The Other Side of the Sky - Amie Kaufman Page 0,50
leave.
TEN
NORTH
Nimh’s temple sits nestled in a fork of the river. The water splits there to flow around the rocky jut of land rising up over the surrounding terrain. Like a tiered cake dominating a feast, the temple overlooks the jumble of buildings and boats spread below it.
Though I saw it all from a distance, the moment of being in the city itself creeps up on me. There’s no one place where it begins, no wall around its border, no edge of the island like there is at home. But though it’s nothing like home, this is still a city, and the best place to search for the tech and the knowledge I need. Last night when I crashed, I didn’t even know there were humans alive down here. Now there’s an entire city. So I keep reminding myself that things are looking up.
We made our way across the plain, where the roads of the civilization that used to be here—my ancestors and Nimh’s—are still raised up a little above the rest of the land. I caught glimpses of a grid now and then.
My head still sort of wants to explode, but I think I can make sense of the story her people tell. Generations ago—so long ago that even my people have lost the records of it—we left this place, and in the time since, they’ve turned us into gods who fled to the sky.
We repaid them by forgetting they were down here at all.
Kind of a raw deal.
But seeing the ruined city has reminded me of one thing: this is the world my people came from. Once upon a time, we had the technology to lift whole cities up into the sky. Surely somewhere here, perhaps hidden away in the darkest corner of Nimh’s archives, is a record of how we did it. Maybe it’s written like a technical manual—it wouldn’t make any sense to someone who doesn’t know what engines are, but I might understand it.
If this world once knew how to raise up a city … then they must still have, somewhere, the knowledge of how to raise one lost prince.
I have to meet this god of theirs.
I can’t help but glance across at Nimh while she’s too focused on our path to notice. I’m like a grounded fledgling here, utterly out of my element. I suppose she’d be just as out of place in my world. I wonder … If I can find a way back to my city, could I bring a representative from this place? Open up communications between our two peoples? It’s the kind of thing a prince should think about, after all.
Nimh and I make our way past a few boats as the water begins to deepen around us. The rivers become more defined, paths hacked through the old roads to allow the shallow craft to pass. I’ve never seen a full-size boat before, but we used to float petals in the palace fountains and race them, and in a strange way, I see that echoed now.
At first it’s just one or two of the long, thin vessels, maneuvered through murky waters by ragged owners using long poles. Then there are flat-bottomed barges made of bundled reeds. Then the foot traffic on the beaten earth paths around us is increasing, and then we’re on the outskirts of the city.
We venture into what’s unmistakably a market, though so early in the morning it’s still waking up. Laid out on the barges, many of which carry small buildings as well as their wares, are baskets of grubby roots, bundles of shiny green lettuce-like leaves, and small silvery things with a smell that nearly bowls me over. When I break our silence to ask Nimh what they are, she shoots me a slightly concerned sidelong look, as if she’s wondering if my crash landing rattled my brains.
“Fish,” she says, as she holds back a smile, not realizing that the word doesn’t mean anything to me.
As I consider pressing the issue, she eases deftly to one side to avoid a pair of men who threaten to brush against her arm. The crowd isn’t too thick yet, but she won’t be able to avoid being jostled forever.
I’d love to know why she doesn’t want to be touched, but I already approached the subject, and she sidestepped. Perhaps she just has really strong preferences. I know a man who only eats even numbers of bites at his meals, a woman who only wears blue. They manage just fine.