“Are you hungry?” a girl asks. She’s got wild curls and light-brown skin that is run through with green lines, like a birch tree. She wears the same set of bracelets as the horned man. She points to three empty seats. “Join us.”
“Thank you,” I say, “but we were just resting. We didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Then keep on walking,” a girl mutters. Her skin is red as lava with splotches of black. Her eyes are dark and too far apart, giving her the look of a human salamander. When she huffs, smoke comes out of her nostrils.
“Rodriga,” the horned man says. His voice is hard and cutting. Everyone at the table jumps. “Is that the way we treat our guests?”
Everyone at the table looks down at their laps.
“Hey, now,” Nova says in his easy way. “No worries. We’ve still got a lot of terrain to cover. We’re heading to Las Peñas to mine for minerals. We’d best get a move on.”
“Do you know what happens to travelers who come here in search of treasure?” Rodriga asks.
On the other side of the table, one of the pixies is letting Rishi touch her iridescent wings.
“Enough,” the horned man says. “I am Agosto, Faun King of the Meadow del Sol, and these are my kin. We live here safely away from the wicked birds near the river and far away from the Bone Valle.”
I don’t like that he called the avianas wicked, but I stay quiet.
“I insist you join us,” Agosto says. “Regain your strength. You look parched and ready to fall over.”
Nova and I look at each other. I don’t want to insult this horned man. Behind the pleasantry, there’s steel in his voice. His knuckles are thick with calluses that come from repeatedly beating on things. Like my dad’s from his boxing days.
Nova holds my hand. He applies the tiniest pressure, but I know he’s urging me to sit. Make nice. Avoid ruffling any more feathers, so to speak. Then we can plan our escape.
“Okay,” I say. “But only for a bit.”
Agosto waves a hand across the air and a decadent banquet appears. “Eat.”
23
Se fue, mi’jita, past the unseable door.
If I listen to the wind, I can still hear her laughter.
—Claribelle and the Kingdom of Adas: Tales Tall and True, Gloriana Palacios
Dozens and dozens of plates appear across the table. The meadow people raise their arms and cheer. A lonely cloud momentarily passes over the sun, leaving us in shadow. My vision flickers for a moment; then the cloud passes by, and we’re basked in white fairy light again.
Nova and Rishi take the empty seats between two winged adas. The only seat left open is the one to the right of Agosto. He motions to the empty toadstool with his ornately decorated hand.
“I’m sure your journey has been exhausting,” he tells me. “The path to the mountain is not an easy one.”
I nod. Words. Where are my words? Looking at Agosto is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. He is perfect in his beauty and strangeness. He’s a wild, horned forest king and an angel all at once.
“I hope you find rest here,” he says.
The Meadowkin don’t need to be told twice to eat. They dig in to heaping piles of plump, purple fruits and down sweet mead. White, fluffy cakes drizzled with honey and sprinkled with fat, sparkling sugar crystals. Roasted meat sizzles, surrounded by tender root vegetables the color of blood and bone.
“Are you serious?” Rishi shouts from the other end of the table. A stack of fluffy roti appears in front of her. She rips it up and dips it into a cast iron pot of dal. “It tastes just like my mom makes it.”
Agosto leans back in his twisted throne, an ornate wooden goblet in his hand. His full lips curl up, showing he’s pleased. “We have everything you could ever dream of having.”
“That right?” Nova leans over the table. I’m afraid he’s going to say something offensive or rude. Instead he says, “Then I dream of a fat ass steak.”
“I’m so glad you said ‘steak,’” Rishi says with her mouth full.
And sure enough, a sizzling hunk of prime rib appears in front of him complete with disco fries.
A frail man with the head of a mouse leans over Nova’s plate. In his thin voice, he says, “Ooh! Looks good. Is that what you eat where you’re from?”
“Nah, I usually eat whatever’s on the dollar menu.”
The mouse man grins and stuffs his mouth with cake. His wrists are too small for some of his bracelets, and when one of them slips, I notice black-and-red wounds ring his wrists.
“Something the matter?” Agosto asks me.
I shake my head, trying to mask my worry when Rishi gets up from her seat and comes over to my side. She curtsies to Agosto, then sits with me. We barely fit on the same stool but that doesn’t stop her from trying.
“I want you to try this,” she tells me, holding a slice of fruit shaped like a perfect star. “These are my favorite in all the worlds.”
I take the sticky star in my hand. It’s perfectly green with a single seed wedged in the center. When I take a bite, juice rolls down my chin, and then we’re in a fit of giggles at our messiness. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand.
This place is a dream, a voice whispers. This place isn’t real.
But I want it to be real. I want to feel this happy always. I want to be in the light.
“I’m glad I’m here with you,” Rishi tells me.
This place brings out the warm brown in her skin, her shining eyes. Rishi has impossibly long, black lashes and perfect eyebrows I’ve not so secretly coveted.
“I wanted to tell you something else,” she says, “but it’s the strangest thing…the thought fell out of my head.”
Rishi’s always distracted. She’s like a magpie, searching for shiny, pretty things. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and goes back down the table, making new friends.
When Rishi leaves, Agosto returns his attention to me. He leans his face toward me with total interest.
“Go on,” he tells me. “I know there’s something you want to ask me.”
There are tons of things I want to ask him. Like, where does this food come from? Why do they all wear the same bracelets? Why does Rodriga the salamander girl seem to hate me? Even as she tilts her bowl of soup to her lips, her eyes never leave my face. What does Agosto know of the Devourer?
He waves his hand and a second wooden goblet appears. The liquid is dark and smells bittersweet, like berries gone too ripe. My tongue is so parched, and my belly makes hungry noises. The journey is catching up with me, pressing down on my shoulders with a terrible ache. Why can’t I be like Rishi and Nova, happily eating and telling stories about where we come from? They make the streets of Brooklyn sound magical and wondrous. Why does it take being far away from home to finally miss it?