Feather Crystals
A realm away, on Atlantis, the mortal world’s most magical island, a voice rang out. Deep in the forest, the young woman’s cry echoed among the trees.
“Hide me!”
Atlanta pleaded with the ancient blue spruce tree, leaning her whole body against its trunk. “Now! Before he finds me!”
The old tree seemed to shudder. Its upper branches tossed as if caught by a breeze. Except there was no breeze.
Atlanta rubbed her hands against the rough, rutted bark, using her gift of natural magic to awaken the tree—one of many in the Great Forest who had known her since that day she first came here, lost and alone, as a child. The trees, back then, had protected her and become her friends. But even now, as a fully grown young woman, she still turned to them when in need.
“Please, Master Spruce,” she begged. “He’s coming . . . and there’s not much time!”
Again, the tree shuddered—this time so forcefully that hundreds of blue needles poured down from the branches, showering her. She shook them from her curly brown hair, not even noticing how their tangy-sweet scent filled the air. She only clasped the trunk harder than ever.
“Now, old friend. Only seconds left!”
With a sharp crackling sound, the trunk started to expand. A whole new layer of bark sprouted from the ruts and wrapped around the tree—as well as Atlanta.
Seconds later, no sign of her could be seen. She was completely covered—her head, her purple gown woven from lilac vines, and her bare feet. Only the spruce’s unusually wide trunk gave any hint of her whereabouts.
Safe inside the blanket of newly grown bark, Atlanta sighed. She squeezed the tree thankfully.
Meanwhile, all around the spruce, the forest hushed, as if holding its breath. All the other trees in the grove fell utterly still. So did the animals in their branches, ranging from a normally chattering squirrel to a pair of cockatoos. Even a small butterfly with green-striped wings froze in place.
Then a slight movement entered the grove—so subtle it was almost invisible. A faint whirring of wings . . . a hint of blue . . . a blur of something passing through the air. Nothing more than that.
The faery landed on one of the old spruce’s lowest branches. Now fully visible, his luminous blue wings opened above him, shimmering with light. Between his delicate antennae sat a white cotton hat; a translucent cloak rested on his tiny shoulders. Hollowed-out red berries served as shoes.
The faery’s antennae quivered ever so slightly. Then, after a few seconds’ pause, he placed his little hands on his hips, waiting impatiently. Once again, his antennae quivered.
Suddenly the new layer of bark around the trunk trembled, buckled—and split open. As quickly as it had grown, it receded into the old folds of bark. Atlanta, fully exposed, caught her breath.
Above her on the branch, the faery cocked his head.
She peered up at him. “All right, Quiggley. Stop your gloating!” Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you found me, you don’t have to look so smug about it.”
With a gentle flutter of wings, the faery glided down to her shoulder. Atlanta turned her head toward him and grumbled, “How did you do that so fast? It’s no fun hiding from somebody like you!”
Quiggley shrugged modestly. But even on his tiny face, the grin of satisfaction couldn’t be missed.
Because faery language is so densely packed with magical symbols, very few of Atlantis’s mortal creatures could even attempt to understand it. Some elder unicorns, it was said, could banter freely with the faeries. And Falaru, the oldest of the great whales, often sang ballads with deepwater faeries that could last several weeks without pause. The only other known instance of someone conversing with a faery was when Promi, in Atlanta’s presence, had tried it. That had required a great sacrifice on Promi’s part—and he survived only because he was, in fact, immortal (though he didn’t know it at the time).
And so . . . ever since Atlanta had first met this little fellow—and healed his wounds after he’d nearly died from an attack ordered by the wicked priest Grukarr—Quiggley had found other ways to communicate with her. Sometimes all it took was a grin like the one he was wearing now. More often, he sent her a wave of feeling, an emotion so clear it always touched her heart.
That’s why Atlanta started to laugh. A wave of sheer amusement, so full of joy she couldn’t resist, flowed through her. That joy wasn’t just from playing their little game. Most of it came from simply appreciating their rather unusual friendship.
For an enduring friendship it had become. The attack that Quiggley had barely survived destroyed all the magic—and all the life—of his faery clan. He’d lost his young daughter, his wife, and both parents. Atlanta, meanwhile, had no relatives of her own. She possessed nothing more than a few memories of her parents, who had died in a terrible swamp near a place called the Passage of Death. So the two of them had bonded as tightly as bark and sap on a tree.
Since finding each other, the young woman and the faery had shared some perilous adventures—including a few with serious consequences for both the mortal and immortal worlds. And on days like this . . . they shared some lighthearted moments, as well.
As Atlanta’s bell-like laughter quieted, she kneeled to smell a clump of lemongrass growing at her feet. She inhaled deeply, as did Quiggley while balancing on her shoulder. The scent made her feel peaceful, as always. And it also reminded her of the first day she had met Promi—over a freshly baked lemon pie he’d just stolen.
Suddenly she frowned. Standing again, she shot a glance at the faery. He nonchalantly twirled a loose lilac vine on the shoulder of her gown, looking carefree.
“You can’t fool me,” she grumbled. “You know exactly why I’m so upset at him.”
Quiggley merely gazed at her, cocking his head innocently.
“Why does he have to go on acting this way?” she demanded. “When he knows it’s just impossible?”
One corner of Quiggley’s mouth lifted in a grin.
“Of course he likes me! That’s obvious. Any buffoon can see that! But he doesn’t have any right to assume I feel the same way about him.”
Now the faery’s whole mouth was grinning.
Atlanta slapped her hand against the old spruce’s trunk. “But it’s impossible! He should know that. We’re from two different worlds, separated by the veil—and a stack of ancient laws, too!”
Her eyes narrowed. “And besides . . . he’s, well—he’s such a problem.”
Biting her lip, she shook her head. “I know, I know . . .” Her voice grew quieter until, in a whisper, she said, “Maybe not the only problem.”
The faery merely gazed at her.
She sighed. “Right. I’m the real problem.”
Quiggley waved his antennae sympathetically.
For a long moment, she stared at her feet. Briefly, that game with Quiggley had lifted her spirits. But now here she was again, feeling the weight of all those thoughts that never took her anywhere, like a circular path in the forest that she couldn’t escape.
Glumly, she sighed. She was the problem. If only Promi could understand how—
She caught her breath. Right before her eyes, a sparkling crystal appeared. It glistened and swelled rapidly, twirling as it floated through the air. A snowflake!
But it’s springtime, she told herself in disbelief. And it’s much too warm today for snow.
More surprisingly, the snowflake kept growing, stretching out delicate arms that continued to swell. Soon it looked more like a big white feather, glowing in the light. On top of that, it didn’t fall to the ground. Instead, the crystalline feather just hung in the air, twirling slowly.
“You’re not snow,” said Atlanta, awestruck. “What are you, then?”
She reached out to touch it, but a subtle breeze made it float just beyond her reach. At the same time, more feather crystals appeared. They glistened as they grew, spinning lightly through the air in a luminous, magical dance.
Watching this radiant display, she held her breath. Never in her whole life had she seen anything like this!
“Quiggley,” she whispered. “Have you ever—”
She glanced at the faery, then stopped. For his bright eyes, together with the slight trembling of his wings, explained it all.
“You!” she exclaimed. “You made this happen.”
He shrugged modestly, making his cloak shimmer like the crystals.
Atlanta peered at him, full of gratitude. “Just to cheer me up. Even if that means making it snow on a warm spring day! Quiggley . . . you are, well, you are something! I don’t know the right word to describe it.”
Adjusting his cotton hat, he struck a casual pose.
“Yes, I do,” she corrected herself. “The word for you is friend.”
His expression didn’t change . . . although his eyes might have gleamed just slightly.
“And, my friend,” she added, invoking her favorite blessing that she saved for the most special occasions, “I bless your eternal qualities.”
The feather crystals started to fall, at last. Gracefully, they settled down to the ground, decorating the roots of the old spruce and all the surrounding rocks, ferns, and grasses. Even an elderly bullfrog, seated on a mossy root, seemed to have sprouted crystalline wings.
For a brief instant, the forest floor glowed with sparkling radiance. Then, with a quiver of the faery’s antennae, the feather crystals melted away.
Feeling much better, Atlanta started walking. “Let’s go, Quiggley. We’re not far from Moss Island.”
Indeed, only a few minutes later, they came to a clear stream. Following it deeper into the forest, they found a spot where the stream split into a pair of splashing waterways. In the center sat a small island covered in thick moss. And, to Atlanta’s surprise, right in the middle of the island sat a young man.
Promi.