by E. E. Holmes
“So, Celeste loses power either way,” I said, shaking my head. “Those fucking vultures, just circling and biding their time, ready to attack at the first sign of weakness.”
“Pretty much,” Milo said. “But the point is, you’re on the clock now. It’s only a matter of time before the entire Durupinen world knows about what’s happening with Savvy, and once they do, we won’t be able to control the narrative… or the fallout.”
“Right,” I said, taking a deep breath. “So, no pressure, in other words.”
“Yeah, I mean, take your time, no rush,” Milo replied, and inside my head, I felt the gentle, warm nudge of the joke quickly washed away in our mutual flood of anxiety.
A few minutes later, after many promises of regular updates and lengthy emotional goodbyes, I finally lay my head back upon the pillow in the wagon’s top bunk, listening to Annabelle’s steady breathing and my own pounding heart. I closed my eyes and tried to focus in on the blood in my veins, to the tenuous, ancient connection within it that bound me to Agnes and to my sister, and to so many other Durupinen over the centuries—I tried not to think of any part of that connection as stolen. And as the connection in my blood sang to me its ancient song, I sang back to it, softly.
“I’m doing my best. Please help guide me. Help me to make the right choices.”
The connection in my blood sang back, and though I could not understand the words, there was a familiar comfort to it, and before long, it had sung me to sleep.
§
I woke so suddenly, so completely, that I wondered if I had even been asleep at all. Voices were shouting outside the wagon. I rolled over and squinted at my watch. It was two o’clock in the morning. I’d barely been asleep for two hours.
I sat up, forgetting where I was and cracking my head on the low wooden ceiling. Cursing, my eyes watering, I slid down out of the bunk just as Annabelle sat up, looking around sleepily and mumbling, “What is it? Is something happening?”
“I don’t know,” I told her, sliding my feet into my sneakers. “I can hear a lot of people out there. I’m going to check it out.”
“Wait for me, I’ll come with you,” Annabelle said, remembering to keep her head low as she rolled out of her own bunk.
I lifted the latch that held together the two halves of the Dutch door and pushed the top half wide. Outside our wagon, a group of perhaps a dozen Travelers were huddled together, two holding torches, the others lanterns of various shapes and sizes. An older woman, her head wrapped in a bright red scarf, was gesticulating enthusiastically, pointing in various directions and sending the other Travelers scurrying off to wherever she indicated.
“Auntie Zina?” Annabelle called out, and the woman looked up. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Vashti’s little girl, Naomi. She’s gone missing from their wagon and no one seems to know where she’s gone off to. We’re searching the woods,” Zina replied. Vashti stood beside Zina, clutching a shawl around her shoulders, eyes red and swollen from crying. Zina had thrown her arm around the woman and was rubbing her arm consolingly. I recognized Vashti at once as the mother of the little girl who had hidden beneath my skirts at the campfire.
“Let me help,” Annabelle said, pulling the latch on the bottom of the door and hurrying down the steps. “I can help look for her.”
Zina looked skeptical but shrugged, reaching into her pocket and handing Annabelle a flashlight. “Suit yourself, but we can’t be looking for you as well if you get yourself lost in the woods.”
“I can look after myself, Auntie,” Annabelle shot back, sounding a bit petulant. “I want to help.”
“Very well. The child is wearing a blue nightgown and her red wellies are missing, so she’s likely wearing those, too. Take that path north but be sure to turn back if you reach the river. It’s swollen this time of year, and it’s not safe to search it in the dark.”
“Naomi knows better than to go near the river. She’s scared of the current,” Vashti sniffed in a quavering voice. Zina nodded and rubbed Vashti’s arm vigorously in reply.
“That’s right, love, that’s right. Don’t worry, we’ll find her. Fan out now, everyone.”
I descended the steps as the group dispersed and joined Annabelle. “I’ll come with you,” I told her. “I want to help, too.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Annabelle said. “You should try to get some sleep.”
I rolled my eyes. “Like I can sleep knowing there’s a little girl lost in the woods out here? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m coming. Hang on, though, I’m going to grab one of the lanterns from the wagon.”
A few minutes later, Annabelle and I found ourselves deep in the nighttime forest, surrounded by velvety darkness, wind-rustled trees, and the echoing shouts of the missing girl’s name. Behind us, back at the camp, surely everyone must be roused by now, drawn out of their slumber by the ruckus. Above our heads, bats swooped through the trees, and around our feet, small nocturnal creatures scurried away from the beams of our searchlights. Every minute that went by dug the hollow of dread in my stomach a little deeper. Where could the child have gone? What might have happened to her?
“Traveler kids must know better than to wander off from the camp, right?” I asked in an effort to distract myself as the ‘what-if’s’ began to creep up on me. “They must teach them that from the cradle.”
“Yeah, but you know how kids are,” Annabelle replied, squinting into the darkness. “Some of them have to test the limits, just to see. It’s like when your mom tells you not to touch the stove because it’s hot. There’s always one little bugger who just has to know how hot it really is.”
I chuckled. “I was totally that kid. Until I got old enough to notice my mom was more likely to set the place on fire than I was, and then I realized I needed to watch out for both of us.”
A whoosh and a shiver indicated that a spirit had passed by us overhead. This was nothing unusual; much like Fairhaven and any location where Durupinen congregated, spirit activity was heightened in the woods surrounding the Traveler camp. So it wasn’t until the third spirit swooped over us, sailing off in the same direction, that Annabelle and I really took notice.
“That’s… strange,” I said, watching the silvery glimmer of the third spirit disappear into the trees ahead of us. “What do you suppose that’s about?”
“I’m not sure,” Annabelle said, though she looked wary now. “But I think it means we should keep going.”
We continued down the same path, hyperaware now not only for signs of Naomi, but for spirit presence as well. So when two more spirits sailed into the path ahead of us, we did not waste the opportunity to question them.
“Hello!” I called out. “Excuse me?”
One of the spirits turned to me in surprise. He took the form of an elderly gentleman in a long robe that might have been a monk’s garb.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
The spirit blinked at me several times. I could not be sure if he’d understood me or not, until he muttered something that sounded like Italian, pointed up the path ahead of us, and continued on his way.
Annabelle looked at me, eyes wide. “That was… interesting.”
I nodded. “Did you see that he didn’t even notice me until I called out to him?”
Annabelle smirked. “Do you get this put out every time a man doesn’t notice you?”
“I’m not put out,” I said, “I’m intrigued. It’s not often that a ghost can float right past a Gateway without even giving it a passing glance. That must mean there’s something pretty damn intriguing up this path.”
Annabelle stared at me, and I could read the fear in her face. “Do you think… Naomi?” she whispered.
“Let’s find out,” I replied. “Let’s follow them.”
We hurried our pace to keep the spirits in sight. After several minutes, they veered from the path and into the thick vegetation of the forest, and it became much more difficult to follow them. We scrambled over clu
mps of bushes and fought our way through branches grown so close together that they formed thick, leafy barriers. Tree roots tripped us every few steps, and the ground between them grew wet and spongy with moss. The faint, translucent glow of the ghosts drifted further and further ahead of us. If we had to go much further, we would lose them completely, and then I doubted we’d ever be able to find our way back to the encampment.
“Jess.”
I picked myself up, swearing from the ground for what felt like the hundredth time and turned to see Annabelle white-faced, holding a muddy red boot.
My heart sped up. “We must be getting close,” I told her. “Let’s keep moving.”
But I’d only pressed forward a few more feet when I met a tangle of branches, vines, and foliage so dense that I could not break through it. It was as though the forest itself had built a wall between us and whatever was on the other side. Annabelle stumbled to a halt beside me and began pulling and tugging at the foliage as well.
“What in the world…” she panted. “How do we get through?”
I held up my lantern, gazing around, but the dense, leafy wall stretched for as far as I could see in the flickering light. I hesitated to change directions; what if we lost our way? I turned to the nearest ancient tree trunk, wondering if I might be able to scale it, when I stepped on something smooth and slippery. I looked down.
Another shiny, red wellie, spotted with mud.
As I bent to pick it up, I noticed a hole, perfectly round and child-sized, in the dense barrier of foliage. I blinked, wondering for a moment if a white rabbit with a waistcoat and a watch was going to pop out of it and announce that he was, in fact, very late. Then I shook my head to clear it.
“Annabelle! Look!”
I handed her the boot, then showed her the little tunnel.
“Do you suppose we can fit through it?” Annabelle asked.
“Only one way to find out,” I said and, dropping to my hands and knees, attempted to wedge myself through it.
We definitely brought the wrong twin for this job, I thought to myself, thinking of my tiny sister as I forced my proportions through the entanglement, snaring my hair, ripping my clothing, and scratching up every exposed bit of skin. After much struggling and a fair amount of cursing, I forced the top half of my body through the tunnel and felt a frigid wind hit my raw face.
The tunnel opened into a small, circular clearing, with monstrous trees arching high on all sides, coming nearly together up above us like the arches of a natural cathedral, but for a round hole at the very center, through which the full moon shone like a celestial spotlight. And in its milky beam, a small child stood, her long, dark hair adorned with twigs and leaves, her blue nightdress washed out and shredded from a long and treacherous journey through the snatching and grabbing fingers of the wilderness.
“Naomi.”
But the child did not turn. She could not. For before her stood a dais, and upon the dais, the crumbled remains of what was, unmistakably, a Geatgrima. And flowing between them, the girl and the ruin, was a glowing current of pure spirit energy.
“Oh, God, no,” I whispered.
“What? What is it? Did you find her? Let me through, Jess!”
I slid the rest of my body through the tunnel and struggled to my feet, never taking my eyes off of the girl. I barely registered when Annabelle finally fought her way in to appear at my side, hardly took in a word of her frightened exclamations. It wasn’t until she rushed forward, arm outstretched to pull the child back from the dais, that I regained enough sense to reach out, grab Annabelle by the back of her sweater and yank her backward.
“Don’t! You can’t touch her!”
“But Jess, something’s wrong, something’s happening to her!”
“I know, but you mustn’t touch her! It’s too late, Annabelle, we can’t help her now.”
Annabelle turned a devastated expression on me as memory caught up with reality. “This is what happened to your friend Savannah, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, a lump rising in my throat.
Annabelle turned over her shoulder and, before I could stop her, she started screaming for help, her voice reverberating through the trees, echoing and shattering and echoing again, until it seemed the forest itself was crying out for help for the little girl.
I stepped forward, walking slowly around until I could see Naomi’s face. It was arresting to see that the very same expression could exist on two such completely different faces as this child and Savvy. An identical look of utter tranquility, of pride and duty—of… peace.
“It’s all right, Naomi,” I whispered to the girl. “Don’t be afraid. Everything is going to be okay.” She didn’t appear afraid, of course; it was my own fear I was trying to soothe. Naomi’s face remained unchanged, her connection with the Geatgrima all-consuming. She was no longer just a child, lost in the woods. She was a Sentinel now.
I stepped back from the girl and turned my attention now to the Geatgrima. It was truly ancient, little more than a pile of rubble upon the dais, which was itself crumbling to dust, creeping vines and weeds forcing their way up between the stones. I knelt down and examined the largest of the remaining stones. Just there, behind a tangle of ivy, the faintest impression of a marking, worn almost to nothing by hundreds of years of rain and wind and time: the mark of the Tansy Hag.
Meanwhile, around the edges of the clearing, voices were growing louder, followed by the dull thuds of axes and knives as Traveler Caomhnóir cut and hacked through the forest’s defenses of the sacred space. At last, the Travelers swarmed the clearing, all of them stopping short upon the revelation of the moonlit scene before them. It seemed as though the entirety of the camp had joined in the search—I even spotted Catriona and Lucida’s wary faces near the back of the crowd, unsure whether they really ought to be there, and yet too curious not to follow.
“Naomi!” a desperate voice cried out, breaking the silence. Vashti, the girl’s mother, had at last broken through. She rushed forward as Annabelle had done, but was held back by a dozen hands at once, all shushing and soothing and restraining in a chorus.
“You mustn’t touch her, Vashti.”
“Keep back, love.”
“There, there, now. You mustn’t do anything foolish.”
Vashti’s cries for her baby filled the clearing, rising to a keening so pure that it raised the hairs on the back of my neck and sent birds scattering from the trees above us.
“Let me through. What has happened here?”
Ileana had arrived at last, her raven swaying upon her shoulder. Flanked by Dragos and a second Caomhnóir with a jagged scar running the length of his face. The crowd of Travelers parted for her, drifting to either side, all of them gazing at her, desperate for answers. Ileana’s expression as she laid eyes upon the child and the Geatgrima, was inscrutable. She walked the total circumference of the clearing, examining the scene from every angle. She stared up into the face of the moon, as though it were speaking to her, whispering words carried to her on the breeze that none of the rest of us could hear. At last she stood so near Naomi that the gathered company drew in a collective gasp. She stared into the child’s face, and examined the pulsing glow of her connection to the Geatgrima. Finally, she straightened up and surveyed the captivated crowd.
“Who found her like this?” she asked.
“We did,” I replied, the sound of my own voice making me wince. “Annabelle and myself. We heard the others outside our wagon organizing a search party and we volunteered to help.”
“How did you know to come here?” Ileana asked, the raven upon her shoulder cocking its head in an accusatory way.
“We didn’t know to come here,” Annabelle replied, raising her chin defiantly at the insinuation in the question. “We were sent down this path by my Aunt Zina. We followed her orders.”
“This is true,” Zina piped up from the midst of the crowd, where a distraught Vashti sobbed inconsolably into her shoulder.
“B
ut you left the path,” Ileana said. “Why?”
I pointed up to the sky, where nearly a dozen spirits now hovered over the clearing. “We followed them. After four of them passed us, all traveling the same way in the forest, we felt it was worth investigating. We also found her boots along the way.”
I held up the pair of little red wellies. Vashti sunk to the ground, weeping into Zina’s skirts.
“How did the child find the Geatgrima?”
She asked the question to the group at large, but no one answered.
“This site has been lost for many years. How did the child find it?”
Again, no answer from the Travelers, but a question rose from my own lips before I could stop it. “You didn’t know this Geatgrima was here?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yes, we knew it was here, once,” Ileana replied stiffly. “A ruin only, abandoned many years ago when we were forced from these lands by a fire. Our people occupied these forests many centuries ago. We have been drawn back to it over the generations. It has become a bastion of safety in our many wanderings. But the exact location of this monument was lost to us. Until now.”
Ileana looked up at the spirits who crowded the sky above us like sentient clouds. Then she crossed the clearing until she was standing right in front of me.
“You know what is happening. You have seen this before.”
It was not a question, and I wasn’t entirely sure how she knew it, but I nodded. “Yes. At Fairhaven, in our central courtyard. My friend Savannah Todd—you’ve met her, she was with me when the Necromancers attacked your camp. She is now locked into a connection just like this.”
“When?”
“About two weeks ago. She has neither moved nor spoken. No one can approach her.”