The Flying Kitchen hummed with its usual controlled chaos as apprentices arrived. Papa Luigi conducted a symphony of self-stirring spoons while Nonna Gia stirred pots bubbling with spaghetti sauce, “Made witha the love!”
“Today we make the Pasta Tugga War!” Papa Luigi announced with a flourish of his wooden spoon, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “One anoodle, shared betweena two omringlies! Both sides offa the long tables. And the loser ends up inna the pan offa melty mozzarella! Alla you on both sides offa the long tables.”
Carli eyed the enormous pan of gooey cheese dubiously, already imagining disaster. “How long are these noodles exactly?”
“Long enough!” Nonna Gia winked. “Trust the process!”
Ariki already calculated. “Based on the pot’s diameter and the standard pasta-to-water ratio . . .”
“Ariki,” Guido interrupted, “sometimes you just gotta slurpa the noodles.”
The painted ancestors leaned forward in their frames, some placing small wagers on which apprentices would end up cheese-faced.
“Remember,” Papa Luigi called, “no hands! Only the mouth! And don’t let go!”
Carli and Guido each took their end of a single noodle from the bowl. The pan of cheese between them jiggled ominously. Their noodle stretched like a golden rope that gleamed with olive oil and possibilities for cheese-faced disaster.
“Onna three?” Guido suggested.
“On three,” Carli agreed.
They began to slurp; determination overtook common sense. Around them, other apprentices tugged and slurped with varying degrees of success — Kainon made a vicious yank and his opponent’s face ended up in the cheese.
“This thing is endless,” Carli muttered around the noodle as her eyes watered from the effort.
“Keep going, cheese face,” Guido wheezed. “No way I’m letting you win.”
“Just watch me,” Carli said as she leaned in, swung the noodle like a jump rope, squeezed her eyes then tugged harder.
Neither noticed how Carli’s vigorous, jump-roping slurp had looped the noodle over the massive meatball lamp above. Papa Luigi and Tutelargen shared a knowing look — they hoped the Fire Seed would hold.
SLURP. SLURP. SLURP.
Suddenly, Carli felt her feet leave the ground. Her stomach lurched. Her eyes snapped open in panic to find herself dangling three feet in the air, still connected to Guido by their stubborn noodle. The wad of un-chewed noodle kept it from slipping out of her mouth. He hung across from her, equally suspended, fully visible, his face bright red from effort. Guido’s end trailed out of his throat hole like a wriggling worm.
“Ung,” he said eloquently.
“Don’t you dare let go!” Carli spoke around the noodle.
The lamp began to turn, spinning them slowly like the world’s most ridiculous carnival ride. Below them, other apprentices pointed and laughed.
The painted ancestors were beside themselves with glee. “Two hundred Lira onna Carli!” said one.
“Three hundred onna Guido!” countered another.
One Renaissance grandmother actually climbed out of her frame to get a better view as she cheered in Italian.
“Mathematical impossibility!” Ariki called up. “Pasta shouldn’t have that tensile strength!”
“It’sa the Gustallini special recipe!” Papa Luigi beamed. “Reinforced witha the love!”
Erwin tried to help by jumping for Carli’s dangling feet, but only succeeded in getting tangled in another apprentice’s noodle. Soon three more students were airborne, creating a floating web of flailing bodies and tangled pasta.
“This is a disaster,” Carli groaned, spinning slowly, her face green with nausea.
“Coulda be worse,” Guido replied.
That’s when the chandelier decided to pick up speed. Escaped chandelier meatballs bounced around the kitchen like rubbery brown ping-pong balls.
“Mamma mia!” Nonna Gia shrieked as a rogue strand of spaghetti lassoed her ankles. She windmilled her arms for balance which sent her wooden spoon through the air. It whacked a painted ancestor who yelped and ducked back into his frame.
Three more apprentices got tangled in noodles and joined the aerial ballet. Soon the kitchen looked like a pasta-powered circus, with children spinning through the air, meatballs everywhere.
One painted grandmother climbed completely out of the ceiling to shake her fist at the chaos. “I told you not to use the reinforced recipe, Papa Luigi!” she scolded while he dodged a flying calzone.
Carli squeezed her eyes shut again, hoping it would end before she threw up on everyone below.
“She’s gonna end up in the mozzarella!” someone shouted gleefully.
As meatballs bounced and apprentices dangled from the chandelier, whatever remained of Carli’s thinking mind half expected the Gustallinis to panic. Instead, they began to laugh — deep, knowing laughter.
“This,” Papa Luigi muttered between chuckles, “is exactly whatta my childhood was like!”
Nonna Gia wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “So glad we built thissa kitchen to fly, cara mia. The heavy things — they shouldda not always stay onna the ground. Children shouldda not always stay serious. Joy, she needs the room to bounce.”
Carli heard Nonna Gia. She felt her face muscles tighten as she held onto the noodle, feeling anything but joyful. Or bouncy.
“You remember, in the camps?” Luigi said more quietly, “children forgotta how to play. How we promised if we survived, if we found magic again . . . we would build a place?”
Nonna Gia finished, “Where laughter coulda float? Where food coulda dance? Where the impossible wassa justa Saturday’s menu?”
Papa Luigi put his arm around her. She put her head on his shoulder and whispered, “We did it.”
The meatball chandelier swayed above them like a pendulum marking moments of pure, defiant joy.
Guido’s voice was strangely close and filled with sudden fear. “Carli.” The Fire Seed covered every detail of his terrified face with amber light.
She opened her eyes. “Guido?” Her stomach turned. “I think I’m going to . . .” The warm light intensified the white horror in her eyes.
They were nose-to-nose, still connected by the last inch of noodle, spinning like the world’s most ridiculous slow dance. Either the Fire Seed seemed to have taken on a new, cinematic role or the burning embryo suddenly flashed brighter to show what happened next.
As if to punctuate the moment, the chandelier exploded and covered everyone in edible shreds. Some of the ancestors quickly tucked the pieces away for their scrapbooks.
The noodle snapped.
Carli and Guido plummeted into a conveniently-placed pile of flour sacks, emerging white as ghosts and laughing helplessly. When Carli saw everyone staring at her she froze, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. She planted her face in a cheesy pan that had flipped next to her right side up. Laughing with Guido was one thing. In front of a roomful of spectators, another.
“Well!” Nonna Gia clapped her hands in delight. “That’sa some pasta tugga war!”
The painted ancestors were already composing songs about it, and Carli had a sinking feeling this story would follow them for the rest of their time at Harbornacles.
Papa Luigi wiped a tear from his eye. “Beautiful! Justa like my grandpapa and grandmama! Butta they fell into the marinara sauce instead offa the flour.”
Just then, Tutelargen entered to investigate the commotion, cosmic dignity intact despite the chaos. As if on cue, a meatball the size of a basketball bounced off the ceiling, ricocheted off two walls, and landed squarely on his head. He stood there, meatball balanced perfectly on his crown, and blinked slowly as sauce dripped down his face.
He licked sauce off the side of his mouth with cosmic dignity, “This is either a very efficient method of food distribution or complete pandemonium.”
“Both!” Papa Luigi declared cheerfully, still conducting with a breadstick since his spoon had been kidnapped by the chaos.
After dinner, Aurora Capegra suppressed a chuckle as she brushed off an edible shred and slipped it in her pocket. “From now on, after mealtime you will exit with your Globavoys in an orderly fashion. You are to leave table by table, starting with the tables closest to the doors.”
As they cleaned up flour and untangled from noodles, Carli slumped against the wall. Looking at the flour covering her uniform she groaned, “I can’t remember the full Primørdian wield for ‘clean up this mess.’ . . . “Anda my joy is definitely notta bouncy,” she added in Nonna Gia’s accent.
“Do you want to know my secret?” Ariki whispered, glancing around nervously. “The Keepers wouldn’t approve. When I’m tired like this, I just use . . . cheat Primørdian.”
Carli held her stomach. “Cheat Primørdian?” She looked intrigued but worried.
“Like, start with the Primørdian word, then just say what you want in regular language. Try ‘Ven-clean my clothes now.’”
Carli looked around nervously, then whispered, “Ven-clean my clothes now?” Her uniform immediately refreshed itself and flour disappeared like it had never been there. She giggled.
“Calculate this!” Ariki shouted, suddenly energized. “It works for you too! The Primørdian word anchors the intention, then our own language directs it!”
From across the room, Nahuálin caught Carli’s eye and gave her the slightest wink before turning back to his conversation with Aurora.
As each table waited at the biscotti stairs for their Globavoys, the crumbs on the ground below them created distinct cymatic patterns to sound vibrations of their laughter, “They landed in the flour!” and “Did you see Great Gas?” Soon, they zoomed away from The Flying Kitchen, wondering how Carli and her friends were already cleaned off.
Carli was about to speak into her Portuna Key, when Guido cleared his throat. With a crack in his voice he said, “So, what’s yours called?”
Carli said, “What’s what called?” She was too dazed to comprehend anything.
“Your globavoy,” said Guido. “Just ask its name.”
Carli said, “Hello Globavoy.”
“Hello, Carli.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I do.”
Carli felt a bit frustrated. Did she have to be any more specific? “Okay, I guess I need to ask.”
“Yes, all you need to do is ask.”
Carli waited. “Oh . . . alright then. What is your name?”
“Liberty.”
“Your name is Liberty?”
“Liberty Lula, if you want to be even more specific.”
Carli laughed, which made Guido laugh. She asked him what his globavoy called itself.
“Frederico, obviously.” He elbowed her.
“Not obvious to me, doofus,” she said.
“For my hero, Frederico Faggin. Obviously.” He put his Portuna Key to his mouth, “Freddi, take us back to the tree.”
Carli smiled. “Liberty Lula, follow Freddi. Obviously.”
Ariki muttered something about wishing his Globavoy called itself Freddi then brightened. He said, “Einstein, calling Einstein, do you copy?”
His globavoy sprouted white hair on top, gave a hop and said, “E = mc squared yes! . . . in fact relativity says I’m right here, right now and absolutely ready to roll.”
Ariki could barely contain his excitement and breathed, “Definitely chose the right name.” He chuckled, “Einstein, can you stick out your tongue?” Einstein complied and Ariki laughed so hard he fell over. “Follow Freddi and Liberty Lula.”
“Affirmative Ariki. Coordinates locked. Quantum probability of arrival: 100%.”
Einstein gave another little hop and caught up to Freddi and Liberty Lula down a hallway. The three friends slipped into three Xylem columns and bubbled upwards in the gold and pale green liquid.
Guido could see Carli in the Xylem column next to him. He spoke into his Portuna Key. “Freddi to Liberty Lula . . .” Carli heard a squeak and figured they were connected now. “Carli, we’re like bubbles rising in a straw filled with lemonade!”
Carli said, “We are! This is amazing!”
“Feeling bouncy yet?” Guido teased. She smiled and nodded.
The apprentices rode Xylem Columns up through Harbornacles’ trunk, shooting toward the very top like bubbles in a cosmic straw.
“We’re going up forever!” Guido yelped as golden liquid rushed past their transparent walls.
“Will you . . . calculate . . . this!” Ariki cried, watching the level indicators climb impossibly high. “We’re approaching the crown of the tree itself!”
Their columns burst out into the most magnificent space any of them had ever seen — gasps echoed through the group. The Selvering Theater, built into Harbornacles’ uppermost branches. Tiered seats descended in perfect rings toward the center, each row carved from living wood that still pulsed with the tree’s ancient heartbeat.
“Holy meatballs!” Guido gasped, stumbling out of his column. “Look at those windows!”
Twelve enormous archways opened directly onto space itself, each one framing a different planet that hung impossibly close. Mars glowed red in one window, its surface so detailed they could see dust storms swirling across crimson deserts. Jupiter’s great storm eye swirled hypnotically in another, while Saturn’s rings sparkled like cosmic jewelry in a third.
“Are those . . . real planets?” Erwin whispered, clutching Stinky so tightly the animascota squeaked. Carli and the others turned around, wondering where he’d come from.
“Real as real gets,” came a voice that made the very air tremble with cosmic authority. Soon, the theater was filled with first year apprentices shooting out of the Xylem columns, which then sealed closed.
The apprentices turned to see Tutelargen materialize at the center of the theater, though “materialize” was perhaps too gentle a word. He seemed to unfold from reality itself, growing from human-sized to his full cosmic proportions. His presence filled the space like a benevolent storm system.
“Welcome to the Selvering Theater!” his voice boomed from everywhere at once, making the wooden seats vibrate. “Where what you think you know meets what you actually are!”
Beside him, in the center, sat the strangest chair any of them had ever seen. The Pachamama Chair looked like a giant, squishy bean bag set on a jade platform, made from actual planet Earth — swirling blues and greens and clouds moved across its surface.
Tutelargen’s voice echoed off the curved wooden walls, “Find your seats! Names are carved into the armrests! And don’t worry about the height — the theater will catch you if you fall!”
As if to prove his point, a careless apprentice near the top tier slipped and began tumbling down the steep steps, only to be caught by the seat cushions themselves, which sprouted gentle arms to break his fall.
The apprentices scattered through the theater, searching the tiered seating. Carli found her spot in the third row — close enough to see the Pachamama Chair clearly, but far enough to feel relatively safe from whatever cosmic horror was about to unfold.
“That chair looks like it could swallow you whole,” Erwin whispered from the seat beside her, his knuckles white as he gripped his armrests.
“Or spit you back out as someone completely different,” Viola added from the row behind, her voice tight with nervous excitement.
“Precisely!” Tutelargen called out, apparently hearing their whispers across the vast theater. “Though usually not literally. We’ve only had three actual regurgitation incidents this century.”
“Three?” Carli squeaked, her voice climbing several octaves.
“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, his beard twinkling with embedded stars that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. “They all turned out fine. Eventually. Mostly. Well, two of them did.”
“You’re not exactly filling me with confidence here,” Kainon muttered from his seat near the back, slumping down as if he could hide from whatever was coming.
“Confidence is overrated,” Tutelargen replied cheerfully. “Curiosity, on the other hand . . .” He gestured with one massive hand, and the chamber began to hum with anticipation.
As if responding to the growing tension, the planets in the windows began to move — slowly rotating in their frames like cosmic clockwork. The apprentices gasped as Mars drifted closer, its red surface filling the entire archway before gliding away to reveal the ice rings of a distant moon.
“The universe is literally watching us,” Kainon muttered, trying to make himself invisible in his seat.
Ariki licked his pencil and scribbled frantic notes as Jupiter’s great red spot swirled past his window. “More like we’re watching it. This is astronomically impossible and absolutely magnificent!”
With a swift movement of wielded light, Tutelargen pulled a pedestal next to him. A velvet-lined bowl balanced on top, filled with what looked like eggs from The Flying Kitchen’s pantry.
“Not what you think. These are Choosling Eggs,” Tutelargen announced. His voice carried harmonics that made everyone’s bones vibrate pleasantly. “Each one contains your true Form — the elemental nature you were born to wield. Fire, Earth, Air, or Water. Though occasionally. . .” He paused dramatically. “We get surprises.”
“You will be called up one by one to sit in the Pachamama Chair. Once you are done, you will know where you belong in this long-awaited group of earth volunteers, and what you are here to do.” He took a moment to smile at Nahuálin and the chair.
“It could take awhile. To keep things simple, Nahuálin, Frida and myself have organized the Apprentice Forms into Fire, Earth, Air and Water. Within those forms there are — of course — some of you with more specific talents.”
His voice lowered to a more serious tone. “Some of those talents are warriors, healers, creators, orators, miners of wealth, guardians of wealth, dispensers of wealth, truth tellers, stewards of the home and hearth, and revealers of what lies beyond.”
“Each week your progress in understanding will be evaluated. That is to say, your Omringle power will be calculated at the end of each week. Your teachers, each one a Keeper, will present you with your Luxaleaf every Friday.”
At the sound of murmurs he added, “Yes, Luxaleaf. I know, lots of new words for things you have never heard of, but will soon be familiar. You will turn your Luxaleaf in the following week and get a new one. They will all be returned to you at the end of the year. It is a fun exercise. Or frustrating, as the case may be. At any rate, you will be able to see your progress at the end of the year.” Tutelargen took a step back.
Nahuálin stepped forward, “Some of you symbolize the beginning of seasons; you are the Cardinals. You are the Starters. You start things.” He looked at the chair expectantly. It shifted and swirled until Frida stood next to him.
“Frida . . . all this time,” breathed Carli. “Even at the orphanage.” Guido nodded.
Frida winked at Carli and added, “Some of you symbolize the middle of the seasons that are lived fully. You are the Fixed. You are the Appreciators.”
“Some of you symbolize the end of our seasons. You tie things up before things are transformed and begin again. You help us move to the beginning season; you are the Mutables. Many of you are a combination of all three. Each serves an important purpose. Not better or worse. Just different.” She stepped back, unconsciously plucking flowers out of the air and weaving them into her long braid.
Nahuálin said, “Some of you burn hot, like fire. Some of you are steady like the soil and earth. Some of you have air-like qualities. Some of you flow like water. Some of you have a combination of some — or all — of those traits.”
He and Frida stepped back. He added, “Remember what Frida said always: none of us are better or worse. Just different. It is that simple.”
Tutelargen nodded to Frida who dematerialized into the Pachamama Chair. He hummed to himself, then wiggled his fingers as if about to open a present, “This is my favorite part.”
One eggshell appeared to glow more than the rest. “Ahh, this one wants to be chosen first, I see.” He hummed to himself as he selected it, then held it above his head ceremoniously:
“Choosling come forth!” He cracked the Choosling Egg on his head with one hand, like a chef. Then, he held it above his other hand expectantly, and waited.
The eggshell split apart, then exploded in a cascade of golden light that sent sparkles across the theater in waves of pure possibility. The planets outside the arched windows pulsed in response; their colors intensified as if the egg’s energy fed them power drawn from creation itself.
A ball of light from the cracked egg remained above his open palm. It swirled and condensed, taking shape. What emerged was not just a fully-feathered baby chick, but something more — its wings shimmered between copper-gold fire colors and deep green earth tones with silver veins. The wings caught cosmic light streaming through the windows and threw it back in prismatic patterns across the wood-paneled walls.
The Choosling spread its stubby, impossible wings, opened its tiny beak, and in a voice that somehow carried to every corner of the vast theater, piped up: “CARLI ROCKELL!”
Silence crashed down like a physical weight.
Every head in the chamber turned toward her with the synchronicity of a flock of birds. Carli’s stomach didn’t just drop — it plummeted through the floor, through Harbornacles’ roots, through the center of the earth, and out the other side into cosmic space.
The Choosling didn’t just call her name. It launched itself into the air with a sound like tiny bells. Its dual-colored wings left a trail of fire-and-earth light as it spiraled through the theater’s upper reaches then dove straight toward her seat.
“Congratulations!” Tutelargen beamed, his smile so bright it made the nearby stars jealous.
“A dual-Form Choosling,” Guido whispered in wonder. “They’re supposed to be legendary.”
Tutelargen smiled and looked at Carli. “Come up here, my dear. We don’t mean to single you out. You came that way. Special. Or, perhaps the universe has a sense of humor. Possibly both. Definitely both.”
Carli felt the Choosling land on her shoulder with the gentleness of falling snow. Its tiny wing brushed her cheek, but its presence felt momentous; like having a piece of creation itself perch beside her ear. It pecked at her earlobe and she laughed.
“I vote for sense of humor,” Carli muttered, but her feet were already carrying her toward the Pachamama Chair as if they’d developed minds of their own.
“Don’ta worry,” Guido called after her, still picking flour from his hair. “If you get regurgitated, we fish you out!”
“That’s . . . helpful,” she called back weakly, her voice barely a whisper.
The Choosling chirped encouragingly in her ear, its voice like wind chimes made of starlight.
The Pachamama Chair seemed to sense her approach. Its swirling surface rippled and shifted, continents moving to form what might generously be called a seat, though it looked more like a cosmic-colored bean bag that could contain galaxies.
The painted ancestors throughout the chamber had gone completely silent—no betting, no commentary, just respectful attention as if they witnessed something sacred.
“Go on then,” Tutelargen encouraged gently, his enormous voice now soft as summer thunder. “It won’t bite. The chair recognizes its own.” He laughed, “Besides, it’s Frida!”
Carli looked back at her friends, who gave her encouraging thumbs up and nervous smiles. Guido mouthed “You gotta this,” while Ariki held up his notebook showing mathematical equations that somehow spelled “BRAVE.”
She took such a deep breath it drew in starlight from the twelve open doors. She closed both her brown eye and her blue eye, and plopped down into the chair.
The moment she settled into the earthy embrace, the entire chamber exploded into motion.
And somewhere in the swirling chaos of planets and possibilities, Carli Rockell began to discover exactly who she’d always been meant to be.