt in the enchanted current.

  Fatigue cloaks her. Tessa drops onto the couch. Her vision blurs and her eyes close.

  TESSA is weightless, extracted from gravity, a thing of the air. Her hair tangles into a windswept golden braid. Her vines sit nicely in her hands—unlike in her nightmare, where they choked the life out of her and her companion, Finnah. She strokes their smooth green leaves. Now, Tessa and Finnah soar through a cold shiver of air and emerge above the cloud cover. The blue here encompasses them. Tessa hopes they can remain quiet, but Finnah enjoys the company.

  “Hello, sweet human,” the massive green bird chirps happily.

  “Hi, Finnah.” Tessa yawns. “Where are we?”

  “In a pocket of peace before the things to come. I want you to be rested—you will need it.”

  “Will I? I’m all alone again. Would anyone even notice if I didn’t wake up?”

  “Oh yes! You would be greatly missed by many, some of whom you have yet to meet.”

  “That’s sounds nice, Finnah,” Tessa says sleepily.

  “Everything is coming together according to plan, Tessa, and you must trust me. Always trust me. Everything will appear grim and hopeless before the end, but still you must trust me.”

  “As long as Ella lives.”

  “That I cannot promise, Tessa.”

  “As long as Ella lives, Finnah.”

  Now the green bird does fly on in silence. Tessa’s eyes flutter, and she falls asleep inside the dream.

  Chapter 33

  Archie

  Archie spits sand from his caked lips and feels the grains crunch between his teeth. He wipes his tongue on his shirt till his mouth is dry. His eyes are covered in a glossy substance, like looking through Vaseline. He rubs them clear of the slinking, crawling creature born from the Olearons’ lilac smoke.

  Archie is knee-deep in sand. He remembers the quicksand on the eastern side of Jarr-Wya where they trekked to find Ella after arriving on the island. Tessa carried a bouquet of Banji flowers for Rolace—its potent hallucinogenic quality becoming quickly apparent. The quantity she carried was great, and so, too, her delirium. She conjured a ship made of blood and fire; a tornado of sand and vines; the Millia … The visceral memory crawls over Archie’s skin, and he kicks himself out of the sand and nearly leaps onto a grey- and red-brick path. When he surveys his surroundings, he spots the rest of the company—and the contingent of Steffanus sisters, Olearon warriors, and sprites—also digging themselves out. Ella is not moving, and he rushes to her. Luggie is frantic.

  Archie places his fingers on Ella’s throat. She has a pulse; it is weak but steady. He brings her to the edge of the beach, to the sidewalk, and rests her frail body on a wooden bench. “She’s sleeping,” he tells Luggie, who rubs the slimy slugs from his eyes and shakes sand from his hupper furs like a wet dog. Luggie sits beside Ella. His sharp nails delicately untangle the knots in her blond hair, and he blows sand from her eyelashes.

  Archie studies their location. They are on a beach in Arrecife. Facing the sea is a deserted skateboard park to his right and the Gran Hotel Arrecife to his left, which Archie pointed out to Tessa as the spot where he would acquire a coffee and newspaper when he opted out of the tour to Timanfaya National Park. He never made it to the Gran Hotel but knows that beyond it lies Marina Lanzarote.

  The road behind them, Avenue Fred Olsen, is a mess of locals and tourists fighting over vehicles, bunches of bananas, and convenience store loot. Cars with locked doors weave around the unpredictable pedestrians and speed away. One motorbike is tackled by a crazed elderly woman who knocks the rider off his seat and mounts it, leaving the man in her dust.

  “We escaped the Millia!” shouts Duggie-Sky. He and Kameelo laugh and chase each other across the beach, where, like the others, they shake themselves free of the grit and mud of Jarr-Wya that traveled through the portal caked to their grimy clothes and the bottom of their feet.

  The Lord stands erect as Islo brushes clean his mirrored breastplate and golden robes. Frustrated with the formal garb, the Lord unhooks the trailing fabric from his pointed shoulder-pieces. “Archibald, you have been to this island, which is so terribly unfamiliar to me,” he begins, grimacing at the vehicles and bleeding humans. Sirens blare in the periphery. Two cars collide, sending their side mirrors bouncing along the street. “Where do you presume we travel to from here?”

  Archie has never heard the Lord sound so leery and uncertain. “Well”—Archie scratches his stubbly chin—“Our best bet of acquiring any form of transportation not already in use is the marina. When the Atlantic Odyssey docked there, the place was a mess of buses—a real traffic jam.”

  “I agree with Archie,” says Nate. “And judging by the state of Arrecife, we better get a move on.”

  Nameris approaches the park bench. “Ella must first speak with her mother,” he says, “to know the exact location of the Bangols.”

  Ardenal lays a gentle hand on his daughter’s shoulder, rousing her slowly.

  Lady Sophia points a plump finger inland. “I can see the Bangols from here,” she says. “See, on that mountain, and that one, and that one.”

  “Zeno,” says the Lord, his voice a deep rumble. “We must find Zeno.”

  Ella wakes sluggishly and Ardenal explains their need. Ella swings her thin legs off the bench and rests her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. She places her fingertips along her brow and stares at the brick sidewalk. Archie knows the gesture; his granddaughter is fighting nausea. Luggie pulls what is left of Ella’s ink and unsoiled paper from her sack and passes her the paintbrush.

  She looks up at Archie. He can sense she has already communicated with Tessa. “Go on, Ell. Whatever directions you can manage will be a great help,” he says.

  Once the drawing is done, the Lord says, “Please, Archibald, Nathanial Billows; lead us.” He brushes his hand in front of him, gesturing to the humans to take up the first line. “We must locate the Bangols and restore order. I feel ill in this place lacking in Naiu.”

  “Do you need assistance?” asks Junin. The Lord nods faintly. Junin and Islo flank him as they follow Archie and Nate. The company and other Jarrwians trace the sidewalk of the avenue. Upon reaching the Gran Hotel and its tower of blue glass, Archie suggests a quick meal inside for strength, as he notices the sluggish pace of Lady Sophia and even Azkar, w
ho walk lethargically side by side.

  They enter through glass doors beneath angled tan and grey pillars and are greeted inside by a greenhouse-style lobby with marble tiles, polished wooden balconies, and palm trees. There is a distinct absence of hotel staff, only trembling, nervous tourists who pull half-zipped suitcases in and out of the building. At the sight of the Olearons, Steffanus sisters, sprites, and Luggie, a frenzy erupts. Children point and stare with bulging eyes while their parents drag them by the arms or throw them over their shoulders and run in the opposite direction. The lobby and attached restaurant clear out in minutes, leaving a buffet of local dishes—papas arrugadas, miel de palma, conejo al salmorejo—warming beneath heat lamps in broad metal dishes. The Jarrwians, Luggie, and humans eat their fill, while also sampling the island-grown wine.

  “These walls remind me of home,” says Kameelo. The Olearon touches a tall pane of glass. When it does not shimmer and shift in its transparency, he adds, “Strange.”

  The company and Jarrwians venture farther along the coast, heading north on Avenue de la Mancomunidad past its abandoned restaurants. They travel the street beside an eight-story apartment building with windows facing the sea. They navigate past one whitewashed building after another with street-side restaurants barricaded with overturned tables and wicker chairs. The coast and North Atlantic Ocean are to their right. They walk more quickly after the meal and arrive at Marina Lanzarote in half an hour, Archie guesses, as the sun is beginning its graceful dip in the sky and melts into the water.

  The marina’s modern eateries and shops boasting wares of copper, leather, pottery, and wood are separated from the sea by elevated black walkways. All seafaring vessels have been commissioned or hijacked, so the marina is a bare skeleton drifting on the water. Land vehicles, too, are occupied, crashed, or gone from their parking spots—except for one.

  A dilapidated, rusting school bus hums near the tourism information office. Inside the office, Archie sees frantic travelers arguing with a bald man in uniform. A tourism officer. Archie cannot read the man’s lips beneath his full black mustache, but frustration bulges in thick veins on his forehead. He finally pushes past the tourists and out the glass door, jumps into the sea, and swims away.

  The company load themselves onto the bus, leaving the Steffanus sisters and sprites to fly and the large contingent of Olearon warriors to trek behind. As Archie shifts the creaking beast into gear, a pot-bellied man wearing the bus company logo on his breast pocket appears in the open doorway, hollering profanities. He is quickly silenced, however, by the Lord’s glare. The man’s loot from the nearby shop slips from his hands and he flees in the same direction as the tourism officer.

  The vehicle lunges forward and blasts black smoke from its exhaust pipe. “You’re sure you can drive this, Dad?” Ardenal’s red jaw is locked as tightly as his hands clutch the metal storage rack above the seats.

  “I’m fine. Getting the hang of it, see?” Archie grunts as he turns the enormous steering wheel. “Er, well, the bus needed a new paint job anywho.”

  The Lord is murmuring to his warriors a few rows back from the driver’s seat. Archie overhears, “Ignite your flame,” and “Burn them all,” and “Zeno must die.”

  “Excuse me, Lord,” says Archie. “I know the Bangols have caused us heaps of trouble, but perhaps I can reason with Zeno. I know him better than most here—”

  “You trust that bond?” Junin asks.

  “Well, yes, actually,” answers Archie. “It’s not a perfect friendship, but a bond nonetheless. Why not proceed with diplomacy first, Lord?”

  “Archibald’s suggestion is good,” says Nameris. “If you wish to maintain your firm hand, let the human”—Archie sees the Olearon gesture toward him in the dangling rearview mirror—“speak first to the Bangol king. If it goes poorly, then we may approach with our flames.”

  “The Bangols will interpret this as weakness from the Olearons,” the Lord says with a grimace.

  Archie shakes his head. He navigates the road based on Ella’s map and what he recalls from the cab ride he took to find Zeno before they were transported to Jarr-Wya. “Nah,” Archie says, brushing off the Lord’s concern, “they won’t even see you right away—just stay put in the bus.”

  The Lord, not accustomed to being on the receiving end of orders, leans back in his olive-green plastic seat.

  “I’m going with you, Dad,” says Ardenal.

  Archie raises a thumbs-up, causing the unyielding steering wheel to jerk out of his grip. He steadies the beast and takes another turn toward Haria. “It’s settled.” Archie steers too wildly around another corner and knocks over a decorative wall, creating a small avalanche of stones.

  Out the windows of the bus the company watches the destruction wielded by the Bangols pass them by. White buildings bear the scars of collisions with boulders, and trees are flattened, their leaves nibbled by the hungry, gray-skinned race. Frightened people peek out from behind rubble and work to board up their homes and shops with chairs, cabinets, cardboard, crates, and books. Groups of Bangols dig into the earth, both with magic and handmade tools. Mounds of rock are piled high every few blocks. The Bangols use clay and mud stuck to white walls along their path to form crude arrows and give directions in their language’s graphic symbols. The company duck from view at the sight of the Bangols, and Archie shields his face with a hand to avoid being spotted.

  Luggie translates. “That clay message means: Main fortress this way.”

  “Thank you, Luggie,” says the Lord evenly.

  “So Dad, what are you going to say to Zeno?” Ardenal asks. “How are you going to convince him to leave?”

  Archie wipes his perspiring forehead with his arm. “I thought I’d make it up on the spot. It’s more authentic that way.” The truth is, Archie is unsure what he can offer to entice Zeno back to Jarr. He runs scenarios through his head but is called out of his ruminating and back to the bumpy road as Ella pulls on his sleeve.

  “She wants to find her mother,” explains Luggie. “Tessa is a captive in a different building—not Treasures—and Ella thinks she knows the way. She does not want you to worry, Archie, or you, Ardenal. I am going to stay with her. We will find Tessa and then stay put, if it is safe there. Here is a copy of the map to Tessa’s location. Careful, the ink is still wet.”

  Archie parks the bus beside a fallen building reduced to rubble and tree branches. The building provides an unexpected alcove, hiding not only the bus but also the remainder of the company and Jarrwians who assemble there.

  “Islo, begin preparing our warriors,” orders the Lord. “We must learn the limitations of our flames before the Bangols do.” Islo nods and turns to the Olearons. “Steffanus sisters, we leave old grievances behind in our world. Here, we battle together. Sharpen your daggers!”

  “And what about us?” pipes up Quillie.

  “We sprites are capable of fighting,” adds his twin, Pinne.

  The Lord regards the sprites, the sixty who survived the flood in the Fairy Vineyard, the crashing roll of the blamala’s spit bubble, and the Tillastrion’s journey to Earth. “Fly amongst the buildings, listening,” he finally orders. “Do not venture too far or let yourselves be seen. Travel in twos and threes. Report back here—the intelligence you gather will help us chart our attack.”

  “If attack is needed,” adds Junin.

  “I have faith in you, Dad—you will find a way to end this peacefully,” says Ardenal.

  Chapter 34

  Ella

  Ihug Grandpa Archie like it’s the last time, just in case. Luggie and I set off on our own trajectory, and, thankfully, he gives me the dignity of walking on my own, at least while we’re in sight of the others. I feel every step as if my legs are firing pins and needles.

  In my peripheral vision, I keep an eye on Grandpa and Dad as they head toward the plaza of Haria, lined in attached white buildings with green doors. It’s the place, they’ve told me, where there’s usually a bustle of outspok
en street vendors offering things hand-carved, hand-painted, hand-picked, and hand-stewed, bringing the color and spice of Mercado Artesanal to life. There the trees are given square sections of the tiled road to grow up tall, their leaves forming a tight canopy that banishes the light, like the spindly trees in the white woodland of Jarr-Wya. I wish I could have seen the artisan market under different circumstances.

  Grandpa and Dad become a part of the shadows. They search for the low flat roof of Treasures—Zeno’s shop—squished between two larger storefronts, its cracked white wall and entrance tucked beneath a splintered hanging wood sign. It’s the place Mom tells me Zeno plans to use as the entrance to his fortress, flattening everything else. He must be at work because loud crashes shake the dry earth, and clouds of clay dust form plumes above the plaza. Buildings collapse. I suppose I’ll never see the market after all.

  “Ella, you should know,” Luggie begins, “I will not shed Bangol blood unless it belongs to Zeno. Then I would happily tear the stones from his brain.”

  I nod my understanding but hope he’ll choose to protect me above everyone else, as selfish as that may be. I try not to wonder what Luggie will do when we cross paths with other Bangols. Will he fight his friends and family to save me? I slip my fingers between his where they feel safe, warm, and at home, at least for now.

  We dodge a group of bloody humans, mostly beefy men, who roll boulders like barrels. We duck behind a mound of rubble as a pair of Bangols stomp by. “I know them,” says Luggie. “They are a few hundred sunsets older than me. We grew up playing together and learning to direct the awakins in the training balloons. These Bangols follow Zeno’s orders now, but under a new king, they’ll be different. Ella, believe me.”