by Alex Aster
Tor did not think it could get worse, until it did.
The soft grass of the plains beyond the rain forest soon became sand. Yellow dunes stretched as far as they could see, waves of gold that looked much prettier than they felt underneath their feet.
“It’s a desert,” Melda said, reaching down and taking some of the sand into her hand.
Tor had seen a painting of a desert once, but looking at a picture of one and actually trudging through one were two very different things. The streak of yellow on the map suddenly made sense. “We’ll have to be very careful to keep straight,” he said, knowing that if they veered off their path by just a few degrees, they could find themselves lost in the golden sea for far longer than they could afford. He pulled his gifted dagger from his pocket, its metal cool in his hand. He would use it to draw a line through the dunes, he decided, to help keep them from swerving too far in the wrong direction.
Despite the heat, Tor almost enjoyed the whisper of sand blowing through the wind around him; he liked the way his shoes sunk down into the ground, cushioning each step.
But then the thirst came. Everything was so dry—burnt, in a way. He found himself wondering if perhaps this endless stretch of sand used to be a different color but had eventually been scorched into the same shade as the sun.
The landscape never changed. There were no new flowers to let them know that they had made progress. No animals to entertain them with their songs. It was as if they had walked the same stretch of land for hours.
Tor’s mouth became a bowl of dust, barren, his tongue a dried-up sponge.
“Not yet,” Melda whispered when the boys asked for the canteens, knowing there was still a long way ahead of them. It was her turn holding the backpack.
So Tor daydreamed of water instead, thinking of its pure flavor, the texture he had never appreciated until now. Its silky, slithery dance down his throat. He imagined waterfalls in his mind and thought about how incredible it would be to stand beneath one. He pictured what the beaches at home looked like, thinking to himself how unnatural sand was in this much quantity.
When he reached for the fruits they had been gifted in Zura, he found they had dried up into cores, the desert having sucked the life right out of them.
Hours felt like their own lifetimes, each step becoming harder and harder. When Engle fell to his knees, Tor could not find the strength to help him up—he had sweat all of his energy away. He felt as useless as the dried-up fruit. So, he fell down, too. Melda made it a few more steps, then collapsed. She fished for the water and gave it to the boys, but even that was not enough. Tor blinked once, twice, then one last time, before his body seemed to give up.
* * *
Tor gasped, inhaling sand as he did. He doubled over and coughed, a cloud of dust expelling from his mouth.
The sun was gone. A moon sat in its place, its pale face a welcome sight. The air was noticeably cooler, the sand softer. A thin sheet of it covered his body, almost as if the desert had given him a blanket.
He stood and walked over to Melda. “Wake up,” he whispered. She did not move. “Wake up,” he said louder and tapped her on the shoulder.
She awoke, and Tor had never been so happy to see the blue of her eyes. Then, she scowled. “I feel like I already died.” Her voice sounded much raspier than usual.
He helped her up. “Me too.”
Tor woke Engle, whose own eyes looked painfully red. “I can hardly see a thing,” he said, which Tor found ironic. A sightseer’s eyes, however, were known to be much more delicate than others, given that they worked so much harder.
Trying not to think too much about the scratch of his throat, Tor dragged his feet against the sand, creating two rough lines. The trail left behind them by the dagger was long gone, swept away by the same sand and wind that had covered him where he’d fallen. Though they had rested for hours, it seemed about time for another nap…
Melda swallowed, the sound rough and dry. “Guys? I don’t think we’re walking in the right direction.” Her teeth knocked together. “I don’t even know what the right direction is anymore.” Melda, as usual, was right.
Tor tried to look more confident than he felt. “Let’s just keep moving.” But doubts filled his brain. If they really were moving in the wrong direction, they could very well die of dehydration before reaching another village. According to the map, the desert spanned dozens of miles.
“Can you see anything now?” Tor asked Engle. If he could zoom his vision, he might be able to tell them where to go.
His friend rubbed his eyes and blinked about a dozen times. He squinted, turned in a circle, then winced. “No,” he said. “All I see is hazy yellow.”
“It’s all right,” Tor said. “We’ll find our way.”
A few moments later, Melda broke into a coughing fit, doubling over. Puffs of powder came out of her mouth, like sand had been ground into her lungs. Engle continued to scrub his eyes to no avail and eventually had to lean against Tor, following his direction, blinded.
This would be a terrible way to die, Tor thought. He didn’t want to be buried in a desert for eternity. He supposed they were likely walking over bones right now…
No, he would not give up. He locked arms with Melda and pulled Engle closer to his side, then pushed farther, his friends stumbling next to him. This was his fault; they were here because of his wish.
It was up to him to get them out. He wouldn’t give up until he dropped dead.
Something echoed across the dunes.
It was the long screech of a bird. Loud, like it was sitting right on Tor’s shoulder. His first reaction was to wonder if it was real—or possibly a mirage.
Then, the screeching got louder.
Engle squinted at the sky. “What is it?” he asked.
Tor’s lips parted to answer, but nothing came out. Something just as silver as the moon flew overhead. Its feathers glowed through the darkness.
Melda stopped walking altogether. “It can’t be,” she said.
Tor blinked, waiting for the bird to disappear. But it didn’t, instead flying in circles right above where they stood.
“Well, what is it?” Engle asked.
“It looks like a silver falcon.”
Engle’s bloodshot eyes flew open. “A silver what?”
Tor was still watching the bird, a bird that shouldn’t exist—the mystical messenger of the wish-gods. After a few more circles, it started to fly away. “I think it wants us to follow.”
A fire of excitement lit up in his belly. The silver falcon was helping them—which only meant one thing.
Tor really was on a Grail.
The three of them took off after the spectacular bird, its silver wings cutting right through the night sky like metallic scissors. They did not travel feet, or even yards, but miles. Miles of moving without food or water for fuel, of periodically closing their eyes against the sand and then staring up at the falcon, using it as a guiding star.
They ran though their limbs ached; they gasped for air when their lungs threatened to burst; they kept moving though they thought their bones might simply break.
By the time the silver falcon finally slowed down, they were golden all over, a layer of sand coating their clothing—Melda’s dark hair was full of it. The small grains looked like salt.
Then, the creature stopped, still beating its giant wings, body fixed in place. It screeched happily, the sound like a cheer. When they were directly beneath the bird, they came to a stop, too. Tor swallowed.
There, in front of them, was a most welcomed color.
Green.
“An oasis,” Melda said.
And blue.
A long stream flowed before them, framed by rows of plants, impossibly tall flowers that stood hunched over, and miniature trees that held tiny fruits. By the time Tor lifted his head to thank the
bird, it had flown away.
Water—finally. Tor wanted to jump inside and never have a need to surface.
Engle picked a yellow fruit from one of the tiny, waist-high trees shaped like mushrooms. He took a bite and closed his eyes, its juices dripping down his chin, leaving streaks on his dusty face. Tor and Melda did not even stop to try one. Their eyes were fixed on the ribbon of water before them.
Tor took a trembling step forward, the lake pulling at him like they were tied together by yarn. His heart raced, his skin tingled, his toes curled.
And, without wasting another moment, he jumped in.
* * *
When Tor plunged into the stream, the sand washed free from his clothing, hair, and eyelashes. It even carried away the leftover plant powder color from his outfit. The water cooled his slightly pinked skin, healing it from the sun’s fury just as streams of bubbles exploded out of his nostrils.
It was much deeper than Tor had imagined. He sank until he felt like his organs might implode, and still did not reach the bottom. When he emerged, he savored the moment, eyes closed. Both body and mind were revitalized, revived, by the sleek, cool rush of water.
He opened his eyes.
The pool had burst into a thousand different shades. Ripples of lavender, indigo, rose, emerald, and gold spiraled away from their movements, sparkling. The water flowed as if it were alive, dancing across the surface. A kaleidoscope come to life, it was mesmerizing. Hypnotizing.
Tor drank the liquid, unable to help himself, and found it was deliciously fruity. Its flavor reminded him of the special tea his father made in the summer, infused with blueberries and fig. He cupped more in his hand and watched the confetti of color swirl in his palm. Tor drank it, then had some more, his thirst insatiable. Suddenly, the thought of drinking any other type of liquid seemed unbearable. Nothing compared to this.
Melda floated on her back, the water outlining her body in a vibrant purple. For just a moment, she looked relaxed.
Tor watched as she ducked her head underwater, her hair and ribbons creating a halo around her head as she swam to the other side.
“Okay, I think it’s time to go,” she was saying as she filled their canteens. He didn’t move. “Engle? Tor?”
Tor refused to look away from the water.
“Hello?” she said. Then, she said it louder.
But he didn’t want to answer. Couldn’t answer. It was as if his lips had melted together. He felt so drowsy, so heavy. Like a boulder about to sink to the bottom of a river…
“Engle?” Melda screamed.
“Come back in! It’s delicious,” Engle said, throwing his hands up over his head. “Delicious as a dream.”
“We don’t have time. Please just get Tor—”
“No,” Engle replied, matter-of-factly. “I think I’ll stay. I think I’ll stay forever.”
There was silence.
“It’s a captivate!” Melda screamed.
Tor felt someone hook a finger through his shirt. Engle. His friend started dragging him across the water, toward where Melda stood. But the closer they got to shore, the more Tor struggled, kicking and yelling.
“We’re in a captivate,” Engle told him, but the word did nothing to calm him. He fought to stay inside, attempting to dive deeper into the lake.
He didn’t want to leave. What could be better than this? He had always wanted to live in water, far away from school and the village’s rules. He could stay here, in the stream, swim every day and never have to go home…
Engle pulled harder, and suddenly, the water lurched in the opposite direction, taking Tor with it. The pool was trying to keep him. And he didn’t mind one bit.
“He has to leave of his own volition,” Melda said, helping Engle back onto land.
They screamed Tor’s name, and he heard them, but his eyes were glued to the water, its shades swirling faster now, colors erupting every second—a fireworks show just for him. Then came the singing.
Dozens of voices like strings of a harp, perfectly pitched and effortless, silk draped against silk.
“Oh no,” Engle said.
Thin tails peeked out of the water, then unfurled into fans. The creatures circled around and around Tor, creating a whirlpool. He was their dinner. Somewhere in the corner of his mind he knew that, but he continued to smile, enraptured.
“Do something!” Melda said, in a panic.
But there was not much they could do. Victims of captivates could only escape of their own free will. Tor could not be forced, but he could be convinced.
And no one knew him better than Engle did.
“Think about Estrelle!” he yelled. “You want to go back home, right?” Tor remained transfixed, his village far from his mind. “Remember the twinetrees, and your dad’s nutmeg bread! The cherry-berry ice pops! The emerald cream!” Tor didn’t move an inch.
“It’s not working,” Melda said, her voice shaking. They had all read about captivates and their melodines in Cuentos.
The beautiful creatures poked their heads up, their violet eyes shining as brightly as freshly cut gems. Their rose-colored lips mouthed the sweetest of songs. All that was left was for them to reveal their sharklike teeth…
“Remember Rosa!” Engle screamed. At the mention of his sister’s name, Tor turned his head. Rosa. He could almost see her lifeline in his mind…
The sea creatures continued to swim and swim around him, desperate.
“Remember Rosa,” Engle repeated.
Tor blinked.
“Her voice is far better than theirs.”
All at once, the spell was broken. Tor groaned.
The stream fell still. Colors disappeared. The music was gone, captured. And Tor, forehead crinkled as if awaking from a bad dream, floated through the waters, toward Melda’s outstretched arms.
The Pelilargas
Once upon a dark kingdom, there was a ruler who longed to marry a woman with long, beautiful hair. “I shall fill her locks with my treasures, to keep them safe,” he declared.
The town crier announced this news to the townsfolk.
In response, a maiden inquired: “Is he kind?”
“He’s a king, madam,” the crier responded, shocked at her question.
She blinked back at him. “I asked if he is kind,” she repeated.
“Of course,” he replied. “He is a good man. A man of honor and a fair ruler.”
At that, several women instructed their hair to grow, eager to meet such a king. Five springs passed, and the women arrived at the palace at last, hair so long their sisters walked behind them, carrying the rest of their locks in baskets.
But the king was not the man that had been promised. One look at his suitors and he declared, “I cannot decide. No matter—I have enough treasure to take all of you as my brides.”
Their hair began to be filled with gems of every shade: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls, and jade. And the women realized they had been deceived—for this king was not kind, just, or good.
“When it is dark, we will run away, and take the fool’s treasure with us,” one of the women told the others. And they agreed it was a good plan.
That night, the women fled—not only the castle, but the kingdom, afraid of being caught by the king’s army. They escaped into a jungle, hair wrapped around themselves to keep the gems in place.
Angry at the deception and pleased with the robbery, the women decided they did not wish to stop. They went from village to village, stealing treasure from foolish men.
They stole until their hair was heavy with jewels. More than enough to buy their own palace, far away from the king they once knew. But they wanted more. The gems had seeped into not only their hair, but their minds, filling them with an insatiable greed.
The women’s power grew and soon they could steal more than treas
ure—they were able to steal a person’s soul. They first targeted a group known for harming the jungle they often inhabited. Next, a man who had betrayed his entire family for power. The more tainted, the better.
Souls made their hair grow longer and stronger. Made them more powerful than gems ever had. They retreated into the mountains, leaving a trail of glittering stones as bait for unsuspecting travelers.
So the first pelilargas came to be.
Beware their hair, which they use not for holding treasure—but as weapons. And do not stare into their rotting eyes, two charcoal holes. For they see the darkest parts of a heart, before piercing through a soul.
11
The Scalawag Range
When the sand turned to rock and the horizon was blocked by a monstrous mountain range, the moon still hung in the sky like a giant pearl.
Finally, Melda spoke. “You skipped the story, didn’t you?” she said, quiet enough that Engle, who was a few steps ahead, didn’t hear.
He nodded, not meeting her eyes.
“Why?”
“I read the first part, I just thought—I thought it would save us time to skip to the next one.” He had forgotten the end. If he had read the part about the captivate, he would have been warier of the oasis.
“There are no shortcuts,” she said. “You said that. You said we have to follow the monster myths perfectly.” She looked over at him, and Tor looked away. He knew he had messed up. She shook her head. “It’s my fault, too. I should have realized we missed a story.”
As much as he wished she hadn’t brought it up, Melda was right. He needed to be more careful. Things were only going to get harder.
They should be sleeping, Tor thought, yet he didn’t feel tired. They had slept the day away in the desert, after all. And there was no time to waste. So even though Tor was sure the pelilargas were more frightening in the dark, they continued forward.
“What do we do if we see them?” Engle asked. He held their light bulb in his palm, the small ball looking like a magical orb. “Do I throw this at them?”