Nadya Skylung and the Cloudship Rescue by Jeff Seymour & Brett Helquist

Author:Jeff Seymour & Brett Helquist
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2018-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

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I scramble up to the cloud balloon as fast as I can. It feels like hours before the waiting house pumps out all the outside air and floods with the sweet, dense scents of the garden.

The voices hit me as soon as I’m inside.

Nadya, what’s happening?

Where’s Zelda, Nadya?

Nadya, the children—

I ignore them, even though I know that’ll just make them more upset. I sprint over paths through the leafy ferns, around the glassy eye of the pond, past the girders with the birds’ nests and through the shade of the trees. The sun-in-a-jar has gone into its night cycle now, and it’s letting off a soft white replica of moonlight.

The controls for letting air out of the balloon are nestled near the very front of the garden. There’s another set outside, in case emergency maneuvers need to be made without a skylung aboard, but it’s much better to use the ones on the inside. You need more than an altimeter to know how much garden air you can let out safely. You have to keep track of how thin the air’s getting inside and how hard it will be for the plants and animals that live there to breathe.

The only way to do that is by keeping track of how dizzy you get and how hard your gills are working.

The controls are simple. There’s a metal seat in front of a console with dials showing altitude, outside air pressure, outside air temperature, inside air pressure, and inside air temperature. There are two levers: one to let garden air out and a second to take outside air in.

When I slide into the seat, the voices in my head grow into a shrieking symphony. I’ve never done this on my own before, and everything in the garden knows it.

Nadya, what are you doing?

Where’s Zelda, Nadya?

I’m afraid!

What’s happening? What’s happening? What’s happening?

I close my eyes and concentrate. The last time we had a crisis, Mrs. T showed me a trick for quieting the voices in the cloud garden when they get too shrill.

I imagine a whistle. A loud, harsh whistle, like a train coming into the station if your ear’s right next to it. The whistle rises up to meet the voices. The voices get louder, but they can’t match it. It swallows them. It swallows everything.

And then I stop it, and for a second there’s perfect, crystal silence.

I have to let air out of the balloon, I say into the void. I have to let out a lot of it. It’ll make you sleepy. Just sleep. I’ll take care of you. I’ll keep you safe. You just have to sleep, and everything will be fine.

The balloon stays silent.

I reach for the lever that’ll vent the garden air and pull it toward my body. There’s a loud thunk and whirr as the machinery clunks into place and the vents outside the balloon open up. Then there’s a thin hiss as the garden air starts to leak out. A little breeze strokes my cheeks.

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