I bite my lip, trying to keep that other memory at bay, but pieces keep coming back—the way my mother’s hands and feet were cold and still when we washed them as we prepared her for burial, how dry her hair felt when we braided it. How I kept trying not to look at her eyes.
Outside at last, I walk under the trees in the temple plaza. The leaves make a sound like chimes in the movement of the city’s air currents. When the morning light comes in through the glittering metal of the trees, it is one of the most beautiful sights in Atlantia. This much loveliness requires constant maintenance—cleaning and repairing the thousands of leaves.
And the temple trees are different from the other trees in Atlantia—there are statues of the gods up there, high in the branches, looking down and watching us, as if each tree is a small temple. These gods are made of metal, not stone, but they are still sacred. Because of them the maintenance crews that take care of the other trees in Atlantia can’t take care of the ones at the temple. The priests and acolytes have to do it. Or, rather, one acolyte has to do it. I’ve proven so efficient that now the task is entirely up to me. I can’t say that I’m sorry, because I would much rather work out here.
I shrug the air-mask equipment off my back, which is against the rules. Most people seem to be accustomed to the mask’s constant presence, but I take it off every chance I can. I hate the way it catches on the leaves—I already have to carry my repair equipment up with me, so bringing the mask as well makes everything unnecessarily bulky. I climb up into one of the trees and find Efram sitting in his spot at the top, his sharp metal teeth bared as he squats on his haunches. Sure enough, one of his paws has come loose, a common problem. “Efram,” I say, talking to him as if he’s alive. “What have you been grabbing at? What could be out of the reach of a god?”
Efram glares at me as I pull down my visor and fire up the torch from my kit to weld him back together. It seems as if he’s saying You know as well as I do that this isn’t my fault.
The problem is the temple bats. During the day, they sleep in their roosts inside the temple’s bell tower. At night, when they’re free to fly, they like to come settle in these trees, and they are especially fond of sitting on the gods and leaving guano like offerings.
But no one is allowed to harm the bats. They are the second of the three miracles that we were told would happen after the Divide if the gods were pleased with us. As miracles, they have our protection.
At the time of the Divide, no one brought any animals Below. The leaders thought that the animals would use up too much precious air. They also believed that the creatures of the Above and the Below should remain where they were. To keep us mindful of one another’s worlds, they assigned land-animal faces and bodies to the gods for those of us who worship Below, and sea forms for those Above. It’s strange to me to think that Efram looks entirely different to worshippers outside Atlantia.
When the bats were first seen, they were brown. It took years to catch the animals as they darted around Atlantia’s skies, but finally our ancestors succeeded.
And they were shocked at what they found. Over time, faster than should be scientifically possible, the bats’ wings had changed from pinkish in color to a beautiful translucent blue, as if to mirror the sea that had become their sky. Someone remarked upon how much they resembled certain gargoyles of the temple, and the priests saw that it was true. It became clear that the bats were not a nuisance but were, in fact, the second miracle. The sirens had been the first.
We are still waiting for the third.
Justus is the one in charge of taking care of the bats and the roosts where they come home to sleep during the day. It is one of the most sacred offices a priest can hold. Bay and I used to love it when our singing in the temple would wake some of the bats and they would fly in front of the rose window. The wings of blue were every bit as beautiful and maybe more so than the stained glass.
The bats aren’t as common here as they once were Above, perhaps in response to their new environment. We rarely see them. But it is nice to know that we are not alone down in this city, that they skim around after the dimming time. And I know they are here because I see the evidence in the trees.
After I get Efram’s leg back on, I climb down to the bottom of the tree and pick up a scatter of silver leaves that came off during the night. With small spurts of fire from my torch, I carefully weld them back on the way Justus taught me, attaching them to the branches by their ends so that they have full range of motion when the wind comes through.
“These repetitive tasks are symbols,” Justus told me, “of the vigilance we must keep in order to remain righteous and content with the lot we’ve been given.”
I have tried to be righteous all my life. Yet I have never been content.
When I get back to the temple, Justus waits for me. “The Minister would like to see you,” he says.
“Me?” I ask. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Justus says. He reaches out to take my work kit from me and I hand it to him. He looks sad. He does know what Nevio wants. Before, I would have asked Justus to tell me. But now I don’t dare push him.
“When?”
“Now,” Justus says.
Nevio’s office used to be my mother’s. I spent many hours in here watching her work. The room has a small stained-glass window. I know its colors as well as I know the claws and the teeth of the gods in the trees. Some of the reference books on the shelves are ones my mother used. The desk, made from solid mahogany, is carved with the Minister’s insignia. That is also the same.
But the rest is different.
I sit down across from him on a chair made of glass and steel and I fold my hands.
“You have suffered two great losses in the past year,” Nevio says. “First your mother, and now your sister.”
I nod.
“Your profound grief is understandable,” Nevio says, “and it also helps us face some of the realities of your situation.” He sounds almost kind, and he leans forward across the desk to look into my eyes. “Rio,” he says, “the temple has never been the right fit for you. Your mother and Bay belonged here, but this is never where you imagined yourself. Is it?”
I don’t like Nevio, but he’s right. I never had the faith that Bay and my mother did. A life alone in the temple was never what I imagined for myself. I thought I would go Above, and then when I promised Bay that I would stay, I thought I would be living and working in the temple with her.