Echo North

by Joanna Ruth Meyer

  I had no desire to get anywhere near the doorway. “What is this place?”

  “The fire behind our door last night was my fault,” said the wolf. “I was too long away from the house, and it broke loose from its binding. We have to bind it anew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come down here with me. I will show you.”

  Reluctant, I knelt beside the wolf in front of the doorway. Laughter echoed from deep inside, tangled with a high keening wail. Ash dusted the hem of my skirt.

  “Reach down, through the doorway,” the wolf instructed. “You will find the binding. But don’t lean too far.” He plunged his head into the blackness beyond the door.

  After a moment, I stretched my right hand in, not knowing what I was feeling for. Something small and spiny scuttled over my arm, and I clamped my teeth together to keep from screaming. I reached further into the empty dark, in and in, and my fingers closed around something thin and smooth and silken.

  I pulled it out.

  A shimmering scarlet cord lay in my hand, so light it seemed to be made of air. It twisted and sighed as if it were alive, and not content to be still.

  The wolf emerged with a similar cord in his teeth, and dropped it into my other hand. “Don’t let go,” he said. “I must call the fire back, and then we will bind it.” He stood on his back legs, propping himself upright against the wall with his front right paw. “Return!” he bellowed down the passageway. “By the laws of the old magic, I command you to return!”

  Two heartbeats passed, then another two. The cords shivered in my hands; it was like grasping wind.

  And then a wall of flame came rushing down the corridor, twisting and writhing. Screaming.

  “Hold on!” the wolf cried.

  I screwed my eyes shut and ducked my head, clinging to the scarlet cords with all my might.

  The fire reached me, enveloped me; I screamed at the clawing heat. But it didn’t devour me, and in another instant it had gone by. I opened my eyes to see it vanish into the darkness.

  “Shut!” ordered the wolf, and a heavy oak door slammed against the door frame, smoke hissing out through the cracks. The wolf dropped onto all fours, panting a little, and came to stand beside me. “Now to keep it from breaking free again. House! Bring the binding kit.”

  A blue leather pouch and matching braided belt appeared out of thin air and fell in a heap at my feet. I squawked in surprise, and dropped the scarlet cords.

  “Open the pouch,” said the wolf.

  I gave him a wary glance, but obeyed. Inside was a gold thimble and needle, a pair of gold scissors in the shape of a bear, and a spool of shining thread that looked for all the world like strands of coiled sunbeams.

  “Thread the needle,” said the wolf. “I will teach you the binding stitch.”

  “The binding stitch?”

  “To keep the fire contained.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He blew out a breath. “Old magic, my lady. It’s what keeps the house from falling apart, no thanks to her. She had the power to collect it in the first place, but not to keep it together.”

  “Wolf.” I was running out of patience. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  He just nudged the pouch closer to me.

  I sighed and picked up the needle. It was strangely heavy and warm, and it buzzed in my hand. The spool of thread was just as light as the scarlet cord, if not lighter. I unwound a bit—it seemed to have no substance at all—and it stretched out toward the needle all on its own, slipping through the eye. I put the thimble on and was startled to find it soft inside, like it was lined with velvet.

  “Now for the binding stitch,” said the wolf. “Take the scarlet cords, and stack their ends on top of each other, then draw your needle up through both cords. Loop it around to the bottom and do it again, over and over until the binding is secure.”

  I hesitated a moment, then did as he asked. The needle chimed like a tiny bell as I sewed, the golden thread whispered, the scarlet cords sighed. I could feel the moment the binding stitch was complete, the cords and thread fused tight together. I glanced at the wolf, and he nodded, so I used the bear-shaped scissors to snip the end of the thread. The girl from the book-mirror flashed into my mind, weaving a shimmering net to use against the queen’s thorny army. Old magic—it sent a thrill through me.

  The wolf seemed satisfied. “That should hold. We will be vigilant about tending the bindings—the fire will not break loose again.” He tilted his head to one side. “The pouch and its contents are yours, my lady. I would be honored if you would wear them.”

  For a moment, I just stared at him, then returned all the sewing items to the pouch and put on the belt, cinching it tight around my waist. I liked the weight of the pouch at my hip; it felt natural, somehow.

  The wolf’s lips curled up in what I took for his version of a smile. “I have always hated this part of the house. Let’s walk somewhere more pleasant. Come.”

  He trotted off down the dirt passageway. I had no desire to go anywhere else with the wolf—I couldn’t stop seeing my father, sobbing on Rodya’s shoulder—but I wasn’t sure how to slip away without him knowing. And old magic or not, I didn’t want anything more to do with the door I’d just bound. So I gritted my teeth and ran to catch up.

  I walked next to him, glancing down to see that the cuts on my palms had healed where the scarlet threads had touched them. The same sensation of coolness that had poured through me when I stepped into the book-mirror tingled in my hands.

  “Garden!” the wolf barked at the air.

  The floor shimmied a little beneath our feet, and the dirt passage turned into a normal hallway, lanterns on the walls, green-and-blue patterned carpet stretching out before us. We went up a stair and around a corner, then down two more stairs to a small white door. It opened at our approach, and was so low I had to duck my head to pass through.

  I stepped into full daylight, the almost unbearable brightness making my eyes stream. I stood still a moment to let them adjust, overwhelmed by the cacophony of birdsong and bumblebees after the heavy silence I had grown used to inside. The air was alive with the heady scent of roses; water burbled from some hidden fountain.

  I blinked the tears from my eyes. The wolf had brought me into a terraced garden, wide grassy steps cut into the hill that were bordered with white stones. We had come out, somehow, at the very bottom of the hill, and the entire garden rose above us. A narrow walking trail wound up the steps, and on either side of the level ground stood an impenetrable iron fence. My eyes traced the length of it, but I saw no gate. I wondered if it was to keep the wood out, or the wolf in, or both.

  The wolf watched me intently, as if it were important to him that I was impressed by the garden.

  I was in no mood to be impressed. “Tell me what’s going on, and what exactly I did back there.”

  He let out a breath. “We will talk as we go. Come.”

  We mounted the first step and climbed past a lily pool, water splashing silver over bright, darting fish.

  “The house is wild, as I told you before. It’s brimming with magic, some of it lovely and some of it more dangerous than you know.”

  The book-mirrors. The bauble room. The laughing, shrieking fire. I nodded and climbed on.

  “All the rooms exist, but none of them here, if you understand me. They are never in the same order unless you command the house to make them that way.”

  “Command the house?” Roses nodded at us in the breeze, vines twining up a trellis set against the hill. I got the feeling they were dancing to music I couldn’t hear.

  “If you would like to see the conservatory, you must simply tell the house ‘Conservatory,’ and that is what you will find behind the next door.”

  That must have been why the wolf had yelled “garden” after we left the bound door. “But how did the rooms get here?”

  “The … person who … arranged …” He growled, the words not c
oming out, then tried again. “A collector amused to gather bits of things … she … likes meshed them all together. A room here. A … life … there.”

  I frowned. “Her” again. “Someone with great magic chose things to bring here. Gathered by … enchantment?” The word felt like ash in my mouth.

  “Yes.”

  We had climbed nearly to the top of the terraced steps. Around a bend in the path, a waterfall spilled from the brow of the hill. The wolf slipped through it, disappearing behind a curtain of spray.

  I followed, holding my breath at the touch of cold water on my skin, and then I was through. A cozy room lay hidden beyond, a pair of armchairs facing out toward the waterfall. Between them stood an end table that sported a lamp and an ancient-looking tea set with chips in the china.

  “But who is she?” I pressed.

  He clambered up into one of the chairs, sitting on his haunches and draping his paws over the arm like someone’s overgrown house pet. Donia would have a conniption if the wolf sat on her furniture like that.

  I tucked myself into the other chair.

  “She is … the wood is …” The wolf looked at me, his sorrow palpable. “The wood is under her will, as is the house. But I can’t … I can’t talk about … in this house.… ” He looked at me helplessly.

  I thought about the way I could barely say “enchantment.” “You can’t talk about her. Not here.”

  He nodded.

  “And the gatekeeper? The North Wind?”

  “My guard.”

  “Then you’re a prisoner.”

  If the wolf was human I swear he would have shrugged. “Of a sort.”

  “Then what am I?”

  “You are my guest. The house’s next potential caretaker.”

  “And have you had … guests … before?”

  The waterfall roared; the air in the cave grew suddenly cold.

  The wolf’s eyes found mine. “It has only ever been you, my lady.”

  I unfolded myself from the chair, and paced over to the waterfall. I plunged my hand into it; icy cold seared through me. I blinked and saw my father, holding his lantern high in the snowy wood. Looking for me. Waiting for me. Fearing the worst.

  The wolf padded up beside me. Why did I still feel drawn to him?

  “I will teach you how to care for the house. How to command it. You don’t have to be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid of the house.” I realized it was true.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  For a moment I peered down at him, trying to parcel out my feelings. “I don’t know.”

  He dipped his head. “I will endeavor to give you no further reasons to fear me. Now, come. There is much to show you before the day is gone.”

  He stepped back through the waterfall.

  And I followed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WE RETRACED OUR STEPS THROUGH THE garden and into the house, where a blue tiled corridor lined with miniature apple trees waited for us. I told the wolf I was tired and hungry, that I didn’t want to see anymore of the house just then.

  His amber eyes burned into mine, but he didn’t call my bluff. “Ask the house, and it will bring you a meal. If you have need of me, call.”

  And then he left me, the apple trees rustling as he passed them by.

  I waited as long as I could bear, then started walking in the opposite direction. “House,” I said, feeling foolish, “Could I have a meat pie?” The air shimmered, and around the corner I found a plate waiting on a low table; the tantalizing aroma of stewed meat wafted up to greet me. I grabbed the pie and ate as I walked, so quickly I burned my tongue—I was starving, and even Donia had never made something so delicious.

  Heartened by this success, I addressed the house again: “Could I have my knapsack, and supplies for the journey home?”

  There was another shimmer in the air and around the next corner I found my knapsack hanging on a peg, full near to bursting. I slung it over my shoulder and made my last request: “Bring me to the gate. Show me the way out.”

  The air shimmered a third time, and there came a rumbling sound from somewhere underneath me. “Please,” I said.

  The apple-lined corridor gave way to an ordinary carpeted hallway, then a staircase winding down into darkness. I remembered how long it had taken the wolf and me to reach my room from the gate. “The shortest way, if you please,” I added. The floor jerked beneath my feet and I fell the rest of the way down the stairs, coming to a stop at the plain wood door. The lantern pulsed from its place high on the wall.

  I took a breath, and opened the door.

  Blackness enveloped me. “Let me through,” I whispered, in case the house held any sway down here. “Let me through.”

  Wind raged around me, whipping through my skirt, clawing at my hair. I could feel its power, its anger. But I could feel its sorrow, too. Icy claws scraped my neck, thorny fingers grasped my ankles, dragging me down, down. An invisible weight crushed my lungs, swallowing my breath away. I thought of the girl in the story. “By the laws of the old magic,” I gasped, “let me through, let me through.”

  A high mournful shriek echoed in my ears. The weight on my chest lifted. Gentle hands steered me through the darkness, and then I was tumbling through trailing vines, out into the sunlight.

  I blinked up at the sky, scrambling away from the hill, toward the wood. I looked back, something in me wrenching at the thought of leaving the wolf there, alone forever. You could go back to him, said a voice in my mind, when you’ve told your father you are safe.

  But I knew I wouldn’t. Whatever I’d thought connected me and the wolf didn’t really exist.

  And yet.

  I stood there longer than I meant to, torn between the wolf and my father.

  But at last I forced myself into the wood.

  It was perfectly ordinary, at first. Leaves crunched under my feet, the wind blew cold and smelled of damp earth. There were no animals, no birds. Just me and the trees. Rodya’s pendant thumped against my chest, the ticking of the clock speeding up suddenly before stopping dead. Its silence was deafening. Ominous.

  I tramped on as the shadows lengthened and the light began to fail, pushing away my uneasiness, telling myself I was almost through, almost home with my father again, even though I knew that was impossible—the wolf and I had been trapped there two weeks, my father longer.

  I tried not to think of the girl in the story, of the thorny creatures and the cruel queen. I tried not to think of the wolf, of how angry he would be when he discovered I was gone.

  I tried not to dwell on the possibility that I had made a terrible mistake, coming here.

  Ahead of me, the trees began to rustle, even though there was no wind. Their bare branches twined together, twisting down over the path and blocking my way.

  I turned right, walking faster.

  The trees moaned, their voices deep and horrible, like strings ripped from cellos, or trod under boots.

  I broke into a run, my heart slamming into my rib cage, one hand holding tight to the compass-watch. I ducked underneath hanging branches that tore at my clothes, trying to catch me, hold me, but I tore free.

  All around, the trees bowed low, knotting their branches together, cutting off my path.

  And suddenly there was nowhere left to run.

  A sapling sprang out of the ground and reached its twiggy fingers toward me, pinning my ankles and wrists, cinching tight around my chest. It stabbed toward my throat but I wrenched my head to the side, screaming.

  More branches wrapped round me, until I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. They dragged me down and down, into smothering blackness, and I was swallowed by the wood into the dark of the earth.

  Spots swam before my eyes. My life slipped away.

  My father would never find me. Never know what had happened.

  And then, heat, pressing in. A sudden thrust upward, the binding branches falling free.

  I collapsed on the ground, gasp
ing, so much grit in my eyes I couldn’t see.

  Fire raged round me.

  Smoke crawled high.

  And the wolf was there, white against the flame, a torch gripped in his teeth.

  The wood shrank back from him, screaming.

  I reached out for the wolf; my fingers grasped his fur, locked around his neck.

  He dropped the torch.

  And then we were hurtling through the wood for the second time in as many days, me clinging to his back, shutting my eyes against the horror, against the dark.

  He had found me. Somehow, the wolf had found me.

  He carried me through the meadow and into the hill, past the gatekeeper and into the house. Up to the bedroom behind the red door.

  I collapsed onto the bed, dirt and leaves falling black on the sheets, blood smearing red. I sobbed into the pillows, sobbed and sobbed. I couldn’t stop. But it wasn’t because of the pain raging in every part of me.

  The wolf climbed up beside me, rested his head next to mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  But he blew a breath of warm air into my ear and said, “Dear one, do not be sorry.”

  “ECHO. ECHO.”

  I swam back to consciousness. Pain seared from every point in my skin; my vision was blurred and too bright. Some part of me realized that the wolf had never said my name before. I liked the sound of it in his gruff voice.

  “You’re bleeding, Echo. We need to see to your wounds. You have to come with me.”

  Somehow I pulled myself up, half falling out of the bed and leaning heavily against him. My blood seeped into his fur. Blackness threatened to overwhelm me.

  “Stay with me. Just a little further.”

  Down the hall, through a carved stone doorway, into a cavernous, echoing chamber. I had the dim impression of pillars and arches, silver light flooding through a wide window, a chaos of wheeling stars beyond. There was a sensation of peace and stillness, solemnity and great age. And underneath it all a feeling of tremendous power.