Witch Creek

by Laura Bickle

  “If you would, please. The key is the iron one, third from the left.”

  Owen paused. His fingers worked the keys, selected the rustiest one. He gingerly approached her and placed the key in the lock. Muirenn remained still as stone as he worked the key into the lock and the manacle opened an inch. He pulled back the key. “I don’t know if that . . .”

  “Thank you.” She reached for the manacle, peeling it from her flesh with a wince. Scales clung to the metal as she worked it free. Finally, it came loose, and she was able to put that heavy thing in the sand.

  She slid slowly into the water, hissing as it made contact with the open wound. Painful as it was, it felt nothing short of exhilarating to be free of the shackle.

  “Now, please follow me.”

  She swam along the edge of the shore, slow enough that he could follow on foot. Owen shuffled along, his hands jammed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched about his ears.

  “Why does it always rain in here? How?” he asked.

  Muirenn looked up at the roof of the cavern canopy of the underwater river, where rain clouds gathered in a soft grey fuzz. “It always has. Ever since I came here. I think it’s an excess of water elemental power concentrated in this place. Soon, that too will be under your control.”

  “Heh. That would be helpful for my tomato garden,” he joked.

  Muirenn made a polite giggle she didn’t remotely mean and swam evenly down the river. They continued for more than a mile, until the darkness lightened a bit. The river flowed into a grate that stretched to the roof of the cavern. Muirenn knew from experience that it extended deeply into the bottom of the riverbed, beyond any efforts to dig beneath it. The grate was clogged with bits of dried grasses and old leaves, but water still sluiced through it. Beyond it was the softer darkness of dawn, pink and gold. Grasses crowded the riverbank, and there was a purple swipe of mountain beyond.

  “What’s this?” Owen asked as he examined it.

  “It’s the gate to your dominion over this land,” Muirenn said. “Open it, with the silver key.”

  Owen shone his light on the brass ring and fumbled with the keys. Muirenn stayed still as he plucked one out of the clutch that was tarnished badly. He found the lock on the gate, cleared it of sludge, and turned the key.

  The gate groaned as he pushed it open. The current caught at the sludge and took it from his hand, pushing the gate all the way open, ripping the bottom hinge away with a metallic shriek.

  “Thank you, Owen,” Muirenn said. Laughter bubbled up behind her teeth.

  She dove deep in the water, flipping her fish-like tail. Her tail slapped the keys from Owen’s hand, sending them flying into the water. She made it look like an excited twitch, like an accident. But it was on purpose. No one would ever have the means to lock her up again. She plunged down the river, beyond the gate, and to freedom.

  Beyond the shadow of the cavern, the water had warmed in the sun. It had the unmistakable tang of algae and living things about it, unlike the clear cold water of the underwater river. She breathed deeply, and it chased the ice water from her lungs. Her blood moved as she swam, warming, strengthening muscles that moved under scales and fin. The river narrowed to a creek, crowded by cattails and the chirping of spring frogs. Wind pulled through trees and pale green grasses. It had been so long since she had seen these things. Her vision was bright and blurry even before the sun had climbed very high; it would take her eyes time to adjust.

  She smiled.

  At last.

  Free.

  She swam until the creek made a lazy turn. She stopped, hearing whistling. Peering through the cattails, she saw a man with a fishing pole, standing on an outcropping. He seemed alone, caught in a bit of reverie, gazing at his bobber skipping among the cattails.

  She dipped below the surface of the water, toward the shiver of the fishing line. With green-spotted fingers, she lifted the struggling fish from the hook. The line jerked away.

  The man swore.

  Muirenn lifted her head above the water.

  “Holy shit.” The man stumbled backward. “I didn’t realize you were swimming there . . . I . . .”

  His expression changed from embarrassment to curiosity as he looked at her. The pupils of his eyes dilated. “Who . . . are you?”

  Muirenn gripped the fish close to her chest, giving a small smile.

  The fisherman crouched on the rock, setting his pole beside him. “Wow. You’re uh . . . green? Is that real?”

  Muirenn cocked her head and slipped forward a bit in the water. The edge of her tail skimmed above the surface.

  “Is that like . . . one of those tails that the girls have at that park in Florida? For a movie or something?” His suntanned brow wrinkled. “No. That’s real,” he decided. “You, um . . . want the fish? You can have it.”

  She was within arm’s length of him. She released the squirming fish into the water.

  “You wanted to let it go? Look, I . . .”

  The man talked too much. She swam closer, tentatively.

  The fisherman looked at her, at her dappled skin and the dark rust hair spreading into the water. She wouldn’t ordinarily have been so bold. The weight off her tail was going to her head. She let him take in the black of her eyes, the gills on her throat. He gazed in wonder, and his fingers twitched to a small square piece of plastic on top of his tackle box.

  “Can I take your picture? What . . . are you?”

  A smile played across her lips, and she spoke to him in a silvery voice. “I’m the Mermaid.”

  “Wow. I . . . wow. I’m, uh, Norm. Do I, like, make a wish or something?”

  “You can, if you want. I’ll listen.”

  She reached up with delicate fingers to touch him. Her fingers brushed the pockets of his fishing vest, playing with wonder over the bits and baubles there meant to lure the attention of fish. The man forgot about his camera and stared, transfixed.

  Muirenn reached up for his collar . . .

  . . . and dragged him down into the water.

  He splashed and flailed. She brought him down—down to the bottom of the creek. It wasn’t so far, but it was far enough for a land dweller. He couldn’t fight her for long. He thrashed until his lungs grew heavy with creek water. He convulsed as the lack of oxygen reached his heart and filtered up to his brain. And then he stopped.

  Muirenn grinned, showing row upon row of shark-like teeth. She ripped off his arm and began to chew. It had been so long since she’d had anything but the errant fish that wandered into her realm . . . this was a meal worth waiting for.

  The creek ran red.

  Red as the idle red-and-white bobber drifting on the surface of the water.

  Petra awoke wrapped in darkness.

  Or maybe it was just a tangle of quilts.

  The sunlight had drained out of the day. She pressed her hand to her head. She felt dizzy. Not the nausea she was used to, but a disconnectedness. She glanced to the other side of the bed. Maria was asleep, motionless, her head crowned by a tight ball of grey and white cat fur.

  She glanced at the foot of the bed. Sig sat upright, as if he’d been watching her sleep, afraid that she might vanish if his back was turned.

  That’s not in the slightest bit creepy, she wanted to tell him, but didn’t want to risk waking Maria. Slipping out from under the covers, she got off the bed and padded, barefoot, across the rugs. Sig hopped down and followed. The hallway was illuminated by the yellow light from the kitchen range hood. She stepped out into its soothing light.

  A figure sat on the living-room couch, in shadow. Petra caught the shadow out of the corner of her eye.

  “Jesus, Nine,” she whispered. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry.” Nine shrugged.

  “What are you doing . . . sitting here in the dark?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Was gonna go out for a walk.” She pointed to her boots. “Want to come?”

  She looked down at Sig, who thumped his ta
il on the floor. “Yeah. A walk sounds good.” Maybe stretching her legs would help her feel a bit more grounded, less like she was walking around in a daze.

  She peeked into the hallway laundry hamper. “Nine, do you know where my clothes are?”

  “I burned them.”

  She blinked. “You what?”

  She shrugged, and she said matter-of-factly, as if it were reason enough: “They smelled like death. Maria left some things for you.” She gestured to a laundry basket beside the couch.

  Petra bit back a retort. Her phone and keys and wallet were on the coffee table. It didn’t seem like Nine burned anything important. And her clothes didn’t fit anymore, anyway. She rummaged through the basket and came up with a pair of leggings, a tunic top, socks, and underwear. Everything was black, and it struck her as a little morbidly funny.

  She dressed quickly in the bathroom. She thought she’d feel sort of naked in anything but cargo pants and a T-shirt, but these clothes molded around her body like a second skin. Surprisingly comfy, she thought. When she came out to the living room, Nine had her coat on and handed a black sherpa coat and boots to Petra.

  “Where are we going?” Petra asked as she laced the boots. They fit perfectly, and Maria had great taste in boots. They were suede and lined with what felt like fur from a skinned Muppet.

  “Out there,” Nine said laconically.

  Sig lunged out of the door as soon as Nine opened it. Petra slipped outside behind them, into the black-and-white landscape of night.

  It smelled as spring always did to her: like mud and flowers. Nine wound through the yard, around the garden. A thin moon illuminated the field beyond. Stars swept in a curtain across the sky. Dew had begun to congeal on the grasses, dampening Petra’s leggings as they walked a well-worn track in the shadow of the mountain. Sig bobbed and wove through the field, disappearing and reappearing as he hunted shadows.

  “You come out here all the time,” Petra said softly in realization. “Every night.”

  “Yes. Sometimes, Sig comes with me. Most of the time, I go by myself.”

  They walked to a black mirror in the field, a perfectly still pool of water ringed by large chunks of sandstone.

  “The Eye of the World,” Petra breathed. “Does it show you anything?” She sure as hell wanted it to show something to her. She’d tried, time and time again, before she went into the hospital, to get the oracle to offer up a path to the spirit world, to give her a clue about where to find Gabe. She’d gained nothing, however, not so much as a whisper, even when she screamed and yelled and threw rocks into her reflection in the water. It was a gate to the spirit world, but capricious as hell in who and what it let in.

  “Sometimes,” Nine admitted, kneeling before the black edge. “It shows me the rest of the pack.” She frowned, and a heavy curtain of shimmering grey hair fell over her face. Her sorrow at being separated from them was palpable in the line of her spine.

  Petra put her hand on Nine’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Nine didn’t respond. She reached into her coat pocket for the lid of a Thermos. She dipped it into the water and offered to Petra. “There’s no harm in trying again,” Nine said.

  Petra sat beside her and took the battered metal cup in her hands. Her father made her promise not to try to go to the spirit world while she was undergoing treatment. Technically, she was no longer undergoing treatment . . . so what did it matter? The moon was reflected in the black water of the cup, like a nail cutting on dark carpet. She lifted it to her lips and drank it down, every drop.

  In the past, when she’d taken the water, it had tasted a bit sweet, like diluted tea. Now, it tasted sharp and metallic, like water that had been standing in a rusty can.

  She handed the cup back to Nine, who dipped out a portion of the black water and drank. By this time, Sig had reemerged, covered in burrs, and began to slurp noisily from the pool. He plopped down beside Petra and began to chew the burrs from between his paws.

  Petra idly plucked bits of the burrs from his coat. “When you see the pack, are they well?”

  Nine nodded, gazing across the water. Her reflected silhouette was a dark, inscrutable silhouette in the water. It could have been wolf or woman in this dimness. “Last year’s pups are grown and strong. Starling is going to have more pups any time now. They are . . . happy.”

  There was no mention of whether or not they missed her. Petra didn’t pick at that scab of memory. She looked down at her own hands, pale as bones strewed in her lap. She didn’t know what to say. Her hands became blurry, and her eyelids felt heavy.

  She blinked.

  When she opened her eyes, she was no longer beside the spring. She sat on a hard, cold floor that stretched onward into darkness. It was dirt, but it looked as if it had been hand-worked, pressed into a floor after decades of hammering. In the background somewhere, water dripped. Petra looked down at herself. The handful of times she’d managed to cross into the spirit world, she had physically changed.

  This time was no exception. She was still dressed in black. But her skin had bleached out to a near-translucence. She could see the blue of blood vessels moving underneath, the shadow of bones. She looked away. Something wobbled on her head. She reached up for it. A hat—a black cowboy hat.

  She snorted. The spirit world had a sense of humor. She turned it over in her hands, considering. Gabriel had owned a hat like this, once upon a time. But she found no evidence of him on it—no notes or coins or playing cards tucked into the brim. Not so much as a stray hair.

  She scanned her surroundings. It was dangerous to be distracted in this place. Sig stood beside her, ears pressed forward, alert. Sig always was himself in the spirit world, unchanging. His attention was fixed on the darkness beyond the small, perfectly circular pool of light in which they sat. His eyes narrowed.

  They weren’t alone. Petra climbed to her feet, but had only gotten to a half crouch before a wolf appeared in the darkness. The wolf gazed upon them with liquid gold eyes. Its coat was soft and silvery, familiar . . .

  “Nine?” Petra asked. “Is that you?” She’d seen people take the shape of animals here; and Nine was, after all, a wolf underneath her human skin.

  The wolf cocked its head. “Yes.” Nine’s tail wagged, and her mouth opened in a canine grin.

  “Are you always a wolf here?”

  “Yes.” Sig offered her a nose-snoot, and Nine dipped her head to let him get a whiff. “But this is not the place I usually arrive at. I usually come to the forest. This is . . .” Her nose wrinkled, and her lips drew back in a grimace. “This is underground.”

  Petra stood, gazing up, her fingers gnawing on the brim of the hat. “It has to be a clue. About Gabriel. Maybe he’s underground. Maybe . . .”

  The light that shone from above wasn’t the moon. It was too yellow, too artificial. As she squinted and reached up, her fingers came into contact with a hot light bulb, suspended from a wire. She hissed, snatching her scalded parchment-pale fingers away from the surface.

  “What the hell? The spirit world has electricity?”

  “The spirit world has everything the middle world has.” Nine pressed her nose to the floor. “Just in more symbolic language.”

  “Gabe has to be here, somewhere, then,” Petra decided. She struck off into the darkness, her heart hammering.

  “Be careful.” Nine and Sig loped after her. “You can’t see in the dark.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. Dark was coming for her, no matter what she did.

  As she strode away from the light, Nine and Sig pressed against her right and left sides. She could feel the warmth of their fur brushing against her legs. They could see much better than she could, and they herded her. Petra steadied herself by tracing her fingers along Nine’s ruff and trying to peer into the blackness. She thought she could make out shapes, walls and edges, but that might have been her imagination playing tricks on her. The floor underneath her boots remained the same: hard-packed earth, une
ven in spots, but consistent in its stability.

  She heard her soft footsteps echoing around her, as if she walked in some large, vaulted cathedral. It smelled of earth, and Petra tried to square it with what she knew of the underground tunnels beneath the Rutherford ranch. Perhaps Gabe was there. If she could just find a landmark, some way to orient herself . . .

  Sig chuffed at her side, and she slowed. She thought she could see something, like smoke, unspinning. She sucked in her breath and held it. A twist of vapor wearing the suggestion of a human face moved past, as if pushed by an unseen breeze.

  Once it was gone, Petra hissed at Nine: “What was that?”

  A trace of a whine echoed in Nine’s voice. “I think . . . it was a ghost. We might be . . . in the land of ghosts.”

  Chapter 4

  The Ghost Land and Ever After

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s the in-between for the fresh dead, a place where people forget who they were in life. They become trapped, like flies in honey. My father spoke of it, but I never thought . . .”

  More of the wispy creatures began to form. Nine pushed her to a wall, next to Sig, who panted against her calf.

  “Don’t let them touch you!” Nine whispered. “They’ll steal the life from you.”

  A veil of white mist, like rotted linen on a clothesline, dropped from the ceiling. Petra recoiled, bending down to shield the canines. The edge of the ghost brushed Petra’s sleeve, and her arm went instantly numb.

  The ghost turned. There were no eyes in its face, just caverns of black. It seemed to glow brighter, more solidly than before, reaching back for Petra with fingers that looked like broken shards of chalk.

  “Run!” Nine barked.

  Petra lurched forward. The other ghosts turned, alerted either by the sound or the brighter glow of the ghost. Petra heard the skitter of claws on the hard ground ahead of her . . .