For that paradoxical reason, Zeno’s Forest was used exclusively for commuting to unimaginably faraway worlds.
But the real technology underlying Zeno’s Forest lay in one’s own conviction, one’s own certainty in the desired destination—and the capability of the forest to be able to transport you there lickety-split. If you doubted your destination or questioned the efficacy of the laws governing the
wooded terrain, you could get stuck for eternity among the trees. Ugh!
And with that dreadful, doubtful thought in her mind, and without a word of warning, Scarecrow seized Caitlin’s hand. The trio was suddenly hurtling through the time-transcending, space-bending forest.
Streaks of blue, brown, and green moved past Caitlin in liquefied walls of blended color as if she were jetting through some kind of psychedelic, transdimensional tunnel. Scintillating flashes of fruity orange, citrus yellow, and lime green colors brought spots to her eyes as she held them open. She didn’t want to miss a moment. The old Caitlin would have slammed her eyelids shut. She would’ve mobilized every muscle in her body to keep from looking. But not now. Not this time. Now she absorbed the wonders of the hyperscreamin’
mode of travel—all of which ended mere seconds after it had begun.
Whoooooomp!
She tumbled to a stop by rolling into a cold bank of snow not too far from Scarecrow. He hurried to her side, offered her a hand, and pulled her to her feet. Her palms were cold and clammy.
Caitlin glanced at her surroundings. They had landed in a towering, mountainous region that appeared to be some sort of mythical, magical snowscape—like an otherworldly rendition of the Swiss Alps.
Having trekked through so many realms of gloom and gray, the sudden blinding white of snow and brilliant glare of ice invigorated her senses. Except, neither Caitlin nor her companions were properly dressed for such a high
altitude. Her stomach knotted, and she quickly fell short of breath.
“How high do you think we are?”
“Two thousand, one hundred thirty-seven meters,” Scarecrow said.
“How can you be so precise?”
The straw man pointed to a sign that read: Altitude 2,137m.
The cold touch of air moved through the woven fabric that covered Caitlin’s skin, raising goose bumps. Her teeth were already chattering and her limbs trembled as she reclaimed her footing. She was calves deep in snow.
“We must hurry through these parts,” Scarecrow said, “or the cold will have our last breath of air.”
A frigid wind scraped across Caitlin’s cheeks like sandpaper. Despite shivering, she was still able to marvel at the mountain’s densely powdered snowfall, tree trunks shellacked in ice across a snow-drifted landscape, brilliant blue frozen lakes, and magnificent naturally formed ice sculptures that could have been displayed in a museum of modern art.
There were soft curtains of snow breezing along the mountain ranges. The skyscapes between the white-capped peaks were not the usual dreary haze found elsewhere in the dying fairy-tale universe. They were milky white from the teeming snowflakes carpeting the air.
Caitlin walked over to the edge of a soaring mountain ridge. The view from the great height was breathtaking: a veritable oasis of virgin snow and blue ice that was surely cold as death yet as alluring as fresh, homemade vanilla ice cream.
The next closest mountain ridge lay about a hundred meters directly across from Caitlin. In between was a steep, fifty-meter drop. A death drop, no doubt.
Caitlin peered over the edge. Her stomach churned and she became light-headed.
A steamy thermal hot spring bubbled at the bottom, circular in shape. Its circumference filled the entire gulf between the two mountain ridges. Fiery sparks ignited on the surface of the hot springs when snowflakes landed in the
simmering water. The larger the flakes, the more luminous the flashes.
And then there was the bridge connecting the two mountains.
The bridge!
The bridge that was heartlessly narrow and diving-board thin.
The bridge made of pure ice. Slippery ice. Crystalline ice. Slabs so transparent you’d surely be convinced you were walking on air—if you dared cross it.
Those thermal, flammable hot springs continued boiling away beneath the bridge like volcanic lava sizzling in the bowels of hell. Not only would the fall kill you, the acid springs would incinerate you on contact.
Has anyone ever had the courage—or stupidity—to attempt crossing such a perilous bridge?
As if reading her thoughts, Glinda pointed to a squiggly, bright yellow line of ice trailing off back into the mountains behind her.
Frozen pee. Apparently someone had considered crossing, but they’d gotten cold feet. Caitlin was grateful they wouldn’t have to contemplate such a treacherous challenge.
“We need to cross this bridge to reach the Twin Mountains,” Scarecrow said.
A freight train derailed in her stomach.
“Not a chance,” she declared defiantly as she waved a finger at it. “It would be sheer suicide to try to cross that . . . that horizontal popsicle!”
“Should’ve brought a pair of skates!” Glinda said. Apparently she wasn’t keen on slip-sliding across the oversize icicle either.
Caitlin scanned the terrain. “There must be another way to get to the other side.”
Tin Man brushed away a shimmer of snow and gestured toward a deep cleft in the rock, farther down the ridge they were standing on.
“There’s a portal inside that cleft,” Tin Man said. “You’re free to use it to return home.”
Home?
“Just enter the portal,” he continued, “and you’ll be transported back to your world. To Copenhagen, Denmark. The grave of Hans Christian Andersen.”
How freaking tempting is that?
Caitlin could still catch a train to London and meet up with Jack at Mount Cemetery in Guildford. She could call Barton and enlist his help as well. She could return with an army to help extract Natalie from this vile place.
But then again—
“What happens to Natalie in the meantime?” Caitlin asked through chattering teeth.
Scarecrow removed his battered burlap hat. He calmly shook off the snow that had accumulated around the brim. He planted the hat back on his head, angling the brim downward to shield his eyes from drifting snowflakes. He spoke in a
sardonic tone. “You can return next Halloween, when the portals reopen.”
Caitlin sighed.
Suddenly, red band urges attacked.
An ungodly hunger seethed in her belly. The whiteness of her environment suddenly glinted maroon. Her senses intensified as she felt the redness overcome her—a certain animal instinct of survival and untamed urges—the kind she might even enjoy if she thought she could control it.
But then the worst possible urge overcame her. She felt the desire to close her heart and do the unthinkable. To take a life. To tear the living flesh off the bones off a dying creature, or—she struggled to resist the vulgar notion—to consume another human being. She could feel it clawing in her stomach. Ravenous, insatiable. An inhuman yearning. The moral line between decency and depravity began to blur.
She had witnessed Glinda feeding in secret when they had first left the witch’s castle. Crouched behind bushes, gnawing on a rodent. Glinda was struggling. And yet she had managed to be tender and restrained when she’d tasted Caitlin’s blood. With stark horror, Caitlin realized she would not have been able to reciprocate the tenderness.
“Witch’s brew!” she cried out.
Glinda pulled out the thermos and handed it to her. Caitlin gulped down a single swig, then waited for the nausea and hunger to pass.
She took a deep breath as the white returned to the snowscape. Her eyes locked with Scarecrow’s.
“Let’s go get my sister.
”
Scarecrow tightened his gloves. “The bridge will only hold one at a time,” he said.
“We’ll draw straws,” Glinda said. “Short goes first; longest goes last.” Scarecrow picked a handful of straw from his shoulder and held it in his gloved hand. Everyone but Tin Man reached forward and pulled a straw.
Scarecrow drew the shortest, Glinda the longest. Caitlin’s straw was smack in the middle.
Tin Man suddenly began hypermelting, a rather miraculous feat considering the frigid temperature. He pooled into a silver puddle of liquefied tin. Scarecrow set the glass vial on the snow, turning it on its side. The silver fluid moved to fill the vial, moving quick, like liquid mercury.
Scarecrow corked and pocketed the vial. He backed up a few meters and then did something utterly insane.
Scarecrow ran full tilt, with reckless abandon, toward the bridge.
Seriously? Is he out of his mind?
The man of straw glided across the narrow tract of ice at full speed. He displayed balance, dexterity, and skill worthy of a world-champion snowboarder.
He slid off the other end of the bridge and onto the next ridge, landing softly in the snow. He rose up and dusted off the white flakes.
He made it look so easy.
“Do not—I repeat—do not attempt that!” Scarecrow shouted with a stern face.
Oh really?
“My agility and proficiency with movement far exceeds everyone else’s. My brain was able to instantly calculate wind velocity, surface interaction friction, acceleration, drag, and other influencing factors involving kinetics and kinematics. This allowed me to adjust my approach accordingly. Attempt your own crossing with unrestrained care and caution.”
No kidding.
Scarecrow poured the vial of silver fluid onto the snow. Within moments, Tin Man reconstructed himself out of the pool of silver.
“Guess I’m next,” Caitlin said.
Glinda glanced up at the sun. Then she surveyed the snowy mountains and checked her wristwatch. She turned to Caitlin.
“Mind if I go next, sweetie?” Glinda said.
Caitlin was in no hurry to cross the icicle. “Be my guest.”
Glinda blew hot breath on her hands and rubbed them together vigorously. She got down on all fours and said, “Pardon the ungraceful posture.”
She began to crawl, slow and purposeful, over the narrow belt of ice.
Luckily, the winds were velvet soft. And somehow, Glinda seemed to keep her traction on the slick surface. But then the beautiful Sorcerer of the South burst into tears.
Caitlin quickly saw why.
Glinda’s undead skin was sticking to the ice, leaving a fresh trail of frosted blood prints—fingertips, palms, and kneecaps. Despite her pain and whimpers, Glinda crawled onward, bravely and bloodily.
Two more crawling strides forward, and again a palm got stuck to the ice. But this time she couldn’t detach it from the surface.
Then came an ominous rumble: the kind of rumble that portends imminent disaster.
Scarecrow saw it first. He pointed to the high ridge on the adjacent mountain.
Everyone looked. Everyone heard.
Avalanche.
The heaving roll and tumble of ten million tons of snow on the neighboring mountain sounded like warring gods of thunder. The effects of that avalanche sent turbulent gusts of snow barreling in their direction.
Glinda began rocking her hand gently, back and forth, to and fro, to loosen it from the ice. Then she yanked with all her strength, and her hand tore free—but the snow winds came hard and fast.
There she was, stranded thousands of meters high, out in the open air, balancing on a tenuous, slippery slab of ice.
The first blast of snow blew by.
And just like that, the wind gust carried Glinda right off the bridge.
She fell like dead weight, plummeting through the air.
She splashed into the hot springs below in a violent combustion of colored flames.
Caitlin watched, slack-jawed, as the terrible blaze quickly died and the bubbling hot springs calmed to a simmer.
Scarecrow wailed. Tin Man howled. Caitlin gasped.
She was gone.
Red bubbles of hot gas rose from the springs.
Just then, something compelled Caitlin to peer over at the adjacent mountain ridge to her right.
Her eyes widened.
Perched high atop a thick tree branch, a mysterious dark shape with a duffel bag was watching her prepare to cross the giant icicle bridge.
Who is that? And is that a body bag over his shoulder?
“Caitlin, hurry!” Scarecrow cried out.
She had to shut down the shock and sorrow of Glinda’s demise. She had to focus on finding Natalie. She had to cross the bridge—now.
When the last gust of snow from the avalanche brushed by, she inhaled a full breath of mountain air and held it deep in
her belly. Then she delicately stepped onto the narrow block of ice.
Her toes curled under to help her feet grip the slick surface.
She raised her arms for stability.
To maintain her balance—and her wits—she didn’t dare look down.
She heard the repressed sobs of Scarecrow and Tin Man as they urged her to continue. The mere fact they were encouraging her onward, still focused on the mission, was revelatory to Caitlin. Their commitment to her well-being and care for her safety filled her with the strength to persevere through her shock.
She glided on her front foot and shoved off gingerly with her back foot, sliding her way forward. Arms spread wide. Tilting left. Angling right. It was like walking a high wire, which would’ve been easier.
Something Natalie had once told her sprang to mind. Slipping on ice was second to traffic accidents as a cause of accidental death.
And that’s when her left foot slid out from under her.
She wobbled. Flung her arms in a desperate attempt to regain balance. She teetered on the edge of the bridge . . .
A crosswind buffeted her back up and she managed to find her footing.
She stole a quick glance at the mysterious figure perched on the tree to make sure he was not coming after her. The figure glanced upward. She raised her eyes to see what had caught his attention.
Crows were winging across the sky.
Thank God—not Janus!
A black bird suddenly dive bombed, kamikaze style, into the thermal springs below her. The crow vanquished in a plume of black smoke and red flames.
“Oh my gawd! That crow killed itself on purpose!” Caitlin cried.
“Keep moving!” Scarecrow shouted.
More red bubbles filled with hot gas began to rise from the hot springs. They floated upward. The ones that rose high enough reached the underside of the bridge and burst in puffs of red steam that reeked like a backed-up septic tank. The bursting bubbles began melting the bridge.
More birds began dive-bombing into the springs, causing more hot gas bubbles to rise and melt more of her ice bridge. Droplets of ice fell back down into the spring, igniting more sparks as they struck the surface—and causing even more hot bubbles to rise. And as more hot bubbles rose and burst, the melting process accelerated.
“Hurry!” Tin Man screamed. “They’re trying to melt the bridge.”
Each step made Caitlin’s heart stop. She anticipated an inevitable collapse. She was barely a quarter of the way across. She shook her head bleakly. It didn’t look good. No matter how gentle her movement, each step forward sounded like jumbo peanut shells cracking under her feet. The sound of fracturing ice echoed off the hillsides like mocking laughter daring her to take another step. She felt destined to suffer the same fate as Glinda.
A strange feeling urged her to glance behind her toward the cleft in the mountain. The cleft tha
t could lead her to the grave of Hans Christian Andersen. And back home.
A million glittering snowflakes swirled by the cleft’s entranceway, forming a shimmering apparition. The shape of a young woman crystalized in the cell-like particles of snow floating in the air. She was a beautiful woman in a long, flowing, royal white coat trimmed in luxurious blue fur. A tiara glinted atop her head. Strands of white pearls bejeweled the lapels of her coat.
Through the blur of wet snowflakes, her complexion looked cadaver pale. She had gorgeous high cheekbones and smoky black circles around her eyes. Her lashes were frosted, and her irises were a crystalline violet, indicating royal blood.
The Snow Queen?
She blew a kiss to Caitlin and summoned her with a gentle wave.
“Come home, Caitlin. I’ll take you!” Her voice was like a ribbon in the wind.
Caitlin’s insides twisted like braids. She could continue crossing this perilous bridge and risk falling, or she could return home and risk losing Natalie.
Hairline cracks were veining along the ice.
The sheer weight of her body would shatter the bridge in a matter of moments, seconds.
More like nanoseconds.
Her body would splash into the springs and the liquid would disintegrate her flesh and bone.
Was it from a movie? Or a TV show? Caitlin couldn’t remember, but she recalled a technique that might delay the collapse of the bridge.
She lay facedown gently on the ice, spreading her arms and legs to distribute her weight across a wider area.
But don’t touch the ice with your flesh!
Her body burned from the cold.
She tenderly shimmied forward.
She caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye.
Another crow.
This one was not on a suicide mission. It flew in at a low angle, homing in on her.
The flask.
She pulled it out and swung it hard at the bird when it swooped by.
A good hit!
Unfortunately, it was also a good hit for the crow. The crow had stabbed her left eye with its beak.
The flask of witch’s brew fell into the spring. Another flash of fire.
Caitlin’s eye stung with the bite of barbed wire.
The Lord of the Curtain Page 18