Journey Across the Hidden Islands

by Sarah Beth Durst

Awake.

  “You could have fallen off the cliff,” Ji-Lin told her. “If you’d collapsed at the edge, you could have tumbled off and hit your head or fallen into the sea. I wouldn’t have gotten to you in time. That was stupid.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Seika said automatically. She pushed herself up to sitting. “Whoa, everything’s spinning. Ji-Lin, what happened? Why am I on the ground?”

  Ji-Lin waved a bunch of irina flowers in her face. “You ate sleep flowers. You’re lucky you aren’t a bug. That’s how they catch their prey. Bugs eat the petals. Bugs fall asleep. Flowers eat the bugs.”

  Seika sprang up to her feet. “They’re carnivorous flowers?”

  “The petals put you to sleep; the stems wake you up.” Ji-Lin tossed the flowers away. “Didn’t your tutors teach you anything? Oh, I forgot, you have excellent table manners.” Seika should have known better! She could have died! “Just . . . come back to camp. Away from the cliffs. Away from the pretty flowers, before you hurt yourself.”

  Before she said anything else ugly, she pivoted and stomped back toward the tent. Or what should have been a tent. Right now, it was a flat piece of fabric and a bunch of bamboo stakes. Someone clever had put a tent in the pack in case of emergency, but no one had thought to include instructions or teach Ji-Lin how to assemble it. She squatted next to the bamboo and glared at it. It would have been better if she had extra food in the packs. She’d happily trade this useless tent for a handful of nuts. One of the winged lions must have overseen the packing—​they must have assumed the princesses could hunt for their food, like a lion.

  “Maybe . . . maybe I can help?” Seika asked.

  “You’ve done enough helping.”

  “But I—​”

  “Just don’t eat anything poisonous for the next ten minutes. I have to think.” Obviously, the fabric went overhead, and the poles held it up, but she couldn’t tell how exactly they connected. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Seika sitting as still as a statue. Her face was as expressionless as their father’s. “What?”

  “I said nothing.”

  “You were thinking. Loudly.” Ji-Lin crossed her arms and glared at Seika.

  “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  She sounded so very sorry that Ji-Lin felt like a kite without wind, fluttering to the ground. She dropped her arms. It was impossible to be angry with Seika when she sounded so meek. Ji-Lin felt like she’d been kicking a kitten. “Oh. Well, you did. I thought you were dead.”

  In a light voice, Seika said, “At least I know you don’t want me to die.”

  She was making a joke? About this? Ji-Lin threw her arms in the air. “Of course I don’t want you to die!” She let out a short scream and then stomped away. She paced on the edge of the plateau. A few stars were poking through the blue. The sun was only a streak of red on the horizon, and the sea was a deep red in front of it, as if the sun had melted into the sea.

  A sunbird was flying low over the water, sparks from its wings sizzling in the waves. The sparks ate along the feathers, until the bird’s feathers turned to char. The bird shook itself, and the burnt feathers fell as dust into the water. Ji-Lin watched as the bird began to plummet—​and then new feathers sprouted impossibly fast, reaching full length just as the sunbird hit the water. An instant later, the phoenix-like firebird burst out of the water, with brand-new plumage and a fish in its mouth. Sparks once again began to play on the tips of its feathers.

  She saw Alejan just beyond the sunbird. He flew closer. He too was fishing in the waves. She watched him dip low and smack his paw into the water.

  She watched him fish until she felt calmer. And then she walked back to camp. The tent was up—​lopsided, but up—​and Seika was standing beside it, a bamboo pole in one hand and her tiara in the other. She had a smudge of dirt on one cheek.

  “It’s not exactly right—​” Seika began.

  “It’s perfect,” Ji-Lin said. She didn’t know why she felt like crying. But she blinked quickly to clear her eyes and pretended to study the tent construction until the feeling passed.

  Anxiously, Seika watched Ji-Lin examine the tent. Her sister let out little hmms and snorts and other noises. She looked at the leftover bamboo pole that Seika held and then shoved it in one of the sides, diagonally, until the tent stood straight.

  “It’s a nice tent,” Seika said.

  “We should dig a latrine too, somewhere behind it,” Ji-Lin said.

  Seika wanted to agree—​anything to keep Ji-Lin from getting angry again—​but she had no idea what that was. “A . . . what?”

  “A place to, you know, pee.”

  “That’s . . .” She failed to think of a word that fit what she thought. “. . . a practical idea.” Plumbing in the palace was a marvelous mystery, and she liked it that way. But she followed Ji-Lin’s lead, picking up a flat rock and using it to dig a hole away from the tent. She wondered what they’d use for wiping paper.

  As they finished, Alejan landed. He opened his massive jaws and spat out three fat fish. “Behold, the mighty hunter has returned!” He pranced in a circle around the still-flopping fish and then posed next to his catch. Behind him, the sun had set completely, leaving the sky a burnt orange on the horizon and a deep blue overhead. Silhouetted in front of the orange, he almost glowed.

  Seika got the sense she was supposed to clap. So she did.

  He looked pleased.

  Ji-Lin rolled her eyes. “They’re very nice fish, but we can’t eat them without cooking them.” She looked at the fish with distaste. “I hate fish, but it’s better than starving. Thank you, Alejan.”

  Seika recognized them, from a book, of course—​she wasn’t allowed to handle raw fish in the palace, or any other uncooked meat. She’d never even wielded a kitchen knife. “These are silverfish,” she said. “Do you know how to make a fire?” She wondered how one got the fish meat out of the fish itself. She knew you weren’t supposed to eat the scales.

  She wished the fish would stop flopping.

  “I . . . think I know. You rub a stick against a flat piece of wood.” Ji-Lin drew her sword. “Let me just first . . .” She walked toward the three flopping fish, and Seika shut her eyes. She heard a wet sound and wished she could unhear it, even though she knew it was cruel to let the fish just suffocate in the air and even though they planned to eat them anyway. She missed the palace kitchen, where all the food was made pretty before she ever saw it.

  “I can find wood,” Seika offered. Not looking at the fish, she held up a hand to stop Ji-Lin from saying anything. “Don’t worry. I won’t eat any flowers.”

  Searching around the camp, she picked up branches and twigs. After she had an armful, she carried them back and dumped them in a circle of rocks Ji-Lin had made. Thankfully, Ji-Lin was done cleaning the fish. Alejan was happily nibbling the heads.

  “Not like that,” Ji-Lin told Seika. “You need to create a pyramid of sticks, add in tinder . . .” Seika felt herself begin to smile as Ji-Lin began rearranging the sticks, laying the larger branches to the side and creating a structure within. Glaring at her, Ji-Lin said, “Are you laughing at me?”

  She blanked her smile. “No. It’s just . . .” She’d never thought she’d see her twin acting so much like an elderly tutor. She decided not to say that. “How do you know all this?”

  Licking his lips, Alejan plopped down next to them. “She doesn’t. She’s bluffing. She’s never spent the night outside the temple. That’s for advanced students.”

  Ji-Lin glared at him. “I’ve had training.”

  “Go on, then.” He crossed his paws and laid his chin on them. “Light a fire.”

  “You’re supposed to be on my side,” Ji-Lin growled at him, but she sat down next to the fire circle, picked up a stick and a fatter piece of wood, and began to twist the stick against the wood.

  And nothing happened. Ji-Lin glared at the stick, then at the fire pit. Seika wondered if she should say something encouraging.

  Ji-Lin
twisted faster, using the palms of her hands, going back and forth.

  Still, nothing.

  Ji-Lin stopped, blew on her hands, which Seika saw were starting to look red, and tried again. This time she held the piece of wood steady with her feet as she twisted the stick against it. The stick was beginning to wear a divot into the wood.

  A tendril of smoke rose.

  “You’re doing it!” Seika said.

  The smoke died.

  Ji-Lin kept trying, but nothing more than a whiff of smoke rose from the wood. At last, she collapsed backward. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry.” She studied her hands, which were filthy and red and raw.

  Seika fetched a canteen and gave it to Ji-Lin. Her sister took a drink but her eyes didn’t leave the fireless fire pit. She was glaring at it as if she expected it to light just from her anger.

  It was growing darker. Soon they wouldn’t be able to see anything except the moon and stars. Already the moon was a pale disc in the sky, and a few dozen stars were visible, like jewels scattered on a bed sheet. The only other light came from the sparks of the sunbird fishing in the sea. She watched as its feathers charred. Amazing, she thought, waiting to see the magical bird regrow its feathers.

  Seika had an idea.

  “We need a feather,” she said.

  “What would—​” Ji-Lin began.

  Seika pointed toward the sea, at the fiery sunbird.

  “Oh! Yes! Alejan—​”

  Alejan didn’t move. “Say that I am the mightiest hunter that ever lived.”

  Ji-Lin gave him a look. “Alejan.”

  “You’re the mightiest hunter that ever lived,” Seika said.

  “Why, yes, I am. Thank you for noticing.” Spreading his wings, Alejan rose, ran to the edge of the plateau, and took off. Seika and Ji-Lin both ran after him, stopping at the edge and watching. He came in high, above the firebird, flying in the reflection of the moon.

  The sunbird flew straight, sparks lighting the dark water below. It didn’t seem to notice the lion. Seika held her breath as Alejan suddenly dove fast and silent.

  The bird let out a cry that echoed over the waves. Frightened, it shed two flaming feathers. Swooping under the bird, Alejan caught the feathers on his mane—​and his mane began to smoke. He flew toward them. Sparks jumped off the feathers and nestled in his fur.

  Alejan landed hard and shook his head. The fiery feathers flew off his mane and landed next to Seika. Smoke continued to curl around his fur, and Alejan dropped to the grass, rolling like a dog. Using sticks to scoop them up, Seika dumped the feathers onto the fire pit as Ji-Lin anxiously watched Alejan.

  The fire lit.

  It spread across the wood, bright and dancing.

  Alejan quit rolling—​all the sparks were out on his mane now—​and collapsed next to the fire.

  Ji-Lin patted him. “I’m sorry, Alejan. We should have thought that through and found a better way for you to carry the flames.”

  Seika reflected on the flower she’d eaten. She hadn’t thought that through either, but she’d been trying to do the right thing.

  “I’ll forgive you,” Alejan said, “if you’ll share the fish.”

  “Of course.” Ji-Lin checked through his mane. Seika could see that tufts were charred, the tips shriveled back, but the bulk was fine. He didn’t seem hurt. The feathers hadn’t burnt him, just singed his fur a little.

  The three of them settled around the fire. Ji-Lin roasted the fish on a stick, and they ate it hot. Seika thought it tasted as sweet as anything in the palace. Her stomach full, she lay back in the grass and looked up at the stars. Ji-Lin leaned against Alejan’s side.

  “You can’t see this many stars from the palace,” Seika said. “Even from the highest spire, half the sky is blocked by the mountains, and the lanterns from the city wash out so much.” She’d never known there were so many. They looked like grains of salt spilled across a black table. She tried, and failed, to count them.

  “You can see them from the temple,” Ji-Lin said. “For my first week, I cried myself to sleep every night, until Alejan came into my room, informed me that my sobbing was keeping him awake, and insisted I come outside with him and look at the stars while he told me a story.”

  Seika knew she should feel bad that Ji-Lin had cried so much, but she remembered how she’d felt when her twin had been taken away—​as if someone had cut off her arm. It was strangely nice to hear that she wasn’t the only one who had been sad.

  “She stopped her sobbing after she heard my story,” Alejan said. “As you may have noticed, I’m not all glorious brawn. I also happen to enjoy retelling tales. In fact . . . But maybe this isn’t the time.”

  “It’s okay, Alejan, go ahead,” Ji-Lin said with a smile.

  “If you insist . . .” Clearly pleased, he repositioned himself, lifting his head and stretching his paws so that he looked like one of the statues on the Bridge of Promises. “I have come to tell you a tale,” he began.

  In unison, the sisters gave the traditional response: “We have come to hear it.”

  “The stars were born on a summer’s day . . .” His voice was low. It swept across the camp, and Seika closed her eyes to listen better.

  “I’ve never understood that beginning,” Ji-Lin complained. Seika’s eyes snapped open, and she giggled at Alejan’s miffed expression, which included a fluffed-up mane. Ji-Lin always used to interrupt their tutors, and they’d worn identical offended expressions, minus the mane. “How can it be summer before the stars?”

  “You said I could tell a story; now don’t interrupt,” Alejan scolded. “The stars were born on a summer’s day, and the sea wept salt tears that the unblemished blackness of night was now speckled with light. From each of her tears, a creature was born to swim inside her, crawl onto land, or fly into the sky: fish, animals, birds, humans. And Ji-Lin, do not say that the sea can’t cry because it’s already salt water.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of saying that,” Ji-Lin said demurely.

  Seika smiled, positive Ji-Lin had been about to say exactly that. She used to drive their tutors crazy with her practicality. She poked at every metaphor, questioned every exaggeration, and rolled her eyes every time her tutors tried to pretend they knew the answers when they didn’t. Maybe Ji-Lin hadn’t changed that much, despite all her special training.

  “The stars looked down on these new creatures and were not impressed. ‘Your creations are weak and soft,’ the stars said. ‘They will die in your waters and on your shores while we look on, eternal.’ The sea was angry at that insult, rolling and rising until the voices of her children cried out and she stilled, sparing their lives. The sea told the stars, ‘Before they die, they will multiply, as you cannot,’ and so the sea’s children did, spreading through the world.”

  The fire crackled. Sparks flew toward the sky, dimming against the true stars and then vanishing. This is nice, Seika thought. Comfortable and warm, she felt her eyelids droop.

  “The stars saw the truth of the sea’s words and were angry in turn. ‘We can multiply,’ they said, ‘if we die.’ ‘Then die,’ the sea told them, ‘and leave my body pure of your light, for I miss the darkness, and I tire of your endless talk.’

  “Angry at the sea’s taunting, one of the stars blazed so brightly that he exploded into a thousand pieces. ‘See,’ the other stars said, ‘one of us has multiplied.’ These pieces fell into the sea and on the land—​and from these star pieces were born the koji. Born with the strength and long life of the stars, the koji were a scourge on the land and in the sea, killing indiscriminately.”

  Seika thought of the koji they’d seen today. She hadn’t been ready to see her first monster. She’d be seeing it in her dreams, she knew. We have to complete the Journey, she thought. Those things can’t be allowed back on the islands.

  “Seeing her children slaughtered, the sea’s heart ached. She tried to destroy the koji but could not. She found, however, that she could change some of them. Capturing several
koji, she brought them deep within the world and remade them. From their celestial-born bodies, she created glorious new creatures, made of earth and sky and sea and stardust combined together, and released them into the world as winged lions.”

  “Very glorious,” Ji-Lin murmured.

  “Indeed. The winged lions came to land and discovered that the sea’s children were scattered. The birds and animals lived in fear, and the humans hid in caves, afraid and alone, with barely enough to eat, since hunting brought the koji. The lions protected these humans, coaxed them out of the caves, and guarded them while they tilled the earth and built their cities. The humans, in turn, tamed the wild dogs, cats, horses, and others, and protected them. Soon they all existed in harmony, humans and lions and the other children of the sea together.”

  “I love this story,” Seika said. “You tell it beautifully.” She’d never heard it told by one of the lions before. Hearing the tale from him outside under the stars, at the top of one of the islands, changed it. The story felt larger, more magical.

  “Humans and lions were meant to live in harmony,” Alejan said. “Many centuries ago, one of the emperors of Zemyla tried to erase the old stories and make the winged lions his slaves instead of his equals, but he could not destroy all the tales. When the scholar Himitsu shared them with the lions and proposed they unite against their oppressor . . . Well, you heard that tale grander than I could ever tell it, complete with acrobats and firedancers. Our glorious first emperor Himitsu restored the harmony between humans and lions, here on the islands of Himitsu. Humans built the Temple of the Sun for the lions, and we pledged to help the humans fight the koji that remained after the barrier was raised.”

  “You know what the best part of that story is?” Ji-Lin said.

  “The lions?” Alejan guessed.

  “That we’re a part of it now,” Ji-Lin said. “We’re on the Journey. And when we reach the dragon, we’ll be protecting our people from the koji, like Emperor Himitsu did. Like the sea did. We’ll be heroes.”

  Thinking of the koji they’d seen, Seika shuddered. “I was scared today,” she admitted.