by R. R. Smythe
The world fades when she isn’t near. It isn’t healthy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s like I’m a parasite, feeding off the energy she puts out.
Her hand tightens on mine, hard and desperate.
I stare forward. The landscape is a field, open and inviting.
I laugh bitterly. Yes, inviting.
“Shall I carry you? I don’t know how long the pollen will keep you paralyzed.”
Her hand doesn’t respond. Not even a twitch. She’s leaving it up to me.
I inhale sharply, my eyes sweeping the expanse. Anxiety wriggles in my brain. This is not like the warfare I know. Where I can anticipate the enemy’s plan. They are unseen. I have no information to go on. Just my instincts.
I close my eyes and squeeze Mia’s hands. I trace along her delicate fingers, the whole way up to her shoulder. Savoring the soft feel of her flesh. I let my mind empty of everything but her velvety skin.
My breathing slows.
I feel the sun warming my face and open my eyes. A castle, the castle is in sight. Materialized. One Literati let us go from their mind and another has taken over. I sigh. “I hope this one is more kind.”
The ground vibrates under my knees. Hoof beats are approaching, coming through what remains of the forest. The scene is dissipating, more and more of it flying off, like a jigsaw puzzle ripped asunder by the gusts of wind.
My heartbeat rockets, thudding madly in my chest.
I crouch before Mia, swinging my rifle, looking for whatever new, horrible creature the Literati have conjured.
“Imagination is a gift, huh?”
Her eyes squint, just a little.
I bite my cheek on the inside, twisting my lip. I can’t properly protect her while she’s immobile.
I stand, and feel her hand circle around my ankle.
A horse arrives in the clearing. My shoulders slump in relief, and I exhale through my teeth.
A huge, white stallion halts before me, nostrils flared. It paws the ground and stutter-steps anxiously.
I drop back to Mia, staring into her dead gaze. “I think we are to ride him. I’m going to pick you up.”
I want to vomit every time I stare into those glassy eyes.
It’s like staring down my greatest fear, again and again.
My hands shake as I gather her to me. Mercifully, her torso bends. I spend the next five minutes fighting her onto the horse.
Her back is like stone against my chest, and I wrap an arm securely around her as I cluck the mount forward. Keeping her stable in front of me is almost impossible. I pray I won’t have to gallop.
The stallion bolts as if hearing my prayer, bolting directly for the castle — like a homing pigeon on its return voyage.
It’s going home. It takes all my strength to keep her from falling off.
I stare up at the turrets as we barrel forward and give a little shudder at the mighty L emblazoned on each.
****
“It has a moat.” Mia’s voice is a halting whisper.
My gut contracts with relief, and I swallow the lump lodged in my throat. “Yes. Would you expect anything less, my love?”
“Is that why you were reading all the time?”
“Yes, research. Reading as many of their books as I could. Trying to get a grasp on their individual minds.”
“Studying the enemy.”
I hug her closer to me. She still feels like a wooden doll. But at least her speech is returning.
I stare down the length of the moat, knowing all sorts of dreamed-up creatures await any false step. I swallow, wishing I were a Literati.
That I could take Mia from here — and we could live together. Alone. Without all this madness. Be normal. Or whatever semblance of that the two of us could manage.
A horrible cranking turns my head. The drawbridge is descending.
It isn’t a normal drawbridge. I laugh through my clenched teeth. “Of course. We can’t just go in.”
In lieu of a drawbridge, a massive tree trunk descends across the moat, seemingly tethered to nothing. The phantom chains creak and moan, despite their physical absence.
“Well, they get points for originality,” Mia whispers.
I chuckle, quietly. It’s bitter and poignant in my mouth. At her bravery — for trying to make me less anxious.
I whisper in her ear. “Remember. Together.”
Her head nods infinitesimally. I add, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Her hand grips mine tightly. My hopes rally. I am forgiven.
I ease her body off the horse, to the ground. Her legs are operational; her arms, still rigid.
Her head moves normally now. I almost wish it didn’t. Her face contracts with fear as she stares into the moat. She’s a writer, with a wonderful-awful imagination. I can’t imagine the horrors she’s projecting into the bubbling water.
“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.” Her voice betrays her weak attempt at humor.
She turns and the tears on her cheeks cut me through, burn me like a blade’s slash. “We should wait. Till your arms work. How will you balance?”
She shakes her head. “We aren’t going to have a choice.” She smiles ruefully. “We’re at another turning point.”
“What does that mean?”
And then I hear them. Our decision makers. Howling in a pawed stampede. Wolves. In every shape, color and breed, they slink out of the forest, barely visible due to the distance. Then take off at a run, toward us.
Mia turns. “Come, Morgan.”
I’m sick with the acceptance in her voice.
My nostrils flare with rage. My fists ball and I run in front of her.
I will go first. I will fall first, if necessary, giving her a shot at making it into the Literati Castle. To save herself and Beth.
My eyes flick behind her, estimating how long we have before the pack arrives. And attacks. Two minutes.
“Mia, I will walk in front of you. Place your hands on my shoulders. Can you manage that?”
“I don’t know. Just go, Morgan. Go!” The hairs on her arms are standing up.
I spin, my boot finding a foothold on the log. I feel her hands on my shoulders. Only one is able to grip it. The other sits there, fingers lifeless like a mannequin.
I hear them. Like their breathing’s been amplified, and the pack’s collective hot breath is inches from my ears.
Every pant-pant-pant reeks of carnage. Their most recent kill.
I wretch.
“Morgan! Keep moving! It isn’t real. It isn’t real.”
I feel their breath, coming in hot puffs against my ear. Now my neck. The illusion so real, like it is them on the log, and not Mia.
It is real, Mia. For this moment in time, it’s real. It will live on in our imaginations.
One lurches forward, paws scraping against the trunk. The log shivers under our feet.
Impulse takes over.
I whip my head around. My balance tilts, my boot slides off the side.
The rough bark scrapes my inner thigh, and an exquisite pain soars as my crotch collides with the trunk.
“Umph!”
“Morgan! Hang on!”
The pain darkens my sight for a second.
I twist my ankles together, circling my legs, hugging the trunk. But the momentum’s begun. My body falls. Blood rushes to my head. I’m upside down, legs gripping the tree. I stare at her inverted image, as if through a lake. And I’m the one underwater. I hear the water’s hiss.
Soon enough I’ll feel it.
Mia. Oh, please not Mia.
She slips, but catches herself, re-righting. Those once strong cheerleader legs have kept her upright. Her arms are still useless though, hanging at her sides. Her mouth is twitching, fighting the despair.
“Mia. I’m sorry.”
My ankles slip, a fraction of an inch.
“No Morgan! Don’t you give up!”
Something slithers, gliding through the rising steam. The water
’s a few feet below. Bubbling, churning. Something unspeakable awaits me under the surface.
The wolf howls in frustration at the end of the log. It inches toward her, jaws snapping.
The leader’s rallied the troops, an entire milling crowd of multicolored coats wrestle, biting one another. Hungry and furious.
My legs slip again. “Mia. Don’t forget me.”
Her head shakes, desperate.
“No! Fight! Hang on!”
She clenches her eyes, trying to will her arms to life. Only the one responds, and she grasps my pant leg.
The wolf lunges, biting off a small chunk of flesh from the back of her paralyzed arm. “Ah! You wretched devil!”
I swing my body in a pendulum arc, arms aiming toward the trunk. My fingers scrape and miss. The momentum knocks me further loose.
Mia’s eyes sharpen. Bursting with a brilliant fury. Like fireworks. She stares at her good arm, raising it before her, fingers splayed. It shimmers and shudders and emits little sparks into the night.
She grits her teeth, bearing down. The arm erupts in a pyrotechnic explosion of color and light. It reminds me of a sunrise.
The wolf cringes, whining.
She spins her torso toward him, wrestling her legs in an about face. Holding up the arm. “Stop.”
Her voice is calm. Like she’s rebuking a child.
The wolf growls, baring white, sloppy fangs. Its hackles rise in alarm. The whole pack explodes in deep, guttural howls.
“I. Said. Stop.”
Her face looks… powerful. A grim, determined expression I’ve never seen sets her face in stone.
The alpha wolf whimpers, and tucks its tail between its legs. The whole pack crouches, staring at the exchange.
“Be gone.”
She turns back to me. Turns her back on it.
“Mia — what’re you doing?”
Blood is running down her wounded arm, trickling off her inanimate fingers. The red droplets hit my white sleeve, making macabre blood-stars.
She turns that fierce stare on her paralyzed arm, willing it.
The digits wiggle.
My legs let go. I’m free falling. I close my eyes, anticipating the splash, and my death.
Fingers grasp both my ankles, and I’m rocking like a pendulum.
One of my legs is released. She’s holding me with one hand. How? This isn’t possible.
“Morgan. Reach up, and take my hand.”
“No. You will fall too. You aren’t strong enough.”
“I don’t care Morgan. If you go, I’m going with you. Together. You promised me. Don’t break another promise.”
My eyes sting. She fights dirty. I clench my stomach, reaching up to grab her hands. She releases my ankle, grasping my wrist effortlessly.
Her grip is like steel. Like a lumberjack. Not like the tiny, frail, sick girl I’ve known. How?
She hauls me up, and I’m close enough to wrap my arms around the log. I swing my legs, grappling up to it. My arms and legs hug the tree. My breathing so hard and fast I can’t get the words out.
“How?”
Chapter Sixteen
When Your Servant Is Your Master
My heart, Madelon’s heart, is beating madly in my chest as I crawl on all fours to the end of the log. I hear Morgan breathing heavily behind me. I reach the end, flip my legs off, and crouch to kneeling.
The second Morgan’s boots leave the log, it disappears with a ‘pop’.
He hugs me, squeezing me so hard I can’t breathe.
His body stiffens, as if realizing his lapse in concentration — and his head swivels all around. He pulls the rifle off his back, but immediately hugs me back to his side. As if he cannot tolerate an inch of space between us. I feel the same and ball a handful of his shirt in my hand.
His roving eyes stop their fevered glances — “Your arm. It’s bleeding badly. We have to wrap it, quell the flow.”
The inside of the castle is dark. Candelabras hang from the ceiling and clusters of them huddle together as if they’re the ones afraid of the dark. Their long white tapers flicker violently, as if sensing my unease. The collective light casts oddly formed shadow-wraiths against the stone walls. I blink, hoping they are… only shadows. The circular room has four spiraling staircases that rise so high, I feel as if I’m staring up into a silo.
“Welcome, Mia.” A velvety voice calls from the south staircase.
A beautiful woman, in a shimmering dress of vanilla, is gliding toward us.
I squint and see that the fabric looks like real buttercups, undulating in time with her steps. Its movements are disturbing, like the dress is alive.
Her hair is auburn, and her eyes dark… but I can’t really see her. Like there’s a veil over my vision, preventing me from identifying her. A mind-blindness.
My heart; it’s tripping and stuttering in the cage of my chest. I feel a tug, and a drawing feeling — like an invisible seamstress has hooked my guts, and is pulling me toward her. A Literati.
“And Mia’s companion.” She gives Morgan a slight nod and returns to staring at me. “You have done well. Bested many of our creations. That has earned you the right to an audience with the council.”
My fingers interlace with Morgan’s. Intuition clenches my gut. I tighten my grip on his hand, making sure he’s still there.
“Easy, love,” he whispers.
“First, you must rest. The council will assemble tomorrow. It’s late. Follow me.”
“What — they don’t have evening hours? They’re writers, for crying out loud,” Morgan says wryly.
My eyes steal to his face and catch his lopsided grin. I try to smile back, but it falters. I see the worry in his eyes.
Buttercup Literati turns on the stairs, and they surreally elongate; contracting then lengthening in a long serpentine walk connecting to a higher floor. I stare into the dizzying height of the turret and swallow.
“Do not leave me, Morgan. Don’t let them separate us. Not for a minute,” I whisper.
Buttercup laughs. She’s two flights ahead of us, but apparently has elephant ears. “That will not be possible. You will sleep separately.”
****
I follow behind Morgan, trying to memorize as much of the castle as I can. I scan each passing floor, logging the scene and contents. Every floor has one thing in common. A massive library, from floor to ceiling.
It must be their writings? All their thoughts?
I swallow. How many Literati are there?
Buttercup follows my gaze and responds as if reading my mind.
“Some writers aren’t even aware they are Literati. It’s a genomic expression, we think. So we’re always reading, looking for clues… for new blood.”
“Wow. I’ll bet Louisa thought she was.”
Morgan looks grim, and then nods his head, shooting me a barely perceptible ‘no’. His eyes flick to Buttercup.
Buttercup’s gaze narrows, focusing on Morgan.
“Yes, Louisa. We will discuss her, and her deviation from the natural use of the tunnels. And your other sister... sweet Beth. I was shocked when I found out about her, really. Obedience was always Beth’s defining quality.”
I hear Morgan’s jaw snap shut, and his lips press together in a tight white line.
I try to apologize with my eyes. He shrugs.
“Ah, here we are.”
We enter an impossibly long hallway. I can’t see the end of it.
On either side of us, doors roll out, ornate and old. Like a house of mirrors, the corridor seems to buckle into ever-sprouting, never-ending choices of pathways. Unique carvings decorate each one like family crests.
Morgan puts his arm around me, crushing me against his side.
Buttercup stops, beckoning to the door before her. It opens, of course.
“This is your room, Mia.”
“I’m not leaving her.” Morgan’s voice is brittle. His whole body is rigid against mine. Poised to strike. I feel his heartbeat thr
umming hard.
“I’m afraid that is not your decision.”
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
No please. Not now. I need to look powerful. Not like some wilting flower of a girl.
I hear the heart-whispers, feel Morgan’s arm around my back.
Blackness envelops me.
****
I shoot to sitting. Drenched in sweat. My hair is plastered to the sides of my face, and my head swivels as I try to remember where I am.
I take in the room. A large, mahogany canopy bed, draped with white gauze further adds to the cobwebby feeling inside my head.
And everywhere, floor to ceiling are… books. I slide out of bed, and stumble. My head feels like its undergone taxidermy and is now stuffed with cotton.
“Morgan.” Where is he?
I shudder, imagining what they had to do to peel him from me.
I walk over to the single candle and pick it up. My eyes catch a familiar name among the leather-bound manuscripts. Indeed, every ‘book’ here, looks ancient and decrepit. Like books bound long before printing presses ruled the world.
Madelon White.
No. My heart goes cold, sprinting in my chest.
I yank out the book, and crack it open.
My eyes scan the first few pages. It’s about the Civil War. She’s writing about the war. “Oh snap, it’s her.”
What does this mean? She was a Literati? Or at the very least, a suspected Literati?
Now I have her heart. Does that mean I have her… power?
My mind trips back to the way I commanded the wolf. To the freakish strength I showed, hauling Morgan back onto the bridge.
My heart speeds up and I try to take deep breaths. I cannot afford to pass out again. A revelation hits me in a wave. I must know. I must talk to Beth. But how to reach her?
I close my mind, emptying it of every thought — concentrating on the far wall of my room. I picture my desire.
The floor rumbles beneath my stocking feet. The whole room rattles and shifts like an earthquake.
I open my eyes in time to see the back wall blow out, pieces fragmenting then crumpling to dust.
And it’s there. The black light forest. And in the center… Beth’s stump. I run to the desk and snatch a pen and quill and hastily scribble a note.