Because Beatrice died so recently, and the lightning cremated Faith so thoroughly, their funerals were held together. Their urns were arranged on a lawn by a lazy river. Beatrice’s urn was creamy and marbled, while Faith’s was matte white. Jay didn’t recognize half the mourners. He knew Faith’s uncle by his tinfoil fedora, and he heard Dan sobbing, but everyone else was just more friends and family.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jay said to Uncle Featherway.

“You’re Faith’s friend, right? Do you know what happens when you die?”

“Um.” Jay looked at the urns. “What do you think?”

“Aliens made humans to mine gold,” said Uncle Featherway. “When we die, we’re reincarnated to keep mining. At the end of time, the aliens will collect our gold, and everyone loyal to them will board their spaceship.”

“Wow,” said Jay. “Does the tinfoil keep aliens from reincarnating you?”

“The tinfoil is for different aliens,” said Uncle Featherway. “The mind-readers have battled the gold-miners for eons.”

“I see,” said Jay. “Faith told me you attended a lecture at Sheridan Cliff-Side College. Before you leave for Wyoming, could I interview you regarding Virgil Blue?”

“Sure,” said Uncle Featherway. “Blue didn’t say anything, though,”

“I want your impression anyway. When are you free?”

“After the funeral I’ll be waiting for my train in the sports-bar across the street. Hey, is that your friend over there? He’s pretty beaten up.”

“Oh. Excuse me.” Jay walked to Dan and pat his shoulder. “Dan, have you eaten today?”

Dan absorbed his tears with his black gloves. “I haven’t eaten since Faith died.”

“Let’s try eating, then. I’ll pay.”

Dan turned to the urns. The urns were framed by the river, which Jay thought was a fitting metaphor for impermanence. Dan concentrated on the scene like he wanted to freeze it forever in his memory. Finally they left the funeral. “Where should we go?”

“There’s a sports-bar across the street,” said Jay. “It’ll have the essentials.”

Dan declined to order. Jay ordered only water and bought Dan a tuna-sandwich. Dan picked crumbs from the bread until he built enough momentum to take a bite. Soon Dan discovered he was ravenous and finished the sandwich, so Jay bought him another.

“Thanks,” said Dan. “Jay, you’ve put up with me for a decade. Just… thanks.”

“Knowing you has been a pleasure,” said Jay. “I know Beatrice and Faith would say the same.”

“Really? I killed them.” Dan chewed his second sandwich. Jay didn’t know what to say. “Both of them are dead because of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, I’m…” Dan put down the sandwich. “Can I order a drink?”

“Did you drive here?”

“I walked.” Jay ordered Dan a pint of stout. The pint was thick like mud, but its head was white cream. “Beatrice left the centipede-party because of me.” Dan drank half the pint the moment it was put before him. “I made her shake my hand and she couldn’t stand me anymore. She pretended she was called by the hospital and left in such a hurry she didn’t see the bus.”

“Dan, even if that were true, it wouldn’t be your fault.”

“And that’s assuming she didn’t throw herself under the bus to get away from me for good.”

“I can’t imagine she did.”

“And Faith—oh, poor Faith—”

“Faith was struck by lightning, Dan. That’s no one’s fault.”

“I looked so pitiful she offered to get breakfast,” said Dan. “I basically stabbed her in the back.”

“That’s wrong.”

Dan finished his pint and ordered another. He finished his sandwich while he waited for the drink. “I killed my dad, too.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, but I’m listening.”

Dan sipped the stout. “My parents were divorced, so I only saw my dad for a few hours a year at his university. Each year, he gave me a book. Before senior-year of high-school, my mom dropped me off in the campus courtyard and I climbed the stairs to his office. He asked how I enjoyed Dante’s Inferno, and I said it was the best book he ever gave me.

“So he gave me the Purgatorio and the Paradiso. I was taken aback; he’d never given me two books at once. Seeing my expression, he asked if I had any questions.

“I asked, ‘What happens to Dante’s guide, Virgil? I hope he was only put in Hell to lead Dante to God, and he’ll be admitted into Heaven for his service.’

“And he said, ‘I’m afraid the Virtuous Pagans are in Hell forever, but on the outer rim, their only punishment is distance from God’s light, which they never even knew in life. So they’re free! Wouldn’t you rather spend eternity with those rejected scholars than the stuck-up prudes in Heaven?’

“So I—” Dan interrupted himself by ordering another stout. The bartender topped off Jay’s water. “I asked him for more book-recommendations. Suddenly his face went pale and his hands shook, and he apologized for being absent most of my childhood, and for only interacting with me through academic literary discussions. I said that was okay, because it got me great grades in English, and I wanted to study religion in college.

“But he said there was so much more to life than reading books professors gave me. So I asked for books I wouldn’t see as a Religious-Studies major. If there was more to life, show me.

“He said, ‘Let me give you the essentials.’ He started with sci-fi. ‘This one’s based on Dante’s Inferno. It’ll make you look at religious texts in a new light. See, literature is written by people, and anyone can write anything. Fundamentally there’s no difference in legitimacy between this sci-fi novel based on Dante’s Inferno, the real Inferno, the bible, or the koran.’

” ‘Then how do you know what to believe?’

” ‘There’s no such thing as believing. Consciousness is neurological background radiation from which reality bubbles like particles and antiparticles.’ He passed me a physics textbook. ‘Everyone has a worldview implied by the alignment of their synapses. We mentally test hypotheses in this mental theater, making us reject some stimuli while seeking others.’

“He produced a thick tome. ‘Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid. Logic is no escape from the epistemological problems innate to the human condition. Rather, the infeasibility of complete and consistent logic points directly to the ultimate truth: the self is an illusion, arising from nothing and returning to nothing when it’s done.’

“He kept piling books in my arms. ‘Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung. You’ll see them as a Religious-Studies major, but they’re worth reading early. There’s a heartbeat behind humanity. The only permanent station is unity with the Universal Conceptualization of All Things. Says Krishna to Arjuna in the Bhagavad-Gita, ‘The body, the ego, the senses, the vital forces, and the indwelling monitor of the Ultimate Consciousness: whatever action a being performs, proper or improper, these five factors are its cause… Being one with the Ultimate Truth, joyous within the self, neither lamenting nor craving, equipoised to all things, one achieves transcendental devotion to me.’

” ‘Oh, and one more.’ He gave me the last book on the shelf. ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.’ ”

“While I struggled to fit the books in my backpack, my dad looked over the courtyard. ‘Dan, before you read the Purgatorio, you should know Dante’s Virgil is more tragic than you realize. His Aeneid saved a soul from Hell, yet Virgil is still barred from Heaven. In justifying Alighieri’s Almighty, I can only suggest that transporting souls to salvation would be more pleasurable to Virgil than Heaven. To grease cosmic mechanisms would be Virgil’s utilitarian delight. Every aspect of Hell is necessary to maintain Dante’s divine scheme, even the woods of suicides. So thank you for visiting me, because teaching you is the only resolution I could hope for. I know I’ve given you the tools to recover from what I’m about to do.’

“Then he stepped out the window. His body broke branches and he splattered on the ground. He died on the way to the hospital.”

“Oh. Wow.” Jay ordered Dan another tuna-sandwich and another pint. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” lied Dan. He downed the stout.

“You didn’t kill him, though.”

“Recommending books was the only thing keeping him alive. I sucked that from him like a vampire.”

“You were the best aspect of life for someone obviously struggling.”

Dan bit his sandwich, but suddenly lost his appetite. “Anyway, you can see why school was difficult that year. The worst was in late May, when…”

Next Section
Commentary

Dan bit his nails while pacing in the airport lobby. Each time he turned, he checked the schedule on the opposite wall. Jay’s flight filtered to the top as his plane approached.

“How much longer, Dainty?” Faith stretched across four seats, threading herself under three armrests. “Why’d we come so early?”

“He’ll be here soon.” Dan scanned the misty morning sky for the shape of an airplane. The landing-strips were frosted and dewy. “I wanted to beat traffic.”

“It’ll be rush-hour on the way back,” said Faith. “Maybe I should drive us home so you don’t have to worry.”

“I can drive us home.”

“Are you sure?” Faith now crawled over the armrests. She wore a heavy white sweater, since the clouds looked like rain. “You bite your fingertips when you’re anxious, Dainty. If you have to drive in traffic, you’ll bleed on the steering-wheel.”

Dan resisted putting a finger in his mouth. “I’m not anxious about traffic.”

“Oh.” Faith collected herself in one seat. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands in her sweater’s pocket. “I miss Beatrice too, Dan. She was my girlfriend. It’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Before he could stop himself, Dan found his index-finger between his lips.

“Well, can I get you something to eat? Maybe breakfast?”

Dan checked restaurants down the corridor. “Nothing here appeals to me.”

“Chips? Gum?”

“No, no.” Dan sighed and looked over the streets of Burbank. “A cinnamon-bun sounds good.”

“Oh? Where are they? I’ll buy three so you, JayJay, and I can share.”

Dan pointed out the window. Across the street, a diner advertised cinnamon-buns dripping with icing. “Let me give you some cash.”

“Don’t worry, they’re on me!” Faith pranced to the escalators. “If JayJay gets back before I do, tell him I missed him, okay?”

As soon as she left, Dan bit a fingernail. He tore more than the white crescent. The skin under the lost nail was magenta. Dan rubbed it to salt the wound.

If Faith saw the nail, she’d throw a fit. Well, no, but she’d coo sympathetically, and that was worse. Dan jogged to an airport convenience-store and bought black gloves. He didn’t wear them right away—he sat near Jay’s terminal and ate all the skin around his nails. When Jay’s plane broke through the clouds, Dan donned the gloves to hide his hands.

Jay was among the first to disembark. Dan waved. “Jay! Jay!”

“Dan! Oran dora!”

“How was the flight?”

“I survived.” The two hugged. “Is Faith here?”

“She’s buying breakfast. She told me to say she missed you. Did you get good pictures?”

Jay showed Dan his camera’s screen. “Look: these masked dancers lead to this circle of monks. They walk, they chant—it’s like the Kaaba, but there’s a bird in the middle. That’s why my framing is wonky: there are giant birds everywhere, and Sheridanians are emphatic about not photographing them. Here, this statue is actual-size, maybe even a little small.”

“Whoa.” Dan compared the bird-statue to pines in the background. “They must be eight feet tall.”

“Yep. The statue represents the Biggest Bird, a local folk hero. It’s not coddling a toddler, that’s supposed to be a grown man. It’s just not-to-scale.” Jay skipped to a photo of Virgil Jango Skyy. “I’ve never seen anything like Sheridan. You’ve got to go, Dan. You know more about religion than I do.”

Dan tried to press camera-buttons, but his black gloves were too bulky. “Maybe I can write my thesis on Sheridan. I’ll run it by my adviser.”

“Here, I got you a souvenir.” Jay gave him the orange plush fledgling. “I got one for Faith, too, and I bought seashells, but they’re being shipped. Where’s she buying breakfast?”

“She’s bringing buns from across the street.” Dan led Jay to the window overlooking the diner. “There she is.”

“She looks happy,” said Jay. Faith bounced on her toes waiting at the crosswalk with a bag of buns. “How about you, Dan? Are you feeling okay?”

“Oh, you know.” Dan sucked a gloved finger. “Not great.”

As Faith crossed the street, she saw Dan and Jay at the window and waved at them. “Hey! JayJay!” A speeding bus ran the red light and almost hit her head-on. Faith leapt to safety with a yelp. When her adrenaline wore off, she laughed and finished crossing the street.

Then she was struck by lightning. She left only a scorch on the sidewalk.

Next Section
Commentary

Jay penned Jango’s story in his notepad. Jango sniffed smoke from the brass burner before concluding: “Faith and Jango finished the cricket while walking to the monastery. ‘I think I’ve watched your brother’s anime,’ said Faith, ‘but I’m kinda hung up on the timeline here.’

” ‘The Mountain sent you from the next eternity to the mortal plane,’ said Jango. ‘The concept of causality collapsed when you crossed.’ Jango climbed a rocky ledge. Faith leapt it like she was weightless. ‘Clearly our meeting in Wyoming has not yet occurred. Where do we find each other?’

” ‘Sheridan.’

” ‘I suppose my pilgrimage is predestined by the Mountain,’ said Jango. ‘I’ll bring you a bug-stick. I owe you.’

” ‘Centipede too, please,’ said Faith. ‘My friend and I had lots of fun with it. But powdered! I think we’d be creeped out by all the legs.’ Steam started rising from her tail. ‘Uh oh. I’m evaporating. How embarrassing.’

” ‘You’re returning to the Mountain,’ said Jango. The fox watched her snow-torso bubble and pop. ‘Oran dora, Faith Featherway.’

” ‘I was only here like twenty minutes,’ said Faith. ‘This sucks.’

“As quickly as she’d appeared, Faith disintegrated into mist.” Virgil Jango Skyy smiled at Jay. “Consider this story, students. I hope you sleep soundly.”

---

After the sermon, Jango led Jay to the door. “Jay, we would love to let you spend the night.”

“I appreciate the offer, but my tour leaves in the morning.” Jay sloshed his lantern of oil. “Could you help me light this?”

“Of course, of course.” Jango pulled brown thread from his cane. He lit the thread on a candle and dipped the flame in Jay’s lantern to light the oily wick. “Please open this door. It’s heavy for me.”

Jay opened the door. He and Jango stepped onto flagstones flanked by fireflies. “I can’t thank you enough, Virgil Skyy. You have a beautiful monastery. Everyone will love the photos you’ve let me take.”

“One more for the road.” Jango posed with his cane and smiled. Jay crouched to capture the best views through the open doors. Virgil Blue had not moved from the courtyard.

“Does Virgil Blue need help?”

“Virgil Blue’s constitution is not what it used to be,” said Jango, “but they’re okay.”

“They’ll retire to the cloudy peak someday.” Jay checked the photo. “Right?”

“After they appoint a successor,” said Jango.

“I like the sand-dollar walls. The flickering candles make them look like eyes.”

“That’s intentional,” said Jango. “The final judgement will occur in the House of Eyes. There, the Biggest Bird will scrutinize our sins.”

“My friends Faith and Dan enjoy an anime like your little brother’s manga.” Jay scrolled through his camera’s photos. “In fact, I’ve had hallucinations a little like that anime.”

“Hallucinations come from the same place as everything else: the Biggest Bird. Her influence is seen in cultures worldwide.”

“I see. I guess it only makes sense there’d be some parallels.”

“There’s still time for questions.”

Jay thought. “Do you believe in… reincarnation?”

“Hm… When we die, we wake in the next eternity. If we make it to the Mountain, we become a Zephyr. But if you miss the Mountain, the sand eats your soul—so you’re reborn to try again.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jay. “You’re reborn when your soul is destroyed?”

“Of course,” said Jango. “Otherwise everyone would remember past lives.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Jay wrote the quote in his notepad. “Could someone be reborn, uh… alongside their previous life?”

Jango shrugged. “That’s not for me to know.”

“Do you know anything about pulled chains or spinning wheels?”

“Hey.” The old man bent his cane at him. “I’m not dropping the meaning of life in your lap. If you want the monk treatment, be a monk.”

“I see. Thank you, Virgil Skyy.” They both bowed and Jay helped Jango close the door behind him.

Before he left, Jay used his empty pastry-box to collect the shattered glass of Leo’s jar he broke. Then Jay circled the monastery to show Leo his lantern’s light. He killed time photographing nearby centipede-bushes. The bushes had more thorns than leaves, protecting their centipedes from harvest. Jay settled for the photos.

After an hour, Jay sighed and scanned the dark island. He did not see Leo’s red Hawaiian shirt. Maybe Leo had nabbed his centipedes and returned to the inn alone. Jay returned the way he came, hoping he had enough oil.

---

A night at the inn rejuvenated Jay. He ate a breakfast of coconut-meat and legumes while waiting for the others to wake. He thanked the innkeepers for loaning him the lantern and showed them photos of the monastery.

Eva sat beside Jay. “Jadie, did you see my husband last night? Henry didn’t come back to our room.”

“Oh, gosh. We met hiking to the monastery. I said I’d lead him back, but he didn’t want the help.”

“That sounds like Henry.”

“I assumed he came back without me. I’m really sorry. I hope he’s okay.”

“That makes one of us,” said Eva. Her daughter Lilly ate scrambled eggs without comment. “I’m sorry if he caused any trouble.”

“He seemed to want centipedes,” said Jay. “Maybe he’s still harvesting.”

“Typical.”

After breakfast, Michael led the tour to the river. He’d inflated inner-tubes and tied them to the bridge so they bobbed in the water. “The river will carry us to shore. Kids ride with a parent. Then we ferry to the airport. Hey, hey—we have an extra inner-tube.” Michael counted heads. “Where’s Henry?”

“I think he’s visiting the monastery,” said Eva. “He’s not answering his cellphone.”

Michael shook his head and climbed into an inner-tube. “When he decides to return to the inn, he can join whichever of my brothers is there that day.”

“Really? Could he?” Eva and Lilly shared an inner-tube. “Will Henry be imposing on them?”

“Sheridanians are always eager to help,” said Michael, “especially when the person in need is as kind and understanding as your husband.”

Jay chose an inner-tube beside Craig and Suzy. “[Zhang, Li Ying,]” he said in Mandarin, “[I’m glad to have journeyed with you.]”

“[We appreciated your company,]” said Craig.

“Oran dora,” said Suzy. “[We’re off to Easter Island next.]”

“Whee!” Lilly laughed and kicked when Michael cut her cord. Eva and Lilly floated down the river together. Then Michael cut Craig’s cord, and Suzy’s, and Jay’s, and his own, leaving Leo’s inner-tube tied to the bridge. Jay’s tube spun clockwise until it brushed the left bank and spun counterclockwise.

“I hope your husband is okay,” Suzy said to Eva. “How long have you been married?”

Eva held her daughter’s hand. “Since I was pregnant with Lilly.”

“It’s good you travel as a family,” said Craig. “Have you ever been to China?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“There are beautiful birds near a lake where we live,” said Suzy. “Maybe you could visit on your next bird-watching trip.”

“My name is Zhang,” said Craig.

“I’m Li Ying,” said Suzy. “We’d love to host you for a weekend.”

The river bumped Jay’s inner-tube against Michael’s. Michael grabbed Jay’s tube to keep them together. “Oran dora, Jadie.”

“Hi Michael. Thanks for the tour.”

“Did you deliver my letter?”

“I gave it to Virgil Jango Skyy,” said Jay. “But I wanted to ask about the bird-statue. Jango said it’s not a shrine at all, it’s the monastery’s mailbox. Did you know?”

Michael laughed. “I did, but tourists aren’t impressed by mailboxes. My brothers and I call it a shrine to get people interested. Eventually locals started burning incense and lighting candles inside, so the mailbox is always full, and contacting the monastery takes a trek. Thank you for delivering my letter.”

“Huh. No problem.”

Michael released Jay’s tube and the river carried them apart. Jay felt the water, clean and cool. Fish swam under him as he floated beneath bridges. Eventually the river became a timeless one, emptying into the infinite ocean.

Next Chapter
Commentary

Jango told Faith about returning to Kansas in his early fifties to stand on a concrete porch outside an apartment-building. Jango brushed wrinkles from his robes to clear his mind before knocking. A woman peeked through window-blinds and, seeing Jango, opened the door. “Can I help you?”

“Please, thank you. I’m looking for my brother Jun.”

“Jun doesn’t get many guests.” She led Jango down corridors. “He never mentioned a brother.”

“I haven’t come to Kansas in over a decade.”

“Your brother hasn’t left the apartment in about as long.” She stopped at a door with no room-number. “We let Jun rent the basement for cheap.”

Jango knocked, but no answer came. He opened the basement door. It smelled like an animal had lived there for years with little ventilation. “Jun?”

“Don’t turn on the lights.”

“Jun, oran dora!” Jango lifted his robes to step down the stairs. “I’m visiting from Sheridan! Why are you living in a basement?”

“To control the lights.” Jun hunched over his desk, aiming a spotlight at a pencil-sketch. He was slightly over forty-five and more than slightly overweight. “Only visiting, hm? You’re returning to Sheridan, then. Why bother coming back?”

“The Virgils taught me the importance of family.”

“And soon you’ll return to the Virgils to learn more about family.” Jun wiped eraser-crumbs onto the floor. “What a joke.”

Jango approached, but Jun didn’t turn. “You’re wounding me, brother.”

“I hope so.” Jun glanced over his shoulder. “Your hair is gone.”

“Sheridanians shave at religious sites. Most monks are always bald.”

“You’re still a monk? You’re not a Virgil yet yourself?” Jun brushed hair from his face. His mane was long and unwashed. “Mom and Dad weren’t happy when you left Kansas. Now you’re back after they’re dead, and you’re not even enlightened. How pathetic.”

“I’ve learned much from Sheridan. For many moons I danced with fledglings wearing only a bird-mask and feather-skirt. I walked circles until my feet blistered and sat chanting until my pelvis ached. Virgil Green pried my brain apart to show me the Biggest Bird.” Jun shook his head. Jango continued anyway. “With Virgil Green’s approval, I swam to the main island. It took twelve hours. For six hours I swore I would drown, and for the other six, I was drowning. When I crawled onto shore, a bird laid an egg in front of me and pierced the shell with its mate’s tail-feather. I drank the raw egg and it rejuvenated me. I hiked to the white-walled monastery in the manner of the birds, nude and sleeping in the road at night. At Virgil Blue’s monastery, I earned this sky-blue robe. After years of study, I decided to visit my brother, who surely missed me, and whom I missed dearly.”

“You never called, you never wrote.”

“I wrote as soon as I arrived at the monastery. I addressed my letter to our childhood home. You must have moved into this basement by then. Since I received no postage from you, I never learned your new address. You were difficult to find.” Jango sighed the matter away. “How’s the comic you’re drawing coming along?”

“It’s not a comic, it’s a manga. Not that you’d care. You always mocked me for watching cartoons and reading comics.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Jango laced his fingers and let his sleeves cover his hands. “What was the cartoon we both liked? The anime, I mean? We watched it every Saturday in the nineteen-fifties. It was about combining dragon-robots.”

“Daitatsu no Kagirinai Hogo. The Great Dragon’s Eternal Guardianship.” At last Jun turned to acknowledge Jango’s presence. “You know, that title’s mistranslated. They probably thought the first word was dairyuu—” He wrote two characters on scratch-paper: a star and a moon in a hat beside a serpent. “The great dragon. But actually, it was daitatsu—” More characters: the same star and a foot stomping on a snake. “Initiating political action. Literally, to stand up. It’s a pun, because the word `dragon’ is sometimes pronounced tatsu. All of humanity fights as one, represented by the fully-combined dragon-robot.”

“This guy?” Jango retrieved from his sleeves a plastic figurine. Jun took it with trembling fingertips. “Virgil Blue received this on a pilgrimage to Japan.” Jun turned the figurine over and over. Each limb was a different color, combined with mechanical seams. “Under Virgil Blue’s bell-tower is a library of books from the past, present, and future. The Virgils annotate books as their relation to the Biggest Bird becomes understood. Among them is Daitatsu no Kagirinai Hogo‘s original manga run. Virgil Blue traveled to Tokyo to meet the author and gain insight for annotations. The author, seeing that Virgil Blue owned the full series before the final issues were even conceived, knew the Virgil to be divine and gifted them the figurine.”

Jun set the mini giant space-robot on his desk and tested the articulation. In the show, each colored limb could separate into an independent fighting-machine. “Virgil Blue. Isn’t that the old monk with the cane like a cricket, who stole you from the family?”

“Yes,” said Jango. “To be fair, I was over thirty when I left for Sheridan. I had a house and a job and a wife.” His little brother turned away. Jango knew he shouldn’t press the matter. “When I saw the manga, I told Virgil Blue I watched the anime with my brother. They showed me the figurine and I was awestruck. Blue insisted I pass it to you. There are no coincidences.”

“Say I believe you.” Jun penciled arcs. “There’s an ancient library renting out Daitatsu no Kagirinai Hogo. Why? Why’s that manga so important?”

Jango chewed his tongue. “When Virgil Green described the Biggest Bird with paradoxes, I wondered how one vessel could contain such contradictory aspects. Virgil Blue taught me that the Biggest Bird is the Mountain’s messiah, hence its rarer name, the Heart of the Mountain. To me, this was worse! The Mountain contains all things, so I didn’t care that it contained contradictions. Shouldn’t the Biggest Bird, the Mountain’s messenger, be lesser, not equally complex?

“But when I saw Daitatsu no Kagirinai Hogo in the library, I understood. The fully-combined dragon-robot isn’t piloted by all of humanity at once because disparate parts would bicker. Instead, groups of nations each nominate a pilot so the fully-combined dragon-robot represents all Earth’s variety trimmed of fat and hungry for battle. In the same way, we cannot comprehend the Mountain, but we can comprehend its Heart. So the Mountain paints its contrast in the Biggest Bird.”

At first Jun doubtfully sucked his lips, but eventually he shook his head in reluctant acceptance. “I want to write my own manga inspired by Daitatsu no Kagirinai Hogo. I’m done writing the story and finalizing the designs. Now I’m drawing the first issue.” Jun showed his older brother a sketch of a giant space-robot. Jango expected a stylized sci-fi mecha, but Jun’s robot had weirdly human proportions. Seams separated its arms and neck from its torso, but it had no legs. “In my story, the whole universe except the Milky Way was eaten by a cosmic horror called the Hurricane. These robots and their pilots are called Zephyrs, and they protect the galaxy.”

Jango rubbed his eyes to see detail. “The chest-pilot has a pony-tail.”

“That’s Princess Lucia. Everyone thinks she’s Earth’s last hope, but she dies giving birth due to grievous injury in battle. Her daughter Lucille surpasses her and takes the fight to the Hurricane.”

“I’m proud of you, Jun. Your art is quite distinguished.” Jango brushed his fingers over the dry ink. “You wrote it in Japanese?”

“Mom taught me,” said Jun. “When you escaped Kansas, our parents had one kid to carry their legacy. Mom taught me Japanese and Dad made me read him a Chinese newspaper before he gave up the ghost.”

“I’m afraid my Japanese is limited,” said Jango. “What’s the name of your manga?”

“LuLu’s Space-Time Acceleration. Transliterating to Japanese, LuLu is pronounced RuRu. Look at this kanji with the same pronunciation.” Jun showed him a cover he’d water-colored. One Ru looked like a winged woman holding a chainsaw. Instead of a second Ru, Jun had written a kanji meaning `the same kanji once more.’ It looked like a pointed flower blooming. “RuRu means continuous and unbroken to a meticulous extent. Only by exemplifying humanity’s every aspect can the Zephyrs triumph.”

“That’s a message from the heart, little brother.” Jango hugged Jun. Jun didn’t hug back, but Jango felt radiating affection.

“Tell me, big brother. What else is in Virgil Blue’s library?”

“Mostly books of philosophical and religious merit. That’s why the manga was such a surprise.”

“But is there any more manga?”

“Not that I know of,” said Jango, “but Virgil Blue says when I’m promoted to Virgil, I can read works from the future. If I find your manga, I’ll demand to annotate it.”

Jun sighed and took the drawings from Jango. “I don’t know if I ever want to publish LuLu’s. Maybe someday I’ll travel to Japan and pitch it to an animation studio.”

“I hope you do. When you’ve finished the ending, please send the whole series to me, because it belongs in Virgil Blue’s library.”

So saying, Jango returned to Sheridan.

Next Section
Commentary

 

Left and right were hallways of monks’ quarters cordoned with tapestries of solid color. Ahead opened a grassy courtyard. The young woman led Jay onto the grass, where a hundred silent monks sat cross-legged under the stars. Each wore a uniquely colored robe. All of them faced the back of the courtyard, where the monastery’s wings met and a bell-tower rose.

“[You brought enough for everyone.]” The woman opened Jay’s box of pastries. “[Right?]”

Jay handed a pastry to each monk. Their posture remained perfect and their eyes remained closed as they reached wordlessly for their pastry and put it in their lap. The monks increased in age as Jay approached the bell-tower. Many monks were bald, but some of the eldest had shaggy gray hair. Jay decided those must be Virgils.

The two monks closest to the bell-tower wore sky-blue and navy. The monk in navy had a heavy hood, a silver mask, and sat in a woven nest like those commemorating birds along the trail. Their body warmed porcelain eggs nestled around them.

When Jay held a sugar-powdered pastry for the sky-clad monk, the monk bopped Jay’s hand from below to toss the pastry in the air. He caught it in his mouth with his eyes closed. He giggled like a school-child and opened his eyes. He had one black pupil and one moon-like cataract, white as the pastry had been. “Oran dora,” he whispered.

“Oran dora,” whispered Jay. Jay held the last pastry to the monk in navy. They did not respond. Their silver mask depicted a bird’s face with buggy eyes.

“Virgil Blue cannot sense you,” said the sky-clad monk with the cataract. “Enjoy your pastry. You’ve hiked hard to get here.”

“I did,” said Jay, “because I have gifts for Virgil Jango Skyy.”

“Then sit beside him.” Jango Skyy pat the grass with age-veined fingers. “You must be weary from the elevation. The air’s thicker down here.”

Jay sat and unzipped his backpack. “A tour-guide named Michael gave me this letter.”

“It’s not addressed to me,” said Jango.

“I know, but I hoped you could deliver it to Michael’s children, nieces, and nephews.” Jay pulled Faith’s envelope from his backpack. “I’m afraid this one’s not addressed to you either.”

Jango admired the front of Faith’s holiday-card. He opened the card and inspected her hand-drawn fox. He turned her bug-stick. “Excellent wing-work.”

“My friend Faith Featherway said she owed you a bug-stick. Is that why you expected me?”

“I expected Faith, but an ambassador with her banner will suffice. The Mountain metes what means it may. Welcome to Virgil Blue’s courtyard. Did you climb here just to give gifts?”

“I’m a photographer.” Jay showed Jango his camera. “You gave Faith centipede-powder in Wyoming. She shared it with me, and I was intrigued. I had to meet the men behind the bugs. Before I left, Faith gave me that card and cricket. I know she’d be here if she could be.”

Jango took the camera and scrolled through photos. He had unbecoming digital-savvy for someone so old. “Wise to take such careful photos of Virgil Green’s congregation. They’re quite protective of their matriarch.” At the next photo, Jango flinched. The reaction made Jay flinch as well, but as Jango examined more photos, he laughed and punched Jay in the shoulder. “You had me worried with the mailbox.”

“I’m sorry?”

The old monk returned Jay’s camera, displaying the stone statue of a bird sheltering a toddler on a box of candles. “The mailbox. My vision isn’t as good as it used to be, and that’s a small screen. I thought it was a real bird.”

“Oh, no! I wouldn’t take photos if it were.”

“Why’s it filled with candles? I’m expecting a package.”

“Michael said it was a shrine to a bird who saved a child.”

“Eeeccht.” Jango hocked with disapproval. “Back when any-and-all bird-forgery was forbidden, Nemo, the first Virgil Blue, carved the statue to represent the Biggest Bird. Only his holy hands could depict it. That’s no child, it’s Nemo, full-grown, for scale. It’s a donation-box, but I use it as my address for incoming mail. I guess nowadays it’s a shrine to a bird who saved a child.” Jango stood, bracing himself against the bell-tower, and he walked leaning on a cane like a giant wing-wrapped cricket. “This reminds me of a story. What’s your name, fledgling?”

“Jay.” Jay hesitated to help the old monk, as he seemed able enough on his own.

“Jay, bring that brass incense-burner.” Jango unwrapped Faith’s bug-stick. Dan’s wing-work had preserved the odorous exoskeleton. Jay opened the brass burner and Jango stuck the cricket in it, butt-down. He shook one sleeve and a purple lighter fell into his hand. He lit the cricket’s eyes and Jay closed the burner. “Oran doran, doran dora. Virgils and students, tonight’s closing remarks will be in English to accommodate our visitor. Enjoy your pastries! Jay brought tonight’s dessert and tonight’s cricket.”

The crowd looked at Jay just as he chewed his pastry. Jay panicked and swallowed. “The cricket was wrapped by Virgil Orange,” he said, not really knowing why. The woman who had opened the door waved at him.

“Jay is a photographer. Everyone say cheese!” The monks all smiled until Jay took a photo. “Jay is friends with Faith Featherway, whom I’ve met twice before: once ten years ago in Wyoming, once ten years prior to that quite locally.”

Jay didn’t understand, but he wouldn’t interrupt. He prepared his notepad as Virgil Jango Skyy lectured to the congregation.

“Once, Virgil Skyy was sitting beside Virgil Blue on a misty morning,” said the old monk, in the third person. “Jango stood and pat dew from his robes. ‘Virgil Blue, have you considered retirement?’

“Virgil Blue said nothing.

” ‘You’ve said nothing for years,’ said Jango. ‘You’re stationary like a thorny centipede-bush. It might be time to choose a successor.’

“Virgil Blue said nothing.

“So Jango decided to take a walk. He left the monastery and stepped down steep cliffs—there were no carved steps so long ago, but Jango was spry enough to make do—and greeted birds hiking up. Oran dora!”

The students concurred: “Oran dora!”

“At each bridge, Jango drank from the river and bowed to Virgil Green’s island. He thanked Virgil Green for chasing snakes from Sheridan. Oran dora!”

“Oran dora!”

“Jango came to a bird-statue shading a stone man with its wings. The bird and man stood on a stone box with a hinged panel. Jango bowed to it. Oran dora!”

Even Jay joined: “Oran dora!”

“Jango sat before the bird. He saw smoke seeping from the box’s hinged panel and said, ‘Someone lit incense in this shrine. I should sit and contemplate the Biggest Bird until the incense burns down and the smoke stops seeping.’

“So Jango sat and watched smoke seep from the box. Six silent minutes passed.

” ‘I’d like to see the incense directly,’ said Jango, ‘but I’m too old and achy to open the shrine’s hinged panel. I can only hope someone comes to help me, but if no one appears, I suppose it is not the Mountain’s whim.’

“No one appeared.

“After some time, Jango said: ‘If one of my students would miraculously open the shrine, I would be nothing but grateful.’

“Now the box opened and a monk-boy crawled out groveling for forgiveness. He wore red robes and held a lit cricket. ‘I’m sorry, Virgil Skyy! I know monks shouldn’t smoke outside ceremonies, so I found this hidden place to indulge. I didn’t know it was a shrine! I’ve spoilt holy ground!’

” ‘Don’t worry. This is just our mailbox. You’re my only postage in ages. Pass me your bug-stick.’ Jango traded the bug-stick for a pine-needle. ‘When I was young, but not young as you, I sought to smoke a bug-stick within the monastery. Before sunrise, I sat in the furnace so my smoke wafted up the flue. Then Virgil Blue woke to bring logs. They opened the furnace and I blew smoke right in their face, before they wore a mask. They could have disowned me, but instead they taught me this: when you want to smoke a bug-stick, eat a pine-needle first. This promotes moderation. Now, away!’ The monk-boy ran, chewing the pine-needle.

“When the monk-boy left, Jango put the cricket to his lips. It was burned to the stem, so the smoke was harsh and made Jango cough. The cough hung in the air like a cloud. The cloud snowed into a heap and the heap addressed him: ‘Jangster, it’s you!’

“Jango examined the smoldering cricket-butt. ‘I’ve lost my tolerance. I’m already having visions.’

” ‘Haha, I’m real, silly!’ The heap of snow shuddered and became a fox. Its tail was icy fog. ‘I’m Faith Featherway! Don’t you remember me?’

” ‘I can’t say I do, and I really think I would.’

” ‘We met in Wyoming! I told you my friend had a cat named Django? You said you owed me a bug-stick, and you taught me to smoke them? You gave me centipede-powder!’

” ‘I haven’t left the islands in decades. Why would I visit Wyoming? Why would I give you centipede-powder?’

” ‘You know, I meant to ask you the same questions,’ said Faith. ‘It was pretty puzzling. Here, take this!’ From behind her ear, she withdrew a cricket larger and more exquisitely wrapped than any earthly specimen. Jango knew its origin waited in the next eternity, the Mountain of the Dead. ‘The Heart of the Mountain told me to exchange it for a lesson from the Virgils.’

” ‘On this island there’s just me and Blue, and the Blue Virgil isn’t in a speaking mood.’ Jango shook a white lighter from his sleeve. ‘Allow me the honor of administering your lesson.’ Jango and Faith walked to the river and he lit the cricket. Without opposable thumbs, she adopted a peculiar manner of smoking, lying down to rest the cricket on her forearm. ‘As an emissary from the Mountain’s Heart, the Biggest Bird, you must be a Zephyr. Correct?’

” ‘Nah, you’ve gotta be properly inside the Mountain to be a Zephyr,’ said Faith. ‘I’m just a Will-o-Wisp.’

” ‘Let me tell you about the Zephyrs, then. I first met the Zephyrs when I visited my hometown in Kansas.’

Next Section
Commentary

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.”

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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!”

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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.

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