by T.A. Barron
On the same day Shangri was captured, Atlanta sat on the front step of her home. As she sipped some fresh elderberry tea that Etheria had prepared, she watched a family of squirrels who sat poised in the branches of a nearby tree. The squirrels’ dark eyes studied Atlanta’s house with clear amazement, waving their tails and chattering among themselves—no surprise, since the house in question was a giant acorn.
“Yes, yes,” said Atlanta softly. “I really do live here.” Then, after a barrage of chattering, she added, “But you cannot.”
Seeing their tails droop, she shook her head. “You can’t eat it. Etheria would have an earthquake if you tried! And besides . . . my old friend Grumps, the squirrel who lives in the cupboard, wouldn’t hear of it.”
Several of the squirrels sighed sadly. Then, after another burst of chattering, the family scampered off.
Atlanta grinned, then took another swallow of tea from her burl mug. “See there?” she said in a raised voice. “It’s not necessary to frighten our guests—or smell like a huge pile of manure, as you did for those poor centaurs—to protect our privacy.”
The whole house, front step included, started to shake violently. The shutters on all the windows slammed in unison, scaring off a pair of larks who had just landed nearby.
“Go ahead and shudder,” said Atlanta calmly, as she tried to keep from spilling her tea. “But I’d like you to try—just try—to be a little more friendly to strangers.”
Etheria fell still for a few seconds—then suddenly shook one more time.
“Yes!” insisted Atlanta, now annoyed. “Including centaurs.”
From inside the acorn house, all the floorboards sighed.
“Good.” Atlanta shook some spilled tea off the sleeve of her gown of lilac vines. “Now I expect you to do better.”
She took another sip of elderberry tea. “After all,” she added, “you are quite simply the most intelligent and devoted house anyone could have.”
The shutters opened with a merry round of squeaks. From the chimney came a proud little puff that smelled like fragrant cedar.
Atlanta couldn’t resist a grin. “By the way, Etheria, do you have a slice of lemon? It goes so well with this elderberry.”
From the kitchen came a loud rattling, followed by the sound of cupboard drawers being opened and closed. As well as Grumps’s voice as he muttered, “Can’t anybody take a nap in peace around here?”
Just then, with a soft whir of wings, Quiggley flew out from the kitchen. Holding a slice of lemon in his tiny arms, he wobbled in the air from the strain of such great weight. Yet he managed to make it safely to Atlanta. With a final frenzy of wings, he dropped the lemon in her mug, then promptly landed on her wrist.
“Thank you, little friend.” She nodded at the faery as he shook some drops of lemon juice from his arms. “You are the best!”
Quiggley’s antennae quivered. Atlanta felt a wave of pleasure flow through her, enough to make her beam. “What would I ever do without you?” she asked.
The faery shrugged his shoulders as if to say he couldn’t imagine how she’d ever survive. Then he fluttered up to her shoulder. He settled close enough to her neck that she could feel the familiar brush of his wings on her skin.
Atlanta pulled the lemon wedge out of her mug and squeezed. As the juice drained into the tea, the air filled with the sharp yet sweet smell of lemon. She drew a deep breath, savoring the aroma, long one of her favorites.
All at once, the smell brought back a nearly forgotten memory: the freshly baked lemon pie Promi had given her on the day they first met. Hungry, lost, and huddled in a deserted alley, Atlanta had certainly needed that gift—more for the gesture of kindness than the pie itself. In that moment, she’d filled her nostrils with the aroma of lemon. Nothing had ever smelled so good.
Promi, she mused. Where are you now? What’s happened to you in the years since you left? And why, exactly, did you leave?
She sighed, blowing on her tea. For she knew the answer to the last question. You left because we fought.
Sure, Promi had acted like a selfish, wooden-headed fool on that day. Imagine being so cavalier about destroying the veil! He simply disregarded all the dangers.
Yet . . . I was just as much a fool myself. Atlanta peered glumly into her mug. If only you’d given us a chance to make amends. Or at least to try.
She shook her head of brown curls. For she knew that would never happen. Not now, after five whole years. Too much time had passed.
What I know for sure now, she thought somberly, is that whatever we had—or might have had—just wasn’t that important to you. Otherwise . . . you’d have come back at least one more time.
Against her neck, feather-soft wings quivered. Compassion flowed through her, a big wave to have come from someone so small as a faery.
She heard, in her memory, part of the unicorns’ saying about the human soul:
More tangled than the vine,
More mysterious than the sea.
Those words reminded her of Gryffion, the old unicorn who had paid her a visit not long after Promi’s departure. The newborn he described that day had grown into a strong young colt, full of bounce and curiosity about the world. She’d seen the young unicorn only a few weeks ago, frolicking on the Indragrass Meadows, his luminous horn sparkling in the sunlight.
She sipped some elderberry tea. Hard to believe, she thought, that such a joyful creature could have been born with such a grim prophecy.
Despite Quiggley’s trembling antennae, urging her not to think about the upsetting prophecy, she pondered those words. They’d been said both by Gryffion and the centaur Haldor. And no matter how many times she’d recalled them, they never lost their sting.
A terrible day and night of destruction.
Suddenly, a breeze rushed through the trees around her house. That, at least, was how it sounded. Yet no leaves stirred. Not a single tree bent with the rising wind.
For this, Atlanta knew, was no wind at all.
She set down her mug and stood. At that instant, hundreds of faeries—more than she’d ever seen in one place, even at the ancient Faery Glens—flew out of the forest. The sound of all their wings humming and whirring was so loud that Etheria slammed closed her shutters. Meanwhile, the air in front of the house glittered with vibrating little bodies.
Some wore translucent cloaks like Quiggley, while others sported purple vests, rust-colored leggings, or streaming green ribbons in their hair. Many wore hats made from cotton or flakes of bark, made with tiny holes so their antennae could protrude. But none of this colorful garb was nearly as striking as the faeries’ unadorned wings, which glowed like shimmering rainbows.
Atlanta watched, amazed by this whole experience. “What does this mean?”
Quiggley leaped off her shoulder and plunged into the flock of faeries. His antennae waved frantically as he communicated with the others—especially one blue-winged faery who seemed very distraught.
Seconds later, he buzzed back to Atlanta. Hovering before her wide eyes, he sent her a sharp pang of danger, urgency, and panic—all caused by something that was happening in the forest.
“Show me,” she demanded. “Take me there!”
CHAPTER 32
Devastation
As fast as she could, Atlanta sprinted through the forest. She followed the flock of faeries, trying her best to keep up with them. On her shoulder rode Quiggley, his antennae trembling anxiously.
Unlike the faeries’ flock—which moved like a shimmering cloud through the trees, hundreds of pairs of wings humming—Atlanta couldn’t just float through the woods. She leaped over streams, hurdled fallen trunks and limbs, and detoured around boulders and marshy pools. Ever mindful of her forest neighbors, she did her best not to disturb animal dens, nests on low branches, or intricate spiderwebs. But moving at such speed she crashed through many such obstacles a
nd once stepped in a snake hole, twisting her ankle. Though her ankle began to throb, she kept on running.
Finally, the cloud of faeries reached their ancestral home, the Faery Glens. This network of mist-shrouded pools and bubbling cascades among towering, majestic trees exuded magic—both from the place itself and the faeries who had long lived there. To those with understanding, this was one of the most sacred places in the forest.
Atlanta had always loved visiting these pools, sitting quietly for hours to watch the faeries frolic and explore and tend their young. Their glowing wings zipped through the swirling mist, soared through waterfalls, and turned spins in the air. Faeries made magical flowers sprout from the surface of streams, crafted sculptures out of mud or honeycomb, danced on rapids, and dined on the nectar of wild roses, irises, and tulips. All the while, they sang ethereal harmonies that echoed around the glens.
Today, however, the faeries didn’t sing or dance or do playful acrobatics. They merely slowed their flight upon entering the glens, then dived into hiding places under leaves or behind waterfalls. Whatever had frightened them so much was apparently so terrifying that they couldn’t bear to lead Atlanta all the way there. By the time the faeries brought her halfway through the area, most of them had vanished from sight; when she reached the northernmost pools, all the faeries had hidden themselves away.
Except one. Quiggley continued to ride on her shoulder. Since he’d learned from the flock what had terrified them so badly, he knew where to go. And though he couldn’t communicate to Atlanta in faery language (which was much too densely packed with meaning for her to comprehend), he could send her waves of encouragement to keep moving in certain directions.
Even so, Atlanta could tell that he was growing increasingly upset. He fluttered his wings nervously, sometimes even leaping into the air for a few seconds before forcing himself to return to his perch. His antennae quaked fearfully. And the shoes he’d made from hollowed-out berries clacked together nervously.
Suddenly, they reached a splashing stream whose banks looked severely trampled. By people! Fresh tracks from heavy boots marred the waterway, crushing patches of wild mint and strawberries, as well as destroying the den of a family of river otters.
Several trees had been toppled, felled for no apparent reason. One especially tall redwood had crashed down so hard that it had knocked down a dozen more trees. In addition, many branches had been intentionally broken off or marked with red flags, as if the whole area was being surveyed.
Why? asked Atlanta. Why would someone ever do this?
With Quiggley trembling on her shoulder, she pressed onward. The number of boot prints increased, as well as the amount of toppled trees. Then she saw, leaning on a boulder, a collection of axes, saws, and shovels. Beyond that stood an old willow whose dangling tresses hung like a leafy curtain.
Atlanta pushed through the curtain—and gasped. Quiggley squealed in horror.
Before them stretched a scene of unimaginable devastation. Vast open-pit mines exposed the rocks beneath, as if the very skin of the land had been ripped away and cast aside. Huge, lumbering vehicles drove inside the pits, scraping away more, while their engines shrieked and belched black smoke. Ditches and dams plowed across the landscape; only a few shrubs remained. Meanwhile, scores of men and women worked with shovels and wheelbarrows, hauling rocks, digging more ditches, and carting away unwanted soil and whatever plants had grown there.
Yet that wasn’t the worst of what Atlanta and Quiggley saw. A toxic, yellow pool sat right in front of them, bubbling like a poisonous broth. From it rose fumes that stank of rot and death.
On one side of the pool sat enormous piles of rocks and mine tailings. Teams of workers poured buckets of liquid on the piles—liquid that sizzled like acid and washed more chemicals into the basin. Meanwhile, a stream of yellow liquid poured into the pool from a building whose chimneys belched thick black smoke.
Workers scurried everywhere. Some, with shovels, labored feverishly to expand the pool’s size. Others hauled heavy loads on wheelbarrows between buildings. Still others, wearing uniforms of brown tunics and sea blue arm bands, bullied the workers constantly.
At least three of the workers staggered around, coughing and retching. Clearly sick from the toxic fumes, they looked too weak even to pick up their shovels. But uniformed supervisors continued to bark commands at them. When one of them collapsed on the mud, a supervisor kicked him until he rose to his feet again.
Suddenly they saw a new group of people moving toward the pool. Three supervisors were dragging someone, a red-haired girl, to the very edge! Despite all her struggles and shouts, she couldn’t stop them. Nor could she keep them from tying heavy rocks to her limbs.
A wave of horror flowed through Atlanta. They’re going to drown her in the pool!
Urgently, she looked around for some way to help. I’ve got to do something! But what?
On her shoulder, Quiggley shook uncontrollably. The entire scene struck his faery sensibilities with such violence that he reeled, almost losing his balance. His cotton hat slid off and fell to the ground.
Then, to Atlanta’s surprise, the faery sent her a burst of regret—telling her how sorry he felt for what he was about to do. Still shaking, Quiggley flew off. He plunged back into the safety of the forest, leaving her entirely alone.
Turning back to the girl in peril at the toxic pool, Atlanta dashed into the fray. Ignoring her aching ankle, she ran full speed—and crashed right into two of the men, knocking them over backward. One of them fell so near the pool that he took a deep breath of the fumes and started coughing uncontrollably, while the other hit his head on a rock and lay motionless.
The third man raised his whip and struck at Atlanta. Instantly, she jumped aside. The whip barely missed her and slashed the mud instead. But she landed on her sore ankle and fell to the ground.
The supervisor roared angrily and raised his whip again. Atlanta knew that this time she couldn’t escape, so she bravely locked gazes with her attacker.
Just then Shangri, who had managed to free herself from the rocks tied to her limbs, threw herself headlong into the supervisor. The force sent him sprawling. His whip flew into the pool, where it sizzled and then sank.
Atlanta sprang to her feet. Grabbing Shangri’s arm, she pointed at the observation tower that overlooked the pool. Understanding, Shangri ran for it while Atlanta hobbled behind. Quickly, both of them jumped onto the rickety ladder that ran up one side and climbed to the top.
As soon as she reached the platform, Atlanta had an idea. A bold, desperate idea.
Looking over the toxic pool and all the workers at the mining complex, as well as the scarred lands beyond, she focused her thoughts. And then she shouted.
“Stop this, all of you! Can’t you see what you’re doing? You are killing the land—and also yourselves!”
Most of the nearest workers froze, as did their astonished supervisors. Several men and women dropped their shovels or set down their wheelbarrows. For a brief moment, all heads turned to the pair of young women on the tower—especially the one whose words rang out across the complex.
“This land was healthy and beautiful,” Atlanta cried. “Now look at it! And look at yourselves—yes, do. Nobody can survive working here! You must stop!”
More workers dropped their tools. A few nodded their heads, while others looked nervously at their supervisors. One of the mining machines halted as the driver tried to understand what was happening. Then another voice rang out.
“Get back to your work, all of you!” ordered Karpathos. Tugging angrily at one end of his mustache, he glared at both of these intruders—the brazen young woman who had dared to slow his workers’ productivity, and Shangri, who had somehow escaped the punishment he’d commanded. From the platform’s railing, Shangri glared right back at him.
Raising his voice again, the foreman shouted, “Back to wo
rk, I say! Any laggards will be whipped and lose all their pay!”
Several of the workers grumbled, but picked up their tools. Supervisors stepped in, shoving and cursing anyone who dared to hesitate. One worker talked back and got slammed in the shoulder by a supervisor wielding a shovel.
Meanwhile, Karpathos commanded two of his uniformed men, “Get those girls down from there! They will be punished for what they’ve done today!”
Karpathos’s men rushed the tower. Swiftly, they scaled the ladder.
Knowing her time was short, Atlanta called again to the workers. “Listen to me, please! This is wrong, all wrong. You must stop!”
“Back to your jobs!” bellowed Karpathos, purple with rage.
“You don’t need to do what he says!” she urged.
Shangri chimed in: “All you need to do is stop!”
Atlanta shot her a grateful glance, even as Karpathos’s men reached the top of the tower. “Remember,” she shouted to the workers, “there are more of you than—”
A strong hand grabbed Atlanta by the arm and dragged her backward. At the same time, the other supervisor lunged at Shangri. She dodged him adeptly—and he tumbled over the railing. Immediately, Shangri pounced on the man who was trying to pin down Atlanta, and the three of them rolled to the edge of the platform.
Meanwhile, two more of Karpathos’s men started scaling the tower. In just a few seconds, they would reach the top.
Looking over the edge, both young women had the same idea. With a wordless glance, they kicked free from the attacker and shoved him backward on the platform. Then, before he could recover, they rolled over the side and started climbing down the wooden structure of the tower. Near the ground, they jumped off.
Caught! Burly supervisors grabbed them both, wrenched their arms behind their backs, and hauled them over to Karpathos.
The foreman glared at them, his whole body twitching angrily. “Vermin! Both of you will drown in the pool for this! But first . . . I want you to feel some added pain.”
He snapped his fingers. “A whip!”