The Machines District
During the time Promi had been in the spirit realm, much had happened. He’d flown with Theosor, met with his parents, witnessed the mist fire, visited the cloudfield where Jaladay disappeared, tried to escape the mistwraiths, been captured by Grukarr and then—thanks to Bonlo—gained at least a chance to survive before plunging into a remote spirit realm sea.
Yet during that same time, much more had happened on the isle of Atlantis. For time moved faster in the mortal world—occasionally much faster. In this case, by the time Promi splashed into that sea with Bonlo in his arms, a full five years had passed on Atlantis.
In those five years since the ship of Greek explorers had landed, some things hadn’t changed. The City’s market square continued to bustle with throngs of tradespeople, entertainers, makers of crafts, willing buyers, and all kinds of animals. The Divine Monk continued to celebrate religious festivals and feasts (especially the feasts). In his pastry shop, Morey continued to bake delicious treats just because he loved to do so, Shangri helped him for the same reason, and the lad from the ship still lived in the room upstairs.
Much more, though, had changed. Nothing showed that more dramatically than the graceful, bright-spirited young woman with flowing red hair who strode out of the pastry shop this morning. In her hands she carried a still-steaming rhubarb and cherry pie. Just as she stepped into the street, she glanced at the room upstairs whose window was wide open to the spring air.
Shangri grinned. He’s writin’ right now, she told herself. I’m sure of it.
More and more these days, her thoughts turned to that handsome young man upstairs. He still dreamed of becoming a famous bard, though he had yet to discover the story that would inspire his very best writing—what he continued to call his “one great story.”
Today, however, her thoughts moved to someone else—someone she hadn’t seen for five whole years. Even so, the memory of their last conversation seemed as fresh as if it had happened just yesterday.
Promi.
Where is he now? she wondered, though she felt sure he was somewhere in the spirit realm. Recalling what he’d told her about how time moved slower there, she guessed that he might feel that he’d left only recently. But for Shangri, it was a long time ago.
Yet she remembered the details of everything he had told her that day on the cliffs above the sea. The origins of Atlantis. The description of the spirit realm—especially its sweet rivers of honey. The way prayers from mortals could travel all the way to that faraway world, thanks to wind lions.
And most of all . . . the way he spoke about Atlanta. While Shangri remembered all the words he’d said about her, what she’d noticed most was that look in his eyes. A look so full of love.
A bit of hot cherry juice dripped onto her hand, jolting her back to the present. No more dallyin’, she told herself. I’ve got a pie to deliver before it’s stone cold!
Her well-worn sandals tapped the cobblestones as she walked toward the market square. But when she came to the alley she’d taken countless times to the square, she didn’t turn. Instead, she just kept going and turned down a completely different street—one that led into the heart of the City’s newest neighborhood, what most people called the Machines District.
As someone who had always been observant of people and her surroundings, Shangri’s sharp eyes didn’t miss much. She had certainly noticed how much the City had changed in the last several years. Especially in this neighborhood where the Greeks lived and worked.
Led by Reocoles, their ship’s captain, they called themselves the people delivered by Poseidon. And they’d brought with them many new words and songs, ceremonies and skills. They even had their own array of gods and goddesses who lived in a part of the spirit realm they called Mount Olympus. But the most striking thing they’d brought to Atlantis was a great industriousness that produced all sorts of new machines—machines that had already changed everyone’s lives.
Plumbing, for one. Every street in the City now had ducts and drains like the gleaming copper duct that ran beside Shangri, bubbling with water, at this very moment. Not to mention all the pipes that ran up the mud-brick walls into every home and storefront and stable, carrying water in and out. Cisterns, fed by pumps from the ducts, sat on the roofs of most buildings. So did little windmills that turned the frequent ocean breezes into power for the pumps.
Even more amazing, coal-fired boilers now sat on the roofs of homes belonging to the wealthiest merchants, as well as the Divine Monk. Their purpose? According to the rumors Shangri had heard—which seemed utterly impossible—those boilers made hot water available to everyone in the homes. At any time. So whenever the Divine Monk wanted a hot bath, all he needed to do was turn a valve and hot water flowed automatically into his tub!
Shangri shook her flowing red curls, sending up a puff of flour from her morning’s work at the bakery. That jest can’t be true, she told herself. Though I’ve seen a few other things happen I never s’posed could be true.
Like modern, coal-fired cookstoves that allowed some people to make three or four times the amount of pastries that her father could produce with his old one. And without any wood chopping needed. Sure, those stoves made the City’s air more smoky and sometimes got so hot they caused fires . . . but most people didn’t seem to mind.
Or like other examples she could think of easily. The tall torch lamps that now illuminated almost every street corner after dark. The machines (whose gears she could hear whirring and cranking in the building she was passing right now) that made new, cheaper tools for carpenters and blacksmiths, as well as parts for more machines. The strange new medicines, made by something called chemistry, which were starting to appear on apothecaries’ shelves. The big vehicles with such screechy wheels that carried up to ten cartloads of wood, rocks, or coal—as well as the heavy boiler to make those wheels turn. And the much bigger vehicles used for mining all the coal needed to power so many machines.
Those mining vehicles stood so large they never came into the City. Like buildings on wheels, they moved very slowly and only came to the City’s gates, where men unloaded the coal and moved it to vehicles that could fit on the streets. Most people didn’t even know those mining machines existed. It was only last month, when Shangri decided to take a stroll outside the gates, that she’d seen one being unloaded. And the sight of such a huge, lumbering contraption had made her jaw drop.
As Shangri walked through the streets of the Machines District, she couldn’t help but notice how busy everyone looked. Yet . . . their bustling seemed strangely different from when her father was busily making his latest pie or cake creation. No, these people seemed busy in an unsatisfied way, as if they were carrying invisible loads on their backs, loads they didn’t like carrying.
On top of that, everyone here scurried about as if they were late for an important meeting. No one stopped to chat or even say hello. They just kept walking as fast as they could to wherever they were going, their minds elsewhere.
The most uncomfortable part of this neighborhood, though, was simply the air. Fumes from all the machines and vehicles hung in the high, narrow streets. Shangri’s throat itched and her eyes watered. Around her on the streets, some people held kerchiefs over their mouths as they moved along.
Suddenly a pair of men hurried out from a door and knocked into Shangri. She barely managed to keep herself from dropping the rhubarb cherry pie. But the ceramic bowl of whipped cream she’d also been carrying smashed on the cobblestones, breaking into shards. Neither of the men paused to apologize.
She took a deep breath to calm herself—but inhaled so much of the fume-filled air, her throat burned. Slowly, she continued on her way. But now she watched every door carefully before she passed and tried to walk in the least crowded places she could find. Of course, on some stretches she couldn’t avoid the crowds, especially if one or more of those screechy-wheeled vehicles went hurrying past.
Finally, she saw a new building, larger than any others on the street. Three big chimneys belched black smoke from its roof. From the roof’s peak waved a flag with a blue dolphin, the same design as the sail of the doomed ship. The whole building, covered in plaster, looked like it had been painted just recently. It shone pearl white except for the shadowy smudges of coal dust under the chimneys.
Shangri strode up to the building and read the copper nameplate:
REOCOLES
MASTER MACHINIST
Balancing the fruit pie on one open hand, she lifted the heavy knocker shaped like a trident. It slammed down, though Shangri wasn’t sure how anyone inside could hear it above the street noise. But a few seconds later, the door opened.