By the light of the lantern and the full moon, Jay hiked safely even as the trail hugged a steep drop on one side and a sheer cliff-face on the other. Uneven steps were carved into slick rocks lodged in the mountainside. Jay panted up a flight to find it was the last, and now he had to hoist himself over boulders unaided. He encountered the river a final time as it flowed from its source-spring. He removed his shoes and socks to ford the stream because there was no bridge.

He met no birds as he hiked. He still saw woven nests, but each nest held at most two porcelain eggs. Each egg wore painted lacework marking former matriarchs of Virgil Green’s congregation. Jay took photos of each nest and bowed his head out of respect.

When a stone ledge blocked his way, Jay hoisted the lantern and the box of pastries on top of it and climbed to them on his hands and knees. Finally he saw a wide, paved path to the monastery. Jay lay on cool flagstones and snuffed his lantern to conserve oil. Fireflies would light his way.

“Hey. Hey!” Jay sat up. Leo stood below the ledge and raised his backpack. Jay wondered how many scrapes he’d endured refusing to remove his sunglasses, as if the moon was too bright. Leo shook his backpack. “C’mon, take it.”

Jay hefted Leo’s backpack. “Did you have trouble hiking in the dark?”

Leo tossed a glowing jar. Jay, already holding Leo’s backpack, barely caught the jar before it hit the ground. “Hey, careful with that!” Leo kicked the ledge as he struggled climbing to Jay. “My step-daughter caught ’em for me.”

The jar was filled with fireflies. They flapped madly against the glass, struggling for air and signaling for help with their taillights. Half had already died. “Need a hand,” asked Jay.

“I got it,” Leo wheezed. Sweat dripped down his face. “I got it. I got it.” He finally pulled himself onto the ledge. “See?”

“Hm.”

Leo took his backpack, freeing Jay to retrieve his lantern. Leo smirked. “You needed a lantern, huh? I guess not all of us can be self-made men.” He smacked Jay on the back.

Jay pretended the smack made him stumble, and he smashed Leo’s jar on rocks beside the path. The surviving fireflies escaped. “Whoops.”

“Ah, fuck! C’mon! Typical monkeying around.” Leo slung his backpack over his shoulders and started toward the monastery. “You can pay me back later.”

“I’ll have to apologize to Lilly.” Jay picked up his sugar-powdered pastries and walked the path. The monastery was close enough to count candles in its windows. “I hope the monks let us in.”

Leo scanned the island all the way to the cloudy peak. “Did you seriously come all this way to meet some bums in a nursing home?”

“What are you here for,” Jay asked, knowing the answer.

“Check it out.” Leo pulled his backpack to one shoulder and unzipped it. He carried nothing but glass jars. Half were packed with bug-sticks. The rest were empty. “I brought extra jars just for this! Tell me you’re collecting centipedes, man! You gotta teach me! Don’t tell me you’re really here to fuck with monks!”

“I’m really here to fuck with monks,” said Jay. Leo scoffed. “You should join me, if you want centipede. Only Virgil Blue can properly prepare it.” Leo sniggered and smiled just to show teeth. “I’ve heard improperly prepared, the high is like being sliced by searing knives.”

“You said you weren’t religious.”

“I’ve smoked centipede properly prepared,” said Jay, “and it’s not an experience I’d really recommend. Stick to crickets.”

“I’m not just smoking, I’m selling! Skip the monks and get centipedes with me! The thick ones go for a thousand bucks a pop!”

The pair approached the monastery door. The white walls were tiled with thousands of sand-dollars. “Did you really drag your family here to source centipedes to hock back home?”

“Of course! My dad’s rich,” Leo said as if it explained anything. “Gotta show my step-kid the ropes of running a business.”

“Do what you want.” Jay photographed the monastery sans flash—the candlelight was perfect. “But if I were you, I’d visit Virgil Blue. Maybe the Virgils can teach you to grow crickets yourself so you can quit wasting time and money smuggling. You’d save on family-therapy as well.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job!”

“Sure, sure. Do what you want. When I’m done here, I’ll relight my lantern. You’ll see it if you don’t go too far. Then I’ll lead you through the dark back to the inn.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“I didn’t ask for your company, but here we are. We’re both doing favors tonight.”

Leo swore and walked off the path. He stumbled on a rock and at last deigned to remove his sunglasses. He hooked them on the neck of his Hawaiian shirt. Still he struggled in the night. “You broke my jar! How can I find centipede-bushes in the dark like this?”

“Open another jar and catch fireflies as you go.”

Leo opened a jar and swiped it over fireflies. When he caught none, he swore loud enough for Jay to hear language too colorful to print in square brackets or otherwise.

“Call me what you want,” muttered Jay. Leo continued to do so until his voice faded in the distance. Finally alone, Jay knocked on the monastery door. While he waited, Jay realized he’d been right to introduce himself as Jadie. The fake name kept ephemeral armor around him, like he wore saran wrap. Leo didn’t even believe Jay was his real name.

Jay knocked again and capped his camera. He wondered if he would have the chance to photograph the monastery in daylight. Up close, the candles made the walls of sand-dollars look like scrutinizing eyes. Jay knocked a third time, vowing if no answer came, he would leave the monks alone.

Footsteps approached and the door popped ajar. A young woman peeked through the crack. “Oran dora. [Can I help you?]”

“Oran dora.” Jay hoped he’d studied his phrasebook well enough. “[I’m Jay,]” he attempted. “[I have gifts.]”

“[We have enough sand-dollars.]” The woman’s skepticism melted when Jay showed the box of pastries. “[Thank you! Please?]”

“[Please.]” Jay allowed her a pastry. She kept the doorway narrow. “[I also have a cricket for Virgil Jango Skyy.]”

“[Did you buy it locally?]”

“I’m sorry? [I don’t speak much.]”

The woman struggled for English words. “Who gave you cricket?”

“[An American friend,]” said Jay. “Faith Featherway.”

“Faith Featherway? [You have good connections.]” The woman opened the door. “[Come in. We’ve been expecting you.]”

Next Section
Commentary

Sheridan’s main island wore a skirt of steep capes. Its only stretch of coast welcomed the ferry to a lonely dock. Giant birds floated in the shallows and lounged on the sandy beach. “This beach is a sacred spot in the birds’ life-cycle,” said Michael. “All fledglings are born to the matriarch guarded by Virgil Green’s congregation; only the dedicated matriarch can lay fertilized eggs. When they grow to human-height, they swim to this shore. When they tire of play, they waddle the trail which winds up the island until old age takes them. Monks mark the height of each bird’s death with a porcelain egg. Matriarchs get a porcelain egg with sacred decoration.”

Jay noticed half the birds were almost ten feet tall while the other half were half the height. The shorter birds dragged flowing tail-feathers behind them. Jay guessed the larger birds were egg-layers and the smaller birds with tail-feathers were their mates.

A mate spread their tail like a flaming curtain. An egg-layer looked coyly over their shoulder. Eva covered Lilly’s eyes. Leo snickered as the squawking birds mounted each other on the sand. On cue, more birds paired off, some mate-to-mate, some egg-layer-to-egg-layer. Leo stopped laughing, but made disgusted effort to watch the matched pairs proceed.

Jay sketched the orgy in pen. “If birds are only born on the second island, why do they mate here?”

“They mate for pleasure.” Michael led the tour onto the capes. Ocean spray blew them to a town of thatch-roofed, stone-walled cottages.

They ate breakfast in a cape-side cottage hosted by an elderly couple with long, braided hair. Native farmers and craftsmen came one-by-one to see the tourists. Jay noticed most were bald or had short hair. He used the phrasebook to ask if he could take their photos, and they all eagerly obliged. Some dragged their extended families back to the camera. Some brought wares for Jay to photograph: decorative metalwork, bouquets of crickets, hand-sewn plush birds, porcelain eggs and tea-sets, and more items like Jay had seen in the bazaar. One woman brought her goats to be photographed and offered hand-churned goat-cream for their tea.

As they ate, Michael pointed up at landmarks along the trail. “That fence surrounds our largest cricket-farm, where bug-sticks grow like grass. That there is the statue of a bird which paused waddling up the island to protect a lost human child. That inn is where we stop hiking tonight, and some miles higher is the white-walled monastery of Virgil Blue. Above that, you can barely see centipede-bushes. Then a permanent cloudy cap obscures the sacred peak.”

Jay thanked the cottage-hostess as she topped off his tea. It was hot sweet-tea, thick and opaque as butter. “Michael, I heard this island is the tallest mountain on Earth if you include the height beneath sea-level. Is that true?”

“Who told you that?”

“I read it in a red card-stock pamphlet.”

Michael chuckled. “Those monks probably consider the whole planet the underside of this island.”

The hostess’ husband brought the main course: enormous hard-boiled eggs. Jay hesitated to partake. “We can eat eggs?” Michael nodded as he sliced his egg and drank the yolk like soup. “May I photograph mine?”

“Sure, sure.” Michael wiped yolk from his lips. “These are unfertilized eggs gathered from the coast. There’s no sacred seed inside.”

Jay bit white egg-meats. Yellow yolk spilled out. He sucked yolk from the egg like mango-pulp, but his yolk seemed smaller than Michael’s. He contented himself with more egg-white until another, larger yolk burst in his mouth.

“Ah, very lucky!” said the cottage-hostess. “A double-yolked egg!”

Jay drank the second yolk and photographed the double-chambered whites. He wondered if such an egg, being fertilized, would bear two fledglings or one. “Michael, how do you know the hosts of this cottage?”

“Cousins,” said Michael, “three or four times removed. We’ll find my relatives all over Sheridan. Most of us are from the same egg, so to speak.” He saw Jay prepare his notepad to ask about the idiom, but Michael knew they’d dallied too long over breakfast. He thanked the hosts and ushered his tour onto the trail before explaining. “Local legend says these islands were built by the biggest of the birds. She gave the first man, Nemo, an egg which hatched a hundred young. Our ancestors!”

“Oh,” said Leo, “that’s why you all look the same.” Michael scowled, as did Suzy, Craig, and Eva. Jay just sighed audibly and thinned his lips. He’d have phrased it differently, but he knew what Leo meant: the natives had all skin-colors and body-types, but many were bald, emphasizing round jaws and pointed skullcaps. “Like eggs, or something.”

The path wound around the island into the piney forest girdling its midsection. Occasionally Michael pointed at trees behind which birds hid waiting for the tour to pass before continuing their epic waddle after them.

As the tour circled up the island, they bridged the same river again and again. From each bridge, the river cut a clear view through the forest to the ocean. Jay took the chance to photograph the other islands from a higher vantage point each revolution.

Near each bridge, cozy hamlets grew carrots, berries, nuts, grains, and crickets. The bug-sticks grew thicker here than in Faith’s cardboard-box. Their beady eyes surrounded antennae pregnant with pollen.

As sunset neared and the forest darkened, the hamlets lit lanterns. Michael tapped his foot as Leo traded his sand-dollars for more crickets. “Be sure to smoke those before returning to the airport, Henry!”

Leo tssk’d and tried to light a bouquet of ten bug-sticks bound by masterful wing-work. “Not in front of Lilly!” Eva took her husband’s lighter. “When we stop for the night, you can smoke outside.” Leo grumbled at the sunset as they set off again.

A lantern-bearing group in robes met them walking the other way. Michael bowed his head to them, so Jay did as well. “Oran dora. Each night, these monks bring news from the white-walled monastery.”

“Oran dora,” replied the monks. “We bear the latest from Virgil Blue.”

“What does the Blue Virgil have to say this fine evening?”

“Nothing at all. Forty years of silence from our esteemed master. How wise to not waste a single word!” The monks carried the vital wordless message down the winding trail.

The tour continued up the island until the pines grew scarce. The few birds who survived to walk beyond the treeline did not hide from the tour, but instead marched with proud, arthritic plod. The birds nervously eyed woven nests left trail-side which held one porcelain egg for each bird succumbing to old-age at that elevation. Jay wondered if any bird had ever surpassed the island’s cloudy cap. Were they allowed to?

When the tour finally stopped at the inn, Michael pointed to the second island far below. “Look at the clearing where Virgil Green’s congregation sits and walks. When the students acclimatize to the sacred truth, they swim to this island and walk with the birds to the white-walled monastery above. I hope the sunset inspires within you the tranquility of understanding the Biggest Bird’s cosmic plan.”

Suzy and Craig cuddled on the nearby bridge and wrote in their Atlas by the dying sunlight. Eva pointed to distant birds and Lilly practiced naming their colors until it was too dark to distinguish them; then Lilly played with fireflies. Leo and Jay both took photos, Jay with his camera and Leo with his phone. Michael watched Leo’s phone over his shoulder. “Henry, I hope there are no birds in your photos.”

“Better check Jay, too,” Leo grunted, “he’s taking more than me.”

Jay showed Michael his camera. “I’d like to start hiking to the monastery before it gets any darker. You can keep my camera if you’d like, but I’ll take the flashlight-attachment to see my way.”

“Jadie Jackson, I know the owners of this inn. They’ll loan you a lantern. Keep your camera.”

While Leo stalked Eva and Lilly, Jay reconsidered his photos of a bird-statue. The stone bird stood on a stone box filled with lit candles, like a shrine. Its wings shaded the statue of a toddler like it was its own fledgling. Jay loved the exquisite masonry of its feathers, but worried it was so lifelike he shouldn’t have taken pictures.

“Eva. C’mon.” Leo grabbed his wife and daughter by the shoulders. “Let’s go to the monastery before it gets dark.”

“It’s already dark,” said Eva, “and Lilly has a blister from hiking. Maybe you can show us pictures in the morning?”

Michael gave Jay a lantern and a box of sugar-powdered pastries. Held at arm’s length, each pastry was barely bigger than the full moon. “The innkeepers suggest this offering will grant you audience.” Jay asked if his photos of the statue were acceptable. Michael just laughed. “Show the Virgils. They’ll love them.”

Next Chapter
Commentary

Only stars and a waxing moon lit the tour’s descent to the opposite shore of Sheridan’s second island. Another ferry waited at the pier, but the ferryman blocked the dock with a sizable suitcase as he smoked the last of a cricket. He dropped the smoldering butt and smashed it with his bare heel. He wore torn jeans and a white tank-top.

Michael gathered the group out of earshot. “The second ferryman won’t let us board until we buy souvenirs. I hope the inconvenience isn’t too much trouble.”

Henry scoffed while the others nodded. Michael led them to the ferryman, who called out in Sheridanian. “Oran dora, Michael. [You told them my fare?]” Michael nodded and the ferryman opened his suitcase. It was packed with seashells of all sizes, colors, and kinds. “Cost is buying two shells. Foreign currency only. Children ride free.”

Jay admired the shells. Suzy took two cowries. Craig chose coiling worm-snails. The ferryman charged them a handful of yuan while Eva considered some clams.

“I knew this place was a tourist-trap.” Henry didn’t even look at the suitcase. “I got enough shells at the bazaar. How come we gotta buy shit?”

“You don’t,” Michael managed through a gritted smile. “You’re welcome to hike back over the island and take tomorrow’s return ferry to the airport.”

Perhaps to spite Henry, Jay chose the two largest shells: a conch speckled brown outside but rare pink within, and a spiral horn-shell seven inches long. “How much for these?”

The ferryman grinned. “Good taste. Twenty-five US dollars for the conch, fifteen for the horn-shell.”

Jay gave him a fifty. “Can you deliver overseas?”

“Don’t worry, Jadie.” Michael spoke Sheridanian. The ferryman wrapped the shells in butcher-paper and marked them with sharpie. “I’ll ship them to you first-class.”

“Thanks,” said Jay. The ferryman must’ve deducted shipping from the fifty, as Jay received no change. “So, why sell shells here? Isn’t business better in the bazaar?”

Michael translated the questions into Sheridanian and returned the ferryman’s response in English. “He makes most of his money ferrying merchants from the main island to the bazaar. When he ferries for our tour-groups, he loses this source of income because we pay him with nights in the apartment. Selling shells nets him pocket-change.”

Jay joined Suzy and Craig on the dock behind the ferryman. Eva paid three dollars for the pearly halves of a clam-shell and gave the larger half to Lilly. They followed Jay onto the pier. Henry tried to walk with them, but the ferryman blocked him. “Hey! Buy two shells or swim to the next island!”

Henry revealed two pitiful-looking sand-dollars.

“I don’t sell those shells. Those are currency-shells.”

“You sold them to my wife. You forgot already?”

The ferryman tssk’d and waved Henry through. “[Children ride free.]”

Michael laughed. “Oran dora.”

---

Below deck, the tour-group shared a cabin of cots. While the others slept, Jay sketched birds in his notepad. He started with a fist-sized fledgling, then a chicken-sized adolescent, then a mature adult. He’d have to show Faith when he returned; the adult looked just like the Heart of the Mountain.

“Jadie Jackson!” Michael sat beside him in his cot. “Did you enjoy the second island?”

“Absolutely! I hope that little bird is okay.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m afraid the matriarch usually puts blind fledglings out of their misery. But don’t worry—most fledglings don’t survive long anyway.”

“Oh. C’est la vie.” Jay gave him his camera. “You wanted to check my photos?”

Michael smiled at Jay’s pictures of the masked dancers. He deleted one photo capturing a gray bird’s curious head. “Jadie, do you still want to visit Virgil Blue’s monastery?”

“If I can get there.”

“Well… If you can get there, please deliver this letter.” Michael gave him an envelope addressed in Sheridanian. “Monks live there whom I’ve missed for years.”

“Really? Who?”

Michael’s long-strained smile finally wilted as his gaze fell. “My family is fourteen brothers married to fourteen sisters. We once had twenty-eight children who left the family-business to practice with Virgil Blue.”

“Wow.” Jay wrote in his notepad. “I hate to ask, but could these family-ties help me meet Virgil Skyy?”

“Family-ties are why I cannot help at all,” said Michael. “Those children grew up stitching plush birds for us to sell. They decided this was blasphemous and dedicated their lives to monastic study. They believe their family packages religion for tourists, and they want no part.”

Jay nodded. “Well, I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear from you.” He put Michael’s envelope in his backpack—but as he did, he felt something amiss. He checked each pocket. “Um. Michael, I don’t seem to have my passport.”

“I’ll tell the ferryman to look for it when he cleans.” Michael stood from the cot. “We’ll get you back to America. You’re not the first tourist to lose their passport.”

---

Jay woke in the night to a figure standing over him. They tossed something into his cot. “No!” Jay bolted upright and smacked the object away.

“Whoa, Jay, chill!” Henry picked the object from the floor. “Don’t wanna lose your passport again, do you?”

“Oh. Thanks.” Jay tucked his passport into his backpack. “One time I lost my passport in South Africa. It took weeks to get back to the states. Where’d you find it?”

“You wanna smoke?”

“Not really.”

“It’s fine, I got extras. I bought armloads back at the bazaar.” Henry spread a handful of bug-sticks. That explained why Eva and Lilly shopped alone, thought Jay. “Half the stalls hock these things. That’s why we can mark up the price state-side, huh?”

Jay furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry?”

“Bug-sticks are a dime a dozen here, but back home I charge ten bucks a pop, or more. Check this out—the assholes running the stalls make change in fucking seashells, can you believe it? It’s theme-park funny-money.” Henry rattled sand-dollars in his cargo-shorts. “But I can’t complain, ’cause they got me past the ferryman for free. Betcha wish you’d thought of that, huh?”

“Huh,” agreed Jay. He drew up his covers and turned away to sleep.

“You know, guys like us gotta stick together. Got any tattoos?” Jay said nothing, but Henry didn’t mind. “How do you get your bugs past the dogs? Last year they sniffed my bug-sticks through air-tight jars, and airport-security grilled me for hours. I’d bribe them, but I spent all my cash on crickets, and I don’t think they’ll take sand-dollars.” Jay said nothing, so Henry continued. “I’m gonna put goat-meat in my bag. If a dog rats me out, I’ll show the meat and pretend that’s what the dog wants.”

“I’m not bringing bugs past the dogs,” said Jay.

“What, really?” Henry put his hands on his hips. “Oh, I get it. You’re stashing bugs in the seashells you’re shipping home. That’s smart, Jay. No wonder you blew fifty bucks on that junk.”

“I bought the shells as souvenirs for friends and family.”

“I bet,” Henry smirked. “I bought bug-sticks to make some friends, if you know what I mean. Presidential friends, like Ben Franklin. Am I right?”

“Hm.”

Henry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You know, Jay…” He pointed at Jay’s backpack. “You said your name was Jadie, but your passport says Jay. How come?”

“No reason,” said Jay.

“Skimped on the fake passport, huh? I’m impressed with the holographic stuff. It looks legit. What’s your real name?”

Jay said nothing.

“I got my `Henry’ passport last year, after security banned me from the islands. My real name’s Leo.” Leo stuck out a hand for Jay to shake. When Jay didn’t, Leo adjusted his sunglasses and the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. “You’ve only got one cricket. Are you smuggling the hard stuff? Centipedes? Can you show me how? This is my first time.”

“How’d you know I’ve got a cricket?” asked Jay. “It was in an envelope in my backpack.” Leo didn’t answer. “Did you look through my stuff? Is that why you had my passport?”

“We should team up back in America. Like a gang, you know what I mean?”

“Get away from me,” said Jay.

“Huh?”

“I said fuck off,” said Jay, “or I’ll shout and wake everyone aboard.”

Leo sneered as he retreated to his cot. “Jadie’s a girl’s name, gaylord.”

Next Section
Commentary

Jay woke before sunrise and considered supplementing a candy-bar breakfast with Faith’s bug-stick, but he knew the others would smell the smoke, so he just admired the cover of her holiday-card. Under a pithy phrase printed inside, Faith had sketched a white fox with a speech bubble: ‘Love you JayJay! Share that cricket with Virgil Jango Skyy if you meet him. I owe Jangster a bug-stick!’

Jay stepped above-deck to photograph Sheridan’s smallest island from the stern. He liked how the ferry’s wake framed the sandy bump, back-lit by sunrise.

At the bow, Michael leaned on the rail watching the second island approach. Jay hesitated to take a candid from behind. “Can I take your photo in just that pose? Your longing gaze would make a great blog-header.”

Michael nodded and Jay snapped a few photos. The second island’s shore waved scrawny palms, but its pregnant hillock wore healthy pines. Sheridan’s mountainous main island waited on the horizon.

When he heard Jay’s camera-shutter stop, Michael turned and saluted like a ship’s captain. “Oran dora, Jadie! Good morning.”

Jay took more photos in appreciation of Michael’s cheesy expression. Michael cleared his throat and extended a flat palm. Jay greased the proffered palm with sand-dollars. “I hope you can show me the best photo-spots.”

“You’ve pulled my chain, I’ll spin your wheel.” Michael counted the sand-dollars. “Jadie, shoot the second island while you have the chance. When we arrive, it will be hard to take pictures without birds in them.”

“I meant to ask about that.” Jay reviewed photographs in his camera’s screen. “I read a pamphlet which said Sheridan’s religion has just three commandments: don’t use centipedes unless Virgil Blue says so, don’t photograph birds, and don’t climb the main island. Why not, say, thou shalt not kill?”

Michael laughed. “Virgil Blue wouldn’t waste words explaining not to kill. Bird-photography is less self-evidently immoral, so Virgil Blue must remind us. It used to be that any kind of bird-forgery was forbidden, including drawings and plush dolls. On introduction to the camera, Virgil Blue relaxed restrictions to just photography.” When Jay finished penning the quote in his notepad, Michael pointed to the top of the main island. “It’s a clear day, right Jadie? But look at the peak.” Indeed the sky was empty blue, but the peak of Sheridan wore wispy clouds like censoring fig-leafs. Jay zoomed-in his camera for a photo. “Even on the clearest days, the peak maintains its mystery. No gaze may summit it.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Jay asked anyway, “but what if someone breaks that commandment and hikes past those clouds?”

Michael’s eyes wound down the trail which threaded the main island like a drill. “After a Blue Virgil selects their successor, they retire to the constant cloud-cover and are never heard from again. No one has followed them to the peak in my lifetime, but we tell rumors of the consequences, and the rumors make me shiver. They are almost too bone-chilling to recount.”

Jay gave Michael the rest of his sand-dollars.

“When someone trespasses on the sacred peak, they never return, of course. Moreover, anything of value to the trespasser is mysteriously ruined. Their fields are razed, their pets turn feral, their spouses die, and their houses collapse on their children.”

“Oh, shit.” Jay remembered Faith’s cricket. “How high can we climb? I have a gift for Virgil Jango Skyy, and I’m sure he lives in Virgil Blue’s monastery.”

Michael pointed at a brown dot halfway up the main island. “We stop there. The Virgils live a few miles higher.” He circled a white spot at the trail’s top, near the cloudy peak. “When we stop hiking, you could continue to the white-walled monastery of Sheridan—but I cannot guarantee your entrance, or your audience.”

---

Jay, Craig, Suzy, Henry, Eva, and Lilly ate brunch below deck. Jay almost spilled tea when their ferry bumped a dock.

Michael led them ashore. The sand was coarse gravel which surrendered to wild grass, and the palms were short and scraggly before relenting to pines.

“Peep!”

Jay reached for his camera out of habit, but caught himself, and instead produced his notepad and pen to sketch the bright yellow bird. It cocked its head at Craig and Suzy. Lilly jumped giddily at its tiny hops across the beach.

“Peep!”

“I remind you not to take pictures,” said Michael to the whole group but mostly Henry. Henry pretended not to notice the bird as he fiddled with his cellphone. “This bird is a year old. You can tell because it’s the size of a chicken. Sheridanian Big Birds live to be fifty and grow bigger than emus and ostriches. When hatched, they’re barely fist-sized.”

When the tour finished fawning over the bird, Michael led them into the forest. Instantly a crowd appeared from behind the pines to flank them on the trail. They wore tail-feather skirts, wooden beak-masks, and nothing else. Craig and Suzy pulled each other close in fear, but Michael didn’t mind this crowd or their peculiar dress.

“These dancers train to join Virgil Green at the top of the trail. Enjoy their frolicking as we hike uphill.” The men and women flanking them began to dance. Uncountably many cycled to the front then retreated back to the forest.

Bouncing bare-breasted women captivated Henry’s interest. “We shoulda done the whole tour years ago. This is great!” He pulled the slack in his wife’s blouse. “Hey, Eva, join the party!

Eva scowled and reached for the collar of Henry’s Hawaiian shirt. “You first.” Henry winced and folded his arms protectively.

“May I take photos,” Jay asked Michael, “if I let you check them for birds?”

The tour-guide sighed. “Turn off your flash, it disturbs the birds’ eyes. I’ll check your photos tonight.”

Jay snapped photos of the dancers. He was careless until he noticed birds of every color running through the dancers’ legs. He deleted those photos and took more, angled upward to catch only dancers in the frame. Eventually the pines became smaller and sparser until the tour entered a clearing. The dancers broke formation to return to the forest.

In the clearing, a circle of bald men and women walked clockwise. They wore loincloths made of rags. Their footsteps in the grass were a sheet of sound like a waterfall. “These are the students of Virgil Green, he who chased snakes from Sheridan. In preparation for Virgil Blue’s monastery on the main island, students practice on this smaller summit. Please hold your questions until we exit the circle.” Michael led his group through the wall of walkers.

Enclosed by the walkers, hundreds more bald and barely-clothed students sat facing the circle’s center. In the center was a pink bird like a tropical penguin taller than Jay. Jay capped his camera.

Each seated student had a different chant rumbling in their stomach:

“Oran doran doran doran dora.”

“Oran dora. Oran dora.”

“Oran, doran! Doran, dora! Oran, doran! Doran, dora!”

“Oran-dan-dan-doran. Oran dan-dan, dan-dorandan-dan.”

Jay thought they sounded like a million motors. Sometimes a seated chanter would stand and join the walking circle. Sometimes a tired walker would choose a seat and chant. Jay felt static in the air, like the congregation was an engine generating religious potency.

This feeling swelled when the pink bird in the center stood up on stocky orange legs, at least eight feet tall. Michael pointed to its nest of eggs and whispered to his tour: “Every day, the matriarch lays an egg. Every day, an egg hatches.”

A man with sea-foam robes, skin blue-black like midnight, and a long peppery beard stood and spread his hands. “Oran dora!” The walkers halted and turned to the center. The chanters fell silent. Then the robed, bearded man lectured in Sheridanian.

“What’s he saying,” asked Henry. Michael shushed him.

An egg rattled. The pink bird spread its stubby flightless wings. The bearded mentor continued the lecture.

“What’s he talking about,” asked Henry.

“I’ll explain after,” whispered Michael.

The egg cracked. The pink bird nudged it with its squat beak. One of the seated students questioned their bearded mentor and he replied emphatically.

“If they’re doing this for tourists, they could at least learn English,” said Henry. “What’d the kid say.”

“The esteemed Virgil Green asked a rhetorical question,” Michael quietly spat, “and the student asked for clarification. The students will contemplate the question until the next egg hatches tomorrow. This helps them visualize the Biggest Bird.”

The egg split open and a blue fledgling blinked in the sunlight. The pink bird shaded the fledgling with its wings. Virgil Green sat. The standing students resumed walking and the seated students resumed chanting.

“Well what was the question,” asked Henry.

A seated student tugged Michael’s jeans. “[Would you take questions later? We must focus.]”

“[I’m sorry.]”

“What’d she say,” asked Henry, “and what’d you say back.”

Virgil Green swiveled his head. The contrast between his dark skin and peppery beard made his slight smile seem scathing. “Oran dora, Michael. Perhaps you should continue the tour?”

“Yes, we should. Thank you, Virgil Green.” Michael bowed and led the tour-group through the other side of the walking circle. Henry lingered.

Click, click.

He lifted his sunglasses to appreciate the pictures he took. He hadn’t even turned off the flash.

“No!” Michael grabbed his wrist and marched him from the circle. Henry shook him off. “Delete them! Now!”

“We’re leaving anyway! Don’t touch me!”

Some students stopped walking to watch the shouting tourists. The students behind them had to stop, and the students behind them had to stop, until the whole circle stopped and even the students seated inside turned to look.

“You were told not to photograph birds! Delete them!”

“It’s my phone! I’ll do what I want!”

“When you applied for the tour, you signed a waiver!”

“With an H, good luck getting that to hold up in court!”

Eva groaned. “Henry…”

“Delete them!”

“Or what?”

“Or those bird-worshipers are gonna beat the living shit out of you!” Michael shouted, “and if they’re kind enough to not beat the shit out of me, too, I’m gonna join them in beating the shit out of you, and your wife can carry you home in a body-cast or a coffin, I don’t care which!”

Henry prepared to retort, but the bird-worshipers nodded in agreement with Michael. Virgil Green put a sympathetic hand on the pink bird’s feathery forehead as she bent to comfort her fledgling. The fledgling’s left eye blinked uselessly, blinded by the flash. “Peep, peep!” it vainly cried.

Henry showed them his phone and deleted the photos. “Okay, they’re gone! Alright? Fucking fascists!”

Next Section
Commentary

Michael led the six onto white sand. Shore-side palm trees spread feathery fronds like frozen fireworks to welcome waves to the beach. The last time Jay had been outdoors was a wintry Los Angeles morning, but now the southern hemisphere soaked him in sweat as he followed Michael’s flip-flops to his family’s restaurant.

Jay gasped when the automatic doors loosed a cold-front of air-conditioning. Michael escorted the tour past chatting airport-workers to a long table. At the bar, two men with Michael’s same shoulder-length haircut lounged over liquor. One was darker-skinned than Michael, the other lighter and blonde.

Michael hailed a dancing waitress in Sheridanian: “Anaita! Oran dora! [Tour of six today.]”

“\Oran dora, Michael. [Don’t lose any this time.]”

“[I think four are American, so one platter won’t be enough. Bring two, three if my brothers can cook quick enough.]”

“[On it.]” The waitress whipped her long braid spinning a dress-flaring curtsy for the tour-group. “Welcome! If your tour leaves you hungry for more Sheridan, stay a night upstairs in my sisters’ apartment! Breakfast is complimentary.”

Jay sat across from the Chinese couple and the man in sunglasses. On Jay’s left, Eva helped her daughter read a children’s menu. Michael sat on Jay’s right and clapped his hands. “Let’s introduce ourselves! You know my name is Michael.” He gestured to the Chinese couple and flipped flawlessly between regional dialects. “[Any of those sound familiar? I learn lots of languages.]”

Zhang raised his eyebrows. “[I’m impressed, but English might be more accommodating.]”

The man in the Hawaiian shirt glared over his sunglasses. “What’re you two on about?”

Zhang pursed his lips. “My Chinese name is hard for some to pronounce,” he said, “so please, call me Craig.”

Li Ying closed the Atlas. “Call me Suzy,” she said. “My English is not as good as my husband’s, so let’s practice together.”

The man in sunglasses started: “My name’s Henry. This—”

The waitress brought two platters of pastries and placed one before Jay. “This is my lovely wife, Anaita,” said Michael. “Enjoy this authentic Sheridanian cuisine cooked by seven of my brothers! Please, Henry, continue.”

While Henry pouted over his interrupted introduction, Jay photographed the platter of pastries. Each pastry was a crescent of crispy dough. He bit one in half. It was filled with crunchy green lettuce, red goat-meat with black char, orange and purple boiled carrots, and a brown lump of grains. Shredded coconut added nutty white sweetness. It was delicious, he wrote in his notepad. Craig and Suzy annotated their Atlas.

Only after Anaita placed the other platter before him did Henry deign to continue. “I’m Henry. This is my wife, Eva, and my step-daughter, Lilly.” He paused as if finished. When Jay opened his mouth, Henry cut him off: “My wife drags us here every year to look at birds, but we’ve never gone all the way to the main island. I wanna climb to the top, but the phrasebook says we stop like halfway up. How come?”

Michael smiled and nodded. Without turning from Henry, he spoke to Anaita in Sheridanian: “[The red one seeks to sneak under Sheridan’s shrouded peak.]”

“[Tell him we’d give his widow a job waiting tables.]”

“What’d she say,” asked Henry.

Michael’s practiced customer-service smile stretched until his eyes closed. “She says the summit of the main island is sacred and we cannot trespass. But the view from where we stop along the trail is truly terrific!”

Jay waited to make sure Henry had finished. Then he pointedly waited longer to rub his patience in Henry’s nose. “My name’s Jadie Jackson. I’m a travel-writer and photographer, but I promise not to take pictures of birds.”

Michael’s crocodile-smile melted into a slightly genuine one. “Thank you for reminding me: birds must not be photographed. You may photograph anything else, but if we notice a bird in a shot, you’ll be asked to delete it. It is a religious matter of great importance to island-natives like myself.”

At the mention of religion, Henry rolled his eyes so vigorously his head bobbed. The motion was not hidden behind his sunglasses as he probably intended. Jay rolled his own eyes at Henry unabashedly.

“I must speak with my brothers, Gabe and Raphy.” Michael bowed to excuse himself from the table. “Please, call Anaita to order an entrée. Our restaurant accepts all currencies, but expect change in sand-dollars!”

Craig and Suzy chatted over their Atlas in Chinese but Henry’s family barely spoke as they ate. Jay used his Sheridanian phrasebook to eavesdrop on nearby conversations. Local airport-workers recommended the upstairs accommodations to pilots of passing flights. The apartment above the restaurant was run by seven of Michael’s sisters-in-law. Anaita and her other six sisters worked as waitresses serving food prepared by seven of Michael’s brothers. Michael and six more brothers, including Gabe and Raphy, herded tourists across the islands. Of the seven touring brothers, four would be away at any time. Each day, one returned and another departed.

Jay wondered if this family of twenty-eight owned the airport, too. This tiny island held Sheridan’s whole economy in shady palms.

After a long, lazy lunch, Michael led the tour to a bazaar of colorful tents which smelled like bug-sticks. He instructed the group to meet him on the West side of the island before sunset. “There we’ll board our overnight-ferry. You may use any currency in the bazaar, but expect sand-dollars in change. They are the only currency accepted on Sheridan’s main island.”

Jay browsed the goods of two hundred islanders. Here as always in Sheridan, he noticed huge variety in the skin-colors and body-shapes of the native people. The tallest wrapped crickets in their wings for the shortest to sell. The slimmest sold necklaces of shells next to the fattest threading beaded bracelets. One tent sold candy eggs to young boys and girls. Another tent sold plush birds to elderly islanders as gifts for grandchildren.

“Huh.” Jay squeezed a plush bird. The craftsmanship was impeccable. He flipped through his phrasebook. “Um… Oran dora. [Why do you… sell them?]” The girl running the tent shook her head and leaned in to listen to Jay’s second attempt. He pointed to a Sheridanian phrase repeated often in the book: “[Do not take pictures of birds?]”

“Oh!” She laughed. “Not real bird! Okay to make!” She offered him another plush bird. “Want to buy? American cash okay!”

“[Two please.]” Jay paid ten dollars and chose an orange fledgling and a white fledgling from the wide palette available. The merchant gave him twine threaded through sand-dollars in change. “[May I take a picture?]” The merchant nodded and Jay photographed the stall.

Eva and Lilly wandered by the plush birds. Lilly pointed to the back of the tent. “Mommy, look at that one!” The merchant pulled down the red ostrich-sized bird. It had tail-feathers like a peacock’s downy dress. The merchant stuck her arm up its neck like a puppeteer. Lilly laughed at the dance she made it perform. “It’s funny!”

Eva seemed wary of the giant puppet. “Let’s buy a small one after the tour.”

“Good thinking,” said Jay. “It’d be tough to carry that big red guy on the hike.”

For the first time, Jay and Eva made eye contact. She was pretty, thought Jay, with thin pink lipstick. She gave him a sorry smile as if apologizing for her husband, who was conspicuously absent. “The smaller ones are cuter anyway.”

“Henry said you go bird-watching every year.” Jay shaded his eyes from the setting sun. He, Eva, and Lilly started West for the ferry. “What’s your favorite bird?”

“I’m not as interested in birds as Henry makes me out to be,” she said. “In fact, he’s the one who insists on our annual trip to Sheridan. He usually makes us turn back after visiting this market.”

“Daddy says I’m old enough to go to the big island!” said Lilly.

Jay wanted to ask more about Henry, but Michael ushered them aboard the ferry and into separate sleeping-quarters. While the Chinese couple across the hall wrote in their Atlas, Jay studied the Sheridanian phrasebook. When he saw the waxing moon through a porthole, jet-lag caught up to him. He collapsed into his cot.

Next Section
Commentary

The third island of Sheridan was barely big enough to hold an airstrip. Only a handful of people stepped off the plane, and half of them just wandered gift-shops as the plane refueled. Only five others joined Jay waiting to pass through customs.

In the same corridor was a security-checkpoint for departures. Armed personnel led dogs on taut leashes around luggage leaving the islands. Jay knew the dogs were sniffing for crickets and centipedes because a sign said so in ten languages. For the illiterate, a cricket-and-centipede icon was crossed out in a red circle.

In comparison, customs would be a breeze. Jay bookmarked the photo in his passport with his completed declaration-card. The man from the plane in dark sunglasses and red Hawaiian shirt allowed his wife to organize his family’s passports as he sat on Jay’s right.

On Jay’s left, a middle-aged Chinese couple had prepared their documentation and now huddled over a well-worn Atlas. They spoke in a dialect Jay didn’t recognize. He decided to introduce himself in Mandarin. “[Hello. My name is Jay. I come from the United States.]”

The couple was struck mute, then laughed at each other. “[I am Zhang.]” The man shook Jay’s hand. “[This is my wife Li Ying. We come from Southern China.]”

Jay appreciated Zhang dumbing down his dialect. “[I admire your map. You have many pen-marks in places I have none.]”

“[This is nothing,]” said Li Ying. “[Look at this.]” She unfolded the Atlas’ largest map of China. Jay fawned over decades of notes written along routes and rivers. There was scarcely an acre the couple hadn’t visited. “[We’ve been to every country and Antarctica. Now we’re visiting every island.]”

Jay’s response was interrupted by the man in sunglasses. “What’re you talking about?”

Zhang showed him the Atlas. “We have—uh, a map,” he said, reaching for English words. “It shows where we go for many years.”

The man blankly evaluated the Chinese script. Jay knew Chinese and could barely read the handwriting, so he doubted the man understood a single character. He pointed his hairy forearm at the Atlas. “What’s that?”

Jay sucked air through his teeth. If the man recognized any character, it’d be the swastika. “It’s, uh…” Li Ying read nearby notes. “A temple called Jokhang.”

“No, the spinny thing.” The man tapped the swastika. Jay thought the man’s sunglasses and poker-face did little to hide the disingenuousness of his ignorance. “What is it?”

Zhang sensed a cultural divide and muttered in his wife’s ear. “This shape,” he said to the man, “is used for temples on maps. It means…” He looked at his wife.

“Well-being?” she suggested.

“Luck?”

“Auspiciousness?” she guessed, struggling with the central syllables.

“To cross your arms?” tried Zhang, folding his arms over his chest. “There are many meanings. It’s popular in many areas.”

The more swastikas the man found on the map, the wider his grin became. He turned to his wife. “You hear that, Eva? It’s popular in many areas.” She continued reading her daughter a picture-book. “Hey, Eva, you hear that? They said it’s popular—”

Jay excused himself from the conversation as soon as a customs-official appeared. Jay relinquished his passport. “Thanks.”

The customs-official compared Jay’s passport-photo to the real deal. Since last renewing his passport, Jay had gained twenty muscular pounds, and he had forty hours of five o’ clock shadow. The customs official didn’t seem to mind. While waiting, Jay noticed the airport’s workers had all varieties of skin-colors. Many were bald.

“Oran dora. Welcome to Sheridan.” The customs-official stamped Jay’s passport and returned it. “Enjoy your stay.”

As Jay walked to the lobby, he watched departing tourists comply with stringent security. They removed their shoes and sent their bags through X-ray machines. When a dog took interest in their luggage, security searched it for crickets and centipedes.

One dog was distracted by Jay. Its leader tugged its leash, but the dog wouldn’t look away. Its leader called another security-guard and pointed at Jay. Jay meekly smiled at them. The two security-guards brought the dog near. “Would you remove your backpack?”

Jay did. The dog sniffed the zippers and put a paw on the outermost pocket. “Would you open it, sir?”

Jay did. Before the security-guards could inspect the contents, the dog bit the corner of a white envelope and dragged it out. “Woof,” it said proudly.

One guard took the envelope. “What’s in here?”

“A friend’s holiday-card.”

“Is that all?”

“I’ll open it for you,” said Jay. The guard returned the envelope and Jay tore it open. Inside was a holiday-card featuring a snow-white fox traipsing through a winter wood, and a bug-stick. It was an exquisite specimen hand-grown by Faith with wings hand-wrapped by Dan. Jay was sorry to give it up. “I apologize. I had no idea.”

The security guards hee-hawed and slapped their knees. “Keep it,” said one. “You’re the first person to ever smuggle a cricket into Sheridan. It confused our dog.”

The other guard scratched the dog behind the ears. “Good girl,” he said. “You caught him.”

Jay stashed the bug-stick in the envelope. “Do you get lots of smugglers?”

While one guard led the dog away, the other considered the question. “Crickets are only legal in Sheridan and Amsterdam, but they grow in most conditions. There’s no need to smuggle—people grow their own. But some people forget bug-sticks in their luggage, so we confiscate them to avoid international incident. Centipedes are illegal everywhere, and they only grow near the peak of the main island of Sheridan. Anyone with a centipede in their luggage is a smuggler, and a devoted one. We catch at least one a month, but we worry some slip through.”

The lobby contained a kiosk with a map of Sheridan’s three islands. The man in the kiosk was about thirty years old and rail-thin, but his face was littered with laugh-lines. His skin was copper-colored and his oily black hair was shoulder-length. His eager grin invited Jay’s approach. “Hi. I reserved a spot on the bird-watching tour taking off today, under Diaz-Jackson?”

“Jadie Jackson! Oran dora! The Biggest Bird shakes hands with you!” The man leaned over the desk to hold Jay’s hands as if consoling him on the loss of a loved one. “My name is Michael. I’ll be your guide.”

“Jadie?” Jay let Michael shake his hands. “Maybe you just heard my initials, like J. D. Jackson?”

“Take this.” Michael gave him a phrasebook. “Most islanders outside the airport speak little English. Impress them by speaking Sheridanian.” From customs, the Chinese couple and the family of three joined Jay at the kiosk. Michael grinned and greeted each of them with a phrasebook. “Bird-watching tour? Bird-watching tour? Ah, you’re all here!” Michael vaulted the desk and led the six tourists to the exit. “Let’s lunch in my family’s restaurant. Then we ferry to the second island of Sheridan!”

Next Chapter
Commentary

Jay just sat. His mind was like the empty yellow sky. Then he stood and looked down either side of his rust-red dune. Clouds brushed daunting slopes below him. He was miles high.

Rather than descend either side of the dune, Jay ran along its crest. Each step cracked a vertebrae in the dune’s back. Sand collapsed in hot, coarse rivers. His feet sank until the current swept him away.

He fell through a cottony cloud. The sand sloped to roll him along the desert floor. He shot up an opposing dune and sailed like a skeeball.

As he spun, he counted his fingers. “One, two, three, four, five,” he counted on his left hand. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen—” He was asleep. He was dreaming. He could fly like the Heart of the Mountain, that steam-powered bird.

The dunes grew into great sand-walls but he blasted above them. Below, the sky melted into golden honey and poured around the red mountain like heavenly syrup. Jay smeared the sunset thin like a masseuse oiling a back. Soon the dunes were dark with night.

Jay opened his eyes. His head rest on the window of an airplane bound for New Zealand. Outside, the sky was black and starry; most of the passengers slept. Jay shook his limbs awake as best he could in his cramped seat. It would be morning when he arrived in Sheridan.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh? Me neither.”

Jay tried to smile at the man on his right. He wore a loud red Hawaiian shirt frumpishly buttoned all the way to his neck, which was equally red. He wore dark sunglasses even at night on an airplane.

“Yeah, it’s hard sleeping on a plane,” the man went on. “Way too noisy, am I right?”

“I was actually asleep for a while.” Jay counted his fingers. “Now I’m awake.” He unzipped his backpack and opened a bag of chips from Chile. “Breakfast?”

The man ate a fistful of chips. “Going to New Zealand?”

“I’m hopping off when we refuel.” Jay ate one chip at a time. “Sheridan.”

“Ah. Me too. The ol’ ball-and-chain Eva drags me and her kid back every year to look at birds.” He jerked his thumb at his wife and her daughter across the aisle. “Chicks, am I right?” He sighed. “How about you? What’re you here for?”

“I’m not a bird-watcher,” said Jay. “I’m a people-watcher. I hope to photograph religious activities on the islands.”

“Religious, huh?” He pronounced the word with a smug smile. “I see how it is.”

“I’m not religious per se,” said Jay. “I’m curious how Sheridanian religion interacts with psychoactive bugs.”

“Yeah?” The man leaned close. “Now you sound like my kinda guy.”

Jay turned to the window and crossed his arms.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t tell me anything I shouldn’t know!” The man laughed. “Guys like us gotta stick together, am I right?”

Jay didn’t ask what he meant. “Do you like anime?”

“Huh?”

Each seat’s headrest held a screen for canned TV including a surprising selection of anime. “I’m impressed. They’ve got LuLu’s Space-Time Acceleration.” Before the man could interject, Jay donned headphones and hummed the opening theme.

---

“It’s a big one,” thought Nakayama to the Galaxy Zephyr’s Hurricane Armor. She sailed through the yellow desert sky on a column of steam toward the Zephyr summoned by the Chain. The Zephyr drifted with a hundred clumsy wings. Nakayama’s blue tentacles ensnared it and slung it through the sky toward the red mountain.

The mountain’s summit crumbled into a caldera which caught the Zephyr and dragged it into the deep.

ZAP’s bird-pilot saluted with its right wing. “Commander Lucille, the new Zephyr is entering our armor!”

“About time!” Lucille glared defiantly at the Enemy Hurricane enclosing them all like a bubble. “Will our controls be more responsive, having another pilot?”

“Many more pilots, depending on how you count them. To be fair, much of the data in our new Zephyr represents bacteria, arthropods, and reptiles, but I estimate 54% of humanity’s variation can be expressed as linear-combinations of the minds merged with our Hurricane Armor. In this sense, our armor has billions of pilots.”

“They’d better be self-starters, ’cause I’m not gonna micromanage them!” Lucille watched white light flow from the green Wheel into the Galaxy Zephyr’s purple flesh. “Is that them?”

“Hai.” As the light flooded the Galaxy Zephyr, Lucille’s ten thousand pilots gasped. Lucille didn’t know why they gasped until the white light reached her in ZAB: it carried warmth which bathed her like a hot-spring. The purple flesh relaxed to subdued silvery blue.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” said Lucille. “We’re still in trouble.” The Enemy Hurricane’s bubble contracted. As their prison shrank, its walls thickened. “Charlie, Daisuke, Eisu, Fumiko, report!”

When Daisuke pressed buttons, the Galaxy Zephyr’s left hand twitched almost instantly. “Significant improvement to extremity responsiveness,” said Daisuke. The twins concurred, wiggling the Galaxy Zephyr’s toes.

Charlie blinked his eye in the harsh white light. Sweat soaked his eye-patch. “The new guy’s a little bright. It’s a sauna in here! Can we turn them down a tad?” Thousands of Lucille’s pilots signaled agreement with Charlie on their touchscreen monitors.

“Jya, bird-thing,” said Lucille, “does our new Zephyr have a thermostat?”

The bird-pilot typed on ZAP’s control-panel. “I have just the idea.”

White light collected on either side of the Galaxy Zephyr’s spine. With a blare of Gnostic archons’ trumpets, sixteen white wings erupted, each longer than the Galaxy Zephyr was tall. Every feather was a jet-engine. The warmth subsided.

Lucille snickered. “Not a bad look.” She flipped her hair back and the Galaxy Zephyr grew a silvery blue ponytail like that of her late mother, Princess Lucia. “Charlie, Daisuke, Eisu, Fumiko, each of your teams will take the four nearest wings. Learn your controls.”

Eisu directed the flapping of wings from right glute to mid-back. “How will this help us, exactly?”

Daisuke bade the wings from mid-back to left shoulder to bend in sequence. “We’re still not large enough to cut out of this bubble.”

“We don’t need to be large,” said Lucille. “We’ve got sixteen wings made entirely of jet-turbines. We’re surely fast enough to slice right through!”

“I hope you’re right,” said Charlie. The Enemy Hurricane closed in around them. Its red surface taunted them with jeering eyes and mouths and tentacles. “On your order, Commander!”

“Go! No turning back!”

The Galaxy Zephyr fired all cylinders. The new wings swiftly accelerated them. They raised the Wheel and flew for the ceiling of their confinement.

Tentacles had no time to react before the Wheel sliced them and dug into the Enemy Hurricane’s flesh. The Galaxy Zephyr dove into the wound to cut deeper and deeper.

The wound bled giant teeth all around them. “What the hell!” shouted Charlie. The teeth crunched each other into sharp shards which shanked the Galaxy Zephyr’s Hurricane Armor. “Aaaugh, that noise!” He piloted with his pedals, freeing his hands to cover his ears. “These teeth!”

In his wheelchair, Daisuke couldn’t pilot with his pedals. Instead he committed his four wings to shielding the Galaxy Zephyr from teeth, and the noise abated. “Eisu, Fumiko, daijoubu?”

“No teeth down here!” said Fumiko. She redirected spare power from Daisuke’s wings to her own. Eisu did the same as Charlie moved his wings into protective position. “Maximum thrust!”

“Ora!” Lucille ignored the teeth cracking all around. “We’ve almost bust out!”

“I doubt it,” ZAB said to Lucille on a private audio-channel. “There’s no telling how thick—”

“Ora ora!” Lucille ignored her robotic partner. “Just a little more!”

The Enemy Hurricane squealed and shrieked at the penetrating pain. When it grasped with tentacles, the Galaxy Zephyr’s legs were free to kick them away because the wings took the role of propulsion.

After inexpressible duration, the Galaxy Zephyr burst through the bubble. “Oraaaugh!” They pulled tooth-shards from their armor and let the wounds flood with gold.

Behind them, the Enemy Hurricane’s bubble deflated. The fistula they’d burst through flooded with teeth and shouted like an awful maw, audible through space-vacuum because of steam from the Galaxy Zephyr’s wings. “Look at the anguish you’re causing me! Can’t you see that I’m human, as much or moreso than you are?”

“Pfa!” Lucille beamed so broadly that Daisuke worried blood would drip from the corners of her smile. “Don’t fish for sympathy! The only human who could possibly pity you was my mother, Earth’s shining princess, but she died protecting us from you!” At the mention of Princess Lucia, all ten thousand pilots of the Galaxy Zephyr regained their grit from the grueling task of burrowing through the bubble. “You discarded your chance for salvation!”

“Aaaugh!” The Enemy Hurricane contracted into a blob. “Then I’ll dash your hopes as well!”

Thunderbolts cracked from the Enemy Hurricane. The Galaxy Zephyr was too close to dodge them. Lightning struck the Wheel, which warped.

Next Section
Commentary

After the ordeal with centipede, Jay felt compelled to visit home. He sat at the dinner-table of his parents’ Los Angeles abode. His mother Camilla stirred two mugs of tea. “How is Faith feeling nowadays?”

“Remember when our cat Django died? Faith bawled like a baby,” said Jay. “But since Beatrice’s death, she’s just been quiet. I don’t think she even leaves the house anymore.”

“Oh, poor thing.” Camilla pat Jay’s hand. “Is someone looking after her?”

“Dan brings her groceries. I’m glad they’re sticking together. Beatrice’s death hit them both pretty hard.” Jay had been affected too, of course, but his mother looked sad enough already. Jay sipped his tea. “Have I told you I want to go to Sheridan?”

“Sheridan? The bug-islands?”

“Yep, the bug-islands. I want to take photos of monks,” said Jay. “Has Dad ever been to Sheridan?”

“Not if he could help it,” said Camilla. “Ethen had a bad experience with centipede when he was about your age.”

“Really?” Jay pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket and flipped to the first fresh page. “Do you know what happened, exactly?”

“No, but maybe he’ll tell you when he calls tonight.”

The phone rang. Jay laughed. “That sounds like him.”

“Gosh, he’s calling early.” Camilla took the phone from the hook. “Ethen, Dear, how’s New Delhi?” Jay heard his father’s boisterous voice. Camilla smiled and coiled the landline around her fingers. “Your son is home, would you like to speak to him?” She passed the phone to Jay.

“Dad! Mom says you’re calling early. Did you forget India has half-hour time-zones?”

Ethen chuckled. “I guess I did. Jay, how are you?”

“I’m considering a trip to the Islands of Sheridan. Have you ever been?”

The phone was silent for a moment. “I have, once. It was a refueling-stop on a discount flight from Chile to New Zealand. I didn’t get off the plane.”

“Could you help me find a flight like that? I want to photo-catalog Sheridanian religious-practices.”

“Oh.” Ethen licked his teeth. “You know, those are the islands where crickets and centipedes come from.”

“I know, Dad.”

“You smoke bug-sticks, and that’s alright. I got bug-eyed at your age. But don’t mess with centipedes, okay?”

Jay prepared his pen. “Mom said you’ve had a bad experience with centipede. Could you tell me about it?”

“Hmmm.” Ethan moved the phone to his other ear. “Well, in my late twenties, I attended a conference in Thailand. At a night-market some colleagues bought centipede-powder, which was even rarer then than it is now. I’d never heard of the stuff, but my colleagues said it was like cricket, so I tried it. It felt like… Well… It felt like searing knives slicing every inch of my skin.”

“Wow.”

“I felt buried alive, and I had to dig deeper so the knives would stop hurting me,” he said. “The deeper I dug, the less I remembered. Just before I slipped away, I woke up alone in a Bangkok alleyway with no wallet, watch, or passport.”

Jay penned the quote as quickly as his father spoke. “Gotcha. I’ll stick to bug-sticks.”

---

Reviewing his plane-tickets, Jay knew he’d be sitting for most of the next two days. He’d fly from LA to a layover in Chile, then disembark a plane bound for New Zealand as it refueled in Sheridan. He’d take a bird-watching tour of the islands, then catch a plane refueling in Sheridan for its return to Chile. After another layover, he’d fly back to LA.

The morning was cold, so he blew fog to warm his hands. He’d woken at 4 AM to wait outside his apartment for Dan. Dan’s sleep schedule had inverted since Beatrice’s death, and he seemed eager for excuses to leave his apartment, so Jay had decided asking for a 4:30 ride to the airport was a kindness.

Jay mentally reviewed the contents of his backpack. Clothes, traveling toiletries, and medications. His passport, ID, and a book for the plane. Camera, notepad, and pens. Portable chargers, fully charged. A healthy supply of American currency. He nodded and sighed fog.

His phone vibrated. A text from Dan: ‘I’m not coming. Faith should be there soon.’

Jay typed with his thumb. ‘Everything alright?’

‘Faith wanted to say bye before you left,’ texted Dan. ‘I sent her in my car.’

Sure enough, an orange VW-bug rolled around the corner. Faith parked next to Jay and gave him a tired smile under dark eyes. Jay texted Dan as he sat shotgun: ‘Thank you.’

“JayJay! How have you been?”

“It’s good to see you, Faith.” Jay buckled up and Faith pulled away from the curb.

“Are you excited for Sheridan?”

“Absolutely,” said Jay. “I’ll show you the photos I take. It’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“Gonna get more centipede?”

“Eeeugh. No thanks.” Jay laughed. “Hey, when we were hallucinating, did it seem at all like that anime we watched once? LuLu’s? For some reason it reminded me of that.”

“You’re such a dweeb,” laughed Faith. She ramped onto the highway. Come rush-hour, the traffic would weave into a thick jam, but now the streets were empty. “How long is the flight?”

“Forty hours both ways. A direct flight would barely be twelve.”

“Bummer.”

Jay opened his backpack to check if anything had escaped. “So… how’s Dan holding up, do you think?”

“He’s… Well, he’s inconsolable, but so was I, for a while.” Faith rubbed her eyes. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“We’re making great time,” said Jay. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No prob, JayJay.” Faith gently curved along the highway. “Hey, do you need… um… hygiene products? I’ve got extras in my purse.”

“Ha.” Jay smiled. “Not since I started taking testosterone.”

“Oh, okay.” She smiled with him. “Just trying to help.” The morning sun beamed through an airport parking-structure. Faith took the next exit. “You know, stuck inside all day, I’ve had a lot of practice painting.”

“Yeah?”

“A company wants to print holiday-cards with my foxes on them.”

“Faith! That’s great!” Jay zipped up his backpack and unbuckled his seat-belt as she parked. “I’d better get one for Christmas.”

“Why wait?” Faith popped the glove-box and fished for a white envelope. She handed it to Jay. “I sketched on the inside. Now you’ve got a Featherway original!”

“Thank you, Faith! This means a lot to me. I’ll open it on the plane, okay?”

Faith bit her lip. “Wait until after customs.”

Next Section
Commentary

Three islands are the sole inhabitants of the area known as Nemo. Stranded between New Zealand, Chile, and Antarctica, the Islands of Sheridan are at least a thousand miles from foreign shore in every direction.

The Biggest Bird made the Islands of Sheridan as her paradise on Earth. She taught the first man, Nemo, what to eat, and what not to eat, and bore him sons and daughters from an egg. She declared Nemo the first Virgil Blue, leader of the Sheridanian congregation, and ever since, the title has passed from generation to generation. Lesser Virgils guide students’ understanding of the Blue Virgil’s sacred truth.

After leaving her islands, the Biggest Bird erected the rest of the Earth. Thusly, the Bird’s influence is seen in philosophies the world over. Virgil Blue’s monastery on the main island houses a library of texts from every earthly area and every time-period, annotated to outline featherprints from the Biggest Bird’s act of creation. Her wisdom is found in fiction and nonfiction. In physics and magic. In sand and sky. There are no coincidences.

Doesn’t that sound familiar, Jay?

---

Jay squinted at the text.

---

Today the Biggest Bird resides on her Mountain in the next eternity. It is therefore speculated that elevation marked her seal of approval when she made the Earth. Foothills grew beneath her flight-path and mountains sprouted where she deigned to land. This brands Sheridan as the holiest area on Earth: the main island extends from the seafloor to a permanent cap of clouds. Including its height beneath the ocean, it is the tallest mountain on Earth.

The Islands of Sheridan bear a population of sparse thousands, mostly ancestors of the egg-born. More than half devote years of their lives to monasticism. Virgil Blue’s monastery is home to hundreds of students and a circle of lesser Virgils. Satellite-groups exhibit unique and varied practices like masked dancing festivals, deity-visualization exercises, and religious agriculture. Only three commandments assert themselves across all islanders:

Never consume centipede except when prepared by Virgil Blue.

Never harm or photograph birds.

Never climb above the permanent cloud-cover. Sheridan’s peak is always obscured. It must remain so.

Jay Diaz-Jackson, remember these rules when you journey to Sheridan. We expect you shortly.

---

Jay closed the pamphlet and examined the fist-sized fledglings on its front. They looked somehow familiar. He covered half a fledgling’s face with his thumb. More familiar by the moment. “Dan, have you seen birds like this before?”

He’d forgotten Dan had gone. He was still in the bathroom, quietly sobbing for some reason.

Jay turned to the next page. On the left side, hand-drawn crickets budded from soil just like in Faith’s cardboard-box. On the right side, the largest of three islands was crowned with clouds. He read:

---

Tourists to the islands generally belong to one of two categories: those interested in bird-watching (but not bird-photography, we emphasize) and those whose international flights require refueling on our runway and who decide to stretch their legs in our airport. Both categories are impressed by the bounty of the Biggest Bird, including fresh air, breathtaking vistas, and tasteful gift-shops. We encourage you to visit our islands and discover your connection to the Mountain in the next eternity.

That means you, Jay. You must find the Mountain within you.

---

“Within you, within you.” Jay swore the crickets in Faith’s cardboard-box were chirping like chimes in the wind as their wings rubbed together. “Within you, within you.”

“Faith?” Jay shook her shoulder. “Faith, can you read this?”

Faith released the couch-cushion and stared blankly at the pamphlet. “Read what, JayJay?”

He pointed to a line accosting him by name. “This right here?”

“Of course I can’t.” Faith cuddled the cushion again and rolled into the couch’s corner. “I can’t read Chinese.”

“No, not the Chinese, the—” Jay tried rereading the offending statement. Symbols flickered between languages. “Oh my God. I’ve got to go to Sheridan.”

“What?” Faith rose from her stupor to pin Jay against the opposite armrest. She wrestled the pamphlet from him. “JayJay, you can’t go to Sheridan!”

“Look, it says right here that there are no coincidences! If it’s commanding me to go to Sheridan, it’s commanding me to go to Sheridan! If it’s not, I misread it as a command to go to Sheridan! It can’t be a coincidence! It says so!”

Faith tried to unwrap his logic as she twisted to restrict Jay’s movement. “But JayJay, it’s so far away!”

“I’ll take a boat, or a plane!”

“But you’ll be gone so long!”

“Come with me!”

“I can’t!” Faith released Jay from her grapple. “BeatBax would never let me go to the Cricket-Centipede Islands! Just stay in LA and smoke with us!”

“No! I’ve got to find the Mountain within me!” Jay now struggled to find his name in the text. “Listen to your box of crickets, they’re singing it!”

The sound of their conversation drew Dan from the bathroom. His gaunt stride silenced them. They made room on the couch for Dan to faint between them, red-faced and wet-cheeked. His mouth opened as if to speak but he produced no words. Finally he shook his head and asked, “Can you read?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jay. “I must go to Sheridan.”

“Okay, you’re still bug-eyed,” said Dan. “Faith?”

“Gorgeous,” she cooed to the fledglings on the pamphlet’s front. “Look at these beautiful birds!”

“Just about back to normal,” said Dan. “Both of you should eat. That’ll help you come down.” He slowly stood and carried the cupcake from the coffee-table to the kitchenette to cut. “Happy birthday, Jay.”

“Happy birthday, Dan.”

“Dainty! Cut it into fourths,” said Faith. “Then you and BeatBax can share with us, and we’ll all sing!”

“I… I’m sorry.” Dan cut the cupcake into thirds. “I need to tell you something.”

Next Section
Commentary

Faith’s steam flew faster than Jay could clamber. Soon Jay lost sight of her, but he continued to trudge up the slopes.

The red mountain’s last digestive quakes forced Jay to drop flat and cling to the ground. He wondered if these rumbles were the winged Zephyr adjusting to its subterranean tomb.

Why did he fear falling? When his knees broke, they righted themselves—but the sound of snapping tendons and the sight of inverted kneecaps had rattled him regardless. Even the mere thought of his great height made him feel teeth take root in his throat.

Then the red mountain was immobile. In the stillness, Jay appreciated the sky. Its mustard tone had melted to honey-gold as he climbed. The sun wore a blue halo which burned orange and red as it set, escorting twin moons below the horizon. Purple night blanketed the desert and the sky’s honeyed heights turned mud-colored, sprouting stars. Jay thanked those lucky stars as the air cooled and he knew he wouldn’t bake to death.

He counted his fingers. “One, two three, four, five,” he counted on his left hand. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” he counted on his right. “I’m not dreaming. I’m awake right now.”

He stood and resolved to follow Faith. He’d already surpassed the steepest slopes, so now each footstep rose easier than the last. His feet cracked thin frost on the red mountain’s summit.

He jogged so effortlessly each leap threatened to throw him into orbit. Since he wasn’t dreaming, he knew he must be escaping the planet’s gravity. He was high enough. He relaxed on the mountainside.

Above him, the muddy sky burned royal indigo. Stars drifted so quickly that Jay saw the ebb and flow of galactic clouds. These cosmic eddies outlined a figure against the black background of space. This grand human shape crossed muscular arms over its chest.

Jay looked up from the robot his T-shirt. He hadn’t moved an inch since smoking centipede.

Dan had left his apartment. Faith had slumped into Beatrice’s vacant space on the couch. Jay stared at the birthday-cupcake until he could speak. “Faith. Hey, Faith.”

Faith wriggled against the left armrest. “Beatrice.”

“No, it’s me. Jay.” He rubbed his stiff neck. “Are you awake? Can you see me?”

She buried her face in the couch. “I’m flying through time.”

“My centipede had more space in it than time,” said Jay, “but I’m back, here and now. Did Dan and Beatrice leave somewhere?”

“BeatBax?” Faith snuggled a cushion. “Beatrice…”

Jay gave up. His throat was too raw to carry a one-sided conversation. He reached—with considerable effort—for the glasses of orange-juice to drink their last drops. The citrus only tickled his esophagus.

The apartment-door opened. Dan entered pale, shaking, and teary-eyed. He leaned on the kitchenette counter and yelped when he saw Jay was cognizant. “You’re awake!”

“I think?” Jay counted his fingers. “Yes.”

Dan closed the kitchenette window-blinds. He doubled over the sink like he would vomit.

“Do you have more orange-juice?” asked Jay. “My throat itches.”

Dan brought the gallon of orange-juice from the refrigerator. He unscrewed the cap and spilled juice on the coffee-table. Jay took the gallon and drank directly from its mouth. Dan squeamishly wiped the spill with paper-towels.

“Aaah!” Jay finished chugging. “I left half for Faith. Did Beatrice take off early?”

“Um.” Dan covered his face. “Yes.”

“Faith misses her already,” said Jay. She hugged cushions to her chest. Dan sobbed. When he wiped his tears, Jay swore his nose slid away. “Dan, you’re melting.”

“You’re still hallucinating.”

Jay counted his fingers. He had ten, but they lengthened and shortened with sickening sensation. “No… My hands, my hands are changing.”

“You’re hallucinating. I promise.” Dan sat on the couch’s right armrest and collected his breath. “Jay, I think I need to be alone for a minute.”

“Take your nose.” Jay passed him the orange-juice cap.

Dan humored him and traded the cap for Faith’s red card-stock pamphlet. “When you can read, you’re done hallucinating. Have Faith try, too.” With that, Dan limped to the bathroom as if internally wounded.

Jay squinted until he understood that the cover of the pamphlet depicted a bird sheltering fledglings with its wings. He tried reading the pamphlet’s title, but the cursive refused to cooperate. He opened the pamphlet hoping for more legible typography.

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