by Kwame Mbalia
I blushed and muttered a good-bye, then hightailed it out of there.
Gum Baby scampered up and trotted alongside me as Ayanna, Thandiwe—with Chestnutt in her arms—and I exited the palace. “Gum Baby don’t envy you, Bumbletongue. Having to carry around something that small and annoying? Don’t seem fun at all.”
I patted her on the head. “I’m used to it by now.”
We walked back to the Mmoatia forest. Ayanna was limping pretty noticeably, so, to distract her, I practiced telling her the Maafa’s story. A promise was a promise, after all. When we reached the gates, we both stopped. Gum Baby looked between us, then scrambled up next to Chestnutt in Thandiwe’s arms. “Yeah…well…maybe your head isn’t as big as Gum Baby thought it was. So…Gum Baby hates good-byes. Right, Chestnutt?”
The little bunny wiggled her ears. “Bye, Tristan! You have to come back so you can see my Warren Society initiation ceremony.”
I gasped. “No way!”
“Yup, yup! They’re gonna make me a full member as soon as MidPass is rebuilt.”
I grinned. Good things happening to the best people (or bunnies, in this case) is the greatest feeling in the world.
Gum Baby gave an exaggerated sigh. “Enough with the sappy words, or Gum Baby’s gonna start crying, and nobody wants that. C’mon, Ridgey, take us to go chase some fairies.”
Thandiwe chuckled, then stepped forward and gave me the firmest handshake I’d ever gotten. “Farewell, Tristan. I will tell your story to the elders. And you will be admitted to Isihlangu with open arms at any time.”
“Later, warrior girl,” I said with a smile. “Or should I say, my princ—Ouch!” I rubbed my arm where she’d punched me, then waved as she and Chestnutt and Gum Baby took off into the leafy forest palace.
Ayanna fidgeted, and then, before I could say anything, hugged me tight. I hugged her back, and then she backed up. She looked down at the ground when she said, “You’re all right.”
I frowned. “That’s it?”
“Yep. Well, no. Here’s your hoodie. I…thank you.”
I took the rumpled hoodie and raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s all you want to say to me?”
She made a fist and shook it. “You need more excitement?”
“All right, all right.” I tried to think of something to say, something cool to end the good-bye on, and then shrugged. Why not? “Gaaaaah.”
A spluttering laugh escaped before Ayanna could stop it, and she rolled her eyes. “Bye, flyboy.”
I grinned and watched as she limped off to get some rest, and then it was just me.
“That was cute.”
Oh. Right.
It wasn’t just me.
“Shut up, phone,” I muttered and headed to the marina.
Gods. So freaking annoying.
JOHN HENRY AND HIGH JOHN waited for me by the beach. John Henry had his overalls rolled up around his knees as he stood in the water, hammering away at a bridge fashioned from the wreckage of fancy yachts. High John stood watching him, crunching noisily on an apple. The two of them together looked like uncles shooting the breeze at a family reunion. John Henry was all work, focused and determined, while High John…well, there was no defining him.
“Make sure you fasten them planks real secure-like, hear me?” said High John. “Last thing we need is someone falling in on the way home. Oh, hi, Tristan.” He put his half-eaten apple in his pocket. “Done with Mr. High-and-Mighty up there?”
I glanced back at Nyame’s palace high up the curving city streets. “Yeah, I guess so.”
High John muttered something and John Henry frowned. “Now then, ain’t no need for that sorta language. Not in front of the boy!”
“What are you doing?” I asked John Henry, walking up to the waterline.
“Ole Hammer Head decided to build a bridge from MidPass to Alke,” High John said with a drawl. “Figures he can bring us all together real cozy-like, sure he does.”
John Henry scratched his jaw and sighed. “It’s gonna take some time for MidPass to get itself right again. What with Brer—the real Brer—being out of sorts. Old Nyame said we could hang out here in the meantime. Don’t know if this bridge will do any good bringing Alkeans and Midfolk together, but I reckon it’s a start.”
High John grunted, then looked at me. “Well? What sort of light reprimand did our friendly spider god get? A time-out and a stern talking-to?”
I pulled out the Anansi phone and explained Nyame’s punishment. John Henry whistled, and even High John looked impressed as he said, “He’s trapped in there? Hmph. Well, maybe that Nyame fella’s got a bit more in him than I thought. Though how’s that little thing supposed to help you fix the tear? And if Anansi’s in there, how’s he supposed to get you up in the sky?”
I paused, my mouth frozen mid-answer. “That’s…a good question.”
John Henry chuckled as he returned to his hammering.
High John shook his head. “I knew it. Them Alkeans can’t button their pants without ten sets of instructions. Of course they leave it to us to figure out the hard parts.”
He whistled, and Old Familiar cawed and flapped down out of the air. The shadow crow messed with my hood, and I rubbed his beak before climbing aboard.
John Henry raised an eyebrow. “I see you got over your fear of heights.”
Oh. Right.
The crow actually planned to fly.
I wobbled on my feet and swallowed several times. “Actually, I didn’t, but thanks for reminding me. I’m just gonna…close my eyes.”
John Henry’s laugh created waves in every direction as he grabbed at his belly. He wiped a tear from his eye and waded over to hold out a giant hand. “Boy, I swear, I’m gonna miss your jokes. You be safe, now, you hear?”
I shook his hand, winced as he nearly crushed it, then grinned. “When I come back, I’ll bring you some Ali posters. And Sugar Ray Leonard, too!”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
He stepped back, and High John leaped aboard. Old Familiar cawed twice, and then we took off, flapping in a giant, gusty circle as we built up speed and climbed higher and higher.
As Alke receded below me, I studied it. The Golden Crescent glistened like a jewel, and behind it the Ridge stood tall, a wall protecting a treasure. Beyond the mountains, green hills and brown deserts and blue lakes came together in a mosaic of beauty. I could hear Alke calling to me, singing the song that connected the land to its people.
“Catch you later,” I whispered.
Outside the protective embrace of the bay, the Burning Sea flickered like dim coals. I didn’t see any bone ships. Had they gone down with the Maafa, too?
A misty landmass rose out the sea as we flapped higher. MidPass, most of it hidden beneath fog as thick as thunderclouds. I vowed to return to it someday, if only to see it restored to the home my friends needed it to be.
“Don’t fix your face too grumpy,” High John called, as if he could read my mind. Shoot, he was a god—he probably could. He smiled and turned to consider MidPass, too. “You’ll see it again. It’ll be right as rain, sure it will.”
We climbed higher still, and soon the roar of the burning rip in the sky filled my ears. It sounded like waves crashing against cliffs, like eight semi-trucks driving past at the same time, like a giant rush of wind that kept blowing and blowing.
“Hold tight now!” High John shouted.
I shielded my eyes as Old Familiar shot up through the bloodred flames. Heat pressed against every inch of my skin—a dry blast so hot that my sweat evaporated before it made it out, and yet the shadow crow made it with little effort. Helps when you have feathers made of darkness. We dodged flares and twirled between burning cinders, and still it grew hotter and hotter, until I thought this was a huge mistake, I couldn’t take it anymore, we’d melt before—
“We’re here!” cried High John.
We popped out like a cork, shooting high into the treetops of a familiar landscape. The cool air rushed
against my face as we arced above the branches, and the forest smelled like rain on freshly dug earth. It was nighttime, and save for the stars above, the burning hole in the ground near the Bottle Tree was the only light for miles.
Old Familiar landed twenty feet away in the clearing, and I hopped off. High John took a look around, impressed. “This your home, kid?”
I grinned. “You got that right. Alabama—you in Strong country now.”
High John doffed an imaginary hat and smiled right back. “Well, look whose britches decided to grow. My pardon, Mr. Strong.”
“If you two are quite finished, can we get this ridiculous ordeal over with?” Anansi’s tiny voice interrupted, full of impatience. “Some of us have work to do, and it doesn’t involve blathering about like bumpkins.”
High John eyed the phone as I pulled it out. “Bet my ax can cut that in half.” He climbed back onto Old Familiar and tossed me a casual wave. “Let me know if you need me to do that, you hear?”
“I will,” I called back.
“And don’t be a stranger! Them folks back home ain’t nearly as fun as you. Betcha we can stir up a right amount of trouble, sure we can!” He waved again, and Old Familiar shot into the air before tucking his wings tight and diving into the hole.
And just like that, I was—
“Finally,” Anansi grumbled. “Let’s get this finished.”
I sighed. He killed my buzz every time. But before I snapped back, a thought occurred to me. “What day is it? Brer—you—said that there was some time effect between Alke and this world.”
“Yes, yes,” the spider god said impatiently. “Time dilation. When the balance is disturbed—like when there’s a burning hole between realms—there’s no way to control the passage of time. Not that I expect you to understand that. Basically, the tear created a skipping effect, where a minute here is nearly three days there. Your High John and his feathered friend will return to find that nearly a week has passed.”
I checked the phone. Sure enough, it was the same night I’d left.
“I know it’s a complex topic, and I’ll be sure to go over painstaking details at a later time, after we clean up the mess you made, but right now…”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. What do I do?”
“I don’t know, I can’t see the blasted thing. This is your infernal creation. Figure it out!”
I held up the phone and studied it. The screen flickered on, and Anansi sat in his human form, leaning against the edge. Several app icons flickered into view above his head, and I raised an eyebrow as I recited their names.
“Anansi Tales, Web Search—ha, ’cause you’re a spider—Alke Maps, Listen Chile, Tristan-Don’t-Press-This-Unless-You-Are-Really-Bored…” My finger hovered over that one for a second, until I spotted one more in the top right corner. “Oh, what’s this? SpiderCam?”
I tapped the icon, and the phone’s camera filled the screen. Anansi yelped in surprise as the burning hole appeared near where he sat. He got up, intrigued. He walked around the screen, studying the tear as I aimed the phone’s camera lens around the clearing.
“Hold it,” he commanded. “Point your projection spell right here again.”
“It’s a camera,” I muttered.
“Point the camera spell right here, then. Yes. Hmm. I wonder…”
He walked to the tear and pulled a silver thread out of nowhere. His hands moved in a blur, and the bottom corner of the burning gash closed.
“Whoa.” I gasped. I moved the phone to see the ground with my own eyes, and sure enough, the hole had gotten smaller. “What is that stuff? That’s amazing.”
“Kindly keep the camera spell still,” Anansi snapped, “and it’s god silk, not that I expect you to know about such things.” He went back to work, and I watched the ground, rather than the phone, as near-invisible thread pulled the hole’s edges together tight with a puff of smoke. Before I could think of something slick to say in response, the tear was gone. A puckered dirt mound was the only evidence of the portal between realms.
“There, all done.”
I walked around the Bottle Tree forest, amazed despite Anansi’s smug tone. Say what you will about his attitude, the spider god had skills. All that trouble. All the violence, the fear, the pain. If only Anansi had…
A breeze rustled the trees, and the bottles on the branches clinked together. I frowned at the branch that had once held the large blue bottle. Cotton’s bottle. The broken shards still lay on the ground, and the thought of him coming back to terrorize me sent a shiver down my back. I’d have to replace that bottle, and fast. Maybe Nana had some more.
The wind whistled gently, sounding pleased.
“Well, come along, boy, escort me through this rustic wonderland of yours.” Despite the words, Anansi sounded peeved. “Twenty days can’t end soon enough.”
I thought about that as I started to walk back through the forest. This time the trees almost seemed to part before me, like they were being respectful. But that was silly. Right?
“Actually, that’s not exactly accurate,” I said.
Suspicion filled Anansi’s voice. “And just what is that supposed to mean? You heard the sky god just like I did. He said—”
“He said,” I interrupted happily, “‘a duration no shorter than twenty days…as Tristan sees fit.’” I emphasized that last bit as we stepped onto the dirt road leading back to Granddad and Nana’s house.
Anansi went silent.
Then:
“That no-good, sneaky, shiny-foreheaded, brass-eyed—”
I laughed as Anansi continued to fume all the way down the path. The edge of the sky began to lighten as morning crept up on the Strong family farm, just enough to do a bit of reading. Something Nyame said back when he’d confined the still-complaining trickster god. Let the stories of your world fill it once more, he’d said. Well, I knew just where to start.
I pulled out Eddie’s journal. It was wrinkled and battered and just as valuable as the magic phone I held next to it. I opened the Listen Chile app and grinned when a button labeled RECORD appeared. I pressed it and cleared my throat, then opened the first page in the journal.
“Once, the people had no stories….”
So there you have it. The tale of the tape. The story of how I went twelve rounds with an evil spirit and won. Stop the fight, ref, he don’t want it with me.
I’d continue the analogy, but truthfully, I had a lot of people (and gods and creatures and one annoying doll thing) in my corner. I didn’t do it alone. And if the adinkra bracelet tingling on my wrist was to be trusted, I’d need my people in my corner again real soon. But it’s cool. I’m ready. I can go another twelve rounds.
’Cause at the end of the fight?
I’ll still be standing.
Still punching.
Still Strong.
My name is Tristan Strong, and I’ve got a story to tell.
It takes a village to raise a child, and a book is no different. Tristan’s story would not have been told if it weren’t for a bunch of people in my corner.
Thank you to all those who came before me, who paved the way for me to write and tell stories, who guided my hands, who lifted and shielded me, my own forebears. To the Nanas and the Granddads. To the nameless and missing. To the taken and stolen. To the stories that came from them and came with them.
To my mother, Doreatha Mbalia, my first critique partner and biggest fan.
To Cake Literary (Dhonielle and Sona, especially) and Disney Hyperion (Steph!), who offered me an opportunity to bring the stories of my childhood to life.
To the staff: the copy editors, the designers, the publicists, the marketing and sales teams, the assistants, and everyone else involved in bringing books to the masses, who often go unappreciated and unrecognized.
To Rick Riordan, whose books redefined the way mythology and folklore could be told.
To the many writing groups I’ve joined, whose encouragement pushed me through times of uncertainty
and self-doubt. The Slack groups, the Discord groups, the retreat groups—you all pulled me forward.
To the chat groups whose advice I repeat to everyone who will listen, and to the chat groups whose comments I will deny ever having read.
To my friends and family, whose love and support give me energy.
To my first beta readers: my daughters.
To my wife, Mallory, whom I do not deserve.
And to my father, Ahmed Mbalia, who we called Baba, who passed several months before I started writing this book, and yet whose words still ring in my ear to this day.
is a part-time pharmaceutical calibration tech, part-time writer, and full-time dad. Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky is his debut novel. He lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, where he is working on another book about these characters. Follow him on Twitter @KSekouM.
, dubbed “storyteller of the gods” by Publishers Weekly, is the author of five New York Times #1 best-selling series, including Percy Jackson and the Olympians, which brings Greek mythology to life for contemporary readers. Millions of fans across the globe have enjoyed his fast-paced and funny quest adventures. The goal of Rick Riordan Presents is to publish highly entertaining books by authors from underrepresented cultures and backgrounds, to allow them to tell their own stories inspired by the mythology, folklore, and culture of their heritage. Rick’s Twitter handle is @camphalfblood.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at The Storm Runner by J.C. Cervantes!
1
It all started when Mom screamed.
I thought she’d seen a scorpion, but when I got to the kitchen, she was waving a letter over her head and dancing in circles barefoot. After a year of being homeschooled, I was going to get to go to school again. Did you catch that word? Get. As in, someone was allowing me to learn. Stupid! Who put adults in charge, anyway? But here’s the thing: I didn’t want to go to some stuffy private school called Holy Ghost where nuns gave me the evil eye. And I for sure didn’t want the Holy Ghost “shuttle” to come all the way out to no-man’s-land to pick me up. Mine was the last stop, and that meant the van would probably be full when it arrived. And full meant at least a dozen eyes staring at me.
