Sierra Santiago and the Invisible City

Chapter 9 - The Council Meeting

Now it was Sierra's turn to laugh while Biaque looked on grimly.

"What do you mean all of them? You mean everyone in Brooklyn?"

"Well, technically yes, but this is a big meeting. Keepers and gridlions from all over the planet are coming, and those not here have their hunterflies here to report back to them. So in a way, you are representing all people, everywhere. Why is that funny, Sierra?"

Between the shock of learning that some powerful invisible monster caused her tío's stroke and the weight of the hopes of all humanity resting on her shoulders, all Sierra could do was laugh. Biaque tapped a long restless finger against his jacket and then fidgeted in his pockets to find the half-smoked Malagueña. "Whenever you are ready..." he mumbled.

"It's just...it's all so much, Biaque," gasped Sierra. "Who...how did I end up in this position? I don't even like standing up in front of my homeroom class at school. What kind of an idiot would put me as a spokesperson for Brooklyn, let alone everyone?"

"That idiot," Biaque said, "he is I."

Sierra stopped laughing quickly as the full weight of the moment began to catch up with her. "But Biaque, I'm sixteen! I'm...just some high school kid!"

"This I know, believe me, Sierra."

"I'm...I can't...' she struggled for a moment, but no more words came to her.

"You can't what? You can't speak? It is you and it has to be you. All this will become clear as time passes, but for now, you will just have to trust me, since you don't trust yourself. There isn't time to explain everything now."

Sierra was about to speak when a high-pitched squeal came from the woods behind her. It was getting louder at an alarming rate. Before she could turn, something shot past her cheek so fast that a small ripple of wind followed in its wake. Biaque took a gentlemanly side step out of its path and whatever-it-was went crashing into a bush, causing much more damage than anything so small really should have. A nearby tree wobbled dangerously.

"Ah," Biaque said with relief, "you wanted to meet Tinibu, yes?"

"That was Tinibu? He's tiny!"

"He is quite esmall, sí. But very powerful. Maybe more powerful than is for his own good right now, but this is the, how you say—the conflict, the contradiction, of the youth, no?"

"I guess. How old is he?"

A rustling from the bush signaled that their tiny companion had gotten himself together and was preparing to emerge.

"He's 200 or so."

"In people years or...Tinibu years?"

"In 365 day years, Sierra. For us, this is young. For you, not so much, I know."

"So I'm like, a fetus or something."

A small face with a long nose appeared in the underbrush. It looked like one of the masks Sierra'd seen in pictures of Caribbean carnival parades. Tinibu emerged cautiously, as if at any moment some predator might drop out of the sky for him. His tennis ball sized head sat on a pair of kangaroo like legs. Two useless looking arms dangled down between them. He gained confidence as he moved towards them, and soon his awkward tiptoe had transformed into a graceful cantor, his feet barely touching the ground. When he stopped in front of Sierra she saw that his carnival face really was a mask; a string wrapped tightly around the back of his head holding it on.