I want to keep looking at them when a voice startles me.
“What do we have here?” a smooth, silky voice, like the drizzle of honey, asks.
I turn around, but there is no one there.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says.
When I turn back around, everyone is sitting down, like I missed their movement in the blink of an eye.
Look twice, I remind myself.
At the head of the table, where the roots of the fallen tree create a high, twisted chair, is a man. His chest is bare. His skin is tan. There’s a tattoo of the sun over his heart. His face is stunning in that symmetrical way, like his maker carved him from stone and wouldn’t stop until it was perfect. But the truly startling part is the curved horns that sprout from his temples and sweep into twisting points around his head.
Gold, silver, and leather bracelets decorate his wrists, and dozens of bauble rings adorn his fingers like knuckle-dusters. My dad had a knuckle-duster from when he was younger. It’s in the bottom drawer of my mom’s dresser wrapped in a yellowing handkerchief.
“You like my rings?” the horned man asks.
“I’m not much of a jewelry person,” I say, and instantly hate how nervous I sound.
“Just the one,” he says, pointing at the moon around my neck.
“Are you hungry?” a girl asks. She’s got wild curls and light-brown skin that is run through with green lines, like a birch tree. She wears the same set of bracelets as the horned man. She points to three empty seats. “Join us.”
“Thank you,” I say, “but we were just resting. We didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Then keep on walking,” a girl mutters. Her skin is red as lava with splotches of black. Her eyes are dark and too far apart, giving her the look of a human salamander. When she huffs, smoke comes out of her nostrils.
“Rodriga,” the horned man says. His voice is hard and cutting. Everyone at the table jumps. “Is that the way we treat our guests?”
Everyone at the table looks down at their laps.
“Hey, now,” Nova says in his easy way. “No worries. We’ve still got a lot of terrain to cover. We’re heading to Las Peñas to mine for minerals. We’d best get a move on.”
“Do you know what happens to travelers who come here in search of treasure?” Rodriga asks.
On the other side of the table, one of the pixies is letting Rishi touch her iridescent wings.
“Enough,” the horned man says. “I am Agosto, Faun King of the Meadow del Sol, and these are my kin. We live here safely away from the wicked birds near the river and far away from the Bone Valle.”
I don’t like that he called the avianas wicked, but I stay quiet.
“I insist you join us,” Agosto says. “Regain your strength. You look parched and ready to fall over.”
Nova and I look at each other. I don’t want to insult this horned man. Behind the pleasantry, there’s steel in his voice. His knuckles are thick with calluses that come from repeatedly beating on things. Like my dad’s from his boxing days.
Nova holds my hand. He applies the tiniest pressure, but I know he’s urging me to sit. Make nice. Avoid ruffling any more feathers, so to speak. Then we can plan our escape.
“Okay,” I say. “But only for a bit.”
Agosto waves a hand across the air and a decadent banquet appears. “Eat.”
23
Se fue, mi’jita, past the unseable door.
If I listen to the wind, I can still hear her laughter.
—Claribelle and the Kingdom of Adas: Tales Tall and True, Gloriana Palacios
Dozens and dozens of plates appear across the table. The meadow people raise their arms and cheer. A lonely cloud momentarily passes over the sun, leaving us in shadow. My vision flickers for a moment; then the cloud passes by, and we’re basked in white fairy light again.
Nova and Rishi take the empty seats between two winged adas. The only seat left open is the one to the right of Agosto. He motions to the empty toadstool with his ornately decorated hand.
“I’m sure your journey has been exhausting,” he tells me. “The path to the mountain is not an easy one.”
I nod. Words. Where are my words? Looking at Agosto is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. He is perfect in his beauty and strangeness. He’s a wild, horned forest king and an angel all at once.
“I hope you find rest here,” he says.
The Meadowkin don’t need to be told twice to eat. They dig in to heaping piles of plump, purple fruits and down sweet mead. White, fluffy cakes drizzled with honey and sprinkled with fat, sparkling sugar crystals. Roasted meat sizzles, surrounded by tender root vegetables the color of blood and bone.
“Are you serious?” Rishi shouts from the other end of the table. A stack of fluffy roti appears in front of her. She rips it up and dips it into a cast iron pot of dal. “It tastes just like my mom makes it.”
Agosto leans back in his twisted throne, an ornate wooden goblet in his hand. His full lips curl up, showing he’s pleased. “We have everything you could ever dream of having.”
“That right?” Nova leans over the table. I’m afraid he’s going to say something offensive or rude. Instead he says, “Then I dream of a fat ass steak.”
“I’m so glad you said ‘steak,’” Rishi says with her mouth full.
And sure enough, a sizzling hunk of prime rib appears in front of him complete with disco fries.
A frail man with the head of a mouse leans over Nova’s plate. In his thin voice, he says, “Ooh! Looks good. Is that what you eat where you’re from?”
“Nah, I usually eat whatever’s on the dollar menu.”
The mouse man grins and stuffs his mouth with cake. His wrists are too small for some of his bracelets, and when one of them slips, I notice black-and-red wounds ring his wrists.
“Something the matter?” Agosto asks me.
I shake my head, trying to mask my worry when Rishi gets up from her seat and comes over to my side. She curtsies to Agosto, then sits with me. We barely fit on the same stool but that doesn’t stop her from trying.
“I want you to try this,” she tells me, holding a slice of fruit shaped like a perfect star. “These are my favorite in all the worlds.”
I take the sticky star in my hand. It’s perfectly green with a single seed wedged in the center. When I take a bite, juice rolls down my chin, and then we’re in a fit of giggles at our messiness. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand.
This place is a dream, a voice whispers. This place isn’t real.
But I want it to be real. I want to feel this happy always. I want to be in the light.
“I’m glad I’m here with you,” Rishi tells me.
This place brings out the warm brown in her skin, her shining eyes. Rishi has impossibly long, black lashes and perfect eyebrows I’ve not so secretly coveted.
“I wanted to tell you something else,” she says, “but it’s the strangest thing…the thought fell out of my head.”
Rishi’s always distracted. She’s like a magpie, searching for shiny, pretty things. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and goes back down the table, making new friends.
When Rishi leaves, Agosto returns his attention to me. He leans his face toward me with total interest.
“Go on,” he tells me. “I know there’s something you want to ask me.”
There are tons of things I want to ask him. Like, where does this food come from? Why do they all wear the same bracelets? Why does Rodriga the salamander girl seem to hate me? Even as she tilts her bowl of soup to her lips, her eyes never leave my face. What does Agosto know of the Devourer?
He waves his hand and a second wooden goblet appears. The liquid is dark and smells bittersweet, like berries gone too ripe. My tongue is so parched, and my belly makes hungry noises. The journey is catching up with
me, pressing down on my shoulders with a terrible ache. Why can’t I be like Rishi and Nova, happily eating and telling stories about where we come from? They make the streets of Brooklyn sound magical and wondrous. Why does it take being far away from home to finally miss it?
I drink from the wooden goblet. I’ve tried wine once, on a dare from Lula. It was Lady’s Alta Bruja wine and they were blessing a newly married couple. Just like that time, this wine causes me to scrunch up my face at the tartness. I look down the table to see if Rishi or Nova want some, but they seem to already have their own goblets, complete with rose petals floating atop the liquid.
Agosto finds my reaction to the wine amusing and laughs. I decide I rather like his laugh and the way tufts of pollen float around him. One gets stuck on his long lashes. I reach for it and free it. He watches me. Blinks. His smile is a riddle. His face is a dream. I can’t seem to take my hand away from his face. My fingers trace one of his horns.
I jerk my hand back.
“It’s okay,” he tells me. “You’re curious.”
I fear I’ve turned as red as my wine. “Why aren’t you in the Kingdom of Adas?”
He thinks on the question. Even his serious face is beautiful. He looks into his goblet like he’s searching for the right answer. I realize maybe that wasn’t the right thing to ask. In a world wholly new to me, that seems to hold so many secrets, what is the right thing to ask?
“We are exiles,” he whispers.
“Oh.” I bite my lip, searching for something to say. Then, because my brain seems to be on delay, I settle for, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He takes a small drink. The red liquid stains his lips. “It was long ago. We refused to bow to a vicious king, and so we left. These lands have changed over time, and our meadow grows smaller. But it is the only home we have. We’ve been here so long that I don’t consider myself as coming from the Kingdom of Adas but from here. Don’t you think it important to have a land to call your own?”
“I think so. My mother’s family were run out of their lands in Spain and fled to Mexico. My dad’s ancestors were African slaves in Ecuador. They went to Panama and then Puerto Rico. Somehow, my blood comes from all over the world and settled in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is my home.”
“Brook-lin,” Agosto says. “I rather like that word.”
I laugh wholeheartedly, right from my belly. It’s such a good feeling that I can’t remember why I don’t let myself do it more often.
“It’s so beautiful here.” I tilt my face to the light. I start to feel like I’ve forgotten something, but I’m not sure what. I realize my goblet is empty and I’m a little disappointed. But when I blink, it’s full again.
“You say you’re traveling to the mountains?” Agosto asks. “I should warn you. There are nasty giants in those parts. Oh, and do avoid the Laguna Roja, unless you can breathe underwater. Los Lagos might be home to me, but all places have their dangers.”
“Is the labyrinth dangerous?” I ask.
A sad smile tugs at his lips. He leans into his seat, a throne suited for the Meadow King. “No good can come from that place.”
“Have you been there?” My heart shoots up to my throat.
“Long ago.” Agosto takes his goblet and drinks deep. His lips are stained purple. “I was searching for someone. But the labyrinth has a way of taking you in and never letting go. It is a dark place, a damned place. I find it’s better to stay here, in the meadow, where I can always find the light.”
“What if you didn’t have a choice?” I press on. “What if you had to go back?”
The faun king laughs heartily. I love the sound of it. “Eat, now. You must be famished.”
I am hungry. Who knows when we’ll have food again on the rest of our journey? But there’s something wrong about the roasted chicken in front of me—the skin is perfectly crispy. The potatoes are soft and smothered in rosemary and sea salt. It’s just the way I like it. But when I lean forward, I don’t smell the rich spices.
I smell dirt.
The magic within me stirs. I press my hand over my racing heart. I’ve used more magic since we arrived than I have my whole life. I can feel my power getting restless, as if it had a taste of freedom and it won’t be caged again.
“Your power is calling to the meadow,” Agosto says.
How does he know that? “Do you have magic?”
He turns his head from side to side. “Once. It was taken from me.”
“By who?”
“My brother, the Bastard King of Adas. The last great thing I could do for my people was find them a new home.” He pats my hand gently with his. “There’s so much I wish I could do for them still—so much I’m willing to do.”
I take Agosto’s hand and squeeze. I can’t imagine that an immortal being such as him needs the comfort of a girl like me, but I know his pain. The feeling stirs inside of me until I start to feel like I’ll come undone.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing from the table.
“Wait.” Agosto takes my hand in his. Despite his calluses and scars, his touch is surprisingly soft. For a moment, I pretend he’s someone else. I look down the table, and the thought startles me so that I pull away.
“I’m just getting a little warm in the sun,” I assure him.
He kisses the back of my hand. “Don’t go too far. It isn’t safe out there.”
The sound of a snake hissing follows me as I walk away. When I turn around, Rodriga is leaning over Agosto’s arm, vying for his attention. She waves her arms in the air, but all he does is look into his wine goblet.
I start to walk down the table to Nova, but he’s on his second steak, and I’ve already forgotten what I wanted to ask him. Where are my thoughts going? It’s like Rishi said. They fell out of her head.
I walk to the edge of the meadow to find some shade. My stomach contracts painfully. I sit down and hit my head against the bark of the tree. Can it be that I’ve resisted my magic for so long that I simply just can’t recognize the difference between a stomachache and my own power?
“Lula,” I say. “I really need you to come back.”
It isn’t Lula who appears. It’s my mother. Right in the middle of the field. Her hair is still haloed by bright-red flowers that match her lips. Her white dress is stained with dirt.
I jump up to my feet. I need to run to her. I need her to forgive me. Need her to tell me I’m going the right way. I need my mom.
Just like Lula’s apparition, my mom flickers. Unlike Lula, she doesn’t stay. I run to her open arms but a shadow appears behind her. I can hear her shout my name once before she vanishes. My shaking hands close around air, and I can feel the magic pounding up from the pit of my belly. That’s my magic.
And it wants out. I listen to the heartbeat of the ground. It whispers a welcome. My magic builds in me like a song, and I let it play along my skin.
Listen, the little voice tells me.
What am I listening for? There is only a meadow full of laughter and cheer.
Look, the little voice says.
What am I looking for? There are my friends and the adas. There was a woman there. She was wearing roses. I felt like I knew her. I felt like…
“Encantrix.” Agosto calls for me, walking on powerful hooves. He takes my hand and helps me stand. As the sun and moon set, the meadow is bathed in firelight. “Are you well?”
“I’m better than well,” I say.
“I wanted to give you one last gift before you carry on with your journey.”
He hands me a wine goblet and offers me his arm. This time the wine isn’t bitter, and the roses coat my senses. Nothing coats the senses quite like roses, someone said.
“Journey?” My thoughts drift away like clouds. “I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere.”
24
The bleeding heart
c
annot survive the night.
—Bleeding Heart, Herbs, and Flowers, Book of Cantos
The dark brings out its nocturnal critters—owls with glowing, red eyes. Marsupials scratching their way up trees. Fireflies by the hundreds. The sky is painted the deepest blue, moonless, sunless, and covered in shooting stars.
Every time I blink, I see something new. Agosto leads me back to the center of the meadow, where a white fire erupts. There’s a great cheer, followed by music. A band of adas play instruments made of hollow branches and shimmering cobwebs. Agosto spins me in place, our fingers sparking with magic. Wine sloshes over the rim of my cup, and I bring my hand to my lips to lick every falling drop.
This is what a party is supposed to feel like, I think.
The Meadowkin and my friends gather around. Agosto bows in front of me and pulls me into a dance. I never dance. I never liked it before. A hazy memory sifts through my crowded thoughts: Lula and Rose dancing circles around me, too little and too happy to care about looking foolish. They would love this place. They would love to see me happy.
“There’s somewhere I have to be,” I say.
“I will get you there,” Agosto tells me. His large hands close around my waist and lift me into the air. “But first, there is someone who wishes to dance with you.”
Agosto bows again, winking at someone behind me. He holds his palms out and a flute appears. It twists at the ends like vines of ivy and has dozens of little holes. He brings it to his wine-stained lips and blows. I can’t imagine how something so delicate can make such a powerful sound, but it does.
“You owe me a dance,” Rishi says, tapping my shoulder.
My insides tickle, like the moment you plunge down a roller coaster. I walk around her in a circle. She rests one of her hands on her hip, her weight shifted to the side, all attitude. The gem of her nose ring winks at me from every angle. My little magpie.
“Would you accept a fairy fiesta to make up for the Ghoul Ball?” I hold out my hand. I’ve never felt this bold in my whole life. It’s like the magic is pulling the strings and I’m just allowing it.
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