“This fire-brained imbecile does not give the respect my blood deserves. Archibald? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Zeno, a moment, will ya?” Archie retorts and shoves the glass back inside the envelope. He replaces it in his bag, slinging it over one shoulder, then stands and fiddles with his belt. He turns out into the open from behind the tree. “Really! Can a man not get ten minutes alone to do his business without babysitting one creature or another?” Duggie-Sky gives Archie a sly grin.
“I am no baby!” shrieks Zeno, a hand on his chest as though Archie’s words have wounded him. “Fine, if you will not insulate me from this dimwit, I will take matters into my own hands.” Zeno turns his back to Archie and snarls his pointed teeth at Azkar. The Olearon’s flame grows. The Bangol begins to call the magic of Naiu into his palms where the dirt from around his feet floats up and forms into hard balls of earth. Archie remembers Zeno during his battle with Ardenal at the Olearon’s pasture.
With speed, Archie closes the distance between him and the Bangol, knocks the filthy orbs out of Zeno’s hands and says, “Ignore Azkar!” Archie bends one knee so he is on the same level as Zeno. “You are a king—or are meant to be at least,” Archie whispers, “but do kings go around picking fights and name-calling?”
“They do on Jarr-Wya; look at Tuggeron!”
“And how much do you love Tuggeron? On Earth, the kings that are revered are fair, ruling with wisdom, strategy, and restraint, patient till the right moment to strike—you get me?”
Zeno nods thoughtfully. “You advise me well, Archibald. Maybe you are not the fool I had supposed. We must speak further about the kings of your world.”
Archie nods to Zeno, who quiets the malice of his anger between his grey palms that he clasps together, his back suddenly straight as looks down on Azkar, though from his miniscule stature. Archie stands and addresses both Bangol and Olearon. “Good. Now, give it a rest, you two!”
Chapter 26
Nanjee and Luggie make sure I am with them when we take to the air again. Our dusty clay basket is one of the smaller ones, they tell me. I can’t see much through the sack, which I’m told to stay in, at least until we get a little distance between us and the other balloons. I do trust them. Nanjee and Luggie. Maybe it’s their age. Or the sketchbook. Nanjee tells me Luggie stole it from their dad’s stuff. Their father is the king of the Bangols. I can’t remember his name, so I call him Tuggs.
Nanjee continues, telling me that Tuggs has been documenting his reign as king, saying the Bangols need a written history like the Olearons. I, personally, have always found history a bore, but I guess if you think you’re the best you’d want to get that down in writing. That’s where the sketchbook came from. Tuggs had thousands of them made. Nanjee promises this one won’t be missed.
The sketchbook is bound with string at its spine, needle-sewn through the thick pages in a fancy braided pattern. It’s been stitched so securely that I’m sure the knots will outlive the paper. There is some rusty metal jewelry hammered onto its rectangular cover. The whole thing has a thin leather strap fastening it shut.
I make good use of my time in the sack, studying the sketchbook. Enough light filters in through the loose weave of the burlap, though I apply my sense of touch more than anything. That’s when I feel it. When I dig my fingers around at the inner spine of the back cover, there is a little flap hidden there. My fingernails feel like they’re going to rip from my skin, but I claw it open. Inside there’s a key! It is ornate and must have taken skill to make. It feels warm to the touch.
I pull out of my shirt the long chain I wear around my neck and thread the key onto it, beside my Grandma Suzie’s locket. I re-tuck them both inside the collar of my shirt and slip it down beneath my clothes. I’m guessing Nanjee doesn’t know about the secret pocket in the sketchbook, so she won’t be looking for the key. Still, I don’t want the Bangols catching me with it, even if they are my friends. And it is a good thing, because they rip off the sack so fast, I almost think they know. Thankfully, they don’t mention the key.
The basket looks like the orangish terracotta pots Mom plants her annuals in at home, only bigger and flatter on the bottom. It’s the perfect size for the three of us. I stay low so the Bangols in the other balloons don’t spot me. Nanjee and Luggie encourage me to peek, though; they want to show me their island. It’s a good distraction since I can’t meet their eyes. I know I must keep my discovery a secret. That is easier to do than I expect.
Jarr-Wya is breathtaking. Oh, I wish I could capture this strange beauty in a photograph! It makes me sad that I’m not a better artist. Nanjee and Luggie, especially Luggie, love watching me draw. He is supposed to be learning to fly the balloon, though. I heard old Tuggs roar at Luggie from his airship ahead when we almost crashed into a tree—more than once.
“Draw me,” Luggie begs. He stands as still as he’s able while navigating the sky, guiding the balloon with ropes attached to the great sphere overhead. I look up and see that the huge fabric balloon is filled with orange butterflies.
When Nanjee and Luggie are occupied with the balloon, I also paint the key. I do it quickly, knowing my time is limited. I can feel the metal sit against my skin. It makes me tingle in some bizarre way that feels like love. It’s weird. When Luggie looks down at me—to smile sheepishly through his crocodile teeth—I cover the sketch with black ink and smile back at him.
Chapter 27
The humans huddle close to the Olearons for heat as the temperature plummets and the air becomes icy. The Bangols’ deserted camp is now four hours behind them. The company walk in silence for a time. Dusk descends swiftly, and all grow weary of the march.
A low rumble begins, first as a faint buzz that amplifies to a steady swoosh. A bubbling creek comes into view. Rocks glisten in the moonlight, which has already trounced the sun for jurisdiction over the vast sky. The rocks along the riverbed sparkle with diamonds freckled across their smooth faces. Though the creek is clamorous, the water flows gracefully. The noise calms the humans, whose nerves have been frayed by the frightening snarls of Jarr-Wya’s nocturnal creatures and the distant caws of the black flyers.
“We rest here tonight, in this clearing. Olearons, dampen your flames. We need not be a beacon to our enemies this night,” Azkar orders, dropping his sack but holding fast to the stick. Zeno slinks away from him to stand on the far side of Archie and Duggie-Sky.
Eek steps forward. “Are you sure it’s safe to camp so close to the water?” he asks.
“All creatures will have drunk by now,” replies Nameris. To the humans he adds, “They do not trust the water, as it is the stealer of their secrets.” Lady Sophia covers her mouth with her plump fingers.
Eek nods, and warns, “Best maintain your distance. Keep your glass daggers and other weapons within arm’s reach.”
“Let us rest, company,” Azkar says. “Eek, you take the first watch, Nameris the second, and Kameelo, the hours before dawn.” They nod. In turn, each of the brothers embrace Eek and wish him alertness and bravery for the first watch.
Donna makes sure every member of the company is warm and their bellies full of the orange and green biscuits baked from the Olearon’s harvest. The group huddles together, each one finding a smooth spot free of roots and the mysterious flowers that line the edge of the clearing.
Valarie rushes to Tessa’s side. “May I sleep here?” she asks and Tessa nods, concealing her confusion. Why does she want to lie beside me? Tessa wonders. Oh wait, I see. Nate approaches behind Valarie, but the ground to Tessa’s right is cut by a sharp rock. He purses his lips, then lies on the far side of his cruise director. Nate smiles faintly at Tessa before turning on his side, his back to Valarie, who inches closer to him.
“Lady Sophia,” the Maiden begins, “Would you sing us to sleep? Sing good dreams into our heads?”
“I know just the thing. I will lull you with my favorite aria. This melody will carry you away, as it does for me when I’m on the stage
.”
“Only not too loud,” Nameris interjects. Zeno scrapes dirt from the ground with his sharp nails. He shapes it into two small wedges that he shoves in his ear holes.
Lady Sophia’s voice is velvety and tender.
Tessa shifts on the raw earth, hunting for a comfortable position. Her hands quiver with nervous energy and she tucks them beneath her head like a pillow. The pace on Jarr-Wya, while intensely physical, does not compare to the strenuousness of Tessa’s life back home. On the magical island, her thoughts take her down perilous avenues that—as an emergency room nurse, single parent, breadwinner with every moment allocated to caring for one person or another—had been barricaded and nearly forgotten in the dark quadrants of her mind.
In part, it is the longing for companionship, which she alluded to with Archie on the Odyssey. With Ella’s diagnosis, Tessa chose to shun her need for her own identity, for freedom, friendship, travel, and—with Arden’s disappearance—romantic love, to focus on attending to the needs of her ailing child. Still, she is ravaged by the guilt of wanting more when her daughter will never know even half the life experiences Tessa cherishes, particularly those that followed her clumsy youth. Tessa lives in limbo, waiting for the inevitable, wishing it away, while simultaneously, terrifyingly eager for what lay beyond.
Now, despite being surrounded by people and magical creatures—and a man and an Olearon vying for her affection—a pit of loneliness lodges in Tessa’s chest. All she has known for years is this role as mother-provider, yet, ironically, Tessa itches to return to the safety that identity affords her, with its comfortable, predictable martyrdom, as Ardenal had so astutely pinpointed. The tense muscles in Tessa’s back scream against the hard earth. Her shoulders are tight and her thighs—still burning from the days spent running on uncleared trails—radiate pain throughout her body. Tessa’s thoughts rage against each other, screaming so loud she is sure the others must hear. Despite all this, Tessa falls quickly into sleep.
TESSA sits up with a jolt. She cannot tell how much time has passed. It is bitterly cold. She curls her body into a ball but her exposed skin—her calves, arms, and neck—are stung by the moisture in the air, like the prick of a mosquito’s needle-fine proboscis. Tessa rubs her goosebumps with both hands. She had been wearing a short-sleeved dress and light pink linen jacket when Archie and Zeno used the Tillastrion. She desperately wishes she had put on tights, like Ella, for Lady Sophia’s concert that night. Tessa hopes that Ella is warm.
She scoots herself up to sitting and surveys the clearing. Donna and Harry cuddle together, their breathing synchronized. To Tessa’s left, Valarie is curled up against Nate. He has not brushed off her arm, which drapes over him as he snores lightly. Lady Sophia has laid her head on a low mound and rests elegantly with one hand over her enormous chest. Her lips move as she still sings to the company, though now inaudibly, in her sleep. Zeno and the Olearons all rest, even Nameris, who dozes where he squats, failing to guard the sleeping company.
Tessa pushes herself to her feet. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. Taking careful, deliberate steps, she walks to the creek’s edge and studies it under the moonlight. It appears to be an ordinary stream of clear water rolling over a rocky bed. Harmless enough, she reasons. Nameris’s warning nags at her. A creek stealing secrets, Tessa scoffs. She crouches and scoops a handful of the icy flow. The water tingles on her tongue and she can feel every inch as it slips down her throat.
Many handfuls later, Tessa is full and satisfied. She wipes her trembling, cramping hand on her skirt as she stands and turns back toward her plot of earth—but her face crashes into a broad chest and she stumbles back, a small cry escaping her lips. A warm hand covers her mouth. Her feet slip on the wet rocks and Tessa senses herself falling. Another hand braces her back and cradles her weight until she finds her balance. Tessa looks up. It is Captain Nate.
He steadies her and whispers in her ear, “I’m sorry I startled you.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t realize anyone else was awake.” Tessa relaxes her shoulders. “Was I too loud?”
“Not at all. I’m a light sleeper. I actually think Lady Sophia’s dream opera was the culprit.”
Tessa muffles her giggle. She blushes. “Maybe we should wake him?” She tips her head in the direction of Nameris.
“Nah, let him sleep. Why don’t you and I take up his post?”
“I guess I do feel strangely awake,” Tessa admits.
They sit on a large rock on the edge of the creek and watch the slumbering company in silence. With his hands on his knees, Nate stretches a pinky finger toward Tessa, stroking the side of her leg. Goose bumps again ripple her skin, but this time not from the cold. She forgets how to breathe.
Nate leans over and cups Tessa’s face in his hands. “Look at me,” he urges when she drops her gaze. Their eyes lock, two green and two brown planets fixed within a hungry galaxy. Tessa feels Nate’s breath on her lips, then his kiss, tender at first, then passionate, deep. His fingers tangle in her hair. Tessa remembers to breathe and it is audible and interwoven with longing.
Tessa pauses to whisper, “I don’t know, I—”
Nate fills the space between them, interrupting Tessa’s words. She finds herself pulling her hands through Nate’s blond crew cut, longer on top. His muscular body throbs against hers and she can taste his scent. Slipping her fingers beneath his shirt, she traces the muscles of his back.
This isn’t the first time she has touched his skin.
THE first day on the Atlantic Odyssey, when Archie took Ella for a walk on the deck, Tessa followed at a distance. She quickly became caught in a crowd of passengers touring the ship, and Archie and Ella slipped out of sight. Tessa reluctantly joined the tour group.
“Welcome to the bridge!” Captain Nathanial Billows said, smiling broadly, his arms outstretched with the same theatrics he’d used to greet the passengers at the port. “Come on in, there’s room for everyone.”
Tessa found herself on a level above the observation deck. The bridge was a floor unto itself, the highest point of the Odyssey. Floor to ceiling windows leaned outward, each with its own windshield wiper. Captain Nate sat on the worktable on the edge of a long bank of computer monitors, switches, and flashing lights.
“Many passengers ask me if the life of a captain is boring and I assure you, it’s not. Imagine driving a twenty-thousand-ton vehicle, having control of every part of it as you stare down the horizon. It’s the most gratifying job I’ve found.”
A passenger raised her hand. “Who sails the ship while you are asleep? You do sleep, right?”
“Good question! The captain is like the CEO. I have three senior officers that report to me: the cruise director, whom you met—Valarie; the chief engineer; and the deputy captain. There’s typically only one or two of us in here while at sea, but when we enter or leave a port, the bridge is a bustling place to be.”
Tessa had let the other travelers pass her on their way to a different area of the Odyssey. She hung back and approached the large windows.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
She turned to see the captain behind her. “I envy what you said about control,” she replied. “There is little in my life that I can change.”
The captain turned his head. “Sailors, can you grab those checklists we were talking about earlier?” He waited until the bridge door closed behind them with a click, then looked down at Tessa. “I know I’m a stranger, but I’ve got a listening ear. Want to talk?”
“My daughter is sick,” Tessa blurted. “My husband left me. It’s like I’m living a car crash in slow motion; I can see each thing I lose as I plummet toward the end. At least here, as I look out these windows, my problems feel small. I feel small. Like I don’t need to be everything to everyone. I can just be.”
For the next three hours, Nate and Tessa sat on the floor of the bridge and drank pinot noir retrieved from the captain’s quarters. They watched the sun set sleepily over the North Atlantic
Ocean. The on-duty deputy captain frequented the bridge to check the glowing buttons, adjust a dial here, or collect papers there. He rolled his eyes at the tipsy pair whose conversation was effortless and familiar as they told one story after another. They clinked their glasses each time the deputy exited. Tessa grew flushed and laughed until her ribs ached. She reminded Nate every few minutes that she needed to meet Archie and Ella in the dinning hall. Still, they continued well after their view was freckled with stars.
Tessa asked Nate if she was pretty. He said yes. She asked him if she seemed like the kind of woman that a man walks out on. He said no. She asked him if she deserved to be happy. He said yes.
Nate told her about his early days as a water transport worker, learning to be the quiet workhorse on the job, learning to respect the sea as if it were a woman. As he shared how he’d fought for his position, how he had to make his mark—sometimes in extreme weather and against all odds and more experienced sailors—Tessa began to see that Nate was the kind of man that didn’t give up when life refused to be easy.
KISSING Nate felt natural on the Odyssey, like it does again at the creek’s edge. Nate had promised to visit Tessa in Seattle. She had no doubt, by the look in his eyes, that he meant every word. I deserve to be happy, Tessa says to herself. She ignores the rocks digging into her legs. Her words slip out before she can censor them. “I’m scared to want you as much as I do . . .”
“I know it’s fast, Tess, but I’m captivated by you. Breathless. You’re beautiful . . .”
Tessa tips her head back and smiles up at the blinking stars. I am not the mother of a sick child tonight, Tessa thinks. At this moment, I’m desired. She sighs and lets her eyes slip closed. Nate kisses beneath her ears and along her collarbone. His lips grow fainter. A chill breeze brushes against Tessa’s skin. When she looks back, Nate is gone.
Above the Star Page 16
