by Obert Skye
Clover sort of sighed.
“Lilly was an exceptional sycophant,” he went on. “She worked patiently with Winter, trying to make her feel at home and safe. She told her the things she needed to know and helped Winter recognize and cultivate her nit gift of being able to freeze things. Lilly was as devoted to Winter as any sycophant has ever been. She loved Winter, and under Lilly’s guidance, Winter became one of the most outspoken and truest defenders of Foo. When Antsel proposed the idea of Winter returning to Reality as an infant to help Foo, Winter agreed. But it meant giving up Lilly.”
The siid groaned and picked up speed.
“Lilly took the separation very hard. She was completely crushed. To her, saving Foo wasn’t half as important as being with Winter. When Winter cut Lilly loose and stopped being her burn, Lilly wailed and mourned and lost all sense of who she was or why she would even want to live.”
“So does Lilly have another burn now?”
“I don’t know,” Clover said. “I suppose . . .” Clover stopped talking as the siid came to a jarring halt, the ground pushing up in front of them like a huge wave as the beast settled.
“What’s happening?” Leven asked.
“Either we’re here, or we’re in trouble.”
The siid unwound its tail and with a gentle lob tossed Leven and Clover to the ground. It turned, breathed in, and blew gunk all over them and then turned back into the forest, leaving Leven and Clover alone. The ground rumbled as the great beast moved away.
Clover smiled and said sheepishly, “That’s actually the third time it’s helped me. It has the worst memory, and keeps on forgetting we’re already even.”
“You’d better hope it never remembers,” Leven said.
“It’ll never remember,” Clover waved. “Now, the waxels on its ears might.”
“So, where are we?” Leven asked, changing the subject and wiping the last bit of spit from his eyes.
“Right where the siid swayed it would set us,” Clover answered. “The first bridge is just over that ridge. It will lead us to the turret trailhead.”
“Let’s go,” Leven urged, holding his hands to his queasy stomach.
Leven squeezed between two large bushes that reminded him of a gate. He then began running between the trees, searching for the best direction to go and feeling like a kid looking for a hiding place during a competitive game of hide-and-seek.
Leven stopped at the edge of a purple stream. The large rocks in the water were shifting and moving about like stone turtles. Just across the stream, behind the trees, someone or something was crying.
“What’s that?” Leven asked.
“It could be a trap,” Clover said casually. “Sometimes unburied secrets will trick their victims into coming to them.”
“I don’t think this is that,” Leven said. “It sounds almost human.”
The sobbing did sound human—and scared. Leven had never cried quite like that, but there had been many times in his life when he had wanted nothing but to wail like the voice he could now hear.
A cloud of shimmering orange bugs flew across Leven’s view. Leven waved them away and looked to the distance. He was somewhere he had never known existed, and the haunting sound of someone in pain was too much for him to turn away from.
“I can’t ignore that,” Leven whispered.
“It’s your future,” Clover shrugged, turning invisible and hopping up on Leven’s head.
Leven waded through the water toward a dark patch of trees where the noise was coming from.
“Hello?” Leven called out.
The crying stopped.
“Are you all right?”
“Who are you?” a strong, suspicious female voice shouted back.
“It doesn’t matter,” Leven insisted. “But if I can help . . .”
“Where am I?” the voice cried.
“In the forest,” Leven answered, still unable to see who was speaking.
“These trees aren’t normal,” the voice said. “I’ve never seen the things I’m seeing now. I’m not right.” There was a long pause followed by another, “Where am I?”
“In Foo,” Leven answered.
There was more sobbing and then silence.
“I can help,” Leven added. “There’s a bridge just over there.”
Leven’s assurance did little good, seeing how she couldn’t really see him or where he was pointing.
“I don’t belong here,” she cried. “I’m not whole.”
“Come with me,” Leven said forcefully, surprised to find strength in his voice.
There was silence for a few moments. Then a whisp in the form of Janet Frore emerged from the forest like a ghost.
“We can help,” Leven offered.
Janet simply cried.
Neither Leven nor Janet had any idea who the other was.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Washed Away
It’s not hard to doubt yourself. Many people have encountered miraculous things, only to talk themselves out of believing what they have seen. Millions who have witnessed unusual events and actions have later allowed others to convince them that they didn’t see what they actually saw.
Sometimes our minds are out to get us.
Winter was in just such a state. She was back in her icy chamber, lying on her back, covered again by the mask and shroud, with her hands tied behind her body. Her wrists and hands ached from being tied so tightly, and her brain buzzed with the knowledge that as long as her hands were covered she couldn’t touch her surroundings and thaw anything.
She also had absolutely no idea what to believe. She thought she knew who she was, but Jamoon had messed with her thinking. She wanted so desperately to see Leven. She knew that he would know what to do. She wished for Clover to suddenly appear, or for Geth to yell out that he was back and that he would take care of things.
Winter was worried about her mind. It felt as if someone had stuck a hand into her head and was now peeling away her thoughts and recollections. Winter couldn’t remember anything about who Jamoon was. She had no idea whose side he was on or if she was on that side along with him. She shouldn’t have been surprised. When she had been reverted to a baby so as to return to Reality and help Leven, she had known that she was probably giving up all her other memories.
Under her shroud, she thought about the small, makeshift toilet that Geth had escaped through and realized how next to impossible it was that he could somehow rescue her.
Still, she had to have hope.
Winter’s brow furrowed, her long, white-blonde hair hanging down under her mask and covering her right eye. She blew out, trying to move her hair from in front of her face, but the mask made it useless. She got painfully to her feet and twisted her body, trying to see her bound hands. She couldn’t see them at all. She moved to the corner, away from where the door opening was, and stood so that she could see her hands in the reflection of the icy wall. With the mask over her head, it wasn’t a perfect glimpse, but Winter could see what was binding them.
“What fools,” she whispered. “Why did I not think of that before?” Winter smiled as her stomach growled and her mind prepared a course of action.
She moved to the far wall and stood with her head down and her shoulders slumped.
“I need to speak to Jamoon,” Winter pleaded to the walls.
“It’s late,” a voice echoed back. “Jamoon is in Morfit.”
“I have no idea of time,” Winter replied. “And if Jamoon is not here, let me speak with that sickly rant. I know he’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
There was a long, pregnant pause as the guard digested what she was saying. She could almost hear him imagining the reward Jamoon would give him if he were to deliver a talking prisoner. Of course, Jamoon would be equally unhappy if she had nothing to offer and the guard had interrupted him for no reason.
“Well?” Winter said impatiently.
There was the noise of cracking ice followed by a slit of lig
ht that shone through the wall, exposing the exit. The crack in the ice expanded, and there stood a single rant. He was wearing the traditional black robe. He was tall on his right side and lumpy on his left. Winter couldn’t even guess what the left half of him was at the moment. In his right hand he held a long, wooden kilve.
“If you—”
One could argue for days about what the guard had intended to say. Perhaps he was going to say, “If you want, I’ll carry you.” Or maybe he was going to say, “If you find a pair of prescription reading glasses, they’re mine.” Of course, both of those possibilities seem unlikely, seeing how he was a rather aggressive rant who didn’t like to do extra work and had perfect vision.
What he was about to say will most likely never be known because as he began to speak, Winter froze his right side while simultaneously freezing the covering on her hands. She hurled herself against the icy wall, shattering the frozen rope and cloth that had been keeping her hands bound.
With her hands free, Winter touched and thawed the rant’s kilve. She snatched the staff from the guard as she stepped around him and began running down the icy hall. The kilve was long and wooden and painted with the ashes of dark dreams. The pointed end was sharp, with its edges so finely sanded they could have slit the throat of a roven. The other end was as blunt as a steel fist. Kilves were an effective weapon for beating your enemy or for utterly destroying incoming dreams. Winter could feel the evil this particular kilve had been a part of.
She shuddered and kept running.
Looking out through the slits of the mask, Winter tried to remember the little bit she knew of the place, but everything was ice and there seemed to be hundreds of hallways heading hundreds of directions. Most of the ice was smooth and reflective. Winter felt as if she were in a house of mirrors, with her reflection looking back at her from all angles.
Winter raced down a wide corridor, shaking her arms to get the blood flowing back in her wrists and hands. Her shoulder hurt from the beating it had previously taken. An angry shout behind her rang out.
They were coming.
Two large rants appeared in front of her, running toward her as if they knew of nothing else worthwhile in life. Winter thought of them as ice. Their dreamlike sides writhed and complained, trying to support the weight of their now-frozen right halves. Winter dashed between them and pushed them to the side.
The footsteps and shouts behind her grew louder.
Winter ran as fast as she could, her heart and head pounding like wet shoes tumbling in an electric clothes dryer.
“Stop her!” a thunderous voice screamed.
Winter touched the wall with her right hand as she ran. Instantly the structure thawed, turning into a wall of water, which collapsed in a terrific wave. She threw the kilve to her other hand and touched the wall on her left as she ran. It too became a gigantic wave of water. Winter could see the entire fortress behind her beginning to thaw, the water rising, picking her up, and carrying her down the hallways as it melted. She put her arms out in front of her and let the giant wave hurl her away from her pursuers. She could hear their screams fading behind her.
Winter raced with the wall of water down a steep set of stairs, out into and across a brick courtyard, and into another hallway. Ahead of her she could see a gigantic stained-glass window. The image was of the Want working with metal. It was a beautiful piece of art, but Winter knew it was her or the window. She extended her arms and held the blunt end of the kilve out in front of her.
The kilve shattered the glass with the water following right behind to wash the bits away. The room behind the window was huge, and as the water dispersed and ran off in a thousand directions, Winter settled to the floor and gently washed up against the brick fireplace.
She pulled herself up onto her hands and knees, her hair hanging down inside her mask like a bunch of wet spaghetti noodles. Winter had had enough. She jabbed the pointed end of the kilve into the seal of the mask and ripped it open. Winter threw off the mask.
She frantically looked up and back.
It appeared that no one had made it as far as she had. Winter worked herself out of the loose bodysuit she had been shrouded in, exposing the outfit she had been wearing when she had stepped back into Foo. Winter knelt and bit at the wrist of her right sleeve. There was already a small opening in the cuff thanks to Geth having hidden there. Winter pulled out a small length of elastic. She bit at her other sleeve and pulled out another small piece. She flipped her hair back and grabbed a handful on the right side. She twisted the elastic around it, creating a long, wet pigtail, then did the same to her left side.
Winter sighed. It was heaven to have her hair out of her eyes at last.
She was searching around for an exit when a voice spoke out, startling her.
“You look much younger than the Winter Jamoon spoke of.”
Winter jumped in shock and took a defensive stance with the kilve. Hidden in the shadows near the edge of the fireplace was the small, disgusting rant. He stepped closer and coughed. As the light hit him, she could clearly see his red right eye.
“I told Jamoon you would try to escape,” he said knowingly. “Jamoon is too slow to listen to me.”
“Well, now that we both understand what I’m doing, I’ll be going,” Winter said with determination.
“Wait,” the rant said, coughing and waving his right hand impatiently. “You still don’t remember your part? Jamoon said you would remember and help us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Winter said, her own soul wriggling uncomfortably.
The rant’s right eye burned.
“Just let me leave,” Winter bargained. “When I remember what you’re talking about, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I can’t let that happen,” he growled. “You will die before you get—” He stopped talking due to his left half beginning to bubble and hiss.
As much as Winter wanted to know what the rant had to say about Jamoon, she knew she needed to act fast. Rants were weakest when they were shifting. It was a dirty play, but she was not about to lose the opportunity.
Winter drew back and swung the kilve with as much strength as she had. The stick struck the sickly rant in the right shoulder, and he collapsed like a pile of stacked cards, screaming as he hit the ground.
“Stop!” he cried, his body still adjusting.
Winter was out the door and into the mountains before the rant could say another thing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’m on the Top of the Whirled
Some people like to fly. You may have met such a person. Perhaps he was a tall guy in a red hat who sat next to you. And maybe he went on and on about what a miraculous thing flying is, and how it’s the second safest form of travel, elevators being the first. But even a person like that would have a hard time finding the joy in flying in a plane that had thin, sinister black strands whipping around the wings and slapping against the windows.
Let’s just say the passengers of flight 7229 were concerned—meaning they were screaming and fanning themselves and making deals with their Maker for him to save their lives.
Dennis Wood was still buckled in his seat, nervously watching the long, black cords of Sabine whipping around the plane. Dennis had never really thought about dying, but he began to wonder if this wasn’t his time. He looked around at all the crying and screaming people and thought, At least I’m not alone.
Outside the plane, the string of Sabine fought valiantly, trying to pull away from Ezra and regain a position of strength. Neither Sabine nor Ezra was making much headway. It was hard for Ezra to destroy someone who was really already dead. And in turn it was fairly difficult for Sabine to get away from such a determined toothpick.
“Let me go,” Sabine hissed from both ends.
“Never!” Ezra yelled, still holding on to the tail end inside the plane.
Sabine whispered to himself. “The clouds,” he spat. “The hazen.”
In Foo the
clouds were called hazen and took their shapes from the imaginations of the inhabitants. Sabine felt it was time to wake up the clouds of Reality. With the end of him outside of the plane, Sabine twisted himself into a loop, stretched up, and lassoed the clouds. He tightened his loop, and all at once the clouds turned a burning orange color. As the clouds changed color, lightning began to strike.
Once.
Twice.
Fifty times.
The clouds were no longer just clouds, they were hazen, and they were desperate to prove their difference. Sabine imagined them as violent beasts.
The plane bumped up and down like a jerking seesaw.
The captain came on the intercom. He sounded as if he couldn’t decide whether to cry or scream. He nervously announced that they would be climbing higher to find smoother, safer air. Most passengers wished he had announced that they would be flying lower to find safer ground. The announcement failed to comfort any of them, seeing how the very clouds around them were beginning to take shape and attack the plane.
Dennis was sweating. The thick clouds were gaining color and form. Like gigantic marshmallows they brushed up against the plane. They smeared across the windows and left a pale, gluelike residue.
Seven passengers and one flight attendant passed out, which caused the rest to begin pulling their hair and rocking violently. A short man, who looked like a lima bean in a suit thanks to his green face and squat body, began tearing at his seat, searching frantically for a parachute.
Dennis pressed his face to his window. It looked like the earth was coming apart, the unraveling beginning in the air. A few of the clouds had thick, burning faces and long, billowing arms that were anything but cute. Dennis remembered as a child lying in a park looking up at the clouds. Back then he had seen the shapes of toy boats and horses. Now, however, the clouds looked horrible, huge and evil.
The plane rocked and twisted as the clouds grabbed hold of it. The four engines struggled and whined as one very large hazen pushed against the plane going forward.
The captain flipped desperately through his book trying to find any sort of instruction for handling rabid clouds.