As they climbed onto the opposite bank, mud slurping at their feet, they suddenly found themselves staring into a boiling mud pit. Like a cauldron of poisons, it bubbled and churned, blacker than the darkest night. Rancid fumes belched into the air, darkening the sky.
“This way,” said Atlanta, skirting the mud pit’s edge.
Promi came right behind, doing his best to avoid the ghastly pit. When the rancid vapors drifted toward him, he chewed his sweetmint with new vigor.
Soon they came to another pit, this one not boiling. As they stepped past, Promi noticed something strange. The mud inside it seemed to be moving, even though there were no signs of heat and no cloud of fumes.
How could that be? he wondered, pausing at the edge to look more closely.
Snakes! He leaped backward, almost tumbling into a different pit. The skin around the mark on his chest burned with fear.
“Manfool!” cried Kermi, barely clinging to his neck. “What’s wrong?”
In answer, Promi merely pointed as he crept closer to the pit. Within its depths, dozens of shiny black bodies slithered. Every so often, the snakes’ orange eyes would gleam in the shadows.
Atlanta came over to see what had caught their attention. Seeing the snakes, she stiffened.
“Must be over fifty of them,” said Promi.
“Let’s not stay to count them, all right?” Kermi settled himself again on the young man’s shoulder, then thumped with his tail. “Keep moving.”
“Good advice,” said Atlanta.
She went back to leading them, keeping a good distance away from any mud pits, whether hot or cold. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Bad as this is . . . it will be worse after dark. That’s when the swamp specters—aaahhh!”
Shrieking, she slipped and fell into a pool of muck that dragged her deeper and deeper. Quicksand! Clawing at the edge of the pool, she tried desperately to pull herself out. But the quicksand sucked at her legs, drawing them irresistibly downward.
“Promi!” she cried, flailing wildly in the muck.
He dashed forward, almost sliding into the pool himself. He veered and grabbed a dead branch that lay on the ground. Kneeling at the edge, he stretched his arm with the branch as far as he could toward Atlanta.
“Take it!” he shouted. Ignoring the burning skin on his chest, he stretched farther over the quicksand.
“Can’t reach it!” She lurched toward the branch, but every movement made her sink deeper. Now the quicksand covered her knees and would soon reach her thighs.
Promi spun his head, searching for any way to reach farther. But he saw nothing. Only more muck and deadly pools.
Suddenly an idea struck him. “Kermi!”
The kermuncle, clinging to Promi’s neck, read his thought. “Let’s do it.”
Kermi jumped down and grabbed the end of the branch. At the same time, he placed his long tail in Promi’s hand. “Go ahead, manfool, before I change my mind.”
Taking the tail, Promi squeezed tight. The kermuncle crawled forward. Together, they pushed the branch toward Atlanta, stretching as far as they could.
She grabbed it! Bracing himself, Promi tugged with all his might. Atlanta waded closer, struggling against the quicksand. At last, she rolled onto the firmer ground by Promi’s side. Seeing that she was safe, both her rescuers fell flat, exhausted.
Panting, she turned to Promi. “Thank you! I would have . . .”
He nodded. “Just glad this branch was here.”
She gazed at him. “And I’m just glad you were here.”
“Ahem.” Kermi cleared his throat. “And what am I? A marsh marigold?”
She smiled at the little fellow. “Thank you, too, Kermi. You were heroic.”
He blew a bubble, seeming to be embarrassed. “Well, not really.”
“That’s right,” agreed Promi. “It was really his tail that was heroic.”
Atlanta and Promi burst into laughter. Meanwhile, Kermi wiped some of the muck off his whiskers.
They pressed on, moving deeper into the swamp. Doing their best to avoid noxious fumes and deadly pits, quicksand and poisonous snakes, they advanced slowly. Though no more disasters struck, the light faded swiftly. Before long, they were trekking in twilight.
“No farther today,” announced Atlanta. She pointed to a slight mound not far ahead. “That looks solid, a good place to spend the night.”
As they settled on the mound, covered with scraggly grass, Promi said, “This is a lot different from Moss Island.”
Atlanta sighed. “A lot.”
Still chewing the herb she’d given him, he asked, “Will this sweetmint last until morning? What if I fall asleep and it falls out of my mouth?”
She glared at him sternly. “Don’t let it.”
“All right,” he promised.
“I have enough to get us through,” she explained. “But not any extra.” Leaning closer, she added, “And the greatest danger at night is not the fumes.” Hesitantly, she reached out her hand and clasped his. “It’s the specters. That’s how, I’m guessing, my parents died.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “That’s not how you will die, Atlanta. Or any of us.”
Not quite believing him, she nodded. Then, with her other hand, she stroked the pocket that held the faery. “You’ll survive this night, little friend. I promise.”
A rush of gratitude filled her, and she stroked the pocket again. She could feel the trembling of tiny wings.
“I think,” said Promi, “we should take turns keeping watch. I’ll go first.” He winked at Atlanta. “You’ve been working harder than any of us today. So you should get some sleep.”
She gave him a grateful look. “All right. But when you start to get tired, or if you see any, um . . . visitors—wake me up.”
“Fine.” He cocked his head toward Kermi, already sound asleep on the grass. “He worked hard, too. At least . . . his tail did.”
Atlanta lay down, her head on her arm. “Just keep . . . your sweetmint . . .” She finished the sentence in her sleep.
Sitting cross-legged, Promi peered into the deepening gloom. Darkness shrouded the swamp, except for the eerie glow from some of the fumes in the mud pits. Other than that, everything grew increasingly black. Shadows melted into shadows, twilight into night.
Then something changed. Pairs of gleaming lights, looking almost like fire coals, flickered in the distance. Promi stared at them, trying to make out their source. Meanwhile, he kept the sweetmint right on his tongue, just in case it helped to ward off more than poisonous fumes.
Closer the lights came, always in pairs, moving in a strange, rhythmic dance. Promi watched them intently. They weaved and swayed, illuminating the swamp, dancing in a free-flowing motion that was disarmingly pleasant. Almost . . . hypnotic.
Eyes, he thought dreamily. They look like eyes. Dancing so beautifully.
By now, he didn’t care that the eyes were encircling him, drawing steadily closer. He didn’t notice the long, curved claws that occasionally gleamed in the darkness. Just as he didn’t notice that his jaw hung slack, his mouth wide open . . . or that his sweetmint had fallen to the ground.
As the eyes closed in around him, the claws lifted to strike. Yet Promi saw nothing but the serene, ongoing dance of lights. He sat there, utterly still, waiting for whatever would happen next.
The claws raised to the level of his neck. They paused, set to slice off the head of this mortal who had dared to enter their realm. Just as they struck—
“Promi!”
Atlanta threw herself at him, knocking him over on his side. He slammed his head onto the turf, regaining his senses—just in time to see Atlanta wave her remaining sprigs of sweetmint in the air.
Eerie shrieks echoed around the bogs. The claws withdrew; the gleaming eyes scattered. Within seconds, the swamp specters disappeared.
Awkwardly, Promi sat up. His head hurt, and he felt dizzy, but his gaze met Atlanta’s. In the dim, wavering light from the fumes, he coul
d see that she was both frightened and relieved. He started to speak, but before he could say a word, she popped a fresh sprig of sweetmint into his mouth.
“Try not to lose this one,” she said sternly. Then, more softly, she added, “You said you wouldn’t die.”
“I won’t tonight, thanks to you.”
She almost grinned. “That makes us even.”
“Good,” he replied, rubbing his sore head. “But next time you save my life . . . try not to kill me in the process.”
Quietly, she chuckled. “I’ll think about it.”
CHAPTER 28
The Passage of Death
A recipe you think you know well can still surprise you.
—From Promi’s journal
At the first light of dawn, Promi and Atlanta set off again. Grimly aware of the dangers all around, they continued to trek east toward the mountains—and to Grukarr’s lair. Though they walked together, their bare feet squelching in the mud, they rarely spoke. Even Kermi, riding on Promi’s shoulder, stayed unusually quiet.
For Atlanta, the worst part of this trek wasn’t the endless peril of quicksand, snake pits, or swamp specters. No, it was the painful awareness that her parents had died in this very place—maybe in the next pit or fumarole to come into view.
Why, she asked herself, did they choose to explore the Passage of Death? The very name made her wince painfully. Frowning, she realized that crossing this murderous bog was itself a kind of passage of death. Yet here I am, doing the same thing.
Promi, for his part, worried about something else—something he liked even less than Unkhmeini Swamp. Their time was fast running out! Already Ho Byneri was only a week away. And the high peaks, where Grukarr’s lair was hidden, still seemed very far away.
All through that day, they trudged onward. When night fell and they couldn’t go any farther, they settled on a patch of grass that had somehow retained a hint of green color. But even that sign of life didn’t revive their spirits.
That night, as Atlanta took her turn at keeping watch, the swamp seemed strangely calm. She scanned the desolate bog, knowing that this was truly the last place she’d wanted to see. And the last place her parents had ever seen. Yet she also knew that, to have any hope of saving the forest and all its creatures, she had to be here.
For several hours, she watched the glowing fumes and shifting shadows, puzzled why they seemed so calm—as if the whole swamp were holding its breath. Waiting for something. But for what?
Whenever she felt drowsy, she pinched her ears. All the while, she chewed her sweetmint. Through the rest of the night, she watched, always alert for trouble. To her relief, she saw no sign of the swamp specters.
Finally, dawn’s first light started to filter through the fumes. Golden rays spread across the scene, making the swamp seem, at least for this moment, a bit less dreadful. The darkest shadows withdrew; light spread everywhere.
A pair of shapes suddenly caught her attention. Swathed in vapors, they looked hazy, undefined. Yet . . . they seemed very much like human figures. And they were, without question, moving toward her.
She bit her lip. Could it be . . . ?
Blinking her eyes, she reminded herself, It’s not them. It can’t possibly be them!
Yet even as her intellect and experience told her this was folly, her deep longing told her otherwise. The figures drew nearer, striding toward her through the vapors.
She glanced over at Promi, fast asleep, his head upon his arm. Beside him, Kermi lay on the grass, sleeping just as soundly. Won’t disturb them, she decided. Not until I’m really sure.
Turning back to the hazy figures, she caught her breath. They were holding hands! Helping each other across the bog. Just as her parents would surely be doing!
Her heart pounded with excitement. She leaped to her feet, trying to see clearly through the swirling vapors. The figures still looked blurry. But more and more, they resembled the two people she most wanted to see.
Without even watching where she was going, she stepped off the patch of grass and into the muck. As her feet sloshed ahead, one of the figures raised an arm and waved.
“Mama?” she asked, the name catching in her throat. “Papa? Is that you?”
Now both of them waved. Then they stopped and opened their arms to greet her, their brave daughter who had traveled so far and endured so much to find them.
Atlanta broke into a run. Heedless of the danger, she hurtled straight toward a deep, bubbling pit that belched poisonous fumes. Just as she was about to plunge into it—
Promi tackled her from behind. They rolled in the mud, finally stopping at the edge of the pit.
Shouting, Atlanta kicked and struggled to get up again, shoving Promi away. But when she looked for the alluring figures, they had vanished. Only shreds of vapor remained.
At once, she realized her terrible mistake—and just how close she’d come to death. She turned to Promi and started to explain, then suddenly burst into tears. Leaning her muddy head against his shoulder, she sobbed.
Gently, he wrapped his arm around her. He didn’t try to say anything, sensing words couldn’t help. They simply sat there, dripping with mud, while she cried.
When, at last, her tears ended, she lifted her head and said just one sentence: “They were my family.”
Sadly, he nodded. “Even though I can’t remember anything about my family, losing them still hurts.”
She wiped one of her eyes, streaking her cheek with mud. “That’s horrible. At least I still have some memories.”
Lowering his gaze, he said, “The only memory I have, that little bit of song, I’m not even sure is real.”
She reached over and took his hand in her own.
“Maybe,” asked Promi hesitantly, “we can be . . . each other’s family?”
Atlanta smiled. “I like that idea.”
CHAPTER 29
Secret Work
Once in a while, I do something stupid. And then once in a while, I do something extremely, idiotically, unforgivably stupid. You can guess which I do more often.
—From Promi’s journal
Together, Promi and Atlanta walked back to the patch of grass and woke up Kermi. As soon as the kermuncle opened his eyes, he exclaimed, “Look at you two! You’re so filthy you might as well have actually gone and rolled in the mud!” Then, just to Promi, he added, “But even you, manfool, aren’t that stupid.”
Atlanta gave Promi a wink. “Really, you should keep out of the mud.”
“I’ll try harder,” he said with a grin.
Grumbling about getting his fur more dirty than it already was, Kermi reluctantly climbed up to his customary perch on Promi’s shoulder. Then, with no more delay, they set off, trekking toward the mountains again.
Now, though, the journey felt different to both Promi and Atlanta. While nothing about the swamp had changed—the terrain was no less dismal and the danger no less present—they felt somehow lighter than before. Their feet lifted a bit more easily; their legs moved a little more confidently. It was as if they were tied together with an invisible thread, pulled along by each other’s strength.
At midday, Promi spotted a rare spring with freshwater, bubbling out of the ground near a pair of twisted orange trees. Gratefully, they stopped to drink. Although what remained of the trees’ fruit had long since vanished and their only company was the twisted skeleton of a camel, the taste of clear water pushed suffering aside. No elixir from the spirit realm could have tasted better.
“Mmmmm,” said Atlanta, lifting her head from the spring. She replaced her sprig of sweetmint in her mouth, and not even its burnt charcoal flavor could detract from the wonder of freshwater. “I’d almost forgotten how good this is!”
“Me too,” replied Promi, water dripping from his cheeks and chin. “The only thing that would improve this would be a good big slice of lemon pie with honey crust.”
She almost grinned. “Too bad you left that lemon pie back in the City.”
; Kermi lifted his small blue face from the spring and shook the droplets off his whiskers. “Don’t you people ever think about anything besides food?” He rubbed the fur of his tummy. “Not that I’d turn down a meal about now.”
“Why complain?” asked Promi. “You ate at least three moths yesterday. Plus one of the dried-up apples Atlanta found on that old tree.”
“Harrumph. You have no taste at all, manfool. Except, of course, in your choice of companions.”
Atlanta nudged Promi’s shoulder. “He’s got you there.”
But Promi didn’t feel like responding. Scanning their bleak surroundings, his worries came flooding back. “We’re never going to get there in time. Look how far the mountains are from here.”
He pointed to the vague outline of the high peaks, only barely visible through the swirling clouds of gases. “It’s at least another day’s walk. If we can survive that long.”
“Look at it this way, manfool.” Kermi blew a thin, ragged bubble. “If the swamp doesn’t kill us, we’ll all die anyway after Ho Byneri.”
Atlanta blinked. “My, that’s encouraging.”
“Unless,” the kermuncle continued, “we can get to Grukarr’s lair, figure out his plans, somehow save the forest, and—oh, yes—rescue the Starstone before Narkazan can turn it into a terrible weapon. Did I leave anything out?”
She blew a long sigh. “When you put it that way, it does sound a bit . . . difficult.”
“Impossible,” corrected Promi.
“Insane,” offered the kermuncle. Then, seeing Promi slouch glumly against one of the orange trees, he added, “Why don’t you do something to cheer yourself up, manfool? Like . . . write in your journal?”
The young man shook his head. “I only write down things I want to remember.” He tapped his tunic pocket. “This journal has been right here with me in all the best times I’ve ever had.”
Kermi nodded. “Like your times with me?”
Still not ready to find any humor in their situation, Promi didn’t answer. He merely sat there, rolling his sweetmint on his tongue.
Atlantis Rising Page 19
