I have been saving
Mama’s stock
of rhodiola,
an arctic plant
whose roots restore
energy and hold back
Fermata’s fatigue.
I will need it today.
I find a
small rocky cave
near our sanctuary,
build a roaring fire
boil water so I can
make a tincture
from the roots.
Plus, the fire will
ensure I will not
freeze to death
if I faint from
the exertion of
calling Fermata.
The rhodiola should help.
Mama used
a rhodiola tincture
that day,
and it worked—
perhaps too well.
She played and played
and played and played
and then sang
until
she
did not.
LYRIANA
SIX MONTHS AGO
A Song to Save Us
Even though Zave
shivered next to me,
even though our house
had burned away,
even though our
store of Fermata
had melted to nothing,
rejoined the earth,
I was not afraid.
Mama would fix everything.
She said we
could not wait.
Our village
had been destroyed
and it was getting
colder each day.
The villagers
begged her to help.
Begged for the magic
to save them all.
And she would not leave
a single one of them behind.
Mama played her ocarina,
the soothing cadence
of Fermata’s
One True Song
seeping under my skin
as it seeped into the earth.
It glided and
slid into my pores.
Filled me with warmth,
even as cold wind
battered my body.
The haunting beauty
of her melody
mesmerized me
until I could feel
nothing but
the brush of her love
against my skin.
As her song soaked
into the earth
Fermata rose
pooling at her feet.
So much of it.
More than I had ever seen
from one song.
I squeezed Zave’s little hand.
Mama frowned.
Caught my eye.
Gave me a stiff,
forced smile.
Then she
put her ocarina down
and started to sing.
LYRIANA
SIX MONTHS AGO
Mama’s Final Melody
This was not right.
You cannot sing to the magic.
Ancient myths say
a Songsummoner’s voice
can call enough Fermata
to feed a garden
for a generation.
But only one person
in recent history,
Yolandra Hopesinger,
had tried.
And she died.
And started a war.
But Mama was strong.
And as the sweet song
poured out of her,
I knew in my bones
that my mother could
do anything.
She was stronger
than Winter Spirits,
more powerful
than the magic of
the Fermata she called.
She was a Songsummoner.
She held the story
of our people in her song,
and that story
would bring us home.
Home to a garden
where we would stay
forever safe and warm.
Until
her voice cracked—
a halting, dry sound
that scraped against
her flowing notes.
Her mouth twitched,
the edge of her smile
faltering.
Sweat dotted her forehead
as her song grew thinner,
like the notes had been
s t r e t c h e d a c r o s s
a wide chasm and they
could not reach
the other side.
The pooling Fermata shimmered.
Tiny tremors
broke
the liquid’s
surface.
I locked eyes with Mama.
There was fear there.
Was it hers
or was my own terror
reflected back at me?
Her voice splintered
on a high note.
“Mama, stop!”
I cried.
“The singing is hurting you.
We can wait. We can try
again another day.
I can help. I will make
my own ocarina.
You can show me how.”
But my pleas
fell
uselessly
to the ground.
The song would not let go.
Her eyes went wide,
filled with tears.
Strain stained her face
as she struggled against
Fermata’s grip.
I seized her ocarina.
Put it to my lips.
If I could just join her,
help her,
surely the Fermata
would release
its insidious hold.
But before I had
played a measure
my mother’s voice
gave way.
And the rest of her did too.
One last long note
fled from her
and she collapsed
into a heap in the snow.
Her song was over.
LYRIANA
SIX MONTHS AGO
Silence
Silence can be sharper
than a sword.
Stillness sliced
my world to shreds,
left me bleeding
disbelief into the frozen ground.
Mama could not be gone.
Could not be dead.
But her silence
spoke a truth
I could not deny.
And then,
to break the silence,
a timid voice
beside me …
“Lyrie?”
Zave’s arms
twined around my waist.
“Is Mama sleeping?”
Oh, Mama,
please
please
please
be simply sleeping.
LYRIANA
SIX MONTHS AGO
Scavengers
Mama did not wake.
And as we sat
stunned
on the ground
next to Mama’s
still form,
the souls
Mama
had so desperately
tried to save
swooped in,
scrounged
every precious drop
of Fermata.
Lislia
who had taught me
how to skin a rabbit
Sharya
who had brought soup
when Mama and I were sick
Yare
who had helped
the night Zave was born
Joven
who had sat with Mama
for hours after Papa died
and so many more.
Even Marten,
so like a grandfather to us.
Once he saw the scramble
for Mama’s magic,
he jumped in and joined
the horde.
My gut convulsed.
I spread bitter acid
and anger
on the unforgiving ground.
I took account of every betrayal.
The way the villagers snatched
the still-cooling Fermata
discs out of the snow.
How they shoved
each other
out of the way
in their desperation
to gather enough discs to
buy their way into a garden.
The way so many disappeared
into the trees with their treasures
without even a guilty glance our way.
Maybe someone
would have helped
us once they had
finished stealing
our Fermata.
Maybe Marten
would have stopped
gathering Mama’s
blood-earned magic
long enough to notice
the truth of death
dawning on Zave.
To see devastation
blooming in his eyes.
Maybe Lislia or Sharya
or Yare or Joven
would have remembered
Mama’s sacrifice.
Given us shelter.
Or maybe someone
would have remembered
I was
useful.
The thought sent me flying.
I snatched up Mama’s ocarina.
Shoved it into my bag,
already packed with supplies
for three,
ready for a journey to the gardens.
Grabbed Zave’s
mittened hand
and pulled him up,
ignoring his
teary protests.
Marten called my name,
but it only strengthened
my resolve.
I would not be their pawn.
Would not wait for them
to use me.
We fled,
leaving the shouts
of scavenging villagers
behind.
LYRIANA
PRESENT DAY
Soul Versus Song
I wipe away
the single tear
that has stolen
down my cheek.
I promised Zave
swore to him
I would not leave him
alone.
Please do not let that be a lie.
Once my rhodiola tincture
has steeped for four hours,
I drink it down.
Grimace
at the bitterness
on my tongue.
It is time
to summon Fermata.
I will have to
get the timing
just right.
Call forth the perfect
amount of magic
and mold it
before it hardens
naturally into a disc.
Sort of like creating
the patch,
but I have an even
more delicate
shape in mind.
A nearly impossible task.
Still, I bring the ocarina
to my lips
and play Fermata’s
ancient song.
As always,
the melody is dangerous—
with each breath
a new note pulls up
from somewhere
inside me,
like a fishing line
hooked to my soul.
Soul struggles
against song,
fights to stay with me,
heaves and surges
inside me.
It is all I can do to
steady myself.
Keep
on
playing.
A streak
of pale gold liquid
streams out
at my feet
under the ocarina.
Not enough.
The rhodiola tincture
must be working
because I have not
fallen over
from exhaustion,
yet.
I reach
a soaring crescendo,
ocarina trilling
as my fingers fly
over toneholes
in a complicated flurry.
The earth shifts
beneath my feet
and I send
a silent prayer
to The Composer
that my clumsy repair
will hold.
The pull within me stretches taut,
a constant
white-hot
pressure.
The thick golden pool
is the size of my head,
its lemonberry scent
filling the air.
The flow of magic
burns a path
right through me.
Eats away at my resolve.
Is this enough Fermata?
Can I stop now?
If I stop
and it is not enough
I will not have the strength
to start playing again.
A quick calculation.
One more time through the song.
Now that I have
gotten this far
I cannot stop
in the middle
of the melody.
The magic does not
like disruption.
It responds
in unpredictable ways,
none of them good.
A lesson I learned well from my mother.
Exhaustion weighs
on my fingers
but I will them
to keep moving,
will my breath
to keep coming
in steady streams,
will each note
to sing true.
Back to the crescendo.
Almost there …
Magic’s burning pressure
swells suddenly—
shoots from my heart
to my lips and
back to my toes
zipping back and forth
in a line of
pure
molten
pain.
The ocarina trembles
in my hands,
starts to shake.
Struggle to hold on,
struggle to keep
my fingers moving
to the right toneholes
when the holes have
suddenly
become
a
moving
target.
Just one final verse.
Stars fill my vision
but I keep playing.
A few more notes …
The ocarina
bucks wildly.
The spot I repaired glows—
a jagged line of wrong
on the smooth
opalescent gold surface.
It is not going to hold.
My breath is fire
but I force out
the final note.
Hold for one beat …
two beats …
three beats …
My ocarina
E X P L O D E S
LYRIANA
Storm of Shards
I am thrown backward.
Shattered pieces
of Mama’s ocarina
rain down around me
as my head bashes
the icy cave floor
and my world crashes
to black.
BROB
Allergic
Did days get longer now that I’m alone?
Da always has a story to tell or a lesson to teach
and Ma’s chatter can be good for a laugh or two
(when she isn’t nagging about the garden, that is).
Now silence stretches around me like an extra skin.
It makes me feel itchy all over.
I think I might be allergic
to silence.
BROB
An Inch
I try to coax more Spring out of my garden,
but Winter Spirits stubbornly stay.
Still, my one little sprig of a tree remains.
Standing strong. Is he an inch taller?
(Or am I just an inch more of a fool to
think I know anything about anything.)
Bet old King Cormoran will be thrilled to meet
his newest most successful Greensgrower.
Yep, that’s me,
a real child prodigy.
LYRIANA
Aftermath
A single
high-pitched note
sings out.
Is that my ocarina?
No, it is
my ears ringing.
My head throbs
with the beat of my heart.
At least it is still beating.
The singed smell
of lemonberries
left too long
on the fire
fills the air.
I try to roll over
but exhaustion
pins me to the ground.
Something crunches
beneath my arm.
Force eyes open.
A million tiny
jagged pieces
of dull, tarnished
Fermata surround me,
my once pearlescent
ocarina smashed
to smithereens.
LYRIANA
A Strand of Gold
Panic grips me.
How long
was I unconscious?
If the Fermata has
cooled too long
I will not be able
to form it.
And did I even
finish my final note?
With no ocarina,
I will not have
another chance.
The throbbing pain
in my head
intensifies
each time I move,
but the panic
threading through me
wins.
I force myself
to a sitting position.
My fire still blazes,
thank The Composer,
so it cannot
have been that long.
The Fermata has
pooled into a
roughly disc-like form,
but it is still
wobbly, like jam.
One more quick
dose of rhodiola—
I hate to waste it,
but I cannot risk
fainting from exhaustion
before I complete my task.
I scoop
the magic up
and find it is still warm.
Good.
Roll the Fermata
between my palms
like clay
till it forms
a snake
too long to hold.
Now roll it on the cave floor.
longer and thinner
l o n g e r a n d t h i n n e r
l o n g e r a n d t h i n n e r
When the strand
is the thickness
of a harp string
and reaches five feet across the floor
I stop.
The Fermata is
almost cooled now
but it is thin enough
to still be flexible,
a golden wire.
I hope it is long enough.
Now that panic
has bled out of me,
I can barely
keep moving.
It will have to be enough.
I curl up on the ground
and sleep.
BROB
Thirteen
Today is the day I turn thirteen. I wonder if Ma and Da forgot,
or if they’re thinking about me as they travel through the Blight.
No birthday cake No special dinner No friends to sing a song
Just me and itchy silence broken only by Winter Spirits
who rage outside. Do I hear a tune in their eerie howls?
happy birthday to me
LYRIANA
Tremors
I wake
to an earthquake.
Or maybe it is just
me trembling.
No,
someone
is
shaking
me.
“Lyrie? Lyriana!”
Zave’s voice is pitched
two octaves too high.
“Lyrie, wake up!”
I open my eyes.
His shoulders
slump in relief.
“Are you okay?”
he asks.
I nod and grunt
in reply.
My mouth is
sticky dry.
I shiver against
the cave floor.
My fire is out
and every ounce
of magic’s warmth
has bled away.
I am about to ask
how Zave found me
when I see Paetyr
inspecting
the long wire
of Fermata
that runs
along the cave floor.
“You have a plan?”
he asks.
The simple fact
that Paetyr assumes
I know what I am doing
makes me smile.
“I have a plan.”
“How can we help?”
LYRIANA
Cooperation
My brain stutters
on this idea
of help.
I am like a rusty cog
in Zave’s wind-up bunny,
one that grates
and scrapes
against its neighbors.
But an image
of Zave’s latest drawing
flashes in my mind:
a depiction of him
in the garden
surrounded by friends
frolicking with
a whole litter of fox pups.
The thought is the oil
that gets my gears moving.
Zave and I
are not the only ones
whose lives are at stake.
Maybe
I am not meant
to enact this plan
alone.
BROB
Room to Grow
Starting to feel a bit desperate now. Nothing new is growing.
So far, my stint as a Greensgrower has been an epic failure.
What will happen when Ma and Da come back to find
one puny sprig of a shrub in a vast garden graveyard?
What will happen when the others see? Who will the others be?
Will they bring Jangor, Da’s lieutenant, who wouldn’t even
look Da in the eye when he escorted us to our doom?
Thoughts like these turn and churn in my brain.
(Probably burning a hole in my skull from the friction.)
My journals are filled with drawings of
the plants that (used to) grace my garden.
My new tree seedling gets a two-page spread. Like I can
make his roots flourish by giving him more space on the page.
Come on, little guy, you can do it. GROW.
And spread your magic to the rest of the garden.
LYRIANA
Bridge
The plan is simple
and I have no idea
if it will work.
We wait for
dawn’s first rays,
all seventeen of us
from the cave.
Cover of night
would be better,
but we would not
be able to function
without the tiny bit
of warmth
early morning sun
provides.
We tiptoe our way
to the hole in the wall.
I breathe a little easier
when I find it.
This is going to work.
It has to work.
Mama always told me
magic is a bridge.
I am counting on it.
I will be
using Fermata
as a literal bridge.
When the Giant
held Fermata in his hands
when one foot
was in and one was out
of the garden
the wards flickered.
I cannot
walk through that gate
but maybe, just maybe,
I can use Fermata
to bridge the gap.
To connect in and out.
Bring the wards down.
LYRIANA
Brink
I pull the coiled
Fermata wire
out of my bag.
It is heavier
than one would expect
and still gives
off the faint scent
of salty lemonberries
as I uncoil it.
“Okay, hold this end
and feed it to me,”
I tell Paetyr,
handing him the
coiled end of the wire.
Hope it is long
enough
to reach the ground
on the other side.
I take off
my right glove.
My hand stiffens
from the cold.
Will have to be
quick.
The golden wire
pulses in my hand,
feeding me a tiny
taste of warmth.
Thread the end
through the gap
in the wall,
slowly at first.
Breathe a sigh
of relief
when it pokes through,
keeps moving
without resistance.
No wards
on the other side.
The wire glides
through smoothly,
like it is sliding along ice.
Paetyr uncoils the wire
and feeds it to me
as I push it through.
Soon I only have
a few inches left,
but the Fermata
still moves freely.
Should we not have
reached ground by now?
What if we do not
have enough wire?
Paetyr must see
panic crossing my face
because he says,
“Just go slow
and hold on tight.”
I squeeze
the very end of the wire
between thumb
and forefinger
and push
until my fingers are
right against the hole
in the wall.
I am out of length.
The wall feels
the same as it always has
smooth as glass
warded.
It feels like defeat.
The wire
has not touched
the ground
on the other side.
Or I was wrong
and this was never
going to work.
Calling this Fermata
nearly killed me.
And it is not enough.
LYRIANA
A Piece of Me
“Why isn’t it working?”
willowy Kayana asks.
She twirls a blond curl
around her gloved finger.
“It must not be touching
the ground on the other side.”
“Maybe we can tie it
to a stick or something.”
I shake my head.
“I do not think Fermata’s energy will
flow through a stick. It only sparks when
someone connected to magic touches it.”
But that gives me an idea.
“Here, hold this,” I say,
handing the end of the wire to Paetyr.
He does not question me.
I plait a lock of hair into a
thin braid, ten inches long.
Tie the end with string.
“Brilliant,” Paetyr says.
I am grateful I do not have to explain.
I tie the end of the
braid to the wire.
It is awkward
to be tethered like this,
but I hope it will be
worth it.
This hair is a piece of me.
Will magic pass through it?
I thread the wire
and my braid
back through the hole.
Step closer to the wall.
Closer.
My ear is an inch
from the too-smooth surface.
Finally (finally!) I feel the wire hit
ground on the other side.
I freeze as
a zing of Fermata’s magic
zips through me
from my head
to my heart
down through my toes
right into the earth
beneath my feet.
Smooth
glass wards
disappear
leaving
craggy stone.
LYRIANA
Over the Wall
Paetyr climbs.
He will open the gate
from inside.
With no wards
it should be easy.
I stand
perfectly still
so the
magical connection
remains.
Wire touching ground
inside and outside.
If I let that connection fail,
wards go back up,
Paetyr comes sliding
all the way
down.
He makes it
to the top.
Gasps.
Must be spectacular
seeing Summer again.
He turns around
carefully
so he can make
his way back down
on the other side.
Scuffling and scraping
as he finds each
hand and foothold
and then a soft
thump
as he jumps
the final few feet.
Seconds drag.
Time takes a stroll.
I want it to sprint.
My hand cramps
from gripping
the braid so hard.
But then the great
stone gate
swings open
with a creak.
Paetyr’s stunned face
appears around the corner.
It worked!
I run to the gate,
overjoyed at my
triumph.
LYRIANA
Deep Freeze
No Summer
sun shining.
No awesome display
of Autumn leaves.
No Spring
sparrows singing.
Just bleakest Winter
to turn my heart
to ice.
Winter winds
tug at our coats,
claw at our scarves.
The once jubilant
river now lies still
and silent
under a solid
layer of ice.
Zave’s
healing tree
stands bare
and bleak
in the corner,
its branches
painted white.
The tree looks
as lost and lonely
as me.
LYRIANA
Hold on to Hope
Everyone files in
behind me,
stands in
stunned silence
at the scene.
An icicle
falls from a tree,
shattering.
My heart plunges
with it.
But Paetyr’s
disappointment
only shows
for a moment.
“Everyone find a tree,”
he says.
“But it is Winter here,”
I protest.
He simply shrugs.
“This is still the garden.
Those are healing trees.
Why doubt now,
after all the time
you’ve spent hoping?”
Hoping.
Yes, I have done that.
Even when
I did not want to.
Everyone scrambles
to a tree.
Kayana is first
to hoist herself onto
the lowest branch
of a massive healing tree
that sits like a
benevolent beast
in the very center
of the garden.
I hold my breath
waiting,
and
yes,
hoping.