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Chapters (102)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Map
  5. DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  6. BOOKI
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. BOOKII
  30. 1
  31. 2
  32. 3
  33. 4
  34. 5
  35. 6
  36. 7
  37. 8
  38. 9
  39. 10
  40. 11
  41. 12
  42. 13
  43. 14
  44. 15
  45. 16
  46. 17
  47. 18
  48. 19
  49. BOOKIII
  50. 1
  51. 2
  52. 3
  53. 4
  54. 5
  55. 6
  56. 7
  57. 8
  58. 9
  59. 10
  60. 11
  61. 12
  62. 13
  63. 14
  64. 15
  65. 16
  66. 17
  67. BOOKIV
  68. 1
  69. 2
  70. 3
  71. 4
  72. 5
  73. 6
  74. 7
  75. 8
  76. 9
  77. 10
  78. 11
  79. BOOKV
  80. 1
  81. 2
  82. 3
  83. 4
  84. 5
  85. 6
  86. 7
  87. 8
  88. 9
  89. 10
  90. 11
  91. 12
  92. 13
  93. 14
  94. 15
  95. 16
  96. 17
  97. 18
  98. Glossary
  99. Acknowledgments
  100. Also by Andrea Hairston
  101. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  102. Newsletter Sign-up

Nothing from Samina. Djola read the letter four times, as if words from Samina might appear or as if he’d missed news of her somehow and just had to read more carefully. How could Grain write such a letter? Who cared if Arms whined and Urzula chased rogues? Djola cursed Nuar and Yari, who must know Djola was in exile. Nuar should defend Djola against angry chiefs. Yari should persuade Azizi to do right instead of disappear.

At the fifth read, he decided Samina was wise to stay hidden, silent. His enemies hunted her and the children and would murder them. Three letters lost made his heart ache. What had he missed? Reading a sixth time, Djola could barely breathe. Grain should have written more—Djola was still in the dark. His mind was so jumbled, he couldn’t think. He crumpled the letter and pressed it to his heart. Miracles were hard work. How would he do a miracle if he lost his wits?

18

Smokeland

A few months before Awa’s fourteenth birthday, her hair turned thick as strangle vines. Her breasts were suddenly round and full, and muscles bulged. A strange woman with midnight eyes and sable skin burnished red looked back at her from lakes and streams. Bal declared her a great beauty who’d wreck someone’s heart. Awa dismissed Bal’s praise. She had no time for love. She mapped the clash of Smokeland territories—each region was many regions intertwined, a polyrhythm of possibilities. She crafted a calendar of Smokeland moods and drew the harmony of its seasons.

Once, covered in a swarm of bees, she skirted the borderland void and stumbled sideways into Smokeland. She hovered at a crossroads—a thousand thousand paths, bridges, and skyways intersecting. Dizzy with possibility, she stepped back to the everyday with the bees. Elders and Sprites marveled at static sizzling in her hair and crackling from elbows and knees. Bal claimed Awa had left no breath body behind on this trip.

“I’ve heard old Lahesh tales of full-body journeys, but only seen horses or wild dogs step sideways in and out of Smokeland.” Yari rejoiced at Awa’s prowess. “A smoke-walker like few others.”

After practicing till her heart could beat in six regions at once, Awa dragged Bal’s spirit body through the border-void and headed to favorite places. The treehouse village was deserted. Roofs had blown to the ground. Walls and floors had come apart and thumped in the wind. Shredded cloaks fluttered like ghosts in the shadows. Acid filled Awa’s mouth. Her heart stuttered, off the beat. Calling on Sprite discipline, on hours of relentless meditation with Yari, she hauled Bal on to another region.

“We’re leaving too soon,” Bal said.