by J. F. Penn
Bridget heard Sienna’s words as if she was under a swimming pool, the sounds muffled and dense. She felt the young woman’s hands on her wounds and the mingling of their blood from a wound on Sienna’s palm. She was a powerful Blood Mapwalker, only just beginning to know her powers, but there was a darkness, too. The Shadow had its hooks in her and Bridget knew how good that felt.
But it would not win here today.
For in the mingling of their blood, Bridget saw the camp in the Borderlands, she witnessed the plague rats and Elf’s power, the death of Xander and his lion — and Finn’s face as he turned his back on love. Just like John as he walked out the library.
This Mapwalker life had taken everything from them both, but they couldn’t stop now. Sienna was right. Closing the border was the only choice until the plague burned itself out in the Borderlands and they had the magic on Earthside to stop the Shadow.
From all her study in the annals of the Mapwalkers, Bridget knew that the border had only been closed once before centuries ago. She had read the annals about that occasion once but the details were hazy. There were great risks to both worlds in closing the borders but there was no time to review them now.
Bridget took a deep breath and relaxed into the pile of maps, letting their bulk take her weight. They softened around her in welcome and she sensed the possibilities in her new life.
“I’ll do it,” she whispered.
Bridget closed her eyes and reached out with her mind through the loops and byways and mountain ranges of the cartographic world. She sensed the line of the border between worlds battered by the plague-infested hordes and on the other side, Earthsiders walked unaware of the danger. Perhaps it was time they knew of what lay beyond. But for now, the Mapwalkers would uphold the ancient pledge — For Galileo.
Bridget poured her blood magic into the border, strengthening the line until it pulsed a deep scarlet, rising up to new heights and thickening to a huge wall as the border slammed shut.
In the far distance, she heard a howl of rage, a thousand thousand tormented souls trapped inside the Shadow, lost in the darkness. There would be a reckoning, but not today.
25
Two weeks later.
Sienna lay on her back on the polished wooden floor of her grandfather’s flat above the map shop. The sun streamed in through the high windows and lit her skin with the warmth of summer. Bath was blooming, the blossoms lay thick on the trees, birds sung in nearby Victoria Park and tourists strolled the streets with no inkling of what had almost befallen this land.
After such an intense mission, time apart from her friends was strange but necessary. Mila worked on her canal boat, repainting the decorative lines of the winding waterways as her spaniel, Zippy, lay ever watchful by her side.
Perry helped Sienna’s father and others from the Ministry repair the damage to the library. They worked around Bridget who was still getting used to being tethered to the maps. She kept trying to walk out the door only to be pulled back into the scrolls. Sienna had caught her weeping more than once since the day she had made her choice and closed the border.
She sighed as she thought of Finn and the last time they had spoken, his rage at her justified, of course, but the pain still lingered. This was her home and she had saved it — but at what cost?
They had no way of knowing what was happening in the Borderlands now. Had the plague decimated the innocent? Had Sir Douglas stopped it with the help of Elf, or had her dark magic turned to creating even worse horrors?
And where was Finn? In the arms of Jari, the warrior woman, or sacrificed at the hands of his father, the Warlord?
Sienna had to get back over there. Somehow, she had to find a way without jeopardizing Earthside. She looked up at the shelves above, her grandfather’s journals stacked in neat rows, full of diagrams and his thoughts over a lifetime of mapwalking. She thought of the Nubian woman, the Librarian, a love lost over the border, just like her own. It was time to get to know her grandfather better and perhaps she would find the answers to her own problems in his journals.
As she lay back, she noticed another book on the floor beneath the shelves. Sienna turned over and reached as far as she could underneath the bookcase and pulled it out. She dusted it off and noticed the number on the spine: 24.
The missing journal.
She opened the first page and began to read about something called the Map of the Impossible …
THE END
Author’s Note for Map of Plagues
Thanks for reading Map of Plagues. I hope you enjoyed the adventure. I always like to include an Author’s Note in my novels as I love the research process as much as the creative part of writing.
You can find images used in my research on my Pinterest board:
www.pinterest.com/jfpenn/map-of-plagues
Bath and finding home
When I wrote the previous book, Map of Shadows, we had just moved to Bath in the South West of England.
I found it difficult at first and struggled with a place that seemed almost too perfect, a heritage city of Roman and Georgian grandeur as well as natural beauty. I’m a happy person but as a fan of Stephen King’s books, I can’t help but think that everywhere has a dark side! After all, Mary Shelley wrote most of Frankenstein here in Bath, so it definitely has a shadow element.
You can find more of my thoughts and pictures at www.booksandtravel.page/unusual-bath/
Writing Map of Shadows helped me understand Bath in a deeper way and I found my dark side again, then as I wrote the first draft of Map of Plagues we bought a house here. In a reflection of my own journey, this book shows Sienna settling on her own home in Bath and Mila questioning where her true place might lie.
At the same time, I also started a new podcast, Books and Travel, which is all about my search for a home and the places I have traveled along the way, as well as interviews with other authors about the places that inspire their stories.
Check it out on your favorite podcast app or at www.BooksAndTravel.page.
Other places that inspired the story
The prologue describes a plague pit behind the Tower of London near the Royal Mint. This is a real site as documented on the London Plague Pits Map and excavations date the bones to 1348–1350.
Like many bibliophiles, the ancient Library of Alexandria is one of those places that I long to visit. I couldn’t help but write it in.
The Scryers are influenced by The Dark Crystal film, which I saw when I was seven years old and remains one of my recurrent nightmares. My little brother used to chase me with his hands like claws shouting, “I’ll suck the life out of you.” I hadn’t thought of it for years but a new film, The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, is being released in 2019, and I happened to see a trailer and those nightmares emerged once more.
Ganvié Island is a real village built on Lake Nokoué in Benin but, as with Aleppo, I had it straddle the border between worlds. I wanted Mila to discover a glimpse of her possible ancestry and maybe she will even return to Ekon in another story …
The city under the waves was based on an underwater city found in the Gulf of Cambay in India, thought to be from 9000 BCE, which would make it the oldest civilization on earth. I recently narrated my own audiobook of The Dark Queen short story and found myself immersed in underwater archaeology once more.
Aetofolia, the eagle’s nest, is based on Meteora, a Greek monastery perched on the side of the cliff, and also the landscape of the Zhangjiajie National Forest Park in China which was used as the inspiration for Pandora in Avatar.
Themes
I wrote the previous book, Map of Shadows, after the Brexit vote in the UK. The theme of borders and being denied access runs through that story.
In a similar way, the news since has been filled with stories of refugees from war, climate change or those just searching for a new life with more opportunities. As countries build walls and strengthen borders, many refugees are turned away and it’s not too much of a stretch to thin
k of them ending up in the Borderlands. Perhaps there is an answer in Map of the Impossible?
“Pulvis et umbra sumus.
We are but dust and shadow.”
Horace, The Odes
* * *
“There is nothing impossible to him who will try.”
Alexander the Great
Prologue
Fongafale, Tuvalu, South Pacific
The earth shook once more, a tremor more powerful than the last. A deep rumble sounded from beneath the ground as if the gods wakened in anger, and Meihani clutched a nearby palm tree with gnarled fingers to hold herself steady. The rough bark scraped against her skin as she tried to stay upright. She was old but a lifetime of walking the island had strengthened her limbs and as she braced herself, the shudder passed beneath her.
It would not be the last.
Something had changed in recent weeks, a shift in the cycles she had seen in her long life. The earth was broken — and they would all pay the price.
Meihani looked out over the waves to the horizon across the tiny cove. She stood just around the bay from where fishermen launched their boats, hoping that today would bring enough food for their families and maybe even some to sell at the market. She walked here each morning as first light struck the water and every day, she thanked the gods she was still alive. At her age, there was no guarantee she would greet the dawn once more.
Meihani breathed in the salty air, relishing every inhale and exhale. She had witnessed the final moments of so many as an elder of the village. The wracking coughs of the old, the tiny sighs of the too-early born and too soon to pass. So many souls ahead of her on the ancient path and still each day she rose once more to greet the dawn. She said a prayer to the god of the ocean, her lips moving as she whispered words of thanks and supplication.
The waves were grey green, reflecting the thick clouds gathering above, and the sun hid behind a storm front, its light and power dimmed by a force that would sweep over the island before midday. Meihani could read the signs as easily as others read the newspapers that came over from the mainland. She understood the moods of the ocean and from this vantage point each morning, she could judge her daily walk.
On soft days, when the waves were gentle, she shuffled off her shoes and paddled in the water, sinking into the sand and wiggling her toes like she had done since she was a girl, delighting in the pleasure of sensation. On wild days, she would stand here by the thick palm, both of them grown strong over the years they dwelled on the coast. The wind could howl and the waves pound down, but she was safe up here as rain pelted the green leaves above her. On those days, she would remember how wild she had once been, surfing on a hand-carved board, diving amongst the rocks, almost made of seawater. The ocean was in her veins and Meihani knew it more intimately than any lover.
Today, something was very wrong.
The ground shook again with a deep rumbling under the earth. A horde of tiny crabs emerged from the sand, shaken loose from the golden grains. They scuttled for shelter under the palms up the beach, their skittering legs leaving tiny marks in the sand that were quickly shuffled away by movement from the depths beneath.
Meihani frowned. That was odd. The creatures should have run for the waterline and sunk beneath the wet sand once more. Out in the open, they would be easy prey for the gulls, flipped over, legs wriggling while sharp beaks tore the soft flesh from their undersides as they were eaten alive.
She looked up, expecting to see eager birds wheeling toward the ready feast. But the flocks overhead flew inland to the hills, calling to one another with shrill notes on the edge of a scream. When birds and beasts fled inland away from the water, the danger was out to sea. This ancient wisdom had never failed her ancestors and Meihani knew she should hurry back to the village, tell them all to run for higher ground. She looked again to the horizon. Perhaps it was only a storm and besides, warnings from the old were rarely heeded unless danger was imminent. She would wait a little longer.
The tremors had been coming for days, some sharp blows that knocked her off her feet like the fist of her husband on nights when he had drunk his weight in beer. Others had been soft and gentle, like the arms of her loving mama. Both dead many years now, but neither forgotten. Meihani could still remember everything from back then, even though these days she often forgot where she put her glasses, or the names of her various grandchildren when they came so infrequently to visit from Fiji, a world away from her quiet life. Her body may be stooped and wrinkled, folded by time, but this physical frame would not cage her mind — and on this beach every day, she was briefly free. A spirit of the ocean once more.
Another rumbling deep below the earth.
A jolt. A dip as the ground seemed to fall away.
Meihani’s stomach dropped, and she gasped as a terrible realization rose within. She looked back at the path to the village, knowing that her legs could not carry her fast enough now. It was too late.
The water receded with a wet sucking sound, leaving sea creatures in its wake, like the ebb of the tide but so much faster. Parrotfish flopped on the sand and arched their spines in desperation for water, mouths gaping open. Jellyfish pulsed their last as they lay stranded next to coral-tinted cowrie shells. A turtle clawed at the sand, head poked out, eyes wide as it stared around in confusion.
The sea withdrew further, revealing sand and rocks that had never been uncovered before in Meihani’s lifetime. Then the skeletal hull of a wooden boat, barnacles clustered on its spars, rainbow anemones dying as they met the air, colors fading quickly.
Still the water sucked back, further and further.
Words came on the wind, whispering to Meihani in her Mama’s voice, spoken from her deathbed as she took her last breath. “If there is danger, child, cross over. The Borderlands will always welcome you.”
Some thought the Borderlands were a myth, but Meihani knew there was a place off the edge of the map where displaced people could find a home. When she looked to the sea some days, she glimpsed what might be a shimmer of a veil between the worlds.
Many in her village could sense some kind of border out there, perhaps descendants of those who had crossed long ago, leaving some latent gift in generations to come. But in recent weeks, they had spoken in whispers of it closing, a sense that the barrier in the sky and in the ocean had become blocked. Some dismissed their words, others stored up provisions in case of disaster. But none had seen this coming.
Meihani gazed at the track toward the village. Her footprints still lingered in the dust, marks made every day for the span of a life. Times had changed, but the ocean remained her constant — and now she knew it would be her end. She turned away from the village, putting the past behind her, and looked out to the waves as they pulled back still further.
Their island was low-lying, one of many threatened by the rise of oceans and vulnerable to natural disaster. They had been encouraged to leave, but this was their home. There was nowhere else to go. Meihani had hoped to die before the end of the island, but it seemed like fate would entwine them in a lover’s embrace.
She pushed away from the palm and walked slowly down the beach, kicking off her shoes and wriggling her toes in the wet sand. A smile transformed her features into those of a young girl once more. She relished each footstep, an imprint on the ocean floor that disappeared even as she walked on. Manoko fish died around her, flopping their last, as she picked a path through the arms of death.
She reached the ruins of the fishing boat and touched its spars. Her father had once sailed something like it, his face ever set to the sea. Sometimes he would let her go out with him and she would sit curled up in the bow and watch for dolphins, shouting with joy when they swam ahead, leaping before the wave. He always told her that the sea was their life and their death, and that was as it should be for an island people.
Meihani looked past the boat to where the water towered high against the horizon, sucked back into a giant wave the size of the American skyscrapers she
saw on TV shows. Such a thing was incredible to behold, but those who saw it this close would never tell their tale. That was certain.
Part of her wanted to keep walking toward that wall of water, to welcome it with open arms like the wild teenager she had once been, screaming her fury into the storm. But the little girl inside was afraid.
Meihani reached up into the boat and pulled herself toward the bow. Her arms were weak but her old body was frail and light so it wasn’t too difficult. The wood was wet and cold but she had spent much of her life that way, so it wasn’t a hardship to curl up in the corner of the bow, her face toward the island that held so many memories.
The smell of salt and kelp filled the air as the roar of the ocean grew to a deafening sound. A rush of oncoming horses charging into battle, a hail of rain and thunder. The first drops of the tsunami fell upon her face. As it towered above, Meihani closed her eyes, her palms against the wooden hull beneath her as she waited for its final embrace.
BBC News Report
A tsunami struck the low-lying island of Fongafale in Tuvalu today in the aftermath of a deep-sea earthquake off the coast. The entire island remains underwater with several villages and a resort submerged by the flood. Casualties are reported to be in the thousands and no survivors have been found.
Military vessels from Australia and New Zealand converged on the area to help the Tuvaluan police recover bodies from the waves, but the operation has been hampered by ongoing tremors in the region and stormy weather conditions.