Chapter 1 This time it would be perfect. Sweetmint knelt down, eye level with the crisscrossing of string that hovered above her stove. She plucked it and then clapped her hands together. "Holy Father," she said, raising her closed eyes to the cabin''s ceiling. "Please let this work." With the biogas turned on and everything in place, she grabbed a knife from the kitchen table, took two steps toward the door-carefully ducking under more sets of string-and, in one swift motion, tore through the first string, which ran from the doorknob to the network in front of her. A pitcher of sun-charged water dipped and poured into the open kettle on her stove, then a crudely carved wooden mallet swung from the ceiling and collided with the stove''s red button, igniting the biogas. The weight of the mallet pulled on a group of interlocking strings, causing a spoon with a hole drilled into its handle to fall, dropping a pinch of needle leaf into a metal strainer that sat inside an herbcup.
The cup, balanced by two thicker strings, soared toward the stove and stopped right as the kettle tilted and poured boiling water into it. Sweetmint''s nails were already chewed to nubs, but that didn''t stop her from obliterating them even further. She turned off the biogas and counted out a full minute aloud. Then, holding the herbcup with one palm, snipped the two strings that held it in front of the stove, removed the strainer, and took a sip. "PERFECTION!" she shouted, throwing a triumphant fist into the air. It was the perfect amount of water. The perfect amount of needle leaf. The perfect length of string.
The perfect-size herbcup. She took another sip, then ran from her kitchen to the other side of her cabin, careful not to trip on sawed wood, twisted metal, and other inventions-in-progress. She played a beat on the steel trunk that sat between two mattresses; her own unmade to the left, the other neat and untouched to the right. Sweetmint shook her butt to the beat, but stopped when the sight of the untouched mattress sucked the joy out of her, as it always did. She threw herself on the couch, the sunlight from the window above warming her already warm skin. "I did it. I did it. I did it," she said half-heartedly.
"Did what?" The voice came from the other side of her door. "Good morning, Rusty," she said. "Come in." "Sawukhoob, Sweetmint." The door opened, and his scentprint-rusted metal mixed with something more pleasing, like sweet potatoes roasted until the sap bursts through the skin-filled the cabin. Though she heard his footsteps, smelled his smell, and sensed his rumoya, or "cell spirit"-the life force flowing through all Invisibles, unique to each of them, influencing thought, feeling, and action-she couldn''t see any physical manifestation of him. This made it impossible for him to hide the small box floating behind him. "What''s that?" she asked.
The old cushions sagged as he whistled and plopped his small but sturdy frame down next to her. She heard his locs swaying against the wall behind them, and watched as he placed the box, wrapped in rough brown canvas, on the trunk in front of them. "''Chunjani, Rusty?'' ''Oh, mambonga for asking, Sweetmint. All is well. Freshpine and the little ones are healthy and happy. Glory, glory.''" She threw her arm over his bare back, kissed his cheek. "I''m sorry.
It''s just, you know." "I do. Your rumoya is nervous. But namruz is a big day. Maybe the biggest of your life." "Exactly." "Before I came in, I heard you say you did something? From the looks of the string and the cup of needle leaf on your table, I have a feeling you finally got your latest experiment to work." "It''s not an experiment.
It''s-" "An invention." He let out a series of laughs that, to anyone else, would sound like a short burst of coughing. "I know, I''m just fooling with you. How many attempts did it take?" She stretched her lower lip with her tongue, took a second. Then, "Twenty-seven. I could have probably done it in fewer if I''d drawn it out, but I wanted to see if I could do it entirely in my mind." "And what actually goes on in your mind, when you''re creating something?" "Honestly," she said, looking up at the ceiling. "It''s hard to say.
It''s like I go somewhere else, farther and deeper than anywhere I''ve been before, and when I''m there, I''m floating. I can view whatever problem I have as a puzzle. Then I begin to take it apart, piece by piece, and try to put it back together." "Well," he said, his wide smile evident from his tone. "You truly have a gift given to you by the Holy Father himself. Glory, glory." "Does this mean you''ll let me try it out in your cabin?" "Definitely not. You know Freshpine maintains total control over our khanaya.
And the little ones would tear down those strings faster than you can say ''Chief Executive Rhitel.''" "But what if I-" He patted her knee. "Not this time, Sweetmint. But this"-he picked up the box, held it in front of her-"is for you." She took it with both hands, slowly unwrapped the canvas, and found a mess of straw inside. "This better not be some sort of joke, Rusty. I don''t have time for any of that today." He was silent, but she knew he was smiling, waiting.
She pushed the straw aside, felt a warm piece of round metal. When she took it out, the wheat-colored device sat small in her large palm. A piece of metal with a ring attached jutted out of one side, and she pressed it, unlocking the lid and revealing the face of a compass; something most Invisibles didn''t own or have use for. "Mambonga khulu, Rusty," she said, doing her best to sound more grateful than confused. He laughed. "You''re wondering why I would ever give you a compass when our every move is tracked. But it''s what it symbolizes," he said, tapping the glass, causing the needle to tremble. "I had to go downcity for something and met a man who customizes them.
I told him I worked for a dippy collector and had him set the coordinates to Forest Twenty-Six, so no matter where you go, you''ll never forget where you come from." "I don''t know what''s more ridiculous, you lying about your work or thinking that I, having spent the majority of my twenty-four years here, would ever forget this forest." She bumped his shoulder with her own. "But either way, thank you." "Khawamu." He got up and rubbed her head. "Well, I''ll let you gather yourself before Daily Prayer. I love you, Sweetmint.
" The words left his mouth and traveled the short distance to her ears, but she wasn''t sure she''d heard them right. "What?" "I said I love you." She looked down at the compass, rubbed its smooth glass face, already connected to it. "You''ve never said that before." "But you''ve always felt it, right?" Sweetmint clicked the compass closed and looked up at him. "Funny that you chose today of all days to say that. When, you know, I''m the feast of the forest. But don''t worry, Rusty, I won''t forget you when I''m the first Invisible inventor hired by the Northwestern State.
" He walked to the door, opened it, and paused. "You know," he said. "He''d be proud of you." This. These words. He was gone, and after three years, he wasn''t coming back. She knew Rusty didn''t mean to hurt her, but then why bring him up? "Doubt that," she whispered. "Working with dippies wasn''t exactly what he had planned for me.
Plus, I don''t even have the apprenticeship yet." "He wanted you to have the world, Sweetmint." "Oh yeah? Then why did he keep me from it?" "Who''s to say what shape love takes?" He closed the door behind him, leaving her at a loss. But she couldn''t try to process this. Not now. She drained the rest of the needle leaf, felt it splash down her throat, widen her veins, and turn her heart into one of the thump-thump-thumping zaya drums the men in her forest played, then left. The walk from her cabin in Donsee to the main square-a straight shot on Softstone Path through her dense forest-barely registered. She was so deep in her mind that she didn''t even notice when Rusty''s children called to her.
Nor when the people who lived in the more clustered cabins of Nearsee stepped outside, many of them painted in various colors from head to toe, and stared at her. She walked through the main square, passing the train platform, the men sitting on their two-wheeled carts, the women grilling their vegetables and tossing laughter and gossip back and forth, and the children playing games and whispering at her heels. A couple of fresh-faced hemispheric guards walked around, speaking with one another, but they were just scenery to her. She continued straight until she entered the church and, seeing that it was only moderately full, sat in a middle pew. Now she heard them all. The whispers flying in every direction around her. Her forestfolk were likely just as surprised as she was that she had received this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She, who had always kept to herself, choosing to study rather than play sports or crowd into another girl''s home to watch the display.
She, who was at least a head taller than everyone else in her forest, and who had decided to walk unpainted. She, whom they loved to call so many names-their favorite was "ghihambi," which in Northwestern directly translated to "visitor," but really meant "stranger." It was what they called the DP missionaries who visited their forest to assess conditions and make.