“I have finally come home.” Djola hugs her close and buries his face in a snow squall of hair. He and Samina cry tears that turn to sleet. They speak a flood of words too fast to catch. Djola finally turns from Samina, pulls the crystal from his foot, and plucks the wheel from his heart. He hands these treasures to Awa. “I shall keep the marble eye and watch over you.”

“Of course.” Awa puts the treasures in the small bag and winks at Kyrie. Djola and Awa press hands against the gates Kenu and Father have wrought. “I sense Hezram,” Awa says.

“He doesn’t matter,” Samina replies.

“You do the dance, speak the change-spell,” Kyrie says. Her heart is a lightning storm.

Samina plays an ice-harp and Djola and Awa dance Xhalan Xhala. “We imagine the world we want.” Awa’s and Djola’s voices echo through the leaves. “I have crossed over. I conjure Dream Gates. All that remains of me rides the wind, drizzles down with the dew, sparks between the tree roots. I’m the lightning strike, the snow melting, the fire crackling. I dance in the horse’s nicker. I’m the avalanche rolling down Mama Zamba, and the earth tugging my skin tight. I am me and I am you. Do not mourn with blame or guilt. I lost the way, wandered in the void, and found a bridge. We are all lost souls. Never give up looking for one another.”

Awa swoons, Kyrie and Djola hug her as she fades back to the everyday. “No, no, no,” Awa cries. “I give my life, not you.”

Hearing Awa’s distress, Soot leaves Hezram’s trail before catching up to him to meet Awa when she comes back to herself in the everyday.

“With our thoughts we make a world.” Djola, Samina, and Kyrie chant as they walk a road nobody has walked before, to a new region in Jumbajabbaland. Other haints gather behind them—Mother, Tessa, Quint, and many, many others. They sing, “Xhalan Xhala, Basawili, Abelzowadyo. A reckoning fire comes, but this is not your last breath, so change, change, change.”

18

Dream Gates

Awa returned from Smokeland to a citadel room that smelled of herbs, wet dog, and spark torches. She was buried in cushions on a bed big enough for two. Her skin tingled, her heart was heavy, and her head ached from dancing Xhalan Xhala.

Bal hugged her so hard she almost passed out. “You’ve been gone a week.”

Awa rubbed her face and stared at her hands. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense,” Bal declared. “The gates are glorious! The new year starts well. A week without storms, Samina’s crystals suck up the void.”

“I was going to—”

“Sacrifice yourself without telling me.” Bal’s cheer cracked. “Djola left a scroll telling me what you and Kyrie didn’t.”