by T.A. Barron
Approaching her home, Atlanta marveled at its simple, symmetrical shape. That hadn’t been difficult to accomplish, mind you. For the whole structure was really a hollowed-out acorn that had grown to enormous size—at least three times the height of a fully grown person. The acorn, from one of the magical oaks near Highmage Hill, just happened to have been dropped by an unsuspecting squirrel very near to the Starstone, whose power greatly magnified the acorn’s size, as well as its own magic. As a result, the acorn was already almost a house when Atlanta had found it. All it took was the help of a few friends to do the rest—beavers to hollow it out, woodpeckers and termites to carve the windows and door, and a sturdy team of centaurs to haul it to this spot.
Even as Atlanta reached for the latch, it lifted and the door swung open. Grinning at Etheria’s affection for a dramatic entrance, Atlanta stood in the doorway and bowed deeply. The faery on her shoulder fluttered over to the teapot that sat waiting on the small pinewood table in the kitchen.
“Etheria,” called Atlanta, “I’m home.” Then, with genuine appreciation, she added, “And I’m so very glad you are in my life.”
Without waiting for any response, she strolled over to the table. Eagerly, she poured herself some tea into her favorite mug, carved from the burl of a fallen oak by Honya, the most skilled woodcarver among the chimpanzees who lived in the Spirit Hills at the southern end of the forest. After stirring in some honey, she leaned back in her chair and took the first sip.
Fresh mint and honey truly tasted like relaxation in liquid form. And this particular tea always soothed her mind. So did the sight of all the beeswax candles in the house, which Etheria had lit only moments before. All in all, Atlanta felt better than she had all day.
She winked at Quiggley, who had stretched out on the tea cozy she’d made from strips of moss. “Well, little friend . . . it’s good to be home.”
Raising her voice, she called, “Did you hear that, Etheria? I hope so!” Taking another sip, she added, “I never should have let that pie thief into my life—but now that’s over and done. And I’m back here with you.”
At that instant, all the candles glowed brighter. In the cupboard, plates and bowls clinked against each other merrily. And in the bedroom, the downy cover fluffed up with satisfaction. It was almost as if the house itself was celebrating Atlanta’s return.
Which, in fact, it was. Because the house itself was Etheria.
The acorn’s magic, magnified enormously by the Starstone, had given Atlanta a home with plenty of intelligence. As well as plenty of personality. And a highly independent streak.
Now, sometimes that worked well—as it did this very evening. When Atlanta had returned home and needed a warm, comfortable welcome, she got it. However, sometimes Etheria’s independent ways made life truly uncomfortable.
Atlanta was still, months after the incident, trying to apologize to the family of centaurs (including a pregnant mother) who had stopped by for a friendly visit. Before they even knocked on the door, Etheria sprouted thorns all over her outside walls and produced an odor of horse manure so strong it was practically suffocating. Not only that, when the centaurs didn’t take the hint and go away, Etheria suddenly shrank herself down to the size of a boulder—which nearly crushed Atlanta, who was baking bread in the kitchen.
Though the centaurs did finally gallop off, the poor mother was so upset that she gave birth several weeks early. And while the young centaur was basically healthy, he developed a terrible allergy to manure. (This is rather inconvenient for someone who is half horse.) To this day, the sight of manure makes him sneeze violently. And the smell of the stuff causes him to break out in hives—and, even worse, to feel an overwhelming urge to defecate.
While Atlanta had tried to talk with Etheria about this kind of thing, she hadn’t made much progress. After all, if a house doesn’t want to talk with you, it will simply shut all its windows and doors tight and lock every cupboard drawer. Even though Atlanta guessed that Etheria really hadn’t wanted to feel like a barn, with all the cleaning that would have been necessary after the centaurs’ visit, that didn’t justify such behavior. Yet so far, Etheria hadn’t allowed any discussion of the incident. If Atlanta even so much as mentioned the word centaur, the whole house started shaking as if there had been a sudden earthquake.
On this evening, though, such troubles—house problems, as Atlanta called them—seemed very far away. She relaxed into her chair (which was padded with soft bubblereeds she’d gathered from the ponds near the Waterfall of the Giants), sipped her mint tea, and enjoyed the quiet of home.
Just then, the top drawer of the cupboard popped open. A furry brown head emerged, followed by a plump body and a truly massive tail. The squirrel, Atlanta’s longtime housemate, peered at her with beady black eyes.
“I don’t suppose you brought any food for me,” he grumbled. “I’m nothing but a lowly squirrel, after all.”
From his resting place on the tea cozy, Quiggley shook his antennae scoldingly.
“What’s up with you, Babywings?” snorted the squirrel. “You don’t have to eat anything but dewdrops.”
Quiggley scowled and jumped to his feet. His antennae waved vigorously, and he seemed ready to fly right into the squirrel’s face if Atlanta hadn’t intervened.
“Now, now, Grumps.” Atlanta set her mug down on the table and glared at the squirrel. “If you’re going to share this house with us, you’ve got to be nice to everybody.”
Looking like he’d just swallowed a rotten acorn, Grumps frowned. “Even Babywings?”
“Even him. And his name is Quiggley.”
“Oh, all right then.” The squirrel waved his bushy tail like a flag of surrender. “I will call him by his proper name.”
The faery relaxed and started to sit down again.
Then the squirrel added, “Is that all right with you, Babywings?”
Quiggley jumped up again, his wings whirring angrily.
“Fine, fine,” grumbled the squirrel. “If you don’t have any sense of humor, Quiggley, then I can’t help you.”
Atlanta traded glances with the faery, who shrugged his little shoulders. Both of them knew that they weren’t going to get any better manners out of the cantankerous squirrel. Maybe his sour disposition had something to do with having to live inside an acorn that he could never eat. Or maybe he’d fallen out of a tree as a youngster and struck his head. In any case, Grumps had always lived up to his name.
Turning back to the squirrel, Atlanta said, “That’s an improvement. As a reward, I just happen to have something for you.”
“Better be good,” he muttered.
She reached into her robe’s hip pocket—the very same pocket where she’d carried Quiggley during those days when he’d been so badly injured that he nearly died. And she smiled to know that the faery had so fully recovered that he was completely ready to fly into battle to defend his honor from such rudeness. Then, from the pocket, she pulled three fresh acorns and tossed them into Grumps’s drawer.
Without a word of thanks, he dived down after them. But the satisfied wave of his tail, protruding above the lip of the drawer, told Atlanta that her gift had been gladly accepted.
Suddenly—a harsh knock struck the door. The whole house started to shake. Atlanta jumped off her chair, but the quaking grew so strong she could barely stand.
CHAPTER 16
Gryffion’s Tidings
Stop that, Etheria!” commanded Atlanta. She grabbed hold of the table for support against the violent tremors shaking the acorn house. “Right now.”
After a few grudging creaks and moans from the floorboards, Etheria settled down to a constant tremble. Rolling her eyes, Atlanta grabbed her mug of tea (which was just about to slide off the table) and moved it away from the edge.
She strode over to the door. Before opening it, she cast a withering glance around the hous
e, as if to say, Behave yourself. Then she lifted the latch.
Facing her in the doorway stood an elegant unicorn, his silver coat tinged with white and his prominent horn shimmering with subtle radiance. Atlanta recognized him immediately: Gryffion, the oldest and wisest of the unicorns. Yet while they had talked occasionally near his home on the Indragrass Meadows, she never expected to find him at her door.
“Gryffion. What a surprise to see you!” For the benefit of Etheria more than the unicorn, she added, “This is a great honor.”
The unicorn nodded in greeting. “Apologies for the loud knock,” he said in his rich baritone voice. “I’m just not used to rapping on doors with this horn of mine.”
Atlanta grinned. “And my apologies to you for Etheria’s little earthquake. She gets, well, carried away sometimes.”
Gryffion’s lavender eyes glittered with amusement. In a voice loud enough that Etheria would be sure to hear it, he said, “You are fortunate indeed to have a house so protective and devoted to your well-being.”
Etheria’s trembling grew noticeably quieter, though the house continued to rumble.
“And I might add,” he said with a wink at Atlanta, “that I take great care to keep houses clean whenever I visit. Besides . . . unicorn manure is much more fragrant than that of horses and other creatures.”
Instantly, Etheria’s trembling ceased. Atlanta could hear the sounds of a new place being set at the table and something being prepared in the kitchen.
“Your manners are impeccable,” she told the unicorn with a smile. “As is your understanding of, shall we say, tricky personalities.”
Gryffion chuckled, rustling his white mane. “You can thank my mate for that! She’s given me lots of practice over the years.”
“Please come in.” Atlanta stepped over to the table, where a large bowl sat next to her mug. The teapot had been refreshed and the woodstove was baking something that filled the house with a delicious aroma.
“Ah, fresh banana bread,” observed Gryffion as he walked in, hooves clomping on the floorboards. “Only a supremely talented house could provide such a treat.”
Every candle in the kitchen flared brighter.
Atlanta almost laughed. “Some tea?” she offered.
“Lovely,” he answered. “With plenty of honey. But,” he said good-humoredly, “no need to fetch me a chair.”
“Then I’ll stand, too,” offered Atlanta.
“Gracious of you, my dear.” Seeing the faery on the tea cozy, Gryffion gave him a respectful tip of his luminous horn. In return, Quiggley nodded and clapped his antennae together, a faery’s sign of high esteem.
Turning to Atlanta, the unicorn remarked, “I see you have a quiggleypottle in your life. Very good luck.”
“Most of the time, at least,” she replied, remembering her big fight with Promi. “But even he can’t protect me from my own stupidity.”
“Our fate as mortals,” said Gryffion with a flick of his tail.
Quiggley promptly flew over and landed on the collar of Atlanta’s robe. As he perched there, she could feel the gentle brush of his wings against her neck . . . as well as the wave of understanding he sent to her.
Pouring some tea into the bowl, as well as her mug, Atlanta asked, “Are things going well with the unicorns?”
“We are blessed. A healthy new colt was born only last week.”
She stirred in the honey. Just then, the woodstove jumped slightly off the floor—just enough to toss a steaming loaf of banana bread onto the table. It landed with a thud and the bread knife slid over to join it.
The unicorn swished his tail in delight. His silver coat gleamed. “Thank you ever so much.”
The walls and floor of the house sighed with satisfaction.
“You are most welcome,” said Atlanta as she sliced some banana bread for her guest. “So what brings you here today?”
“Tidings,” Gryffion replied. He took a swallow of tea from the bowl, then frowned. “Not good ones, I fear.”
Atlanta caught herself just before taking a bite of banana bread. Setting the bread back down on the table, she peered at her guest. “Tell me.”
Gryffion’s lavender eyes looked suddenly sad. “A new unicorn is born only rarely, every thousand years or so. And when that occurs, we have a tradition of reading its placenta for signs of the future.”
On Atlanta’s shoulder, the faery stiffened. Even his antennae seemed frozen.
“What did you see?” Atlanta asked.
“Destruction.” He sighed grimly. “The signs, repeated over and over, predicted a terrible day and night of destruction.”
Atlanta caught her breath. “Those were the same exact words the centaur Haldor said in his prophecy for Atlantis! Until now, I thought that was probably just one of his pessimistic ramblings. But—”
“Now you know otherwise,” completed the unicorn gravely. “As do I. Any prophecy deserves attention—but a repeated prophecy, all the more.”
The kitchen candles quivered, making all the shadows in the room tremble.
“What else,” Gryffion asked, “did the centaur say?”
Atlanta took a long, slow breath, trying to recall that night on Moss Island when Haldor had spoken. “He said this island—he predicted that, too—would touch the wider world. Not through its wondrous creatures and places, or even its magic. And not through its buildings and great inventions.”
She paused, gazing at Gryffion. “No, he said the lasting power of this place would come from its stories. The tales of Atlantis, he promised, would long survive and be cherished by people all over the world.”
“But the land itself?”
“Would be lost forever. He said it would sink deep into the sea and disappear. After ‘a terrible day and night of destruction’—Atlantis would perish.”
The candlelight dimmed further, making the room almost as dark as the forest outside. For a long moment, no one talked. Finally, the unicorn took another sip of tea, then spoke again.
“Something tells me that this will happen soon. And that humans will be at the center of it all.”
“That’s true too often,” said Atlanta glumly. “How can the same species be capable of so much good and so much evil? Create such beauty and powerful tools—and also cause so much damage and suffering?”
The old unicorn shook his head, tossing his mane. “We have a saying about the human soul:
More tangled than the vine,
More mysterious than the sea;
Bright and dark, large and small,
Imprisoned yet free.”
He touched Atlanta’s arm with his horn, sending a warm, renewing tingle through her body. Even the faery on her collar felt it and fluttered his wings. Then, in a voice no less warm, Gryffion explained:
“The tools people make can be powerful, indeed. But what is truly powerful are their choices about how those tools will be used. After all, a hammer can be used to build a neighbor’s home—or to crush that neighbor’s skull. As a gift . . . or as a weapon. And the difference lies not in the hammer, but in the choice.”
Atlanta swallowed. “What then can I do? I’m just one person . . . and the times are so dark.”
“You can be a candle,” offered Gryffion. “Bring some light into the dark.”
He looked at her with compassion. “And try to make the best choices you can.”
CHAPTER 17
One Great Story
As they walked through the cobblestone streets of the City of Great Powers, Promi, Morey, and Shangri grilled young Lorno. Eager to know more about the boy’s shipmates and home country, especially since they’d never met anyone from another land, they peppered him with questions. Lorno would barely finish answering one when his companions asked him another.
Except for Kermi. While the others tossed a stream of questions
at Lorno, the kermuncle sat in silence on Promi’s shoulder, his long blue tail draped down Promi’s back. He barely moved, except occasionally to blow a few bubbles or stroke his whiskers. Despite the continuous chatter around him, Kermi just sat there, too glum even to make his usual snide remarks.
“Are ye sure,” the baker asked, “ye don’t want to stay with the monks at the temple, like the rest o’ yer shipmates?”
“No,” Lorno replied. “I want to find something more . . . well, independent. Where I can come and go as I please.”
Promi grinned. “That I understand.”
Chewing on his last slice of apple crisp, Morey offered, “Well then, lad. Why don’t ye stay with us? We have a nice little room above the bakery, which ye can have at least till ye find somethin’ better.”
The boy’s whole face brightened. “Really?”
Shangri nodded so energetically that her braids flapped like wings.
“Yes, lad. We’d much enjoy yer company.”
“Thank you. To think that I fell out of the sky onto such a generous family!”
Shangri giggled, hopping over a dog who was fast asleep on the cobblestones.
“Always choose with care who you fall on,” said Promi jauntily. “That’s my motto in life.”
Kermi rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
“I thought yer motto,” said the baker as he elbowed Promi, “was to find whatever pastry’s jest come pipin’ hot out o’ the oven—and eat it.”
“That’s my other motto.” Promi took another bite of the clump of cinnamon buns in his hand. “Especially if the pastry is covered with cinnamon.”
“That’s another spice we don’t have in Greece,” said Lorno through his own mouthful of pastry. “But I’m sure glad to discover it now.”
“You really came all that way to find cinnamon?” asked Shangri.
“Well, it was supposed to be a voyage of discovery,” Lorno explained. “That’s why the ship was loaded with so many of our best scientists, architects, engineers, and inventors. Why, even our captain, Reocoles, is a master machine builder. He told us many times that our goal was simply ‘to find nature’s bounty and make the best use of it all.’”
