Atlantis in Peril by T. A. Barron Page B

breath. “’Tis even more wondrous than it was last time I came. Fer then we wasn’t yet an island, way out in the middle o’ the sea.”
    â€œHow,” asked Shangri in a voice as small as a young waterbird’s, “did the island ever happen? I mean . . . one day we’re a part of that place called Africa, then snap yer fingers, an’ the next day we’re not. Now we’re not part o’ anythin’ but water an’ sky.”
    Morey shrugged his beefy shoulders. “By the wings o’ the immortal spirits, lass, I wish I knew.”
    Shangri turned her gaze on Promi. “Do ye know how such a wonder could happen?”
    â€œMe? No.” He, too, shrugged . . . though there was a faint gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
    Catching that gleam, Shangri peered up at him. “Ye know more than yer sayin’, methinks.”
    â€œNo, Shangri,” he protested, a bit too strongly. “You’re wrong! I don’t know much of anything . . . except how little I really know.”
    Morey nodded, stooping to open up the sack. “Knowin’ how little we know is the start o’ wisdom, lad.”
    â€œI don’t believe you, Promi,” declared Shangri. Placing her hands on her hips, she gazed at him. “There’s somethin’, well . . .
special
about you. I’m sure of it!”
    Brushing her freckled cheek with his finger, he said, “The most special thing about me is how
much
I love a good cinnamon bun.”
    She peered at him skeptically.
    â€œSpeakin’ o’ that,” the baker announced as he pulled a clump of cinnamon buns from the sack, “here ye go.”
    Eagerly, Promi took them. While they didn’t look as appetizing as they had when freshly baked—especially since four or five had melded together from being jostled around in the sack—they still smelled as enticing as ever. And when he took a big, gooey bite, he could tell they hadn’t lost any of their sweet flavor.
    Before he even swallowed that first bite, he took another. Through his doughy teeth, he smiled at Shangri. “Goob av ebber!”
    She giggled, putting aside her suspicions for the moment. Then, feeling hungry herself, she plunged into the array of picnic treats. There were pies (two each of strawberry, orange cream, and cherry—plus one lemon meringue), three large trays of apple crisp, persimmon tarts, a big bowl of double-sweet pudding, licorice and ginger cookies by the dozen, a box of coconut macaroons, three loaves of honey nut bread, and, of course, another huge clump of cinnamon buns. Not to mention three good-sized flasks of lemonade.
    While Shangri and her father feasted and watched the rolling waves that stretched endlessly, Promi turned away from the sea to look at the view behind them. As he munched on the cluster of cinnamon buns, he surveyed the City. Even from this distance, he could pick out the market square and the Divine Monk’s temple, as well as one of the huge prayer wheels at the settlement’s big oaken gates. He spotted the deep gorge of the Deg Boesi River at the City’s southern edge, impossible to miss with all the clouds of mist rising skyward.
    Then he saw the faint outline of something he knew well: the rickety, half-built bridge that started at one side of the gorge and disappeared into the swirling mist. The Bridge to Nowhere, he’d called it—before discovering that it did indeed lead somewhere remarkable. For though it seemed unfinished and hopelessly dilapidated, that bridge stretched all the way to the spirit realm.
    Chewing thoughtfully, Promi opened his inner ear and listened. He could hear, beyond the crashing surf and screeching gulls, a gentle, rhythmic sound that came from the bridge. It was the flapping of prayer leaves strung from the bridge’s every post. And with each flap, a prayer for a loved one or a lost soul would be