“We’ll make all this right,” Archie whispers to Ardenal, who angrily stomps over the uneven terrain. Archie acknowledges to himself that death is a journey, which, he supposes, there is no Tillastrion to bridge the space between. Archie knows that Ella’s tumor may divide them further—a greater distance than even worlds apart—but he grows in his resolve. “I don’t know how, Arden, but we will make it right.”
Chapter 21
The Bangols remind me of a cross between the short boy in my math-nine class, a pudgy performance wrestler, and the lemur-like tarsiers I studied during science in the sixth grade. The tarsier looks like a small monkey, but that’s not why they remind me of the Bangols. Their eyes are the same. They take up most of their face—with a two-inch diameter I estimate—are almost marble-round, and have the same small black pupils—like the dots of cats’ eyes—at the center.
I think this is the longest I have been without my phone since I was eleven. So much for posting photos of the cruise on Instagram. I wonder if I would’ve gotten cell reception out here anyway. If I had, I bet anything I posted would’ve skyrocketed my followers.
When the Bangols first attacked us in the woods, Mom used my phone as a weapon. It was amazing seeing her like that, all superhero-like. I only wish she had used her phone instead of mine. I heard the screen crunch when she fell. I told her not to wear skirts so often, that you don’t need them to be feminine—if you want to be ladylike, anyway.
“Agrahhhh.” That sound scared the Bangol guarding me. Look at him back up. Yeah, keep walking! That was true terror in those big yellow eyes; I love it!
At home, everyone thinks I’m weird and stupid, just because I can’t talk. They treat me like I’m broken and need extra help. I was starting to believe it myself. Well, here in this weird world, I’m powerful. “Eerockwwwwa!” See? Watch that stone-head cower! The Bangols don’t know me. I can feel the difference. It’s like I’m taller. I’m braver. More myself, whoever that may be.
Finally. He’s out of sight! It’s unnerving to be guarded, to be held hostage. I’ve got to figure out how to get my foot out of this chain. Maybe I can lift the boulder it’s attached to. Darn. It’s way too heavy.
Let’s examine my body. My shoulders are definitely bruised. That sucks. And my arm . . . Well, at least I still have the sling Mom made. Yep, knees are still there, but totally scratched up. Getting dragged hurt more than I imagined it would. They slipped a sack over my head, wrenched it down over my shoulders too, and kept on going till my feet were also gobbled up in the course-textured weave. The claustrophobia of being unable to stretch to my full length nearly drove me insane. I screamed and screamed, even when they chucked me into something. Even when I hit my head hard, which rattled me, and I felt like I was floating. Everything looks different this morning.
The Bangols are loud. I wonder what they’re yammering about over there. I wish I could see what they’re up to. Stupid little hill in the way. I’m still in the blue forest, I know that, but I can hear waves off in the distance if I hold my breath. The air is salty too, but I think we’re curling away from the Millia’s beach. My inner GPS is pretty smart. We definitely headed east after the attack, from what I remember of Olen’s navigational directions.
What is that? This uncanny tingle. Hmm. Is someone watching me? Let me slip my hand onto the dagger from Olen. Oh no! It cut through the pocket of my bomber jacket! And it’s broken. Shoot, well at least I can still use one of the larger shards as a weapon. Be careful not to cut myself. There’s the rustling again! It’s coming from that huge root. How long have those eyes been peeping on me? The rocks growing out of their heads are small. They must be young. The big fat Bangols, the ones in charge, are totally top heavy. These two are looking around with funny expressions on their faces. I know that look! It’s the same face I make when I’m checking to be sure Mom isn’t nearby when I want to read my favorite fanfiction horror stories on the internet.
They are still staring at me, but closer now. I feel like I’m at a wildlife park, and I’m the animal. I’m orbiting this heavy stone like a planet. What do we have here? This is the perfect stick to draw with in the dirt. I might as well put on a show while I’ve got a captive audience, except I’m the captive.
I draw an old woman. I keep an eye on the two Bangols. They of course don’t recognize my grandma, Suzie, and her long blond bangs—like mine—that used to hang in her eyes. Red scarf. Grandma always wore a red scarf, but the color is impossible to draw in the dirt. I don’t know why I feel calmer when I doodle her. There. Round cheeks, check. Bright smile, check. She’s dead. Like I probably will be soon.
Now they’re staring at me again. Is that their thing? Don’t the Bangols know it’s rude to gawk at someone?
Their language sounds horrible.
“Hello?” the girl one says.
Now that’s English. I nod in response, and they understand. They’re figuring it out. The boy one is kind of cute—for an alien, I mean. Oh, I have an idea! There. Fourteen lines. Point at the lines. Point at me. Point at the lines. Point at me. I think they’re getting it!
“She’s telling us her age,” the boy one says. “See, she’s nodding at us. I’m Luggie. I’m sixteen.”
Wow, he’s older than me, if their years are the same as human years. But I’m bigger. He has a nice smile, even if his skin is dead-looking. All right, girl, how old are you?
“And I’m seventeen.”
“Her name’s Nanjee. She’s my sister.”
I lift my stick again. There. That’s my name. Look at the ground!
“E-l-l-a.” The girl’s got it.
Awkward silence . . . Another thing that’s the same between Earth and this place. What else can I draw? What about Nanjee? She’s pretty in her own way. Let’s find a new area of dirt. There. Okay, let me draw her eyes. Does she have eyelashes? Nope. Okay, her blackish-gray lips. Her stones are like a tiara. Luggie and Nanjee wear the same sort of outfit as the rest of the Bangols; a sleeveless top and trousers made of fur, animal hide, and warm brown and grey fabrics. It’s a wonder they’re not constantly sweating in this jungle-heat. Okay, there. Not my best drawing . . . Yes! She likes it!
“Are you hungry, Ella?” Nanjee asks.
Yes! I’m a bobble-head. I hope they are getting exactly how starving I am. Let me sign eat and drink. Huh. Apparently, those sign language gestures are universal. Even in weird places like this.
Oh, okay—bye! I wonder what they are going to bring me . . .
Uh-oh, the guard is coming back. So much for my secret meal. Hold up—Nanjee just ran out of the trees. What is she saying to the guard? She’s pointing and he’s going with her. That fat, reeking Bangol . . .
“Ella?”
It’s Luggie!
“Ella, here.”
This bag is heavy! What does he want me to eat, rocks?
Luggie is gone. The guard is nowhere to be seen, either. Oh well . . . let’s open this thing up. Now, what kind of food is this wrapped in paper? It’s kind of like bread . . . Yum. Spongy and sugary. And a jug. Blech. Sour wine, I think. Yuck. What is this stuff? It’s black!
And what’s this? A book? But it’s empty. Nice smooth, creamy pages—and it’s sewn together so beautifully. What do they want me to do with a blank book? Oh wait, what’s that at the bottom of the bag? A pen? No. A paintbrush! Well, where is the paint, Luggie? Oh. The black drink. Yes!
Look at those lovely lines! Oh, Luggie!
The guard is coming now. Shoot! Eat up the bread stuff. I need water, bad! Come on, swallow Ella! Throw the bag behind that tree. Now where do I put the sketchbook? Ah, bras were invented for this very reason, right? Ouch.
Oh, hello there, ugly guard. What? Nah, I’ve only been sulking here while you were gone. Don’t smile, Ella. He’ll notice your black teeth. What have you got there? Oh no . . . I know that big, scratchy sack. No, please—NO!
“Agreakhhh!” No—
Chapter 22
The land of the Olearons
sits at the far end of a vast emerald pasture. A delicate breeze animates the landscape from the smallest leaf to the smoke that rises from the glass city built on the side of a low hill. On its west, the ocean glints and sways.
The bases of the Olearon’s homes, shops, warrior training paddocks, and edifices for large gatherings are cut into the earth with every conceivable shape; octagons, quadrants, diamonds, concave squares, cyclic rectangles, isosceles trapeziums, obtuse and scalene triangles, and many other shapes for which humans have no words to describe. Some structures are built of millions of triangles. They are fused together perfectly at every edge, forming hexagons, which connect and amalgamate into shimmering glass domes that remind Tessa of bath bubbles in the sunshine. The domes are anchored precariously to the sides of other erect, laser-cut structures.
The building-faces glow azure as they reflect the heavy sky, the thick topiary landscape bulking up against the pastureland, and the sea on the western edge. The sea, which Ardenal informs Tessa and Archie, has a reputation for being nefarious waters. It is called the Sea of Selfdom, of personalities, Ardenal tells them; because those that venture toward its horizon never return, except in hollow whispers on frigid winds.
Ardenal clears his throat, and adds, “The Olearons do not sail beyond sight of Jarr-Wya. The island must always be within their vision.”
“So, what’s out there?” Archie gulps.
“Are there other islands—or a mainland?” Tessa probes deeper. She holds her limp arm, still encircled by the black bird’s sharp claws.
Ardenal clenches his fists. He drops his voice to a murmur. “Either they don’t know or they’re not telling me,” he answers.
“What are those things?” Valarie asks Azkar, gesturing to the pasture where lofty crystal pillars stand proudly, radiating a rainbow of light in every direction.
“As our flames flow like lava through our veins, so too do our crystaliths imbue the heat of our sun into the roots of our crop,” explains Azkar.
“Crystaliths?” Archie repeats, shuffling nearer.
“The triangular prims, there,” Ardenal points and Azkar continues, “They penetrate our field in segmented spirals. Channeling the sun. Once inside the crystals, the sunbeams are reduced into Naiu.”
“Magic!” Duggie-Sky calls, then ducks behind Archie’s legs where he trots to keep pace, now rested and hyper.
“This place sounds like the gardener’s dream!” Donna says, beaming. Donna and her husband, Harry, are Odyssey passengers; senior citizens with matching short white fringe-cuts and tropical cruise wear. They look to be a similar age to Archie, who deliberately avoids the couple. Donna reminds Archie of Suzie, and her presence accentuates the pang of his wife’s absence. Donna’s cheery disposition, her care of the wounded, her flushed vein-lined cheeks. Archie shifts he and Duggie-Sky to the far side of Azkar, away from Donna.
Azkar scowls and continues. “The harvest was brought in only five sunsets past. It is pathetic what miniscule supply the land did offer since its poisoning. Six-thousand sunsets ago, the Naiu would trickle into our crop from the crystaliths. The herbaceous plant life would radiate, like the blue forest. Olearons were braver then. Now,” Azkar spits, “the crystaliths are merely ornamental, haunting statues, a testament to our failing birthplace.”
“Mind your words, warrior,” the Lord commands. Azkar frowns deeply, then tips his head in apology, and is silent. “As the twenty-ninth Lord of Olearon—”
The Maiden interrupts her partner by laying a hand on the Lord’s back and gazing at him wordlessly, intentionally.
“Ah, yes. Excuse my forgetfulness. As the thirtieth Lord of Olearon, it is my duty to honor our homeland, protect it, and renew it to its original glory.”
“You will, Lord,” says Azkar gruffly. “With my dying breath, you will.”
“Yes, Lord,” the Maiden echoes. “Together, we will.” The Lord takes the Maiden’s hand as they lead the disheveled humans toward the glass city.
The Olearons and Odyssey passengers shuffle through the knee-deep grass of the pasture toward the glimmering structures. Every step is exhausting, yet they are charged with anticipation. The passengers, though still leery of their flaming hosts, chat with the lanky beings at their sides, telling them of the human Earth, of their homes on every distant part of it, and of boat rides for pleasure rather than purpose. They ask about the blue bark of the trees, which the Olearons explain is imbued with the stardust of ten thousand sunsets; and of the world beyond the island of Jarr-Wya, though it seems none are certain of those details.
“There is much now in the shadows of mystery,” a female Olearon says to Valarie. The Olearon’s shape is rounder in places than that of the males of her race; her nose is also shorter and her eyes wider. “We have endeavored to stay firmly within the realm of peace, though Jarr-Wya has changed. I fear that if we do not change with it, the Star will be the ruin of us all.”
“I get that, I guess,” says Valarie. “I often have to change, depending on who I’m with or what I’m doing. It doesn’t seem fair, though, does it?”
“For us, the Olearons, it is less a matter of fairness than of survival.”
“I see, I see. What was your name again? Junin?”
“Yes, you are right human. Valarie.”
“Junin, from my experience, it’s all about survival. Everything. As a kid, I worked hard at school, glued my eyes to the textbooks so I didn’t have to see Alissa Smith and her popular gang gawking at me, poking fun at my hair or acne or weight. As an adult, I’ve learned how to play the game—”
“The game?” Junin asks.
“Yes, it’s all a game. Dress this way. Act that way. Weigh this much. Work harder than everyone else. Figure out what people want from you. Who they want you to be. It’s a game, see? And I’ve learned to survive by beating them at their own game. Love them less so it hurts me less. Unfortunately, I’m not great at that part. Anyway, maybe things aren’t so different here. Maybe you need to beat the Star at its own game.” Valarie pants as she struggles to match Junin’s pace.
“I will tell you truly, Valarie, I must reflect on your words. Your perception on life is unfamiliar to me.”
“Speaking of unfamiliar!” exclaims Valarie, her frown transformed to childlike wonder. “What amazing butterflies!” A violet insect flutters near her shoulder, then lifts off higher, circling, swooning. “Each wing is the size of my whole hand,” Valarie observes.
“Wait, human. The awakins will change soon. They possess two pairs of wings—two sets of forewings and two sets of hindwings—so they have no need to land for rest. One pair for day, the other for night. That is why we call them awakins. They are always awake.” Thousands of the purple insects hover in playful ribbons above the tall grasses. Their wings flap sleepily, rhythmically stirring the humid, misty dawn air.
“See,” Junin nearly sings, “the awakins are crossing over!”
Valarie—and all the humans who overhear Junin’s merry words—stare at the butterflies as they unfurl the full breadth of their brilliant yellow-orange wings. The sunny pair are twice the size of the violet wings, which the awakins curl and stow away like sheaths around their thoraxes and abdomens. Their bodies now shine deep purple.
Junin begins again. “There is a flower here, on Jarr-Wya, that disorients and makes delusional those that touch it. Or those—in the case of the awakins—who land on it. Many of their fragile winged family—after contact with the plant—were devoured by the black flyers—the hunting birds that were fierce even before they mutated following the Star’s arrival—as the awakins were a lazily caught meal. You can see by the size of the claws around Tessa’s arm what damage the black flyers could inflict on these delicate creatures. As beautiful as they are, the awakins are careful now who and what they trust. For that reason, many sunsets ago, they chose to expend their Naiu on wings. For self-preservation.”
Valarie nods. “They’re beating the flowers and the black flyers at their own game.”
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“True, though they now live a lonely existence and are often captured by those who would wish to exploit the strength of their wings, however tenuous they may appear.”
“The Bangols balloons. That’s what keeps them afloat.”
“Yes, Valarie,” Junin sighs. “There is much sadness in the awakins. Which is why it is remarkable if one would ever choose to land. I hope, however, to see it one day, with my own eyes, before my end.”
Walking a short distance ahead of Valarie and Junin, Tessa leans over and whispers to Nate, “Do you think we can trust them?” Azkar had allowed her to walk after she complained that his grasp burned her skin through her dress. She had acquiesced to the Olearons’ demand to return to their city, but secretly despises them for restraining her. Tessa’s hair twists into subtle curls in the damp heat and falls in her eyes.
Nate leans in, brushing aside a golden strand, and whispers close to her ear, “I’m hesitant. They seem friendly—for now. Stay close to me. I’ll do whatever I can to keep you safe. I’m a man of my word—and I plan on keeping my promise of visiting you in Seattle.” Tessa smiles. Nate rests his hand on her back as they approach the glass city. “I am sorry that we are here, for the loss of lives,” Nate continues, “but I am thankful for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You beside me, that we have this time; as corny as that may sound. It doesn’t make sense—we’ve known each other a short time—but everything has changed for me, Tessa. And I’m not only talking about our surroundings. It’s uncanny. It feels warm, like a spot of sunshine on a windowsill, even with these devils walking in our shadows.” Nate tips his chin in the direction of Azkar and Ardenal.
Above the Star Page 12
