claws hurtling through the crack. But then the image dissolved like mist dispersed by a breeze.
“No …” Shade muttered as he swerved and dipped after the scattered little shards of sound. The last sparkling sonic motes dissolved. Shade circled, despairing, looking down at the world far below.
Where do I begin?
Just begin.
He tried to imagine his newborn son, spat out into this strange world, weak with terror—and felt his own muscles weaken sympathetically as he spiralled down, fighting the earth’s pull. Would Griffin have been able to make a proper landing? He might have crash-landed somewhere, and was now injured, unconscious … dead. Shade peered down, trying to find a likely spot: forest, caves, trees, anything that would beckon a frightened bat. Shade was still too high to use sound, and with his eyes could only make out shades of darkness below.
You’ve only got two nights.
Lower still, and now he saw an arid, pockmarked plain spreading before him. No trees, little vegetation, and no kind of creature on the ground. Quickly he scanned the skies for Vampyrum, butsaw nothing, not even the sonic flare of a mosquito. This place was so inhospitable, perhaps it had never known inhabitants. But where were they, he wondered uneasily, all the inhabitants of the Underworld? Where were the billions of Zotz’s dead?
And where was his son? Griffin wouldn’t stay
here.
He’d fly on, try to find somewhere with food, shelter, trees where he could roost. Or hide. Would he hide somewhere and just wait … for what, though? He would try to get out. Perhaps he’d already tried to make it back to the ceiling, but wasn’t strong enough.
“Griffin!” he called out, flinching at the noise, half expecting to see a thundercloud of cannibal bats boiling towards him. He didn’t like the idea of drawing attention to himself, but what else could he do? “Griffin Silverwing!”
His voice echoed back at him from the flat earth and evaporated. Over his wing he peered upwards and found his circle of stars, marking the escape route. It seemed to have slid further across the sky, and he realized that either the earth was revolving, or the sky was. His heart sank. That meant Griffin hadn’t necessarily come down around here. He might very well be on the opposite side of the world.
Doesn’t matter. Keep going.
This wasn’t a good plan. This was barely a plan at all. But he was afraid to stop and think, afraid of wasting more precious time. He wished Marina were with him now, to help him—to advise him. “Griffin! Griffin!”
He called out his son’s name so many times that the sound became a part of him, like a heartbeat, or a breath. He would not stop until he heard his son’s return cry.
P ILGRIMS
Near the edge of Oasis, where the forest met the great cracked plains of mud, Griffin picked a tree shrouded with hanging moss, and roosted hidden against the trunk. He hadn’t wanted to return at all, but where else could he go?
Alive
, he kept telling himself.
You’re alive
. But he didn’t feel very good. Trembling, his joints felt as if they might snap apart, his muscle and sinew pulpy. His stomach gulped. He tried to concentrate. He needed a plan.
“Okay, how’s this,” he muttered to himself. “You take a little rest, then fly back up to the stone sky and keep looking for the crack. That’s a plan. Pretty big sky, though, and I can only stay up there ten, fifteen minutes at a time before I get sucked back. I could keep going up for years and not find it, and, anyway, I wouldn’t have the energy to keep going back because there’s nothing for me to eat down here. I’d just get more and more worn out and—”
He stopped himself. Sometimes the words didn’t do what they were supposed to. They were
supposed
to make him think moreclearly. Right now they were just scaring his fur out by the roots. He decided to try once more.
“Forget the crack in the sky. Maybe there’s another way out. I leave Oasis and
“No …” Shade muttered as he swerved and dipped after the scattered little shards of sound. The last sparkling sonic motes dissolved. Shade circled, despairing, looking down at the world far below.
Where do I begin?
Just begin.
He tried to imagine his newborn son, spat out into this strange world, weak with terror—and felt his own muscles weaken sympathetically as he spiralled down, fighting the earth’s pull. Would Griffin have been able to make a proper landing? He might have crash-landed somewhere, and was now injured, unconscious … dead. Shade peered down, trying to find a likely spot: forest, caves, trees, anything that would beckon a frightened bat. Shade was still too high to use sound, and with his eyes could only make out shades of darkness below.
You’ve only got two nights.
Lower still, and now he saw an arid, pockmarked plain spreading before him. No trees, little vegetation, and no kind of creature on the ground. Quickly he scanned the skies for Vampyrum, butsaw nothing, not even the sonic flare of a mosquito. This place was so inhospitable, perhaps it had never known inhabitants. But where were they, he wondered uneasily, all the inhabitants of the Underworld? Where were the billions of Zotz’s dead?
And where was his son? Griffin wouldn’t stay
here.
He’d fly on, try to find somewhere with food, shelter, trees where he could roost. Or hide. Would he hide somewhere and just wait … for what, though? He would try to get out. Perhaps he’d already tried to make it back to the ceiling, but wasn’t strong enough.
“Griffin!” he called out, flinching at the noise, half expecting to see a thundercloud of cannibal bats boiling towards him. He didn’t like the idea of drawing attention to himself, but what else could he do? “Griffin Silverwing!”
His voice echoed back at him from the flat earth and evaporated. Over his wing he peered upwards and found his circle of stars, marking the escape route. It seemed to have slid further across the sky, and he realized that either the earth was revolving, or the sky was. His heart sank. That meant Griffin hadn’t necessarily come down around here. He might very well be on the opposite side of the world.
Doesn’t matter. Keep going.
This wasn’t a good plan. This was barely a plan at all. But he was afraid to stop and think, afraid of wasting more precious time. He wished Marina were with him now, to help him—to advise him. “Griffin! Griffin!”
He called out his son’s name so many times that the sound became a part of him, like a heartbeat, or a breath. He would not stop until he heard his son’s return cry.
P ILGRIMS
Near the edge of Oasis, where the forest met the great cracked plains of mud, Griffin picked a tree shrouded with hanging moss, and roosted hidden against the trunk. He hadn’t wanted to return at all, but where else could he go?
Alive
, he kept telling himself.
You’re alive
. But he didn’t feel very good. Trembling, his joints felt as if they might snap apart, his muscle and sinew pulpy. His stomach gulped. He tried to concentrate. He needed a plan.
“Okay, how’s this,” he muttered to himself. “You take a little rest, then fly back up to the stone sky and keep looking for the crack. That’s a plan. Pretty big sky, though, and I can only stay up there ten, fifteen minutes at a time before I get sucked back. I could keep going up for years and not find it, and, anyway, I wouldn’t have the energy to keep going back because there’s nothing for me to eat down here. I’d just get more and more worn out and—”
He stopped himself. Sometimes the words didn’t do what they were supposed to. They were
supposed
to make him think moreclearly. Right now they were just scaring his fur out by the roots. He decided to try once more.
“Forget the crack in the sky. Maybe there’s another way out. I leave Oasis and
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