‘Bottom of the ocean,’ Kaz said, taking off his soaked leather jacket and eyeing it appraisingly.
‘The pressure should have killed us!’
‘Nah,’ Kaz said, wringing out his jacket, ‘we surprised her. We were gone before she realized we were there.’
‘Her?’ I asked.
‘The ocean,’ Kaz said. ‘She never expects Smedry Talents.’
‘Who does?’ Bastille said, her voice flat.
‘Well, you did say you wanted a bath,’ Kaz said. ‘Come on. We should get moving before those knights think to send someone to Keep Smedry.’
I sighed, climbing to my feet, and the three of us jogged down the hallway – our clothing making squishing noises – and entered a stairwell. We climbed to the top of one of the keep’s towers and ran out onto the landing pad. There we found an enormous glass butterfly lethargically flapping its wings. It reflected the sunlight, throwing out colourful sparkles of light in all directions.
I froze. ‘Wait. This is our escape vehicle?’
‘Sure,’ Kaz said. ‘The Colorfly. Something wrong?’
‘Well, it’s not particularly . . . manly.’
‘So?’ Bastille said, hands on hips.
‘Er . . . I mean . . . Well, I was hoping to be able to escape in something a little more impressive.’
‘So if it’s not manly, it’s not impressive?’ Bastille said, folding her arms.
‘I . . . er . . .’
‘Now would be a good time to shut up, Al,’ Kaz said, chuckling. ‘You see, if your mouth is closed, that will prevent you from saying anything else. And that will prevent you from getting a foot in your mouth – either yours placed there or hers kicking you.’
It seemed like good advice. I shut my mouth and trotted after Kaz, making my way to the gangplank up to the glass butterfly.
To this day, however, I’m bothered by that departure. I was going on what was, in many ways, my first real mission. Before, I’d stumbled into things accidentally. But now I’d actively decided to go out and help.
It seemed that I should be able to make my triumphant departure inside something cooler than a butterfly. In heroic journey terms, that’s like being sent to college driving a pale yellow ’76 Pacer. (Ask your parents.)
But, as I believe I’ve proven to you in the past, life is not fair. If life were fair, ice cream would be calorie free, kittens would come with warning labels stamped on their foreheads, and James Joyce’s ‘The Dead’ would totally be about zombies. (And don’t get me started on Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying.)
‘Hey, cousin!’ a voice exclaimed. A head popped out of the bottom of the butterfly. It had short, black hair with dark tan skin. A hand followed, waving at me. Both belonged to a young Mokian girl. If she were from the Hushlands, she’d have been described as Hawaiian or Samoan. She was wearing a colourful red-and-blue sarong and had a flower pinned in her hair.
‘Who are you?’ I asked, walking under the glass vehicle.
‘I’m your cousin Aydee! Kaz says you need me to fly you to Mokia.’ There was an exuberance about her that reminded me of her sister, Australia. Only Australia was much older. This girl couldn’t be more than eight years old.
‘You’re our pilot? But you’re just a kid!’
‘I know! Ain’t it great?’ She smirked, then pulled back into the butterfly, a glass plate sliding into place where she’d been hanging.
‘Best not to challenge her, Al,’ Kaz said, walking up and laying a hand on my arm.
‘But we’re going into a war zone!’ I said, looking at Kaz. ‘We shouldn’t bring a kid into that.’
‘Oh, so perhaps I should leave you behind?’ Kaz said. ‘The Hushlanders would call you a kid too.’
‘That’s different,’ I said lamely.
‘Her homeland is being attacked,’ Bastille said, climbing up the gangplank. ‘She has a right to help. Nobody sends children into battle, but they can help in other ways. Like flying us to Mokia. Come on! Have you forgotten that we’re being chased?’