Dance of the Dead

by Christie Golden

  But Dumont had little patience for their fears. Mercilessly he chided the singers back into full voice, urged the dancers and musicians to a more energetic performance. The crew he shamed with his own boldness, spurring them with his contempt and the unspoken threat of his anger.

  As the days passed and nothing came from the mist save the same frightening cries and groans, the folk of La Demoiselle began to return to normal. Everyone threw themselves into their work, eager to take their minds off the unnatural mists and the eerie noises that haunted them.

  On the ninth day, Casilda rose early, planning to spend an hour or so before breakfast rehearsing her final solo. She stepped outside of her cabin, frowned at the ever-present, ghostly mist, and continued down the damp deck toward the stairs.

  Dragoneyes too was awake and about, sitting on the outer stairs that led up to the next deck. He alone of the crewmen seemed not to be distressed by the eerie mists. Casilda nodded a cool greeting and made as if to pass by.

  “Handsome Jack said he’d spotted land,” Dragoneyes offered, concentrating on the piece of wood he was whittling. “Off our port side, if you care to take a look and see what you think.”

  Casilda paused. Larissa would be furious if she didn’t wake her up for something as important as sighting land. Sighing, she turned back to Larissa’s cabin and pounded on the dancer’s door. “Larissa! Wake up!”

  A muffled curse sounded from within, then, “What time is it, Cas?”

  “A little past dawn. Dragoneyes says there’s land ahead. Don’t you want to come see?”

  Casilda rubbed her own sleep-bleared eyes. There was no further sound from the cabin, and again she banged mercilessly on the door. Larissa swore, a trait she’d picked up through eight years aboard La Demoiselle du Musarde, and Casilda laughed outright. “Come on, sleepy!”

  A few seconds later the door swung open and Larissa emerged. Her eyes were still half-closed and her clothing—a voluminous red shirt and black trousers—had obviously been thrown on. She stamped her left foot a few times to get the short leather boot completely on and fumbled with a broad black belt that was too big for her trim waist. Larissa’s long white hair was a total mess. She clutched a brush in one hand. For a moment Casilda wondered if the dancer was going to hit her with it.

  “This better be good,” Larissa muttered.

  Together the two young women went up to the bow. The promise of land and an end to this horrible journey overcame any lingering dread of what might lurk in the mists, and for the first time the women noticed that the frightful chorus of howls and moans was muffled and distant, less loud than the soft creak of the ship’s timbers and the rhythmic chuff-and-gurgle of her great paddlewheel. They leaned against the railing, staring into the grayness, hazel eyes and blue searching for a lightening of the claustrophobic mist.

  The early morning air was moist and chilly. Fog clutched wetly at Larissa’s long white hair like the fingers of a drowned man. Unconsciously, the girl reached a slim hand to touch her tangled mat, as if to reassure herself that her locks were coated merely with mist and not something more foul. She set to work brushing her hair, her eyes still peering into the fog, a frown of concentration on her face.

  “Here, let me. You can’t get all those snarls out by yourself,” Casilda offered. She held out her hand for the brush. There was no point in both of them straining their eyes peering through the mists.

  “Thanks,” Larissa said, handing her friend the brush and presenting her tangled white locks. “How’s that solo of yours coming along?” she asked. Casilda dragged the brush through the snarls, and Larissa winced under her friend’s less than tender ministrations.

  Casilda grimaced at Larissa’s query. “Not well at all,” she confessed. “That last high note always terrifies me. I know it’s in my range, but I get nervous and don’t trust my voice on it. Now, Liza’s voice—” Casilda stopped, her voice going thick, and continued brushing Larissa’s hair with unnecessary vigor.

  Larissa did not urge her to continue. They stood quietly together, remembering the vivacious soprano. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic cry of the leadsman, calling out “N-o-o-o-o Botto-o-o-m!” A strained note in the clear calls betrayed the crewman’s terror of working blindly in the mist.

  At last Casilda had finished with Larissa’s white hair and stroked its silkiness enviously before starting to tie it up with a ribbon that had been wound around the brush handle. Suddenly Larissa jerked away from Casilda, making the other girl drop brush and ribbon.

  “There!” shrieked Larissa, leaning over the railing and pointing excitedly. “It’s clearing over there!”

  Larissa stepped up on the lowest rung and leaned out, her unbound hair whipping back in the sudden breeze. Casilda bent down and retrieved the dropped brush and ribbon.

  Traveling through the unnatural mists had bothered Larissa more than she cared to admit. Even dancing had not completely alleviated her tension as her lively imagination populated the mists with horrors to match each shriek and groan. With land in sight, though, she had to admit that it looked as if Dumont’s wild foray into the unknown had been successful.

  Perhaps the tales of what lurked in the border mists were just that—tales, legends. It certainly seemed that way, except for the strange sounds. The mist was starting to thin, and Larissa could make out the large, dark shape of hilly terrain up ahead.

  Casilda stepped to the rail beside her friend. Without warning, she shuddered violently. It suddenly felt very cold here on deck, and the mist was more clammy than usual. The singer frowned to herself, and glanced out at the spot in the fog where Larissa had glimpsed land.

  Larissa had noticed the shudder. “Cas?” she said, concerned. Casilda ignored her, keeping her eyes on the dark shape ahead.

  It still looked like hilly terrain, but with heart-stopping suddenness the whistle in the pilothouse shrilled loudly. The sound was repeated twice more, and Casilda and Larissa looked at one another in horror. Like everyone else aboard La Demoiselle du Musarde, they were well aware of what three blasts on the whistle meant—danger ahead.

  As they watched, the hill shuddered and began to move in their direction with a steady, awful sense of purpose.

  Casilda lurched backward so abruptly that she almost lost her balance and went toppling to the deck floor. She caught herself by grabbing at the railing and clinging to it as if it were a weapon or shield. “Kraken!” she yelled. Her eyes had grown huge and full of animal terror.

  The cry was taken up by the crewmen, who sprinted for the spears kept on deck. Casilda, still flooded with fear, began to breathe faster and faster. Larissa grabbed her friend and tried to pull her away from the railing, but Casilda’s fingers clung stubbornly.

  “Look at it, Larissa, look at it!” Casilda babbled hysterically. “That thing’s huge, gigantic, the size of a mountain at least!”

  “Casilda, come on!” The dancer seized her friend around her waist and tugged with all her strength, but Casilda remained rooted to the spot, unblinking hazel eyes focused on the mountain of flesh that was drawing near the boat.

  The leadsman’s musical, steady cry had ceased. Now Larissa and Casilda heard it rise in a shriek. “Pull me in!” the unfortunate crewman screamed. “It’s coming! Please, please pull me—”

  There was a violent splash, then nothing more.

  A pulsating gray tentacle materialized out of the white mist and groped along the deck. It squirmed like some gargantuan slug, slapping wetly near Larissa’s feet. Closing about a chair left on the deck from more pleasant times, it clutched hard enough to shatter the wood and pulled what was left off into the greedy whiteness.

  Casilda screamed, a high, piercingly pure sound that reminded Larissa of her friend’s singing. The dancer, though, had had enough. She struck Casilda’s wrists upward, knocking her hands away from the rail. Cas whimpered and cowered back, and Larissa seized her hand, yanking her away from the danger. “Come on!”

  Together they ran to
ward the stairs and the safety of the theater, deep within the boat. Casilda flew down the stairs, her feet clattering noisily. Larissa started to follow, but the kraken had no desire to lose so tender a morsel.

  The white-haired dancer gasped as a slimy limb brushed one of her long, muscled legs. Her heart pounding, she leaped upward before the horrid thing could close on her. The water that dripped from the creature’s tentacle made the deck slippery, and the normally sure-footed young woman lost her balance as she landed. One hand shot out and seized the wooden banister before she fell down the stairs.

  The rubbery tentacle struck noisily on the deck, groping for her. Larissa scrambled the rest of the way down the water-slick stairs, with the kraken closing in on her. She hit the next deck running and dived for one of the spears. She heaved the heavy weapon at the questing limb with all her might and pinned the gray, pulsating flesh to the deck.

  The creature bellowed in pain. With a mammoth wrench, it pulled the harpoon free and retracted its injured member, dragging the weapon along with it. Without thinking, Larissa dived after the rapidly disappearing spear, her hands closing on the shaft. To her distress, it stayed firmly in the grasp of the monster’s moist flesh. For a fear-fraught instant she thought the kraken would drag her and the spear with it into the unseen waters below.

  Then strong hands closed about her, pulling her back, away from the railing. Larissa stubbornly clung to the spear, managing to tug it free. The tentacle was swallowed up by the fog, but not before Larissa noticed that the spear didn’t appear to have harmed it at all. She glanced back to determine who her savior might be and encountered the furious face of her guardian.

  Before either could speak, four crewmen ran past, armed with spears, grim determination on their features. They appeared to have recovered from their initial fear and swore with a new earnestness as they battled the creature. Dumont opened the door to the theater lounge, shoved Larissa inside, and pulled the door shut again.

  Larissa peered out the door’s window, watching the struggle and wishing desperately that she could help. A few yards away, a tentacle closed around a hapless deck hand and lifted the squirming figure into the air. The gray limb tightened, and there was an awful popping sound that Larissa heard even from inside the boat. The sailor’s struggles ceased. The corpse was flung to the deck, knocking down two other men.

  A small, slight figure hastened to join the battle, and Larissa’s white eyebrows rose in astonishment. What could Gelaar hope to do against a kraken? He was just an illusionist! As she watched, the elf began to cast a spell, waving his thin arms and closing his eyes in concentration.

  All at once the fearful kraken was gone. A swirling shape of mist, a slightly darker shade of gray than the surrounding fog, appeared in its place. “An illusion,” Larissa breathed. “Its form was just an illusion!”

  Yet the dark cloud of mist did not dissipate. The kraken form had been an illusion, but only to hide their attacker’s true form.

  Dumont, pushing Gelaar away from the entity, whistled a few clear, sharp notes that sliced through the cacophony of battle. A huge wave welled up beside La Demoiselle. For an instant, Larissa felt sure that the wall of water was going to come crashing down on the riverboat. Instead, it smacked the mist creature with a resounding clap. The creature, startled, dissolved completely into mist and rapidly blended with the eerie but harmless fog. There was a pause, but nothing further happened. The crew, relieved, began to cheer.

  Larissa, also relieved, opened the door and stepped onto the deck. She felt a strong grip on her arm and looked up to meet Dumont’s fury-darkened face.

  “Damn you to the bottom of the Sea of Sorrows, girl!” Dumont spat angrily, fear and apprehension staining his rage. “I’ve told you what to do if ever this boat was in danger, haven’t I? Haven’t I?” He jerked on her arm for emphasis, and the girl winced.

  “Aye, Uncle, but there wasn’t time for me to get below deck, and the spear was right there—”

  “Don’t talk back.” Dumont relaxed his grip and glowered down at his ward. “I saw that you had time to get Casiope out of the way.”

  “Casilda,” she corrected.

  Dumont exploded again. “Don’t interrupt me!” Larissa lowered her blue eyes, but amusement quirked one corner of her mouth. The crew might all run from his bluster, but Larissa knew that Uncle Raoul would never do a thing to hurt her.

  “Now then,” Dumont continued, his tone softening. “You might have been hurt, child, and you know I couldn’t bear that. So next time, just you get your pretty little self below deck and let the crew handle it, all right?”

  “Yes, Captain. Sorry, sir.”

  He slipped a strong, tanned hand underneath her chin and tilted her face up to him. “And besides,” he said jokingly, his handsome features crinkling into a smile, “who would play the Lady of the Sea? No one else has your sea-foam hair.”

  Larissa smiled, and amusement lit up her face until she glowed.

  Dumont inhaled swiftly. Gods, but the child had grown up, hadn’t she? Into such a beauty, too. Momentarily lost in his ward’s loveliness, the captain found himself staring into her blue eyes.

  “Is it gone, Captain?”

  The young crewman who had dared interrupt gazed earnestly at his commander. Abruptly Dumont remembered the mist horror, gone for the moment but no doubt reforming itself for a second attack. Without a word he left Larissa and went below deck. A few moments later, La Demoiselle surged ahead with a sudden burst of speed.

  To Larissa’s delight, the true landscape began to take shape in the distance. Dragoneyes had been right about sighting land, and Dumont’s gamble had paid off.

  Larissa leaned against a pile of rope, conscientiously staying out of the way of the scurrying crew members, and watched the new territory emerge. It seemed to be rather flat country, and as they drew nearer she saw that there was a fairly large town located near the shore. It had a long wharf that was home to several small boats and a few larger vessels. Some of them were out going about their business, closer to the steamboat than to the shore.

  Larissa caught glimpses of the sailors and waved at them in a friendly fashion. Normally, the arrival of La Demoiselle was a happy occasion, and the cry “Steamboat a-comin’!” preceded the boat’s docking. Here, however, no one was expecting the magnificent, magical showboat, and judging by the frightened, suspicious looks on the faces turned toward Larissa, no one welcomed her arrival. Larissa’s grin faded as the boats made haste to turn their sails and flee from La Demoiselle du Musarde.

  Discouraged, the dancer turned her attention back to the approaching town. She could see more of it now, and something about it seemed curiously familiar to her. The dancer frowned and leaned against the railing. Surely she was just confusing the port with another she had seen in her eight years aboard the boat.

  Something else caught her eye, drawing her attention away from the dock area. The citizens of this place had only partly succeeded in keeping nature at bay. To the right of the town, a verdant forest dominated the landscape. Yet it was unlike most forests the girl had seen. The trees were huge and grew right up to—and in—the marshy water. Gnarled roots broke the tea-colored surface, looking for all the world like an old man’s knees. A strange substance that looked almost like gray-green hair was snarled in the tops of the trees. Plants clotted the water at first, but Larissa could see the river opened up as it wound inland.

  Larissa frowned to herself. How could this landscape be so strange and yet so familiar? The dancer did not like to think about the years before she had become Captain Dumont’s ward, before she had found her home aboard La Demoiselle. Now, however, a memory surged to the forefront.

  She shook her head in vain denial, her hands clutching the railings for support as her legs suddenly went weak. She recognized this coastline, knew the name of this island, that town. As Larissa fled to her uncle’s cabin, more frightened by the innocent-looking coastline than the horrid monster in the mist, she heard the
heartbeat sounds of drums in the distance.

  Dumont’s cabin was located directly beneath the pilothouse. Larissa pounded on the door with both fists, fully aware that she was behaving like a child, but too terrified to care. “Uncle!” she cried, her voice a sharp cry.

  Dumont opened the door at once. His face changed from brusque to concerned when he realized who his visitor was. “Larissa, sweetheart, what is it?”

  Larissa merely stared at him, cheeks ashen. “I—I—the island—”

  Dumont frowned, extending a hand to gently pull her inside. “Come on in and tell me,” he soothed.

  Dumont’s room was the largest private cabin on the boat and was furnished lavishly. There was an ornate wardrobe that had an expensive mirror mounted on it, two plush chairs, a large, canopied bed, and a carved mahogany table. Wares from over a dozen lands cluttered the room, from tapestries to carvings to strange items that no one who visited even dared to identify.

  The captain steered his distraught young ward to the bed and sat her down. “Take a deep breath,” he told her in a comforting tone, “and when you’re a bit calmer, tell me what has upset you so much.”

  The dancer obeyed, her breath coming in short gasps. “I know this place,” she said thickly.

  Dumont quirked an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  She nodded, her tangled white hair falling into her flushed face. “I was here once, long ago, with my father. It’s an island called Souragne. My—my hair turned white here. My father said something bad almost happened to me in the swamp.” She looked up at Dumont with an imploring gaze that nearly broke his heart. “I’m frightened, Uncle. I know it’s silly, but …”

  Tenderly, Dumont placed an arm about her, drawing her head down to his chest and resting his cheek on her white hair. “There, ma petite,” he soothed, “I’m taking care of you now, not your father. I won’t leave you like he did. You know that, Larissa.”