Eight Rivers of Shadow

by Leo Hunt

  “What? Ham?”

  “He may accompany you. It is his right. I have no love of the beast, but he is an extension of your spiritual power. If he agrees to the journey, it would be to our advantage when it comes to battle.”

  I find Ham cowering in his crate in the laundry room. He whines bitterly when me and the Shepherd come to find him. Ham’s such an incredible coward, and the idea of him following us into Deadside is bizarre. But if the Shepherd thinks it would help, then I suppose I should try and convince him to come along.

  “Look, boy,” I say. “I’m going on a journey. I want to get Elza back. He thinks we can do it. If you don’t want to come, then I understand. But I’d really appreciate your company.”

  Ham looks from me to the Shepherd and back again. He whines and flattens his ears against his head. Then he gets up out of his crate, with a long-suffering look, and pads over to lick my hand.

  I’ve only ever backed Mum’s car out of the driveway before, but driving on the roads doesn’t seem too difficult. I have this unfortunate incident with a delivery van just at the bottom of Wormwood Drive, but we don’t actually hit it, and we head on up to Pilgrim Grove without further excitement, with Ham lying on a sleeping bag in the backseat. At first I was convinced we’d meet a police car at a corner, get pulled over, and be put in jail, but with a bitter thrill I realized that it doesn’t matter. The Shepherd can take care of that. I can do whatever I need to do. We make our way through the half-finished houses and the fog.

  “Rather extraordinary,” the Shepherd remarks, looking out through the passenger-side window at the mist.

  “I know. I’m actually a natural at driving! Who knew?”

  “I was referring to the gate to the spirit world,” he says without a trace of mirth.

  “You’re really easy to tease,” I say, and then realize it was what Elza used to say to me. Will say to me, I decide. She will say that again, and she’ll give me one of her infuriating grins as well.

  We drive through the development and across the field until we find the place, then get out of the car. Elza is still where I left her, hidden under plastic. The Shepherd kneels beside her. His face doesn’t show any emotion. She’s just a minor detail to him, her corpse only a small variable in our plan. He wets two fingers in his mouth and strokes them over her forehead. Somehow they leave a black smudge, like ink, trailing from Elza’s hairline down to the top of her nose. The Shepherd leans back on his heels, examining the corpse from another angle.

  “The decay is not too far advanced,” he announces, “and I have halted it, for a time. Worms will not make a meal of her today.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. A few hours, and she was already starting to rot. I don’t want to think about it.

  I lift her into the trunk of the car while the Shepherd goes to examine the gateway Ash made into Deadside. I’ve lifted her up before, carried her on my back and stuff, but she seems heavier now, and she’s cold, too. Her arm hangs down and swings as I walk. I feel like a murderer, wrestling Elza’s body into the trunk of a car.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as I close the trunk. “I’m going to fix this.”

  Ham gazes anxiously over the headrests. I leave the car and walk through the thickening fog to find the Shepherd. He’s standing right where the front gate to Ash’s place used to be. He seems to be feeling for something in the air, some kind of flaw or opening. I wait silently.

  “No,” the Shepherd says, almost to himself, “no.”

  He turns and sees me standing beside him.

  “How did she do this?” I ask.

  “The Ahlgren girl chose her plot well,” he says. “There are hidden pathways in the earth. Lines of force. Where they converge —”

  “Yeah, ley lines. Mum’s always talking about those.”

  “Where they converge,” he continues, “you will find a passing place. The stone circle you called the Devil’s Footsteps is one such location. This house appears to have been built at another.”

  “She chose this place deliberately?”

  “It would appear so. The house itself is built upon a passing place of sorts. A minor spot, apparently not even worthy of the attentions of the ancient people who first settled in Dunbarrow. There most likely was a single oak tree growing here, before the development began. Perhaps a ring of mushrooms . . . no matter. Even a minor crack between the worlds can become a great gateway, if opened with enough force. The Ahlgren girl appears to have transported her entire house into the spirit world.”

  “You can do that?”

  “King Solomon supposedly had an entire wing of his palace that existed only within the realm of the dead. It’s uncommon, but quite possible. The spirit Kasmut, the Ahlgren Host’s Widow, has considerable power at her disposal. I knew her in life, and I have no reason to believe time has lessened her abilities, nor increased her supply of mercy. The opening of this new gateway would not be possible without an enormous reserve of magical strength. We must be cautious when meeting that woman in battle.”

  I remember the way the Widow fought the demon: the delirious fluidity of her movements, the terrible force behind her spear thrusts. Scary as the Shepherd can be, I’ve never seen him actually fight anything. I’m not sure how I’d rate his chances against Ash’s bodyguard.

  “Do not fear,” he says, clearly reading my unease. “You have a powerful spirit at your disposal as well.” He flashes his rank of gray teeth. I grimace back. “Powerful and cunning. In life, there were kings who came to me on bended knee. We will vanquish this upstart coven of women. You have my word.”

  “Glad you’ve got my back,” I say.

  Probably he’s got my back just long enough to slide a knife into it. Plus who says stuff like “upstart coven”? Why am I trusting this ghost? This is insane.

  I need to get Elza back.

  This is going to work.

  Trust yourself. Not him.

  Trust yourself.

  “So what do we do?” I ask.

  “I had hoped we could force an entry here, perhaps even find Ashana’s body unguarded. But the gateway is warded. I cannot break through.”

  “So?”

  “You will open the gateway at the Devil’s Footsteps, and we will proceed from there.”

  The drive out of Dunbarrow and around to the Footsteps, mimicking the drive we made with Ash on Thursday evening, isn’t as tense as making our way up to Pilgrim Grove was. Seeing Elza’s body, touching it, has reminded me that the worst has already happened. The idea of being stopped with a corpse in the trunk doesn’t scare me like it ought to. She’s already gone. Every mile we drive is another mile closer to bringing her back. In the end, we barely even see another car on the country lanes. I don’t think the Footsteps is a particular draw for weekend sightseers. We make our way down the rutted path, stop more or less in the same place where we came just days ago with Ash, the same spot where I found Mum’s car that morning last October. I remember Ham running to it, Elza getting out, the smile on her face when she saw I was alive —

  I cut the engine. The Shepherd waits without speaking a word while I cry. When I’m done sniffling, he says in a voice like ice, “The world is cruel.”

  “What?” I say, realizing there’s snot on my upper lip. I dab it with my sleeve, not caring. The Shepherd gives me a look of disgust.

  “The world is cruel,” he says again. “It does not care about your suffering. Magic is the art of changing the world to suit you. In order to bend the world to your will, you must be cruel as well. Mastery and empathy do not complement one another.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because,” the ghost says, “you are forcing me into a dangerous journey with you. I want you to understand what may be necessary in order to achieve your goal. The spirit world, Deadside, is not Dunbarrow.”

  “I’ve seen it,” I say. “I know.”

  The Shepherd snorts. “You were under the influence of the Black Goat. That spirit moves at will thr
ough both worlds like a great shark in a reef. This time it will be different. We must travel on foot, with only our will and our wisdom as guides. We will be vulnerable to the spirits that dwell there. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” I say.

  “You think so?” The Shepherd reaches out and sinks his spectral fingers right into my arm. I feel a cold bite, like someone laid ice on my skin. I shudder. “You must know so,” he hisses. “You must know that you want what we seek, that you truly want it. You do not have this in the spirit world. You will leave your flesh behind. What is the spirit?”

  “I don’t know. Ectoplasm? It’s made of dark matter?”

  “Your spirit”— his mirrored glasses are inches from my eyes —“is what dwells within the flesh. It is will, Luke. Will, and wisdom. Do you understand me now? It is not your muscles that will make you strong in the spirit world. It is your will, the will to power, the will that drives you to dominate and destroy. This is how you can survive.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you really? You want what you say you want? You want it so badly you are willing to risk all?”

  “I do,” I say. “We’ve come this far. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “I hope that you do,” the Shepherd says. He lets go of my arm. “I do not know what we will face in the spirit world, but we will not reach the Shrouded Lake without incident. All that men fear in life is death, but within death itself, there are fates far graver. If your will is weak, turn back now, not once the threshold is crossed. I do not wish to find myself tethered to a master who lacks the courage to see our journey to the end. It would go badly for us both.”

  “No,” I say. “We’re going on.”

  Before he can say another word, I open the car door and get out. It’s late afternoon now, with crisp air and long shadows. Birds squabble in the oak trees overhead. I decide to head down to the Footsteps with the tent first, set it up, and then get Ham and Elza. I shoulder it, make my way down the muddy path, over the stony bank, through the bracken. As I reach the stone circle, I hear someone break a branch behind me. I turn.

  It’s a boy wearing a rain jacket, tracksuit pants, dirty hiking boots. He’s got his hood raised, and although his face is wild and gaunt, I recognize him. It’s Mark Ellsmith, my old mate. He seems to be pointing a gun at me.

  “Mark?” I say slowly. “Ash said you were in a hotel —”

  “Luke,” he says. He’s got a look in his eyes that I don’t like, as though he’s been staring at the sun too long. He moves his mouth several times without speaking, like he’s trying to choose the right words. The gun — a shotgun, with a smooth, oily barrel and an expensive walnut stock — remains trained on me, visibly trembling, along with his arms.

  “That’s your dad’s, isn’t it?” I ask, being sure not to make a sudden move. Mark’s dad is one of these types you’d think was born in a Barbour jacket and flatcap, even though he actually grew up in West London. He likes nothing better than blasting pheasants out of the sky, wringing fluffy rabbit necks with his bare hands.

  “Yeah,” Mark says.

  “How about you put that down?” I say.

  “She said she’d make it stop,” Mark says. “Said to wait in the woods and see if he comes.”

  “She” has to be Ash, surely? She trapped me in the mirror and warded off the passing place she made, but just in case . . . she left someone to guard this one as well. Covering all possibilities.

  The Shepherd is approaching through the trees. She didn’t anticipate that I’d summon him again. I try to catch his gaze, signal with my face that Mark has a weapon.

  “Ash,” Mark’s saying. “She’s got a way to make me forget. Forget what you told me. And she said I could have it. Just wait out here, she said. What’s so special about this place anyway, Luke?”

  “What did Ash promise you?”

  “What you said to me, that day in the park. She said there was a way I could forget. If I just —” He swallows. “She called me. Said to wait at the stones, and if you come, I should stop you.”

  “Stop me how?”

  “Not shoot. I don’t have to shoot. I just need you to . . . sit down. She said not to let you near the stones. That’s what I have to do. . . .”

  “Mark,” I say, “please put the gun down. Ash isn’t a good person. She’s using you.”

  The Shepherd is standing right beside him, unseen, examining the angle of the shotgun. What’s he going to do? Why doesn’t he help me? Maybe he’ll let Mark shoot me. He’d be free. It depends how much he wants what I promised him. I’m imagining the gun firing, the bullets embedding themselves in my chest. . . .

  “Why would you say that to me?” Mark screams suddenly. “Why?”

  “I don’t know what I said to you,” I say. “It wasn’t . . . Mark, it wasn’t me.”

  “I haven’t been able to forget,” he says. “I can’t forget. Ash said there was a way. . . .”

  “What did the de — What did I tell you, Mark?”

  He swallows. The gun remains aimed at my chest.

  “You said —”

  The Shepherd grabs the barrel of the shotgun and yanks it upward. Mark whoops with fear and pulls the trigger, both barrels discharging their shot into the canopy of trees. I feel the reverberations of the gunshot in my bones. My ears are ringing like a fire alarm.

  “Mark!”

  Mark is still staring at the shotgun in disbelief. The Shepherd has wrestled it from his grasp and now swings the butt directly into Mark’s face, cracking his nose open. Mark goes down, howling with pain. I’m not sure what’s affecting him worse: the nose, which looks broken, or the fact that, from his perspective, his shotgun just decided to float into the air and beat the shit out of him. The Shepherd throws the gun into the undergrowth. The ghost raises his hands, and to my astonishment, green flames boil out of his fingers, flowing over Mark’s body like a rippling cocoon of fire.

  Mark convulses, clutching at his burst nose, blood streaming over his chin. The Shepherd smiles, and green fire erupts again from his hands, oozing through the air and landing on Mark’s fallen body. Mark’s feet drum against the earth. His fingers clutch at nothing. There’s white foam coming from his mouth, mixing with the blood.

  The Shepherd raises his hands a third time —

  I come back to myself.

  “Stop!” I scream. “You’re going to kill him!”

  The ghost pauses, flames dripping from his white fingers.

  “That was my intent, yes,” the Shepherd says.

  Mark is trying to crawl away, but he’s so disoriented that he’s crawling toward the Devil’s Footsteps, toward me.

  “Please, Luke,” he says, “please . . .”

  “He was my friend. We’re not going to kill him.”

  “He is an agent of Ashana,” the Shepherd says.

  “He barely knows what’s going on! The demon told him something that’s been eating his mind! Ash said she could help him! I hardly blame him!”

  “I have sympathy for my enemies only once they are defeated,” the Shepherd says, and unleashes a third barrage of flames onto Mark. This time they hit his back and thighs, boiling their way into his clothes and skin. Mark clutches at the dirt as if he’s trying to dig into it and get away from us.

  I raise my sigil, and it blazes with cold. A wave of power strikes the Shepherd, knocking him backward into the dirt. White lightning crackles around his chest and head. He yells in anger. I stand over him, pointing the sigil down at his chest.

  “You know what I can do with this,” I say. “You’re my Shepherd. My Shepherd. If I say not to kill someone, I mean it.”

  “You are weak!” he spits. “Does my counsel mean nothing to you? The realm of the spirits has no place for mercy. Without the will —”

  “I have plenty of will,” I tell him, voice steady. “I’m using it now. Mark is already defeated. I’m not letting you torture him to death.”

  The Shepherd seems about to say s
omething more, but then his face hardens into its usual mask-like stillness.

  “I have overstepped,” he agrees, and calmly gets to his feet. The flames around his hands evaporate. “I hope,” he says as Mark groans in the mud, “that you will not hesitate to do what needs to be done when we face the Ahlgren party, however.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “We’ll handle them.”

  “I am worried,” the Shepherd says, giving me a hard look. “But I suppose the time for objections is gone. What shall we do with the boy?”

  I look down at Mark.

  “Send him to sleep,” I say. “Actual sleep. That’s not a euphemism.”

  Here’s how our journey begins: I set up the tent near the Footsteps, behind a thick wall of bushes. Even if you approach from the path and stand right by the stones, our campsite isn’t visible. It’s a six-man tent, plenty big, and I haul Mark into one sleeping compartment, blood drying on his face. I wish there was time to take him to the hospital or something, but there’s just no way. The Shepherd put him under, so at least he’s not in pain.

  I carry Elza’s corpse to the tent and put her in the other compartment. When she’s lying there, I stop and kneel next to her, quaking as I cry silently. I don’t want the Shepherd to hear me. He doesn’t understand. He never even liked Elza, and she hated him. She’d have hated this, me crossing over, all of it. For a moment I feel like I ought to stop, call the whole thing off, send the Shepherd back to Hell, but as I look at her lying there, I realize I can’t. While there’s even a chance of seeing her again, I can’t stop.

  I zip up the compartment. She’s safe in there. There’s no other option for me. I have to do this. I take a breath and go back outside. The tent should spare us the attentions of any wandering animals, at least for the few days I’ll be away. I hope it’ll be only a few days, anyway. I seem to be trusting the Shepherd on a lot of the details. He waits silently by the Devil’s Footsteps while I prepare, gathering stones and arranging them around the tent in the pattern he showed me. This is the other part of our defense: a ward against wandering spirits who might want a ride inside one of our bodies while we’re gone. Yes, our bodies: me and Ham will be lying here, too. Apparently spirits like that are rare, but I don’t want to take chances.