She’d asked where she was, but all they’d told her was that she was in “The Village.” Apparently there was only one in all of October Land. The Village was where the “Harvesters” lived. Mabel and Henry were Harvesters, people who had been born and raised in October Land in a never-ending string of generations of Harvesters. The couple had had children, but according to Mabel, that was “so very long ago.” Logan had no real idea of how long it had actually been, but from the tone of Mabel’s voice, she would wager on centuries rather than decades.
Logan asked why it was light in the forest but then suddenly dark when she approached the town. They’d explained that it was always night in The Village. When Harvesters grew tired of the darkness, they simply left and visited another of October’s lands. There were six. Another thing Logan had learned.
Most importantly, she’d worked up the courage to ask how a mortal could leave October Land once they’d entered.
Immediately upon asking the question, she’d known it was a mistake. She’d been avoiding any talk about Samhain. It felt as if the subject might somehow prove volatile. She had no evidence to this effect – it was just a feeling, a hunch.
But with this question, they were confused. They had asked her why she needed to know. Surely the magic user she’d entered the realm with could get them back out again? And then Logan had been forced to shrug it off: “Oh, right.”
Now she felt like she was right back where she started, in a foreign, magical place without any means of escaping it. She wondered where her friends were…. She wondered whether the tiny note she’d left scrawled into the tree had done any good. Had it had even been noticed? Probably not.
It was going to be up to her to find a way out of October Land.
If that’s really what you want to do….
“Now then,” said Mabel, pulling Logan from her thoughts, “The Masquerade is set to begin. You’re fine to attend alone if you wish. I’ve got to dress, yet.” She moved back, her job finished, and took a deep breath of completion.
“Where do I go?” asked Logan. The idea of attending a party just then seemed ludicrous to her. But then again, in a crowd full of people who’d lived here their whole lives, it was possible she could find the answers she was looking for while still maintaining her anonymity. There was a lot to be said for a mask.
“Just follow the lights,” Mabel replied. She turned away from Logan and gestured toward the door to the bedroom. Logan took the hint and followed her out, lifting the skirts of her gown as she walked. The movement seemed natural to her, almost instinctive. I was made to wear this dress.
They entered the dining room where Henry sat hunched over the table. An oil lantern rested nearby on its surface, shedding light upon something that Henry seemed busily working on. Little tiny pieces of wood were flying out from whatever it was he was busy with, and Logan guessed he was whittling.
At the sounds of their footsteps, Henry turned in his chair, and Logan could see that he was in fact whittling. A nearly completed masquerade mask rested in his left hand, a small sharp knife in his right.
Henry’s strange glowing gaze landed on Logan, and the old man froze for a moment in his chair. Then he slowly stood, his rickety body at once seeming older than it had before – as if he were stunned.
“I take back me word,” he whispered. “The Dearg she may well be.”
“Would serve you right,” Mabel harrumphed. “Such rudeness directed at a visitor.” She tsked him and shook her head. But Henry seemed to barely notice. He was humbler now, standing there, beholding her. He seemed smaller.
Logan had never felt more conspicuous. A deep, hard blush crept up her neck, flushing her cheeks. But just as she’d felt beautiful for the first time in her life standing before Mabel’s mirror, she now felt something else for the first time as well.
Power.
The Dearg, or Dearg Due, she’d been told, was a seductress – a vampiress. As Henry told it, she had been a very beautiful woman in life who had fallen in love with a poor farm boy. Her father insisted she instead marry a rich man, who treated her terribly. The woman took her own life, and then rose from her grave as the Dearg Due, a vampiress who hunts the realms for handsome young men to drain, as she was drained in life.
Logan was fairly sure she was no vampire, but to be compared to something as charming and potent was empowering. And the irony of the comparison struck deep. Henry may think she looked lovely in that blue dress that had once been worn by his wife. But if the old Harvester had possessed any clue that Logan had in fact inadvertently created several vampires with her “bard” words, he never would have invited her into his home.
“Get the door, Henry,” instructed Mabel.
But Henry had already been on his way to the front door, shooting glances of awe at Logan from over his shoulder as he went. He opened the door, turned around, and stepped to the side.
Mabel gently nudged Logan toward it. “Off with you now,” she said softly with a smile. “You’ll be the heart of the masquerade tonight, I fear.” But she looked as though there was little to no fear involved. Instead, she looked very pleased with herself.
She gave Logan another gentle nudge, and Logan stepped out the front door and into the street of The Village.
The door began closing behind her, and Logan caught a few final words from her hosts.
“I hope ye’re happy, woman. Ye’ve meddled, and there’s sure to be trouble over that one’s attentions.”
“You forget that dress was mine once. I survived, did I not? And I told you that you would not finish that mask in time. Just wear your other one and finish it tomorrow –”
The door closed tight, and Logan was alone.
Chapter Twelve
Logan turned away from the door to face the street of The Village. She was alone, but the street had changed since she’d traversed it earlier that night. Lanterns exactly like the one on Henry’s table lined the street on either side, giving off a warm and welcoming glow. They reminded Logan of runway lights, pointing the way down the cobbled stones to the opposite end of town, where Logan had not yet traveled.
Mabel’s feet had been much smaller than Logan’s, so Logan still wore her own leather soled boots under her gorgeous gown, and they made a clear, hollow sound as she descended the steps of the cottage and walked out into the street.
Now that everything was more or less lit up, Logan could see the fountain at the center of the town, and beyond that, the cobbled stones continued to stretch, dividing two rows of houses and cottages like Mabel’s and Henry’s.
Logan made her way toward the fountain, and as she did, she grew more and more excited. Finally, she stood before it and looked up. It was a massive alabaster structure carved in the shape of a very large, very old, ornately constructed tree. Hanging from each overhanging branch of this mighty oak was not an acorn – but a pumpkin. Sometimes there were several pumpkins per branch.
“It’s the Halloween Tree,” Logan said aloud, smiling despite herself. Bradbury’s famous tale of Halloween through the ages had always been one of Logan’s most treasured books. She adored the prose and the eminently poetic stanzas the author used to tell his story. She loved the imagery, and often after reading a page or even a single paragraph, she would close her eyes and feel the words move through her like a wave in the ocean. They were a tide of creativity, ebbing and flowing, pushing the blood through her veins as surely as did her own beating heart.
The story’s main aspect was that of an ageless tree from which hung the “pumpkin fire souls” of the dead. The visages they’d possessed in life were carved magically into pumpkins in the likeness of jack-o’-lanterns, their inner lights burning brightly as they grinned at the leaf-strewn world below.
And now Logan stood before a flowing fountain carved from stone in the very image of that great and imposing masterpiece. The water traveling restlessly through its infinite crevices, cracks, and hollows made the most wonderful sound, peaceful and yet exciting.
The jack-o’-lanterns hanging from its branches grinned or guffawed or oohed and ahhd, all of them gazing through sightless holes that somehow glowed candle light, despite the water that also ran through them.
Logan moved closer, leaned in, and took a better look at the carved white pumpkin nearest to her. The light inside was shed by a single white floating candle, no doubt meticulously lit by some attentive caretaker just now for the masquerade. She looked further up. The next pumpkin on the branch, which sported carefully carved freckles and glasses and appeared to be the visage of a younger boy, was lit the same way.
“Amazing,” she sighed. And it was. There were at least a hundred jack-o’-lanterns on that enormous tree, and every single one possessed a brightly lit soul.
Logan straightened and took several steps back so she could take it all in. She couldn’t help but wonder just then whether Bradbury had known about this when he’d written his book, had possibly visited October Land before, as a bard, perhaps even in his dreams.
Or, maybe, upon the great author’s death, the Village had created this fountain in honor of the man who should have been born a Harvester.
She would never know.
Logan turned away from the fountain, and with a feeling of renewal, she re-gathered her skirts and continued around the fountain’s base and down the worn stone path.
When she’d gone past two houses, the door to the third opened, and a couple stepped out onto their threshold. They weren’t looking at her; they were paying attention to each other. The woman busily adjusted the man’s coat collar, and the man temporarily held her fan for her. She was wearing a dress in somewhat the same fashion as Logan’s, though of different colors, and admittedly not nearly as beautiful. Her hair was bright Autumn red, and fell down her back in tight ringlets that gave Logan a twinge of jealousy.
The man had short cut blonde hair and was dressed in coattails, crisp and proper. He was fairly tall, and dressed as he was, Logan could imagine he was quite handsome. This was what everyone loved about masquerades. When a person was hidden behind a mask, they not only felt uninhibited, everyone around them could imagine them to look like whatever they wanted. It was a win-win occasion.
What were not hidden were the couple’s eyes. The woman’s eyes glowed orange-gold like Mabel’s and the man’s looked exactly like Henry’s eyes, a glowing violet. Another thing Logan noticed was their skin. All she could see of the man’s was his face, but the woman’s sleeves stopped mid-bicep, and her dress had shoulder straps, so Logan was able to see the skin on her arms. Their skin held that same grayish hue. It wasn’t a sickly dead color like that of a zombie, and it would have been difficult to describe. It was almost as if the Harvesters were composed of soft stone, and microscopic bits of mica gave their skin a slight sparkle, the way Logan’s skin sparkled when she wore Victoria’s Secret’s gold flaked lotions in the summer.
When the couple had finished tending to their clothing, they smiled at one another from behind their strapped-on intricately detailed masks, and made their way down the steps.
When they noticed Logan standing there, they stopped. And then, slowly, they nodded – as if in respect.
Logan didn’t know what else to do but nod back.
This seemed to satisfy them, though their inhuman eyes darted to each other for a moment before the two continued politely past Logan and down the lit path.
Now Logan at least knew where she was going. All she had to do was follow the couple ahead of her. She held back for a moment to give them their space and privacy, and then she followed at a discreet distance, making sure to remain far enough behind that her boots wouldn’t be heard.
The cobbled stones grew narrower, and as she neared the edge of town, more vegetation pushed its way up through the cracks between them. Eventually, the last two houses came and went, and The Village made way for the beginnings of the forest.
The trees grew thicker and taller the further she went in, the forest’s age laying itself out for her like a timeline. The cobbled stone road became a lamp-lit path, and the stones shrank smaller and smaller, until she was walking on nothing but hard packed dirt lined with flickering lights.
Eventually, she completely lost sight of the couple ahead of her, as the forest twisted and turned, and overhanging branches drew down lower and lower until she was strolling beneath a veritable ceiling of living wood.
At length, the sound of her boots, alone and ominous on the hard ground, gave way to other sounds: An owl hooting, some kind of night bird singing.
And music.
The melody was faint, but clearly haunting. It instantly enchanted. It was the sound of mystery, of lamentation, and of hope. Violins and cellos ached and wept, and drums steadfastly beat out a soul-deep rhythm.
It sounded like… October.
Logan picked up the pace, following the hypnotic, beautiful music on instinct. It grew louder and more distinct, and eventually she could also make out the sound of people talking and laughing.
There was conversation and movement. And… there was fire.
The night grew lighter around her as she moved deeper into the forest. A crackling warmth drew her in and illuminated the path before her. At last, she ducked beneath one final, thick, low-lying canopy of trees that acted almost as a gate to her destination – and entered The Masquerade.
Chapter Thirteen
They ran until they couldn’t hear anything but the rush of blood through their ears. It felt as though the entire world had turned into amber forest, blurred and unending. Fire pushed its way in and out of Meagan’s lungs. There was a spell somewhere in her memory that would help a person run faster and longer, but she couldn’t think of it. Maybe she’d never learned it; maybe Lehrer thought she’d use it to her advantage and join track as a cheater or something. She had no idea.
She felt like she couldn’t think of anything at all. Her mind was almost blank but for sporadic, senseless thoughts and the sensory input of what her eyes took in – the speeding mix of reds, yellows, and oranges of the fall leaves around her.
She did eventually notice, however, that the wizard Draper couldn’t move as fast as she and Katelyn could. He began to fall behind, and she slowed down to allow him to keep up.
This is far enough anyway, she thought. It was a desperately hopeful thought, but it also made sense. Whatever Draper had hit the vampires with had been mega-watt powerful. The running was just instinctive. Just in case.
Meagan slowed down further. There was a small clearing up ahead, perfect for a rest. “We need… to stop,” she started, talking in-between deep, gasping breaths. “I think we’re safe… for now. And we need to… find Mr. Lehrer.”
The other two slowed down and then stopped as if they had been waiting for an excuse to do so. Both bent over at the waist, Katelyn holding her side as if it had a stitch.
“Yes,” she gasped.
Draper’s head bobbed up and down in a nod of agreement.
“You… have a spell… for finding things?” Katelyn asked.
Meagan did, actually. Sort of. It was really a very low level spell for finding lost socks or car keys, but it was worth a shot, especially since Mr. Lehrer happened to be wearing a pair of cashmere socks Meagan had given him for Winter Solstice last year. She’d accidentally gotten him a pair that were far too large; she was horrible at stuff like that. But as luck would have it, now that he was a goblin, this was the perfect opportunity for him to wear them – and they were stretchy.
For a brief period of time, after purchasing them and before she’d given them to Mr. Lehrer, they had technically belonged to her. She could try to find those, and she wouldn’t have to change the spell. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll try my best.”
She waited a few minutes to allow them all to catch their breath, and then began to draw a circle in the leaves with her boot. This particular spell required no physical components, but a circle of power always aided to a magic’s strength, no matter what.
&nbs
p; “By the way,” Katelyn said as she watched Meagan making the circle. “Do you feel up to this? I mean… what happened to you back there? I thought you had a spell ready or something.”
“What?”
“In the forest,” said Katelyn. “With Shawn and Nathan. I thought you were going to wail on them. You seemed ready to when we stepped through the portal.”
Meagan felt herself blush and a hard point of hollow shame opened up in her stomach. “I did. I don’t know.” She turned to Draper, who was busy looking down to make sure he didn’t trip on any outcroppings. “You did well, though. That was one heck of a spell you cast,” she told him.
He looked up. “Yes, well…” he said modestly. “I was fortunate. It was much stronger than I’d imagined it would be. I seem to have developed more power here.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Katelyn. “Did either of you notice that Nathan and Shawn are more powerful too?”
Meagan and Draper looked at her.
“It was broad daylight, and two vampires were standing right out in it, not turning to ash.”
Meagan felt even worse now than she had a minute ago. She hadn’t noticed that. She’d been too wrapped up in… in Shawn. In whatever it was he’d become and whatever it was he was doing to her. She wanted to strangle her best friend for ever writing up characters as gorgeous and evil as he was.
“Okay,” she ventured, trying to get her mind off her recent failings, “so we’re all stronger here.” Or at least they are, she thought. I have yet to cast anything.
She could feel her magic there, though, waiting for her to use it. She just needed to focus. Focusing had always been a weak point with her.
Meagan stepped into the circle and closed her eyes. She called to mind an image of Mr. Lehrer’s socks. My socks, she corrected her thought. And she imagined them to the best of her ability.
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