Kyrie lifted her cape and blocked poison darts coming their way. Warrior-clowns in the trees shot arrows into the dart blowers. Rokiat thrust Meera behind him. Fannie and Bibi pawed the ground, their eyes white and wild.

“Drink it quickly and walk on.” Kyrie tossed Bal her conjure book and ran to Djola.

Faster than second thoughts, Awa swallowed what tasted like mud. She flew above the oasis garden, leaving her breath body at the edge of the trees, and headed for the crossroads of crossroads.

What happened after that, she couldn’t say.

17

Xhalan Xhala—Tree Tales

The Trees whisper, Xhalan Xhala, across their branches. Lahesh learned this phrase from twigs rustling an alarm. For a thousand thousand years, elder Trees have whispered Xhalan Xhala whenever fire swept through a forest. Leaves also rustle Basawili, a word the Trees gave to the Anawanama, whenever they threw seeds on the wind. Basawili, not a word from their own heartwood, a word so old that elder Trees must have learned it from beings long gone. Roots rumble Abelzowadyo, a story they told the Zamanzi who slept on hard ground. Abelzowadyo—what roots learned about life from rocks and dirt. The Trees are a night chorus singing Xhalan Xhala, Basawili, Abelzowadyo, and words in languages people once spoke but have forgotten. A reckoning fire comes, but this is not your last breath, so change, change, change.

Crows, Bees, Goats, and Behemoths tell a story of the Master of Weeds and Wild Things. Mango, Fannie, and Soot report the tale too. Thunder River gurgles and froths, echoing the animal-people accounts, disagreeing now and then—rivers must twist and muddy everything. The Wind carries truth in all directions. Elder Trees are patient, adding new storylines whenever they emerge. These People will be dead soon, thirty, fifty years, fallen leaves feeding roots, and like Rivers and Wind, they are restless, impatient, and fickle. People demand a story-song to celebrate now. So here it is:

Awa says, “Death is a doorway and you guide me through to the other side.”

Three arrows pierce the Master of Arms, yet he fights on, protecting Emperor Azizi whose guards lay dead in the dirt. A patchwork clown joins Arms, riding an iron horse backward and forward, shapeshifting as arrows whoosh where vie no longer is.

“Traitor.” Jod drives a sword through Rokiat’s side and into Meera. He pulls the blade out slowly as they collapse into one another. That is the last thing Awa sees before flying off to Jumbajabbaland. She misses what Fannie and Bibi do to Jod and the gang attacking Rokiat, Meera, and her. Pirates fight with acolytes who’ve swallowed the void and lost their senses. Clowns carry Awa’s breath body up into a house in the branches. Soot steps here and there, risking spirit blood to follow Awa’s Smokeland trail.