Approaching Night: Book I of Seluna

by Ilana Waters

  “When Dr. Catron decides you’re ready.” The sound of Nurse Cutter’s voice was as final as the click of the key as it turned in the lock.

  “When will that be?” I yelled. “A week? A month? The rest of my life?” Is this like putting me in the Hold? “Hey, where are you going?” I could hear her footsteps getting fainter and fainter as she went down the stairs. “Answer me!”

  But she didn’t. I had a feeling neither she nor anyone else would be back, unless it was to give me meals the following day. Or perhaps not, if what Rose said about treatment in the Hold was true.

  Except for the fact that I might starve, it was hard to consider isolation a punishment. Catron probably didn’t know it, but I often got my best ideas when I was alone. Then again, I had always been odd. But I didn’t really think I’d starve. Just as I’d always been able to see with less light, I could usually get by on less food, though it was unpleasant.

  Still, this was a complete injustice. Who the hell does Catron think he is? I hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. I only wanted to stop people from getting hurt. I found my chamberstick candleholder and matches, lit a taper, and tried to think.

  I had to get out of here. Not just out of my room, but out of the asylum. However, the more I thought about escape, the more I realized the inevitability of failure. Even if I could get past the locked doors and barred windows, then into the forest that surrounded the moors, I had no way of getting out of the forest. I’d been raised in civilization; I’d no idea how to survive alone in the woods in winter. And unless my reanimation abilities included raising my own dead corpse, I was would likely be made a meal of by some wild animal.

  And where would I go? Home wasn’t an option, even if I could make it there. After all, the people at home were the ones who sent me here. I wasn’t entirely sure they didn’t suspect the things Dr. Catron and his staff were capable of. I had no other family or friends who lived close by, and no way to travel to the few I did have.

  Friends. Even if I made it out, what about the other girls? What about Rose and Laura? It was true I hadn’t known them long, but what would they think of my abandoning them? As long as I stayed, there was a possibility I could figure out a way for us all to escape.

  Fat chance of that happening, I thought bitterly. I’d already failed Laura once. What would they think once they heard I’d been locked in my room? They’d probably be more frightened and distraught than ever. And the staff would probably keep a closer watch on me than ever. I wouldn’t have another opportunity to sneak into Catron’s office and find his telegraph. Hopefully, once word of my imprisonment got to Rose, she wouldn’t dare try either. It wasn’t worth the risk of her suffering the same fate as me. Or worse.

  Cursing, I watched as the candlelight made shadows around the garret. Still cursing, I walked back and forth across the floor. I kicked the wall in one corner. I expected it to give at least a little, to crumble like the rest of the rotting wood in here. But it held firm. Annoyed, I kicked the wall again, harder.

  Ow! Dammit, that really hurt. Even with the thick tip of my boot, I could feel the pain vibrating through my toes. And the second kick had made a dull, thudding sound. Not what you’d hear from an old piece of wood. Whatever I’d kicked felt more solid. Substantial.

  Slowly, I moved my hands over the bottom of the wall, sweeping away a thick blanket of dust and cobwebs. It was disgusting work, and I had to wipe my fingers off on my skirts several times; the mess was that bad. But I was so irritated that I didn’t care. As I cleaned the debris away, the wall felt colder. This part of the attic wasn’t made of wood, it seemed, but stone. That was why my foot hurt when I kicked it. But the wall was so dirty—and the attic so often dark—that I’d never noticed it before.

  I found a large crack between the wall and the floor. There was a draft coming from underneath it; that was why the wall seemed colder. As my hands made their way up, and I paused to wipe them every few feet, I realized it wasn’t a wall at all. I felt a large iron ring on the right side. The wall was actually a door.

  Anticipating the door would be heavy, I put my boot against the wall next to the door and pulled the ring with both hands. The door didn’t budge. I stood on my tiptoes and brushed the rest of the dust and cobwebs off it. Now, I could see its outline clearly. But no matter how much I pulled and pulled, the door wouldn’t move an inch.

  Blast. I really wanted to see what was behind it. Was it a secret room? Could it be . . . a dead body? I had to admit, I found the latter thought more thrilling than horrifying. It would certainly be a creepy and exciting find.

  Gods, maybe I really am as loony as they say. Normal girls didn’t think like this. Regardless, I had to know what was behind that door, even if it was only storage.

  I pulled so hard on the ring that I lost my balance and fell on my tailbone. I swore, rubbed my backside, and stood up again. I gave the door a hard thwack with my palm. Damn this wretched thing! But then, I heard a click, and the door began gently swinging into the room.

  What? You had to push the door to get it open? Perhaps the ring was just for show.

  “Clever, aren’t we?” I said to the door. “Getting me to hit you like that and all.” I backed up a few feet, just in case the dead bodies behind the door weren’t quite so dead.

  The door swung open all the way. And although there was a draft, which I expected, there was nothing dead. But there wasn’t a place for storage either. I peered inside. I couldn’t glimpse much from the light of the candle, even with my keen vision. But it seemed to be the top of a stairwell. I stepped into the doorway and looked down a winding staircase, one whose bottom I could not see.

  You have two choices, Seluna, I thought. Stay here, bemoaning your fate, or go down the stairs and see where they lead.

  I was no coward, and staying up here was pointless. It was an easy choice. I debated whether to bring the candle. If someone—or something—dangerous was in the stairwell, I didn’t want to call attention to myself. I may not have been a coward, but I wasn’t a fool either. Still, no creature—including me—could see in total darkness.

  Creature. I smiled a little. Exactly what was I expecting to find in the secret passage?

  It was an intriguing question.

  I picked up the candleholder and grabbed a small matchbox. Undoing a few collar buttons, I stuck the matchbox down the front of my bodice. For the first time, I wondered if it might be a good idea to sew in secret pockets, the way Rose had. I’d no idea how she’d gotten the needle and thread to do so, but if she could sneak in cigarettes, she could do damn near anything. Wrapping my shawl about my neck and shoulders, I cupped one hand around the candle flame so it wouldn’t be killed by the draft. I took a deep breath and stepped over the door’s threshold.

  No sooner had I done so than the door closed behind me with a resounding thud. It nearly blew out the candle, but I hunched over it just in time. Now it was the only light in the cramped space.

  Well, you’re the one who wanted to go down the stairs, Seluna, I thought to myself. Now you’ve got your wish. I picked up my skirts and walked slowly, trying not to trip on the tiny, steep steps. I couldn’t see that far in front of me.

  In medieval times, twisting stairs like these were built to give castle owners an advantage in the event of an attack. They would have been able to sword-fight more effectively going down the stairs than an intruder would be able to do going up. Then again, I had no sword. I didn’t have so much as a letter opener to use as a weapon if I needed it.

  Bugger all. Should’ve thought of that before. Why didn’t I bring something? Oh well. Too late now.

  I tried to tell myself there was nothing to worry about. From the looks of the cobwebs in here, no one had gone up or down this staircase in quite a while. I wondered if Catron knew about it. Unlikely. He owned the asylum, but he wasn’t the original builder. I’d never seen Silver Hill’s blueprints, but if the staircase wasn’t on them, Catron probably had no idea it existed. He never woul
d’ve put me in the garret if he had.

  The steps seemed to go on forever. How far down do they reach, anyway? Am I underground? Perhaps the staircase wound into the very center of the earth. I remembered a story where several men once ventured there, but I believe they did it by means of an inactive volcano.

  I was still racking my brain for the name of the story when I came to the last step. Before me stood a stone door, roughly the same size as the one in my room. There was no need to try and open this one. I could already see moonlight shining through the large slit on one side where someone had failed to shut it completely.

  I pushed the door open and peered around it. I wasn’t at the center of the earth. I wasn’t even underground. Instead, I was tentatively walking into the forbidden gardens of Silver Hill.

  Chapter 5

  It wasn’t quite cold enough to see my breath, but it was still chilly. I re-buttoned my collar, flipped it up, and tightened my shawl. As soon as I cleared the door’s threshold, it shut behind me. I whirled around, but couldn’t see it any longer. The door’s outline was covered by black, angry-looking vines. I felt around where I thought the door should be. Finally, I found an iron ring similar to the one on the secret door in my room. Not wishing to be fooled a second time, I gave the door a push. It creaked open, as I suspected it would. I pushed a second time and it shut tight. At least now, I knew how to open this one when I needed to get back.

  It was late. No light from candle or gas lamp shone in the asylum windows; everyone must have been asleep. I could see where the formal entrance to the garden was: through several pairs of French doors with barred windows. Quietly, I tried opening each of them, but they were all locked.

  Of course they’re locked. I peered through the dirty glass, but couldn’t see much inside. I did glimpse vast marble floors, however. Perhaps this was once a ballroom?

  But the gardens certainly weren’t fit for dancing, or even for a pleasant stroll. All around me were dead, stunted trees, about half the size that trees should be. They drooped and curled on themselves as if doubled over in pain. And they were black. In fact, everything that should be green or brown was black. Not the comforting, familiar black I loved. This was different. This was the black of dead things, of burned pencils and choking soot.

  It looked like a forest had tried to overtake a graveyard. Not that there were headstones, but the entire landscape had a desolate feeling to it. The most noticeable part of this was the vines. They were as black and dead as everything else here, yet they seemed worse somehow. Like the rest of the place had given up, but the vines had just enough life left in them to do malice. It reminded me of a fairy tale where a prince had to hack his way through evil vines to rescue a sleeping princess. I looked around. Little risk of that happening here. I’d have to make my way through the garden on my own.

  As if on cue, the vines tightened in front of me, growing thicker and more impenetrable before my eyes. They grew so thick that they weren’t a wall of vines, but a wall of sheer darkness. Unlike most darkness, I could not find my way around this one. A particularly large vine began lashing out at me, twisting this way and that in front of my face. Even though it had no thorns, it sliced into my upper cheek. I felt a warm drop of blood drip down my face.

  “Ugh!” I held my candle in front of me for protection. The flame lit the vine, but only for a moment. They don’t burn? What kind of demon plants are these? “Get away!” I cried.

  Then the most bizarre thing happened. The vine actually seemed to listen. It stopped whipping back and forth and withdrew slowly, its sharpness no longer at risk of touching my skin. I could have sworn it was looking me up and down, weighing and measuring me.

  It retreated into the black vine wall, which pulled apart to let me pass. I walked through slowly, expecting a trap. But the vines did not try to attack me, nor did they close behind me as I moved forward. And it might have been my imagination, but they seemed to turn a little greener as well.

  Maybe I really am going mad. In fact, maybe I’m imagining this entire scenario. The hidden staircase, the garden, all of it. Then I saw the pond.

  It must have been twenty-five feet in diameter, possibly man-made—the culmination of the moat that encircled Silver Hill. You could see where it tapered off into two outlets that wound back around the front of the asylum. It was still half-frozen; large sheets of ice covered part of it. And although dead trees surrounded the pond, the vines did not go near.

  What’s so special about the pond? I wondered. Though there could be no doubt it was beautiful. The pond was so clear, and the night so dark, I could actually see stars reflected in the water. For once, it was not overcast or raining, and the stars shone as if someone had flung an armful of diamonds into the sky.

  Written in the stars. Although a sinister phrase employed by Catron’s fortune-teller, I couldn’t help thinking it sounded rather pretty. I looked up. The stars seemed so far away, and yet, I could swear they were close to me somehow. As near as my own heartbeat. The moon, full and round, shone down as well. Its mirror image was in the pond, making it look as if the world held two moons. I momentarily imagined them as lovers, reaching out to one another across the universe.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the water move. I don’t mean flow, the way water often does. Nor was this a tiny ripple beneath the waves. It seemed like something larger under the water was moving. Moving, and coming closer.

  It couldn’t be a fish; it was far too big. An air pocket, perhaps? Do ponds even have air pockets? I didn’t have to wonder for very long. A brunet head appeared in the pond. It rose straight out of the water as if something was lifting it from below. Next came a dark, sinewy chest and a smooth, glistening stomach. It had a sharp face and bright, penetrating eyes. They were green eyes, the color of sea glass. Whatever it was, it was definitely male. Without knowing why, I leaped back and pointed at the thing with my index finger. I nearly lost my balance and dropped my candle.

  “Don’t come any closer!” I shouted.

  When I turned back, I saw that the “thing” was just a boy. He looked about my age. It was hard to tell, because when he spoke, he seemed much older. There was a weight to his voice; a low, resonant quality that sent shivers through me. Shivers that weren’t exactly unpleasant.

  “Why not?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and bringing his hands out of the water. The tight curls of his shoulder-length hair dripped water down his chest. I couldn’t stop staring at it. He put his palms out to either side, as if to indicate he had no weapons. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you?” His tone was teasing, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  I was still standing there, pointing at him. I looked ridiculous. A boy had snuck into Silver Hill, and here I was with a finger in his face. What was that going to accomplish? I didn’t even know why I did it. As far as defensive reflexes went, most people would have at least put up their fists. Maybe I really am strange. I put my hand down and turned my head for a fraction of a second towards the asylum, praying my shouts hadn’t woken anyone up.

  The boy squinted at me and cocked his head. His mouth made a little O, and his smile became one of surprise and awe.

  “It’s you,” he whispered, staring at me as though seeing the sun for the first time. “At least, I think it’s you.”

  “Of course it’s me,” I said very slowly, as if talking to a small child. “Who else would it be?”

  “No, I mean, it’s just . . . never mind. I thought you’d be more . . . no matter.”

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  The trespasser was clearly an idiot. Even more irritating, when I looked into his eyes, I felt like I was swaying. I don’t mean dizzy. I mean moving subtly back and forth, as if I were underwater.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked impatiently. “There are no boys allowed. There’s hardly anything allowed, but certainly not boys.” And you wouldn’t w
ant to be here even if you were allowed, I thought. Trust me.

  “I’m not exactly a boy,” he answered.

  Did the trespasser think I was an idiot? “You’re naked from the waist up.” I paused, then continued quickly when I realized I was staring at his chest again. “So, as far as I can tell, you look an awful lot like a boy. And if you’re not a boy, then what exactly are you?”

  The not-boy swam to the edge of the pond closest to me and leaned his palms on it. This time, I did not back away or point my finger at him. I couldn’t help but notice the light blue veins and sinewy muscles of his forearms. He must do a lot of swimming.

  “Some things are best kept below the surface, as it were,” he replied. “For now, let’s just say I’m Dym.”

  “Dim?” I raised my eyebrows. “As in ‘stupid’?” His name would be the first thing about him that made sense.

  The not-boy rolled his eyes. “No. As in short for ‘Endymion.’ ” He cleared his throat and quoted the first part of the poem to me.

  “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

  Its loveliness increases; it will never

  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

  Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

  A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

  Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

  Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

  Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

  Made for our searching.”

  “That’s John Keats’s ‘Endymion,’ ” he added.

  “I know who John Keats is.” I glared at him. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing in a pond in the back of an insane asylum.”

  “Oh? Is this an insane asylum?” The playful tone returned, and he clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at me. “I hadn’t noticed. I’m, ah . . . a shepherd. Have a flock nearby. Come to swim in the pond every once in a while at night.”