“That doesn’t sound like Zeno, from my experience of him,” Archie reflects. “He’s going to lead me to Ella’s cure and help us return home.”
“Is that what he told you, Archie?” Tessa says and grits her teeth. “Oh, you are more foolish than I thought! How could you do this to us?”
“I do believe she is right, Archibald. You have been deceived.” Olen acknowledges Tessa for the first time by meeting her eyes with his own twin black voids.
“Is it all a lie? When Zeno mentioned a cure, I didn’t recall reading it in the notebooks. I had hoped Arden’s motives were good, but instead I now see—for the first time—he really did walk out on us.”
“As I have been saying for years, Archie. You’ve got to let him go. We have, right, Ell?” Ella does not look up from her feet, half buried in the sand. When she does raise her face, her expression suddenly changes from forlorn to fear as she notices movement out of the corners of her eyes. She points without making a sound.
Tessa gasps. “Where did the village go?”
“The Millia are the village. They are this beach. They are coming for us.”
Chapter 14
Tessa grabs Ella’s good arm and yells, “Run!” They sprint through the sand toward the lush, shadowy tree line, but Olen lands on them. He crushes his heavy, steaming body onto theirs, pressing their flesh into the sharp sand.
“You will not make it that way, by running. They already know. The Millia. You would be dead before your toes touch the forest floor. If you wish for death, fine, I will let you run; but if you desire life, be still. I will protect you, as long as I am able.”
“Why? Why protect us? Because of Archie? Why do you care so much about him?” snarls Tessa, spitting sand.
Olen ignores Tessa’s question; he stands and returns to their lookout among the twinkling shards of glass. Mother and daughter struggle to their feet in the slippery golden sand, brushing it from the corners of their eyes, their lips, and their frayed clothing.
“The Millia are every fleck of sand you see down this shore. They become whatever they wish, or value most, though they are solidly shell. When we meet them, they’ll likely come as yellow beasts or birds, hoping to tear us to pieces for trespassing. Their bloodlust is born from their unfulfillment; now they seek to destroy.”
Archie wrings his hands. “I am so sorry, Ella, Tessa. I never meant for any of this. I only wanted to help.” Ella rests her petite hand on her grandfather’s back.
“You haven’t helped. You’ve killed Ella. You’ve killed us all!” Tessa turns to Olen. “So, what are we going to do? Wait here to die?” she hollers.
“Wait and hope the Millia may need something from us. Something we can exchange for our safety. If not, then hope that our warriors can hold them off long enough.”
Tessa whispers, “Long enough for what?”
“For you to run, human. Their attention must be elsewhere for us to make it. Right now, they are watching and listening—in many places. Aggressive movements will provoke them. Wait now. I will tell you when. You have a heat all your own, daughter-in-law. I have seen this heat in one of your kind before. It must be harnessed. For now, we watch. The Olearon warriors are ready, but our surest path to safety is that our alliance with the Millia will allow for negotiation.”
Off in the distance, beside the Atlantic Odyssey, the Olearons create lines of the disheveled cruise passengers as they scramble over the side of the ship. Half of the roughly one hundred people left alive whimper and plead. The other half scowl angrily and look resigned to fight, maybe even to die. Yet, all the humans—from their short time since meeting the fearsome Olearons, the Odyssey’s shipwreck on the mysterious beach, and their capture—appear drunk with shock. The people huddle near the flank of the dented, scarred vessel. Another group of red-skinned warriors stands guard, some moving out in units as they search the beach.
“Look,” Archie says and points. “The couple we sat with at breakfast yesterday. And the school friends. And the mom . . . but where is her second child?”
“The Captain is there too,” Tessa adds brightly. “At least he’s alive.”
Olen displays little concern for the mixture of distress and relief of the humans in his charge. “Olearons protect the western land and the sea-face from intruders to Jarr-Wya and the sea creatures—now the Millia—defend the breadth of this southern shore and the evils that lurk beneath the water,” he discloses. Olen holds a book-sized shard of glass from the Olearon ship. His skin glows and yellow-orange veins throb through his arms to his fingertips. The glass slowly melts and Olen shapes it into a translucent dagger, which he passes to Ella. She stares at it for a moment before gingerly slipping the weapon into one pocket of her bomber jacket.
“This alliance with the sea creatures, which was preserved through their transformation into the Millia thousands of sunsets ago—has allowed us mutual peace through many generations,” Olen continues. “Both races are interested in the preservation of our coexistent way of life. The Millia stay on this shoreline and beneath the sea, and we do not venture onto their beach. Unfortunately, hauling your ship has quickly depleted our fuel reserves. We were unable to sail farther around the island to our port among the cliffs to the west. The Millia will see this as an insult.”
An Olearon runs from the front line in the distance toward Archie, Tessa, Ella, and Olen. “Azkar!” acknowledges Olen, and the two Olearons converse in whispers, though what the humans do hear of the melodious language is beyond their understanding.
Tessa leans in to Archie. “I can’t believe I’m saying this . . . Was there anything in Arden’s notebooks about how to get home?” A grin spans wide across Ella’s face as she listens.
Archie shakes his head. “No, but Zeno told me that someone from our world—like one of us—” he looks at Tessa and Ella, “can make a device that can transport us back. We would need someone from here, from this dimension, to operate it, though.” Archie pauses, stroking the white stubble on his chin. “But it could be lies,” he adds, defeated. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“There’s got to be a way,” Tessa huffs. Ella nods emphatically. Tessa cracks her knuckles and continues. “We got here, didn’t we? And Zeno was somehow living on the Canary Islands.”
“Right. I never thought about that,” says Archie, but before he can continue, Azkar and Olen turn to them and order the trio toward the Odyssey.
Tessa leans again to Archie and murmurs, “We’ve got to find Zeno,” before she is shoved forward by Azkar. Archie nods, their eyes locked over Tessa’s shoulder. He takes a deep breath and hurries along through the loose sand, summoning what lingering strength resides in his thudding heart, which outruns his feet.
As they walk nearer to the Atlantic Odyssey, the sound of screaming passengers reaches Tessa’s ears and she gasps. Then she sees why. The clothes of the men and women are torn, bloodied, and whatever color they once were is obscured by a film of ash and the black caress of smoke. Blood—damp and fresh or dry and muted—obscures faces, chests, and limbs, revealing wounds. The people cling to each other, some with broken or dislocated arms like Ella’s, others limping or clutching oozing gashes, their faces pale from trauma and loss of blood.
“There’s the singer! Lady Sophia,” says Tessa. The opera performer shuffles to and fro in the sand, wearing her ball gown and jeweled necklace, and clasping her gloved hands to avoid them flailing in hysteria. “She’s standing by Nate. And the cruise director—wait, what’s happening?”
The sand begins to rush around at the passengers’ feet, as if pulled by an intentional wind, though the air hangs still. The gold flecks rise in waves around the pitiful ship, some a foot tall and others like monstrous rip tides. The passengers, despite their condition, follow the Olearons’ orders, queueing and huddling together, cowering behind the wall of fiery warriors.
“The Olearons are protecting them,” says Tessa.
“You sound surprised,” Azkar huffs.
“It’s just that, well, after watching people I sat and ate with, talked with, just one day ago, burn to death. . . yeah, it doesn’t quite make sense.”
“Does everything need to make sense to you?” Azkar puts a warm hand on Tessa’s back to keep her moving. Tessa wrenches free of his touch, frightened by his undeniable strength, despite his tall, willowy build. Azkar looks back at Archie. “We are negotiating,” he offers, flashing a scowl at Tessa for her defiance. “The Millia will not continue until all people have disembarked both the Olearon boat and your vessel.”
Tessa, Ella, and Archie join the cruise passengers beside the Odyssey, but the wounded humans glare at the trio suspiciously and shuffle a few paces away. Azkar returns to the apex of the Olearon barricade, which blocks the view of whoever owns the bitter voice that snarls and snaps at the rose-red warriors, whose flames curl vehemently. Tessa squeezes Ella’s hand and they inch closer to the Olearons to peer between their arms and narrow torsos.
The Millia stomp around in human form, mimicking the silhouette of the Odyssey’s passengers, though they lack detail and are made of solid sand. One sand-shape, as tall as the Olearons, bears down on the Lord and Maiden without fear. It gestures to the people with disgust. With every swoop of its hand, its fingers crumble and spray sand in the Olearons’ faces. Tiny trickles of crushed shells climb up the Millia leader’s legs, chest, and arms to reform its hands, which it continues to flail.
“They’re negotiating in our language,” remarks Tessa in whisper to Ella. “Why would they want us to understand?”
An Olearon overhears and tips his head back to clarify. “The Olearons and Millia do not share a language, but this,” he says. “We do not know how your tongue traveled to our island many ages ago, but it has become the common expression between Jarr-Wya’s distinct races.”
“Senior Karish, please do understand,” the Lord of Olearon implores, speaking in an even tone. “We have not intentionally nulled our alliance. We were simply fulfilling our agreement to protect the sea-face, but this vessel”—he gestures to the Atlantic Odyssey—“proved heavier than we had anticipated. Our fuel was insufficient to return us to the west. Because of the Bangols, our supplies are exhausted.”
“But why haul it to Jarr-Wya in the first place? Hmm? Why spare these? That’s what I want to know!” Senior Karish demands, gesturing to the passengers. On his sandy head, he wears a tall crown of what looks to Tessa like oyster and lion’s paw scallop shells, all still housing their living hosts. Growing up in Seattle, near Elliott Bay—which connects, by the Strait of Juan de Fuca along the Canadian-American sea boarder, to the North Pacific Ocean—Tessa had a natural love for seafood. However, the crown, decorated with cowie and bonnet shells in a fanning pattern, with crabs peeking out of their curled casings and pinching in the direction of the Olearons, makes Tessa’s stomach grow sour.
“Is the boat of value? Are these—this race—are they sweet? Maybe we too are hungry!” Senior Karish continues. The sand shapes behind him constantly shift forms; the Millia spike up into the air like geysers, hissing and cackling at Senior Karish’s mention of a meal. The people cower and cry out, backing farther toward the Odyssey until they bang their heads against its warped steel.
The Maiden answers. “The Olearons are weakened by lack of crops; the poison spell of the Bangols wiped out more than half the vegetation of our land. We wish these, here, to work. And to fight for us. Let us cross to our lands and collect fuel and food. We will return and remove our boat and this vessel from your shores in less than twenty sunsets.”
“Too long! Too long! Unacceptable,” Senior Karish rants, sand flying as he shakes his head in protest. He strokes the breastplate of shells and barnacle-encrusted rope he wears across his chest. As he thrashes around, the shell-creatures on his crown and at his chest reveal their legs and torsos, readjusting themselves into position. “Remove these vile vessels—and all of you—from our shore immediately. Or we will do it for you!” Senior Karish snarls through yellow teeth, glaring with similarly colored sandy eyes.
“Ten sunsets! Can you give us ten?” the Maiden pleads. “We need our boat, though it requires repair. We cannot sustain our people without it.”
Senior Karish continues to wildly shake his head, his granular nose and ears loosening from his face in a shimmering spray before quickly reforming. His patchy beard, dense with flecks of gold, reflects the light of the dazzling foreign sun into the human’s eyes.
“You must feel the malice of the Bangols’ poisoned clay beneath your beach, do you not?” the Lord of Olearon asks. “You must know it is only a matter of time before it leaches into your shell fragments and threatens your very dominion of Jarr-Wya’s south. The poison worsens by the day. We must work together to remove it from our lands.”
“Now that,” Senior Karish hisses, pointing and twisting with one glittering finger, “now that is an altogether different issue!” What looks to Tessa like a wicked grin is carved across his rough, sandy face. “We agree, purge the Bangols! Let me discuss with my . . . my advisors; maybe some future course—alongside the Olearons—can feed our” he gestures the full breadth of the beach, “our distinct cravings.” With a sandy tongue, Senior Karish licks his golden lips. He reaches down to the sand at his feet, snaps his fingers, and a conch shell rises out of the beach. He lifts it to his mouth and blows.
At the end of his breath, the shape of Senior Karish crumbles from the top of his head to his neck and shoulders, then lower and lower, until nothing more remains than a mound of shifting sand. The conch is sucked back into the beach from where it came. The mound of what had been the leader of the Millia, now creeps a few feet away from the Olearons’ barricade of warriors, amalgamating with the smooth beach around it before simultaneously rising and narrowing, stretching upward into a tall, sandy shaft, extending higher and higher—thirty feet into the cloudless blue sky. Other shafts grow near it, all reaching, shifting, and spilling themselves.
Tessa’s left cheek warms as she inadvertently brushes it against the back of the Olearon who had spoken to her a moment before. She leans around him to watch with dread as the thinning funnels form a perfect octagon of eight points. A fierce wind cyclones out from between the shafts, though it is mostly contained within them. Increasing in speed, the force sucks the shafts into the gale, spinning flecks of gold from the core and into the air mass of low atmospheric pressure. The Olearons are like statues, never flinching or blinking, though the wind slaps out at them unpredictably. The Odyssey’s passengers cover their eyes and turn away as tiny granules blast forcefully out like vengeful sparks.
Voices emerge from the dazzling cyclone, though the swoosh of the laborious wind—weighed down beneath the density of the crushed shells—deadens the Millia’s argument to a low rumble in a strange dialect. Their voices are turbulent at times, both deep as thunder and discordant as smashing cymbals. Ella ducks behind Tessa, and the Olearon in front of them breaks the line to shelter both women. At first, Tessa cowers back from the warrior, confused at the changed red beings who at first gave little regard for the Odyssey’s passengers. Since Archie was recognized, the Olearons exhibited restraint and even compassion. In that moment, amid the sand storm, Tessa surrenders to the Olearon’s protection, banking her nagging questions.
With a final explosion of silt, the cyclone halts in mid spin, and the sand collapses to the shore in a brilliant splash that blasts low, then crashes back on top of itself. The Olearons and passengers are peppered with dust and grit. Ella coughs and scratches her nails along her lips and tongue, cleaning away sand. Tessa wipes her face with her sleeve, which drags the shell fragments across her cheeks, leaving tiny white lines on her skin. The passengers slowly turn their eyes back to the beach, where the Millia again grow out of the sand to mimic their human form.
Senior Karish approaches the Lord and Maiden of Olearon with steps that raise his golden legs but never disconnect him from the shore. “We have reached a consensus,” he says.
“We will allow—allow—these vessels to remain on our shore for ten sunsets. No more, no more.”
“Thank you,” says the Maiden. “That is very honorable of you.”
“Ah, ah, ah! I am not finished! We grant you that time for your warriors to challenge the Bangols, restoring our lovely island to health!”
The Lord inhales deeply. “What you ask requires more time, Senior Karish! As we stand, now, I do not believe it is possible,” the Lord objects.
“Then you had better get moving! Get moving! The faster you accomplish this task, the faster you reclaim your boat and feed your young flames.” Senior Karish interlocks his wilting fingers. “And, one more thing.”
“What is it?” demands the Maiden, her dreadlocks radiating like fiery embers. The Lord turns to his partner, but his eyes read blank to Tessa, though, after a moment, the Maiden’s fire calms.
“Blood must be spilt today. We want the people,” hisses Senior Karish.
Ella squeezes her mother’s arm, her breath catching in her throat. Tessa—her face twisted in distress—clings to her daughter so tightly the muscles in her hands ache, their veins bulging. She and Ella stumble back from the warrior. Tessa, thinking quickly, is about to whisper to her daughter and father-in-law, “run,” but as she turns the word never forms—for Archie is gone.
Chapter 15
As Tessa and Ella are corralled in the direction of the Olearon barricade, instead of following obediently, Archie slowly retreats backward through the crowd. No one notices him, as all eyes stare, nearly without blinking, at the animated sand beyond their wall of protection.
Archie’s head throbs as he searches for a way into the Atlantic Odyssey. Finally, he spots a manageable entrance up high, and, thankfully, out of direct view of the commotion on the shore. He wades out into the sea until it reaches his thighs and the salt water stings in the cuts he didn’t know were hiding beneath his pant legs.
Above the Star Page 8
