Rising Wind
On the same day Shangri was captured, Atlanta sat on the front step of her home. As she sipped some fresh elderberry tea that Etheria had prepared, she watched a family of squirrels who sat poised in the branches of a nearby tree. The squirrels’ dark eyes studied Atlanta’s house with clear amazement, waving their tails and chattering among themselves—no surprise, since the house in question was a giant acorn.
“Yes, yes,” said Atlanta softly. “I really do live here.” Then, after a barrage of chattering, she added, “But you cannot.”
Seeing their tails droop, she shook her head. “You can’t eat it. Etheria would have an earthquake if you tried! And besides . . . my old friend Grumps, the squirrel who lives in the cupboard, wouldn’t hear of it.”
Several of the squirrels sighed sadly. Then, after another burst of chattering, the family scampered off.
Atlanta grinned, then took another swallow of tea from her burl mug. “See there?” she said in a raised voice. “It’s not necessary to frighten our guests—or smell like a huge pile of manure, as you did for those poor centaurs—to protect our privacy.”
The whole house, front step included, started to shake violently. The shutters on all the windows slammed in unison, scaring off a pair of larks who had just landed nearby.
“Go ahead and shudder,” said Atlanta calmly, as she tried to keep from spilling her tea. “But I’d like you to try—just try—to be a little more friendly to strangers.”
Etheria fell still for a few seconds—then suddenly shook one more time.
“Yes!” insisted Atlanta, now annoyed. “Including centaurs.”
From inside the acorn house, all the floorboards sighed.
“Good.” Atlanta shook some spilled tea off the sleeve of her gown of lilac vines. “Now I expect you to do better.”
She took another sip of elderberry tea. “After all,” she added, “you are quite simply the most intelligent and devoted house anyone could have.”
The shutters opened with a merry round of squeaks. From the chimney came a proud little puff that smelled like fragrant cedar.
Atlanta couldn’t resist a grin. “By the way, Etheria, do you have a slice of lemon? It goes so well with this elderberry.”
From the kitchen came a loud rattling, followed by the sound of cupboard drawers being opened and closed. As well as Grumps’s voice as he muttered, “Can’t anybody take a nap in peace around here?”
Just then, with a soft whir of wings, Quiggley flew out from the kitchen. Holding a slice of lemon in his tiny arms, he wobbled in the air from the strain of such great weight. Yet he managed to make it safely to Atlanta. With a final frenzy of wings, he dropped the lemon in her mug, then promptly landed on her wrist.
“Thank you, little friend.” She nodded at the faery as he shook some drops of lemon juice from his arms. “You are the best!”
Quiggley’s antennae quivered. Atlanta felt a wave of pleasure flow through her, enough to make her beam. “What would I ever do without you?” she asked.
The faery shrugged his shoulders as if to say he couldn’t imagine how she’d ever survive. Then he fluttered up to her shoulder. He settled close enough to her neck that she could feel the familiar brush of his wings on her skin.
Atlanta pulled the lemon wedge out of her mug and squeezed. As the juice drained into the tea, the air filled with the sharp yet sweet smell of lemon. She drew a deep breath, savoring the aroma, long one of her favorites.
All at once, the smell brought back a nearly forgotten memory: the freshly baked lemon pie Promi had given her on the day they first met. Hungry, lost, and huddled in a deserted alley, Atlanta had certainly needed that gift—more for the gesture of kindness than the pie itself. In that moment, she’d filled her nostrils with the aroma of lemon. Nothing had ever smelled so good.
Promi, she mused. Where are you now? What’s happened to you in the years since you left? And why, exactly, did you leave?
She sighed, blowing on her tea. For she knew the answer to the last question. You left because we fought.
Sure, Promi had acted like a selfish, wooden-headed fool on that day. Imagine being so cavalier about destroying the veil! He simply disregarded all the dangers.
Yet . . . I was just as much a fool myself. Atlanta peered glumly into her mug. If only you’d given us a chance to make amends. Or at least to try.
She shook her head of brown curls. For she knew that would never happen. Not now, after five whole years. Too much time had passed.
What I know for sure now, she thought somberly, is that whatever we had—or might have had—just wasn’t that important to you. Otherwise . . . you’d have come back at least one more time.
Against her neck, feather-soft wings quivered. Compassion flowed through her, a big wave to have come from someone so small as a faery.
She heard, in her memory, part of the unicorns’ saying about the human soul:
More tangled than the vine,
More mysterious than the sea.
Those words reminded her of Gryffion, the old unicorn who had paid her a visit not long after Promi’s departure. The newborn he described that day had grown into a strong young colt, full of bounce and curiosity about the world. She’d seen the young unicorn only a few weeks ago, frolicking on the Indragrass Meadows, his luminous horn sparkling in the sunlight.
She sipped some elderberry tea. Hard to believe, she thought, that such a joyful creature could have been born with such a grim prophecy.
Despite Quiggley’s trembling antennae, urging her not to think about the upsetting prophecy, she pondered those words. They’d been said both by Gryffion and the centaur Haldor. And no matter how many times she’d recalled them, they never lost their sting.
A terrible day and night of destruction.
Suddenly, a breeze rushed through the trees around her house. That, at least, was how it sounded. Yet no leaves stirred. Not a single tree bent with the rising wind.
For this, Atlanta knew, was no wind at all.
She set down her mug and stood. At that instant, hundreds of faeries—more than she’d ever seen in one place, even at the ancient Faery Glens—flew out of the forest. The sound of all their wings humming and whirring was so loud that Etheria slammed closed her shutters. Meanwhile, the air in front of the house glittered with vibrating little bodies.
Some wore translucent cloaks like Quiggley, while others sported purple vests, rust-colored leggings, or streaming green ribbons in their hair. Many wore hats made from cotton or flakes of bark, made with tiny holes so their antennae could protrude. But none of this colorful garb was nearly as striking as the faeries’ unadorned wings, which glowed like shimmering rainbows.
Atlanta watched, amazed by this whole experience. “What does this mean?”
Quiggley leaped off her shoulder and plunged into the flock of faeries. His antennae waved frantically as he communicated with the others—especially one blue-winged faery who seemed very distraught.
Seconds later, he buzzed back to Atlanta. Hovering before her wide eyes, he sent her a sharp pang of danger, urgency, and panic—all caused by something that was happening in the forest.
“Show me,” she demanded. “Take me there!”