There are words inside Sky’s squawks, but Rumi is too disoriented from his sudden reentry to his own body to understand them. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. “Wait, what? Slow down.”
“The explosion!” Sky says. “We thought we had more time than this, but look!”
It’s still nighttime, but even so, dawn has somehow started to light up the horizon. It looks normal ahead, in the direction of the ocean, but as Rumi continues to pivot he sees . . . oh, that’s definitely not good. Where the volcano is, the black plumes have increased to cover a good third of the sky, the swirling smoke laced in ribbons of red that fade to grays as the airborne embers wink out. The “dawn” isn’t from the sun—it’s from the flames.
“You said that we’d have two more rises of the Veil before the volcano went out,” Sky says.
Rumi wrings his frog hands. “My calculations would indicate that, yes, based on the two-legs’ carvings. But I suppose . . . I suppose they weren’t predicting this exact scenario, with the ants speeding up the explosion. That’s a whole new variable thrown into the equations. I could try to extrapolate new predicted timings from my previous algorithms—”
“Your words get bigger the more nervous you get, have you ever noticed that?” Sky asks, the slightest wink of humor in his voice.
Rumi blinks. “No, I haven’t.”
Sky tilts his head. “I notice too much sometimes. It’s a bit of a curse. Anyway, you don’t need to bother recalculating, since it won’t change the reality. We have less time than we thought. I scouted the ocean not far from here—we’ll be at the beach soon after we get the tapirs up and moving, then we’ll need to get this ark together far sooner than we thought.”
“And we’ll need to gather as many animals as we can.”
“We’re already a big group. Given the volume of this wood, and the amount of water we must displace to give us enough buoyancy, we can take some more small animals, but I’m afraid that’s about it.”
“And Mez and Chumba and Lima, once they’re back,” Sky says.
“And Mez and Chumba and Lima, of course.” Suddenly what Rumi learned through the directive comes rushing back to him. “Mez, Chumba, and Lima! Sky, we have to save them! Mist has cultists, and he’s used the volcano rumblings to manipulate their fear and gain power, and he’s used it to capture the panther sisters. He’s going to sacrifice them to the volcano! They need our help.”
Even Sky, who usually takes everything in stride, can’t keep his beak from dropping open. “This is bad news, indeed. I was afraid that we hadn’t seen the last of Mist.”
“He received some of each of our magic during the eclipse. It’s made him unstoppable. Our friends don’t stand a chance.”
“We’ll talk to Gogi when he wakes up, of course, but I don’t see any way we can help right at this moment, especially not with the eruption so much closer than we thought. We have our own crisis here, and even without that we couldn’t make it to the panther forest in time to be of use.”
“I know, I know,” Rumi says, still wringing his hands. “But it doesn’t feel good, not at all.”
Sky buries his head under his wing. “Believe me, I feel the same way, friend.”
The tapir right under Rumi, a young female named Zuza, opens her soft and long-lashed eyes. She sighs, taking in her surroundings, and then the urgency of their situation hits her awakening brain and she staggers to her feet, lifting the whole mass of logs all on her own, in the process sending a surprised Rumi tumbling to the jungle floor. Sky crashes into the branches above.
The tapir blanches when she sees the ruckus she’s created. “Oh, sorry!”
The other tapirs are roused from their sleep by the mayhem, and groggily get to their feet. “Zuza,” one says, “we talked about this. Wake us, and then stand up.”
“I know, I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. I just get so excited about what the day might bring. Come on, let’s go!”
Rumi hops back onto the mass of logs. “Yes, let’s go. There were some developments during the night—we have less time than I thought.”
“See, you two?” Zuza says. “Listen to that brilliant tree frog. We have to get to work! Chop chop!”
“I don’t know if I’d say brilliant,” Rumi says bashfully as the tapirs lurch into motion. “But it’s very kind of you to say so.”
“You certainly seem brilliant to me,” Zuza says. “I wouldn’t have thought there was enough room in a tiny head for so much brain.”
“Oh, stop it,” Rumi says, slapping Zuza’s side.
“Is Gogi up yet?” Sky asks.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” the monkey calls from above. Gogi makes his way down from the branches where he was napping and starts to pass through the canopy, hand over hand over tail, making his way along the trees. Auriel doesn’t seem to ever sleep, but he spent the night in Gogi’s nest and now is traveling on his torso, entwined in the strap of the monkey’s pouch.
“Mez, Chumba, and Lima are in big trouble,” Rumi calls up. “There’s not much we can do about it from here, but I’ll fill you in once we get to the beach.”
“I wish we could do something about it!” Gogi calls as he scampers along a treetop.
“When I left my home to investigate the rumors of resurrection, I thought we were making this pilgrimage just to see Auriel, the Elemental of Light,” Zuza says as she lumbers along. “But now we have a new mission. It’s been wonderful to meet you shadowwalkers. You’ve got this reputation for being the heralds of Caldera’s doom and everything, but you’re actually pretty nice!”
“Heralds of Caldera’s doom!” Rumi says. “I say, that’s very unfair!”
“Well,” Zuza blunders on, “didn’t your coming to the ziggurat help release the Ant Queen in the first place? And didn’t you just tell me that’s what led to the ants eating through the earth’s mantle, which brought on this volcanic explosion? For us to experience all this horrible smoke and noise, and then have songbirds flit by every daytime singing about the yellow boa who once was evil . . . you can’t exactly fault us for blaming you all!”
“Even if bad things happened,” Sky says bitterly, “it was in the service of trying to help. I’d think everyone would be grateful.”
“You know eclipse phobia runs deep in the jungle,” Zuza says, “and I understand why. Most animals just want things to stay the way they are. ‘New’ can feel like the same word as ‘dangerous,’ like those clouds of black smoke.”
“A good point,” Rumi says. “Maybe every morning should start with some tapir wisdom. You’re a lot like Banu.” He whirls around on the wood. “Wait, where’s Banu?”
“Don’t worry. I’m . . . catching up,” comes a voice far off in the forest behind them.
Rumi settles back in. “Oh, good.”
Gogi calls down from a treetop ahead. “Just go along this next tight pathway between the thickets, then we’re at the ocean.”
It’s a narrow fit for the tapirs, but despite their broad and muscular bodies they’re quite agile, and before long they’ve all reached the other side. Rumi had hopped to a nearby trunk to avoid getting squished during the transition, and hops back into his vantage spot on top of the logs in time to watch the ground rapidly change from wet muddy soil to sand. With the alteration in terrain, the plants dissipate too, turning to low runty succulents instead of the massive trees of the jungle.
There, on the far side, is the blue-gray expanse of the ocean. Just like last time, it mesmerizes Rumi. A long second goes by as he gets lost in contemplating the depths. What creatures might live within its salty reaches? How far into the distance does the water go? Is it infinite, or does it eventually reach more land?
Then his attention is drawn to the hubbub before him: Gogi scampering along the hot sand, trying to keep his feet and hands from burning; Sky wheeling in the air above, cawing out instructions to the tapirs as they haul the wood onto the beach; the rest of the groupies arriving behind; Banu emerging in the distance. Auriel
unravels from Gogi and lays himself out on the hot sand, basking in the rare treat of direct sun.
It’s definitely no mistake this time: under the open sunlight, Auriel is growing before Rumi’s eyes. His whole body shimmers as he elongates.
Rumi can’t spend the whole day staring at their strange resurrected companion, though. There’s so much to do. He hops onto the beach, then immediately hops back to a piece of wood, blowing on his fingers and toes. It’s so hot! The wood is much cooler. But the sun still beats into Rumi’s moist skin, enough that he can actually feel it burning and crisping. He creeps under the flap of one of Zuza’s broad ears. “Hope you don’t mind, but I need some shade.”
“Of course, little frog,” Zuza says, flaring her ear so it will provide even more shelter. “I’d be happy to. Just direct your voice outward before you chirp loudly or anything.”
“I’ll be sure to, and thank you very much,” Rumi says. He leans out, trying to get everyone in view at once—then, on reflex, uses his air magic to amplify his voice, making a tornado of sound. Everyone startles and goes still at the loud sound from the tiny frog. “Okay, let’s move! Tapirs, we need the wood lined up on the beach, from biggest pieces down to the smallest. Then, Banu, we need you to start waterlogging them. Gogi, work with Banu to see the best way to make steam. Let’s go, guys, no time to lose!”
Rumi had been expecting just a wisp of amplification, but his voice came out louder than he’s ever been able to make it.
His magic is back! And, from the sound of it, stronger than ever before. He whoops and hollers, his friends wincing at the ruckus. “My magic’s back, everyone!”
His hands over his ears, Gogi shakes his head. Too loud!
As Zuza lumbers into motion, Rumi whispers into her ear. “I’m sorry, was that too loud?”
“WHAT?” she yells back. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
By the time the Veil is about to drop again, they’ve made substantial progress. Well, “substantial” might be an overstatement. But Rumi knows from his year spent investigating the stones of the ziggurat ruins that sometimes you have to make a big mess before you can start putting everything in order.
He hops between burned-out logs, wet fronds, and exhausted tapirs slumped in the sand, to make his way to Sky. They’re the only two really still alert, probably because they’re the only two who haven’t been doing manual labor all day. The tapirs are worn out, and Gogi and Banu are draped over each other, the capuchin grooming listlessly through the sloth’s hair. They haven’t had to do any spectacular displays of magic, like they once did fighting the Ant Queen, but they’ve been using their abilities in small ways all day to shape the wood, and it’s tuckered them out.
“My magic,” Rumi says, relieved. “I haven’t tested the limits, but my wind cramp is gone. I think—I think I might have more power than ever before.”
“That’s wonderful,” Sky says.
Rumi knows he means those words, but all the same the feathers over Sky’s eyes are sticking straight out—a sign his friend has something heavy on his mind. “You’ve still been retaining the transmission from the directive?” Rumi asks.
“Of course,” the macaw answers. “We can catch up with our friends as soon as you’re ready.”
Although Rumi is desperate to know how the panthers and Lima are doing, he’s also scared to potentially find out bad news that he can’t do anything about. “In a moment,” he says. “I wanted to check in with you about the ark preparations first. We’re making progress, don’t you think?”
“You don’t really mean that,” Sky glowers. “This is a disaster. Even if we manage to get these curved planks to fit together, they won’t be watertight.”
“But we have a plan,” Rumi sputters. “We’re going to put layers of mud in between, and leaves over that, and more woven fronds! It will work! I’m sure of it!”
“I appreciate your optimism.” Sky sighs. “We need it.”
The way Sky’s talking doesn’t make Rumi feel so good—like it’s all hopeless, but they might as well keep going just to give themselves something to do while the inevitable apocalypse bears down.
“The directive?” Rumi asks, reaching for Sky’s feathers.
“I did have a thought first,” Sky says, stepping away. “I’m not sure whether I should even bring it up.”
“Of course you should!” Rumi says. Then he sees, from the ruffling of Sky’s eye feathers, that he was definitely going to tell him, and this has just been Sky’s indirect manner of speaking.
“Okay, here goes,” Sky says. “I’ve been thinking about the Cave of Riddles. About the strange forest of perfectly straight trees we saw depicted there, with the rectangles cut into them, with two-legs behind the rectangles.”
“Yes,” Rumi said. “The two-legs were getting in those animals with circles for feet, and riding them into another volcano.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking: What if that’s the same volcano?”
“That seems impossible,” Rumi says. “This one is surrounded by a rainforest, and there aren’t any two-leg cities around.”
“But the two-legs were once here,” Sky presses. “We have proof of that—the ziggurat ruins. What if that forest of straight trees was around here too, only the water rose up around the high mountain, covering the forest and destroying the two-legs as it rose?”
Rumi taps his fingers to his lips as he stares out at the ocean. “So you’re saying that those magical decorations actually represented something, and now it’s all buried under the giant ocean puddle?”
Sky cocks his head. “Yes. I suppose that’s what I’m saying.”
Rumi stares out at the gray-blue void that he’d been so curious about. Maybe it does hold secrets that could be useful, knowledge to be uncovered—knowledge that might yet save the day. “Their pathway into the volcano could be useful—we could get much farther down to the source of the magma than we were able to by entering the volcano from above.”
“Exactly. But the pathway is now—”
“Underwater!” Rumi finishes excitedly. “Though it wasn’t underwater in the cave carvings. What a puzzle.”
“I thought so,” Sky said, fluffing his feathers.
Standing on Sky’s claws so that his own soft feet don’t get burned by the sand, Rumi takes up a stick and begins to draw diagrams and equations. “Perhaps, if we could only enter the surface at such a trajectory to allow an initial velocity that could overcome the surface tension and propel us at enough acceleration to achieve maximal entry before needing the use of additional propellant mechanisms . . . no, that won’t work.” He scratches out his work and starts again. “Let’s see, if we . . .”
Sky watches admiringly as Rumi speeds through multiple sets of calculations.
Finally Rumi looks up and claps his little frog fingers. “We’ll have to delegate the construction of the ark to the tapirs, but I think I’ve got it! It’s going to take every ounce of our magical abilities, each of us.”
Sky’s eyes light up. “This is great news! Maybe you don’t need my divination abilities? Perhaps I could stay behind and supervise the ark construction. Macaws are not especially partial to water.”
“I’ll need you too,” Rumi says. “We’ll need whatever your magic can provide for navigation down there.”
Sky fluffs his feathers back up. “In that case, I agree to go. Zuza has proven a good worker and planner. We can leave her in charge.”
“We shouldn’t be gone too long,” Rumi says. Then he gulps. “If all goes according to plan, of course.”
Sky looks over at Gogi and Banu, slumped together. Gogi’s head has been nodding, and before their eyes he falls fully asleep, turning over and falling spread-eagled into the sand, snoring away. “I’m thinking it might take all of our magical powers just to wake up Gogi and Banu.”
BEFORE HE DOES anything else, though, Rumi uses Sky’s directive to check on the panther squad. The magic brings him right back into the nightwalker cult’s clearin
g. The hirsuta trees still blaze, but they’re less eerie now, because day is fully upon the scene. There is no hushed chanting of Mist’s name, no shrill calls for murder and sacrifice. Everyone is in daycoma.
Everyone, that is, except the shadowwalkers Mez and Lima. Even Mist is asleep; at least the magic he wrested from the shadowwalkers didn’t also come with their power to cross the Veil. With all their enemies comatose, Mez could easily escape—if she could move. Surrounded by the carrion stench of the nightwalker cult, the shadowwalkers are trussed up, multiple lengths of liana binding ankles and feet. Even Lima’s wings have been wrapped tight around her body. She has managed to tip herself over, and by wriggling her body against her bonds, Mez can expose her various gouges and burn wounds to Lima’s healing licks.
What happens now? Mez, like Usha, has no option left to challenge Mist’s dominance over this area of the jungle. And if Mez, with her combat experience and magical invisibility, wasn’t able to defeat Mist, then what chance do any of the others have?
Worst were Mist’s words before the rising of the Veil, still rattling around Rumi’s mind. The nightwalker cult will make a ruthless march to the volcano, and once there, Mist will hurl his cousins into it.
How is Mez handling the anguish of it? Rumi looks deeper and deeper into her eyes, and suddenly, like submerging into a warm pool, he’s right inside her mind. Sky’s directive continues to increase in power.
Despite the pain it brings as the thorny vines rub against her fur and flesh, Mez can’t help but shudder. Come on, Rumi hears her tell herself, come on. Make a plan. You can come up with something. There’s always something.
Mez, Rumi tries to say, I’m here! I can hear you! But Mez doesn’t seem to react. Apparently Sky’s directive hasn’t become that advanced yet.
For the first time Mez can remember, it all feels truly hopeless. She can’t even talk to Chumba about it, because their muzzles too are bound tight by vines—and Chumba is in daycoma. At least Mez can look at her sister. Even though Chumba’s eyes are closed, Mez knows her well enough that she can read feelings into her sister’s sleeping expression, can imagine the sorts of dreams she’s having. In a way, they can share their worry and concern. But what they can’t do is make a plan.
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