Bal and Awa come through the tunnel before Yari, who gets stuck. They each take an arm and pull. Yari tumbles out, laughing and jingle-jangling. The dog licks their faces and wags a bushy tail. The Goats jump over them, and they all chase each other around the terrace like kids. One Goat butts Awa into Bal. They stumble to the edge. Yari grips them and they sit with legs dangling over the mist. Everyone is laughing. The Goats put their heads on Yari’s shoulder. Vie scratches a neck and around the eyes. Yari gives everyone food from a bag. The dog gobbles his smelly treat quickly, some greasy, dead thing. The Goats get sweetgrass and herbs treats. Awa, Bal, and Yari eat orange fruit and berries. Red fire streaks across pale blue sky over distant mountains. Yari points, delighted. They sit quietly as bits of sky fall and land in Mama Zamba’s bosom.
“Do you think falling stars could land near us?” Bal says.
“They have already, don’t you think?” Awa looks around.
Yari nods. “The stars are our ancestors.”
Awa and Bal groan and giggle. “And there’s a bit of sky in everything.”
“Even in you two.” Yari plays a drum.
Awa shakes her head. “You say mountains, river, even dirt are ancestors.”
“Don’t you feel that on the mountaintop?” Bal stuffs a berry in Awa’s mouth.
“Always take a moment to feel who you are: star, river, dirt,” Yari says. Drumbeats match the words. Awa and Bal titter a second then close their eyes. Even the Goats and wild dog get caught in vie’s beats. When the song ends, Yari slings the drum over a shoulder and, full of sky and dirt, stands tall.
The sun sinks and eagles vanish to their nests. The Goats are full, but not enough time to chew cud. Cold seeps from the mountain and the Goats are glad for wooly coats. Awa and Bal shiver and bleat. The wind blows mist over their flimsy hides. Yari scratches everybody one last time. Vie slithers through the tunnel, singing. The dog nips at Awa and Bal, chasing them into the passageway. The mountain is full of music.
The Goats jump back over the peak and scurry along the knife edge. Still enough sun to see the way, but Yari lights a spark torch. Lightning on a stick. The Goats are used to this. Other creatures who prowl at dusk will avoid them. Awa and Bal cling to each other, sharing warmth. Their eyes glow in the dark. Yari’s glow too, like big-cat eyes. The Goats skip down the cliffs, singing to friends below. Bellies full, spirits high, their troupe prances into the enclave.
11
The Floating Cities
The sea was rough all the way to the floating cities. At first, drinking less seed and silk, Djola’s mind got more muddled. He lost days, weeks to shakes and delirium. One morning, clouds dissolved to clear blue sky, clear blue sea. Orca and Vandana joined him in the rigging. He’d spent the night, staring at black sky, black water, slowing his heart when it raced. He let it pound now.
A mountain range broke the seam between sea and sky, like the ridged back of a half-submerged beast. The floating cities were strewn around this island-beast in concentric circles. A beautiful sight. Coral reefs provided protection from storms, high waves, and enemy vessels. Pezarrat’s ships crawled in shallow waters. The floating-city peace patrol—fast, well-armed boats—escorted them to harbor, setting an excruciating pace. Cottony clouds fluttered around library towers at the mountain’s peak. Djola’s heart fluttered as he took a deep breath. If Samina and the children were dead, high priest Ernold, Money, and Water would have made a spectacle of their bodies. Djola broke into a smile and climbed down the ropes.
Orca and Vandana followed. “What? What?”
“My family still lives!” He waved at stern faces on the peace patrol, thrilled.
“Another letter came?” Orca took Djola’s arm.
“No,” Djola said. “But no terror-tales means they’re alive.” He would have realized this sooner if he hadn’t been addled.
This morning, no drug stupor, no useless regret or rage. His family was under house arrest. Soon, he’d free them. Floating-city wise men would help solve the void-storm and poison desert mystery. Last time, he’d been addled, unprepared. Today he had detailed reports and maps. Librarians would know what book or griot to consult for Xhalan Xhala and they’d arrange an audience with Urzula.
Azizi’s pirate queen was more powerful than anybody at the stone-wood table. She’d help rescue Samina and the children from mortal danger. “The last months were difficult. Today the weather changes.” He hugged Vandana and Orca and kissed their cheeks. Orca took out a blade and shaved Djola’s scruffy beard. He rubbed the stubble with pumice stones and massaged perfumed oil into smooth skin.
“Lahesh call this mountain Yidohwedo”—Vandana pointed at the peak—“after the rainbow serpent who made the world from dung and water and taught the Lahesh to weave light and fold space.”
“I see the rainbow.” Orca clutched Djola. “Two rainbows.”
Docking twenty-one boats took forever. Orca danced around the deck in fancy pants and tunic made from Lahesh flame cloth, a gift from Vandana. His mouth hung open as they approached a bamboo walkway circling the cities. Triangular towers anchored the walkway and marked the hours on sundials inlaid with crystals.
“Rainbow gods in the crystals are tricksters,” Orca said. “We should step lightly.” Sweetgrass bridges connected inner and outer walkways and swayed in the wind. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“What about the last time we came?” Djola asked.
“I was too ill. I’ve only heard stories.” Orca looked ashamed. Djola didn’t press him.
“I first came here years ago with Yari. I was a spy pretending to be a Sprite.” Djola repeated what Yari told him then: The floating cities were once four coastal capitals in the northlands surrounded by mountains of ice. An Iyalawo warned of hot winds melting the ice and deluges claiming green lands. City chiefs hired Lahesh tinkerers to rebuild fortresses, grain stores, mills, and libraries on barges near a cluster of islands—a volcano with peaks above sea level.
When Djola first saw metal-mesh domes, reed windcatchers, and giant sundials he thought he was smoke-walking. Yari said Lahesh tinkerers used Smokeland inspiration to design the cities. They mounted sturdy structures on even sturdier barges and anchored the new cities to Yidohwedo’s ridges in the shallow sea. They crafted bridges and underwater tunnels to connect the four capitals—east, west, north, and south. Pirates plagued early residents but eventually the floating wonders became the pirates’ safe haven. Lahesh diplomacy—marry the enemy.
“What are the cities called?” Orca asked.
“Speaking city names out loud is bad luck,” Vandana said. “Names were written somewhere and forgotten. Conjurers take care reading unknown spells out loud.”
Orca pulled his hair back and wove a single braid. “Why not just Yidohwedo?”
“Then, serpent’s name is bad luck too. Who wants that?” Vandana was staying on the ship. The bridges, domes, and waterworks reminded her of someone, some place that made her sad.
Orca stumbled behind Djola along the bamboo walkway, gawking at Lahesh wim-wom. He bumped into a fierce man with a parrot on his shoulder who chuckled at a wide-eyed pilgrim. Floating-city folks were short, stocky, and dark-eyed. Hair was dusted bronze, gold, or silver and cropped—tight beads like Pezarrat or peach fuzz like Urzula. Women had dots painted or tattooed around their eyes and reminded Djola of Samina.