Fresh Pastry
The day after he and Atlanta had argued, Promi wandered the cobblestone streets of the City of Great Powers. He assured himself that he’d come here just out of curiosity—to visit his old haunts. But he knew in his heart that he’d really come to get away from Atlanta and her forest home. To distract himself with a change of scene.
And what a dramatic change it was! This bustling human settlement was practically another world from the ancient woods. Besides, the City looked different now than it did in the days before Atlantis became an island—mainly because of all the broken walls and collapsed roofs from that tumultuous event.
Mostly, though, he noticed how much the City looked, sounded, and felt the same as ever. This was, after all, the place where he’d grown up. The place where he’d learned how to steal a pie, throw a knife, and disappear into the shadows.
He stepped into a narrow alley whose mud-brick walls pressed close together—closer than most alleys, thanks to all the flower boxes in the windows. Red geraniums, deep blue lilies, and spiral-stemmed roses filled the alley with the sweet aromas of a mountain meadow. By contrast, the pile of rags someone had left in the alley gave off a very different odor . . . more like a huge, unwashed armpit.
Passing quickly by the pile of rags, he followed the dimly lit alley. All at once, he burst into sunlight—as well as a noisy din he knew well. It combined the shouts of peddlers and bargain hunters, the ring of blacksmiths’ hammers, the bleating of goats, and the chants of monks who sang to the beat of their prayer drums. Plus many more sounds that made a cacophony found in only one place on Atlantis:
The market square.
Promi strolled into the market where he’d found so many free meals growing up (not to mention new knives to replace the ones he’d lost in the course of his thievery). Just for old time’s sake, he stealthily plucked a fresh green apple off a passing cart.
He bit into the apple, hearing the crisp crunnnch he liked almost as much as the taste. Moving deeper into the market, he weaved around a grumpy-looking camel being led to a leatherworker’s stall for a new saddle—just before the camel bit his plump owner’s bottom. The man shrieked and threw his armload of wheat and barley into the air. The camel, meanwhile, immediately started munching on the grains, gobbling them up before a pair of honking geese could claim them.
Promi took another bite of his apple, negotiating the crowded rows of fish vendors, paper merchants, and tool makers. As well as craftspeople selling handmade jewelry, rugs, tunics, pottery, and musical instruments.
He stepped around a circle of women wearing brightly colored robes and beads, dancing to their bone flutes. A herd of goats flooded past, pushing Promi so hard he collided with a monk selling strings of prayer leaves. After apologizing to the monk, he realized the leaves were being sold to raise money for the temple’s new bell tower.
The bell tower I destroyed, he recalled. Too bad about that. But it takes a serious earthquake to create an island!
Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the gap against the sky where the bell tower had stood. As well as the crushed roof in the Divine Monk’s temple and the smashed archway where the immense structure came down. He bit into the apple, remembering the time he had leaped into the air from the top of that very tower—as well as the face of the astonished temple guard who watched helplessly as he escaped.
Promi chuckled. Those were fun days. Tapping the silver dagger he now wore on his belt, he thought, At least now I don’t lose knives anymore. As if hearing his thought, the dagger’s magical string curled and tickled his wrist.
He tossed the apple core to a sheep whose wool changed colors depending on the weather, one of many wondrous creatures who had been captured in the Great Forest and brought to the marketplace. Seeing him do this, a three-tongued toad with the ability to speak human languages started roundly cursing.
“You blithering bumblebrain!” cried the toad. “I’ll bet you stole that apple and dozens more meals, too.”
More like thousands, thought Promi with a smirk.
Most of those meals, of course, had been desserts. Many were the days when he ate a freshly baked fruit pie he’d stolen, still steaming, from someone’s kitchen window. Or one of the pastries, cakes, or cookies he’d grabbed off the shelves of the City’s many bakeries. Or, best of all, the most delicious—and dangerous—theft he’d ever made: that smackberry pie, with its purple juices bubbling out of the sugary crust.
Of course, to get that pie he’d needed to work a bit harder than usual. He’d climbed unseen into the Divine Monk’s private dining room, broken at least a dozen holy laws, evaded both the wicked priest Grukarr and his superior Araggna, and completely destroyed the temple’s grand feast of Ho Kranahrum while escaping. And putting aside the small matter of being hurled by Grukarr into the dreaded Ekh Raku dungeon, getting beaten senseless, and almost dying . . . it was the sweetest pie he’d ever tasted.
Recalling that remarkable theft reminded him of Grukarr and Araggna—two thoroughly unsavory people. Their bodies had been found amidst the City’s wreckage, giving a sigh of relief to everyone who lived here. Except perhaps the Divine Monk, whose nose for treachery was significantly less developed than his nose for his next meal.
Now, there’s something else that has changed. No more will those two cling to power . . . or torture their prisoners right here in this square! Dangerous as they had been, the only way to grab that smackberry pie was to risk getting captured by them. But, Promi concluded with a smack of his lips, it was totally worth it for that pie.
Adeptly, he dodged a group of seven or eight children who were chasing after a puppet maker. One of those children, a girl with carrot-colored hair, made him think of Shangri. That bright-eyed girl had taken a liking to Promi after he saved her from a herd of stampeding goats. Which proved especially useful when her father, a baker, caught Promi stealing his pastries. If Shangri hadn’t intervened at the very last moment, her father would have pounded Promi into something that resembled cookie dough.
Good Shangri, thought Promi, wondering how she was doing. Maybe I’ll stop at her father’s pastry shop just to say hello. And maybe, he decided, stay long enough to try one of his amazing cinnamon buns.
Passing the stall of a paper merchant, he saw a stack of leatherbound journals, beautifully crafted, along with elegant feather pens. His own journal, his constant companion for years, hadn’t been nearly so handsome. In fact, it was just an old book of recipes for desserts that he’d taken from an unsuspecting pastry chef. Using worn charcoal pencils, he’d written in that journal almost every day—filling its margins with his scrawled entries.
I miss that old journal. He patted the empty pocket of his tunic, wondering whether he should get a new one. Maybe a real journal instead of a tattered old recipe book? Or maybe even a journal made from cloudpaper, so light yet durable, the same as Jaladay used?
He shook his head. No, too fancy for me. I’ll stay with old recipe books.
A sudden gust blew through the market, scattering a family of ice sparrows, birds who made beautiful ice sculptures in wintertime. Tugged by the wind, a string of prayer leaves, each one inscribed with a blessing, broke off a monk’s drum and flew into the air. Like a ragtag kite, it sailed over the marketplace.
“Look there!” shouted a boy, pointing at the prayer leaves. “They must be on their way to the spirit realm!”
“Yes,” called a girl nearby. “They’re being carried by tiny, invisible wind lions.”
“Really?” asked the boy, wide-eyed with amazement.
Well, not really. Promi grinned, remembering when he’d first discovered the truth about wind lions. Not by hearing about it from someone else . . . but by landing on a lion’s furry back after leaping off a rickety bridge.
Now, that was a surprise, he recalled with a chuckle. And, as it turned out, it was only the first of many surprises to come.
Including that I’m an immortal, like Jaladay. That what I’d thought was my home all those years was really just my hiding place. And that my real home is—well . . . nobody but me is going to decide where that is.
Grabbing a handful of dates from a food merchant’s cart, Promi chewed on one thoughtfully. The changes he could see in the marketplace and the City, he realized, weren’t nearly as huge as the changes somewhere else. Right here inside me.
He swallowed the date. But he didn’t taste its sweetness, for a crop of sour thoughts had sprouted in his mind. Thoughts about Atlanta—and how he’d treated her.
Why hadn’t he told her his whole vision at the Lakes of Dreams? What had held him back? Was there something about her that he didn’t trust? Or, much worse, was there some part of himself that simply wouldn’t trust anyone?
Suddenly not hungry, he tossed the dates into a pen of squealing young pigs. Maybe, as Atlanta had warned, he was condemned to live his worst dream. Never to have a real home. A real family. A real friend . . . or someone who might become more than a friend.
He sighed, leaning back against a mud-brick wall at the edge of the marketplace. Sure, Atlanta can be difficult sometimes. And there’s more going on with her than she has been telling me. But the real problem for us isn’t her. No . . . it’s me.
He rubbed one foot against the cobblestones. I’m just a loner. Always have been, always will be.
“Promi!”
He turned to see a young girl carrying a tray loaded with huckleberry tarts, still steaming hot from the oven. But as tasty as those pastries looked, he was even more pleased to see who held them. He couldn’t mistake those carrot-colored braids, even though they were dusted with flour.
“Shangri!”
She smiled, showing her missing front teeth. “Good to see you, Promi!” She nodded so vigorously that a cloud of flour rose from her braids.
Walking toward her, Promi pointed at the tarts. “You, too! And how nice of you to bring me breakfast.”
She giggled. “Yer such a teaser. Papa says yer a rascally scalawag—but a virtuous one.”
“He’s right about the scalawag.” Promi tousled her hair in greeting, sending up another puff of flour. “But not the virtuous part.”
“Mmm, methinks Papa’s right. Anyways, I’m takin’ these over to our stall here in the market. Want to come an’ say hello to him?”
“Sure, if you’ll let me carry that tray. Looks pretty heavy.”
“Aw, I can handle it.” She winked at him. “But it would sure lighten the load fer me if you’d take one.”
He chuckled. “Well, all right. If you insist.”
Choosing an especially fat one, Promi plucked it off the tray and took a big bite. The flaky, sugared crust crunched in his mouth, and his eyes opened wide with the sudden burst of sweet huckleberries. Without even waiting to swallow, he took another bite.
Shangri giggled. “Guessin’ you like it?”
“Mmmff,” he replied through his mouthful of pastry. “Ipff weewy goob!”
“Come along, then.” She tilted her head toward a row of food stalls. “Papa will be gettin’ worried that I got lost.”
“Or that you ran into a thief.”
She shot him a playful glance. “Right. Ye’ve got to watch out fer them thieves.”
Promi swallowed his last bite of the tart as they started to walk. He grinned, glad that they’d run into each other. A little time with Shangri had pushed his concerns aside . . . at least for a while.
Placing his hand on her shoulder, he said, “That was excellent. The only thing sweeter is one of your father’s cinnamon buns.”
“And o’ course,” she said brightly, “those sugary streams they say are up there in the spirit realm.”
“Those are nice to drink from,” he replied casually. “But there’s nothing like fresh pastry.”
She stopped and peered at him. “Have ye really been there to the spirit realm? The way ye said that—”
“No,” he lied, feeling stupid for speaking so openly. Even though Grukarr wasn’t around any longer to enforce punishments, it was still the law in the City that only priests, priestesses, and the Divine Monk himself could speak about the immortal realm. And the last thing he needed was to get Shangri into trouble. “I just made that up.”
She peered up at him, her brown eyes full of doubt. “I’m not so sure.”
“Really. I make up silly things all the time. Why, I filled a whole journal with them. Well, not really a journal—an old recipe book whose margins I crammed with notes.”
“Show it to me?”
“Sorry, Shangri. I lost it.”
She frowned at him.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “There’s your father over there.”
Shangri turned and led him over to the baker’s stall. “Papa, look who I brought.”
The baker, as burly as ever, looked up from decorating a tray of cinnamon buns. Recognizing Promi, he smiled and wiped his hands on the apron that covered his ample belly. Fruit stains, flecks of dough, and lots of sugar decorated the apron.
“Well now,” he bellowed, “miracles never cease! A visit from our fav’rite rascal.” He winked at Promi. “Ye must be hungry.”
“Always,” Promi replied. “But really, I just came to say hello.”
Choosing one of his freshly baked cinnamon buns, the baker handed it to him. “Do me the favor of a taste. Jest to make sure I got the mix o’ ingredients right.”
Gladly, Promi took a big bite. An explosion of sweetness filled his mouth, every bit as good as he remembered. “Mmm,” he said with satisfaction. “You definitely got it right! Maybe you should think about becoming a baker.”
The big man laughed heartily, even as he took the tray of tarts from Shangri and set them on the counter. “That decision’s already been made, lad.” He patted his belly. “Many cakes an’ pies ago.”
Leaning toward Promi, he added in a whisper, “Though thanks to a certain young rascal . . . I don’t have to work for me livin’ anymore.” He tapped the small bulge under his apron—which, Promi knew, was the sapphire-studded belt buckle he’d stolen from Grukarr and given to the baker.
“I’m glad,” said Promi as he finished off the bun. “So why do you keep baking?”
“Fer the simple pleasure of it, lad! Not so much fer the eatin’ as the watchin’. I do love seein’ others eat what I bake.”
Shangri, who had been searching through a box at the back of the stall, declared, “Found it!”
“Found what?” asked her father.
She held up a tattered old book. “That old recipe book you gave me way back when I was young.”
The baker chuckled. “Unlike now.”
Ignoring him, she pranced over to Promi and slid the book into his tunic pocket. “There,” she told him. “Now you can keep a journal again.”
“But . . .” Promi’s words trailed away. There simply weren’t the words for what he wanted to say. Or if there were, he didn’t know them.
“And here, take this, too.” She handed him a small charcoal pencil from her pocket.
The grateful look on his face said everything Shangri had hoped to hear.
With a nod at his cinnamon buns, the baker asked Promi, “Want another?”
“Well, sure. But if I eat too many more, you won’t have any left to sell.”
“A good thing,” announced the burly fellow. He wrapped his meaty arm around Shangri. “Seein’ how I was fixin’ to quit fer the day, close up the stall, an’ go fer a picnic with me daughter.”
“Really, Papa?” squealed Shangri. She jumped with delight, making her braids bounce.
“Yes, really.” Turning to Promi, the baker added, “Will ye join us, lad?”
“Please do,” begged Shangri.
Unsure, he asked, “Won’t I get in the way of your time together?”
“No,” Shangri answered. “Ye’ll jest add to the fun.”
“What’s the matter?” teased the baker. “Got some important thievin’ to do?”
“Only when I’m hungry for pastry. And right now, I’m feeling just fine. Thanks to . . .”
He hesitated, surprised to hear himself start to say such words. But knowing they were true, he went ahead and said them. “Thanks to my friends.”