by David Arnold
At the bottom of the hill—by the river and the Cormorant, and partially hidden in brush—an old woman stands beside a dog. The woman’s hair is long and silver, her skin a watery white; she wears odd clothes, like a cross between a biosuit and a nightgown made of some reflective material I don’t recognize. She holds a large book in both hands, and even from here I see the firm but gentle grasp: the book is clearly precious to her.
The dog looks nothing like Harry. It is bigger, more wolflike, with gray fur and eyes the color of ice. And I’m suddenly reminded of those times with Harry when his eyes seemed like a deep well, and, looking into them, I found the soul of his mother at the bottom, staring up at me.
There is a well in this dog’s eyes too: it is deep and occupied and it takes my breath away.
We stand like that, staring at each other, as if someone had painted the moment into being. And then the old woman smiles, wind from the river whips her hair around—and I know who she is.
Slowly, she sets the book on the ground; and together, she and the dog turn north and are gone.
NICO
Nico waited patiently beside the pushcart. And when the swarm came, she did not run, did not take cover. Arms and face raised to the sky, she watched through the tinted visor as the bright winter sun turned black, as the mountains flooded in darkness, and the gently falling snow became an angry, buzzing army. The Flies brought the night, and they brought it eagerly. Arms outstretched, she let them come, let them cover her from head to toe, let them shroud her so completely that she could see and hear nothing but them. For a time it went like this, her boots hooked into the ground as if anchored to the bottom of the sea, the powerful current of Flies bearing down on her, and under it all, Nico smiled, knowing this swarm that was the death of all things would not be the death of her.
THE DELIVERER
At the river’s edge, I inspect the book left behind by the old woman. Its color is a relief: not red but worn gray. Leather-bound, it’s at least three times the size of a Red Book, and I know it will be heavy before I pick it up (though its heaviness seems less to do with weight and more to do with gravity). Embedded in the cover is a large circle, and inside the circle, a title: Atlas of Ages.
The sun is gone now, and in the rusty shine of a patina moon, I sit with my back against the Cormorant and begin to read: here are firsthand accounts of numerous geological anomalies separated by state lines, ruined cities, swarms great and small; here are methods of mastering the travel of time through water; here are maps and vivid details of families living in a secret place as older generations pass down truths hidden in tales. There are no dates, no action items, no incidental notes. This isn’t that kind of Book.
This is a story. And as the truth of the old woman sinks in—as beside me, the river calls my name—I understand that this Atlas of Ages is more than a story.
It is my story.
It just hasn’t happened yet.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve spent most of my writing career exploring the metaphorical ways in which art and story can save us, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before I explored their literal saving graces as well. And not just for my characters. In many ways, The Electric Kingdom was born in the fray, a child of pandemics and wildfires and systemic collapses—of the economy, of politics, of decency in leadership. On a personal note, while writing this book, I found myself in and out of the hospital with a number of medical issues. Some days, it felt like this book was trying to kill me. But then I would feel that magnetic pull to the light, and, as Nico and Kit and Lennon drew closer to their own versions of redemption in story, I felt myself being redeemed by story. But never alone. To that end . . .
Thanks to my agent, Dan Lazar, for his wisdom in asking the right questions, and his patience when I answered with deafening silence. To the whole Writers House team, including Victoria Doherty-Munro, Cecilia de la Campa, Alessandra Birch, and Jessica Berger—and to Josie Freeman and the film/TV team at ICM—a dramatic doff-of-the-cap to each and every one of you.
Thanks to friend and publisher Ken Wright, and to my brilliant editor, Dana Leydig, without whom this book would be a shadow of itself. A million thanks to my Penguin family: Elyse Marshall, Lathea Mondesir, Jen Loja, Felicity Vallence, Felicia Frazier, Carmela Iaria, Venessa Carson, Emily Romero, Alex Garber, Brianna Lockhart, Christina Colangelo, Rachel Wease, Kara Brammer; and those second-to-none sales reps on the ground, fighting the good fight, including (but not limited to) John, Allan, Doni, Jill, Colleen, and Sheila; to Theresa Evangelista, for yet another stunner of a cover; to copyeditors extraordinaire, Kaitlin Severini, Krista Ahlberg, Marinda Valenti, Nicole Wayland, and Abigail Powers; and to Opal Roengchai for the gorgeous internal design.
Many thanks to my early readers: Court Stevens, Becky Albertalli, Jasmine Warga, Justin Reynolds, Melissa Albert, Julian Winters, Kyle V. Hiller, Emily Henry, Bri Cavallaro, and Greg Weidman; Mindy McGinnis, whose knowledge of outdoor survivalist tactics saved the life of this book, and in the event of nuclear fallout, perhaps someday, the life of this author (I am both honored and terrified to call you friend); Jeff Zentner, for pushing me to create a fuller, more realized postapocalyptic world, and for his strange arsenal of bee-related knowledge; Ashley Couse and Margaret Buxton for their midwifery expertise; Brian Armentrout for virus-related terminology; Dan Garcia and Taylor Tracy for all things art related. Any errors or miscalculations in any and all of these areas are mine alone.
Thanks also to: Adam Silvera, less for Book Reasons, more for Heart ones; David Levithan, Victoria Schwab, Alex London, Silas House, and Brendan Kiely, each of whom, at various points in the life of this book, offered much-needed direction and wisdom; the OG crit group—Erica, Ashley, and Josh—for listening to a story about a bell tower in a farmhouse and not laughing it off; Shiloh, for making research way more fun than it has any business being; Beverly Peters, Daniel Peters, and everyone at the Millyard Museum in Manchester, but especially John Clayton, for his in-depth tour and exhilarating history lesson; George and Diane, whose view from the top of a mountain at Moosehead Lake sparked an idea; my brother, AJ, for feedback regarding MREs and “gun bullets”; Fred Mills and Greg Cason for the tour of Kentucky Theater (which is, literally, my favorite place in the world); the Nomads and the Lexington Writers Room, for local community; the good people at the Bookery in Manchester, especially Erynn and Jasmin; everyone at Joseph-Beth Booksellers and Parnassus Books; and all the booksellers, librarians, teachers, bloggers, and readers who’ve supported me all these years.
Thanks to the following artists and storytellers whose work inspired and, in a million small ways, saved me: Slow Meadow, Hammock, Hildur Guðnadóttir, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Max Richter, and the late, great Jóhann Jóhannsson; Carl Sagan, Emily St. John Mandel, and Ted Chiang; Yves Tanguy, René Magritte, and Helen Lundeberg.
Last but not least: Stephanie and Wingate. From the Big Plan to a galaxy far, far away, you guys are my team. Love you both so much. (Plus one.)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Arnold lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with his (lovely) wife and (boisterous) son. He is the New York Times bestselling author of Kids of Appetite, Mosquitoland, and The Strange Fascinations of Noah Hypnotik. His books have been translated into a dozen languages.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
ayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share