by Kim Smejkal
Halcyon’s face had contorted into something so ugly he barely looked human. His already long fingers had lengthened even more, ending in dark claws as he tensed his hands, ready to strangle. His eyes had no hint of color left in them; they were black pits in his skull.
With a flourish, Celia bowed at him, smiling self-righteously.
She ran to the open door, stepped into the afterlife, and died . . .
ish.
Chapter 32
The darkness and fog enveloped Celia immediately, but just before the door slammed shut on its own, a huge, buzzing, beautiful bee scooted through. Xinto tumbled to the ground in a crash, rolled a few times, then sat back on his bee bum and stared up at Celia in a daze.
“Xinto! I’m so sorry!”
He looked mighty affronted, as if he couldn’t believe she’d forgotten him.
Relief washed through her that she had. She wouldn’t have been able to unravel him as she’d unraveled everything else.
They could keep each other company forever now.
He stood on his six legs and shrugged off the fall, then tapped his way over to stand between her legs. He peeked out from between them, unsure of this place.
She scooped him up and ran, trying to put as much distance between them and the door, wondering if she was just moving in circles. There was no way to tell, and before, running forward had always taken her backwards.
The heaviness pushed down, unbearably humid and achingly quiet except for Halcyon’s lone voice behind her, calling out. “Where are you?”
She wished she could hear her heartbeat. When things you’d taken for granted your whole life were suddenly gone, the silence was deafening. Lonely.
“That’s okay, though, Xinto.”
The ink inside her boiled and bubbled, and without any more conversation or doubt, she commanded it away. With a nudge, she sent some to Anya, to Martina, to Vincent, the shredded child Terrin, this soul, that soul, everyone.
The ink listened.
It was a rushing river, a storm inside her. The ink was the only thing close to alive left in her body, and its movement as it obeyed her made her feel that she was made of a thousand snakes wrapped in skin.
It was exactly like a Divine tattoo, but without the quill and the inherent beauty of an image to go with it. Without Celia’s inkling knowledge of how the ink worked, she would never have had the capacity to do this.
And it was exactly like one of Halcyon’s illusions, but without landscape and texture. Without his tutelage, she would never have been able to project so much at once.
Though it felt like snakes inside her, once it was freed, it just was. It existed in and of itself. All around. There were no visible, writhing tendrils leaving her body, no terrible noise as it was freed. The room where everything had melted and pooled had been a mistake: when the ink was confused, it acted more like ink and less celestial.
But released to where it belonged, it was the endless magic of stars, ethereal and whole, but unseen. When it was used for creation, it was an invisible magic, and it thrived in this place. It was infinite potential.
A crowd of souls assembled in front of her as she worked. Ominously silent, their despair was such a force that Celia felt them before she saw them. Though they looked just as hungry as before, Martina was at the head of the group, with her arms out, holding them back without a sound. She locked eyes with Celia and nodded.
Celia kept going. Would she realize the moment when there was nothing left inside her? She’d taken in centuries of it, so maybe this would be a process that required centuries to fix.
Without breath or a heartbeat to warn her, it didn’t seem like such a terrifying thought—at least there was that to be grateful for.
With what she’d already scattered and given away, the souls had started creating. The dark of the gray fog gradually lightened, a bird sang a tinny trill in the distance, and the shredded child with the marble had started to sew herself back up, humming as she worked.
The ink could be beautiful. Celia had known it, deep down, as soon as Xinto first snuggled into her chest for a warm hug. Its power was as vast as a million dreams. It was wishes that could be made real.
It had just been on the wrong side of the door.
There won’t be anything here to be terrified of soon, Celia thought. This would make Griffin so happy. Instead of nothing, nothing, nothing, it would be full of everything. It could be like Wisteria, except with everyone in charge of themselves and their existence, rather than someone—Diavala or Halcyon or her—acting as a shepherd tending a flock.
Other souls had begun to fill the space in front of her. With the ink she’d already freed permeating the air around them, some created tethers to deceased loved ones or imaginings of souls yet to join them, so it became a place of reunions. Others healed wounds or aged backwards to their youthful days. One old soul made themself a guitar and began strumming madly, as if trying to catch up all at once on an eternity without their music.
Martina watched it all happen, a faint smile tracing her lips.
What will you make, my angel? Celia silently asked Anya. As hard as Celia wished for it, Anya didn’t appear. She was probably already on her next adventure, sparing Celia the pain of having to say goodbye yet again.
So Celia imagined it: Anya as perfect as ever, with a wry smile on her lips and a healthy flush to her cheeks. She’d travel to Kinallen, the land of stars, and she’d go by sea, because in this world, Anya didn’t get motion sickness—she’d never experienced water torture that made her deathly afraid of water. She had no terrible memories at all.
Anya would love the sea—the fresh smell, the sound of waves crashing—and the wind would whip her long black hair around her shoulders as she headed toward a new land.
Perhaps there would be a short friend beside her on the prow of that boat; they would be a sprite and a changeling, a mouse and a lion, a stump and a sapling.
I can’t wait to see the stars, Anya would whisper. And she’d reach for her friend’s pinky finger and wrap hers around it tight as the horizon welcomed them. I’ve heard there are so many, you could spend forever counting them and still not count them all.
And Anya would turn to her friend and smile wide. I’m going to try, though.
Celia wanted to cry, but couldn’t. She wanted to scream I forgive you! Do you forgive me? But imagining Anya counting those fairy-tale stars forever would have to be enough.
“There you are,” Halcyon said slowly as he stepped toward Celia. So lost in the giving, she’d forgotten about the one who’d done the taking.
That was her only warning. Halcyon lunged for her, pushing some of the souls who stood between them out of his way, including the one he would call his beloved, his hands contracted into claws.
Halcyon’s eyes were wide, his mouth a sneer, everything undignified as he looked upon the one he thought was Diavala, the ancient soul he’d loathed for a thousand years.
Some of the dead souls had stepped closer, intent on the scene. Many of them Celia didn’t recognize. They looked like curious birds, cocking their heads from side to side and blinking, much more interested in Halcyon than in Celia.
“Halcyon,” Martina said, stepping forward. “Darling, it’s me.”
It took a long moment before he recognized the voice and turned. Martina held out her arms to him, waiting for him to run into them, but her gaze was fearful, as if she didn’t expect that to happen.
As if she expected something worse.
“Martina, love,” he said, choking on the words, still consumed with his vicious hatred.
Then he turned back to Celia. Even now, he would go to Martina only after he’d dealt with his archenemy.
Martina’s arms fell, and she locked eyes with Celia for only a moment before bursting into movement and grabbing at Halcyon. She didn’t charge in violence. It wasn’t hate that drove her, Celia saw that in her eyes.
Martina looped her hands into his necklace and yanked it
off.
“You’ve been oblivious to the truth for so long, Halcyon,” she said, tossing the pendant so far away it was immediately swallowed by the fog. “It ends here.”
Halcyon cried out for his pendant, knowing what the loss of it meant. The afterlife souls would sense he was made of ink.
His gaze began swiveling as he looked for the first time at the souls surrounding them.
“I recognize you now,” said one of the souls, staring at Halcyon. “You stole from us.”
The shadows of the dead surrounded him slowly. They were in a tight ring, standing shoulder to shoulder with each other, with more ever adding to their ranks. They pushed past Martina and Celia as if they were no longer there.
Celia continued to command the ink inside her to freedom, even more quickly than before, hoping to distance herself from their anger and hold on to that feeling of peace a little longer.
The souls were so close that Halcyon had to push them away, yet they still advanced on him. At first Celia thought they wanted to eat him, and damn, she’d never hated her imagination more. They made pulling motions, as if tugging on invisible rope.
Terror had taken over his anger at her, and he screamed for Celia’s help. Her name cut off abruptly as one of the souls silenced him. Somehow.
Celia didn’t want to know how. If she didn’t get rid of the ink inside her quickly, she would be next.
The transformation was terrible. Halcyon’s body began sinking as more and more of the ink left by force and slunk away. She imagined it burrowing into the ground like invisible worms, rising up and disappearing into the fog like mist, and slithering up the legs like fingers. The souls around him took it all in, ready to use it for their own heavens, their own hells, whatever they thought they deserved.
“You won’t die,” Martina called to him. Perhaps it was the only comfort she could give him. Halcyon wouldn’t die, because he was already dead. It was the vessel he’d used that was being sucked clean. He would endure in some other form. Perhaps he’d find a stray bit of the ink he’d coveted for so long and craft his next millennium of existence from it.
You’ve ruined us, he’d said. But no, he’d ruined himself. He belonged here, and now that he’d returned to the place where wishes became real, some of the souls he’d wronged would make him pay.
Judging by the looks on the faces of those around him, Halcyon would have a lot of demons to outrun. This was only the beginning of his punishment.
Not everything could be sunshine and beauty. There were always dark corners, revenge, and suffering. Wherever souls were, there was pain. Just as there was heaven, there was hell.
Celia kept looking back. She could still see Halcyon’s body as the dead souls continued taking any ink they could get, in an almost reverent, peaceful way. Martina stood over the fancy suit, stained and hollowed now. He moved, slightly, and he seemed to be suffering unbearably. In a place of never-endings, how long before his soul could break free?
If he did harness some of the ink around them again, Celia thought, he would never be able to use it for himself. He might have had the luxury of experimenting with it once, to the point of finding a way to build chests to hold it and a doorway to escape through, but never again. There were thousands upon thousands of souls who wouldn’t allow it.
And the one with the biggest grudge was Martina, for using her as an excuse for so long.
“Xinto,” Celia breathed, turning away. She tucked Xinto under her arm, scratching his chin.
The satiated souls had moved on, new ones had taken their place, and Halcyon’s fate was sealed.
Suddenly agitated, Xinto began squirming. Celia took his buzzy hint and backed away slowly, putting distance between herself and what was left of Halcyon. “Shhh, Xinto, it’s all right,” she whispered, trying to calm him.
But he only squirmed harder, buzzed louder.
Celia loosened her grip, and he flew off, then doubled back, then darted away again. “What is wrong with you?” As fluent as she’d become in Xinto’s language, she couldn’t tell if he was excited or terrified. Even after Halcyon, Martina, and the dead souls had faded from view, Xinto led her farther. Along the way, Celia released the ink slowly, creating specific items and then dismissing them to the ether: a buttery sweet shirran for Vincent; a gnarled oak tree with perfect climbing branches for her old friends Monroe and Salome; stacks of books for Rian to get lost in.
A sky full of stars for Anya, “So you can count every one,” Celia whispered.
Then she honored the living: a bottle of juniper gin for Lupita; a brightly lit stage for Kitty Kay; birds of all sizes and colors for Zuni.
With all sense of time gone, Celia turned each drop of ink inside her into a precious gift.
Then, out of the lightening fog, Griffin appeared. Xinto flew straight for him, landed on his shoulder, stared at Celia, and bowed, as if waiting for applause.
Before Celia could react, Griffin smiled.
Nothing had changed about him: he bore the same strong jaw, dark eyes and hair, tattooed constellation on his temple, long nose, and jagged scar along his chin. Even the way he stood, with most of his weight on one foot as if perpetually ready to run, was the same.
But that powerful smile disarmed her. She’d never seen anything so real.
“Did you finish yet?” he asked.
A rush of something heady—peace, maybe; regret, definitely—hit Celia, and she laughed. “Am I taking too long with my infinity?” She hadn’t expected to see Griffin so soon, if ever again. Belatedly, she nodded thank you to Xinto.
“Where’s the chest?” Celia asked when she noticed that his hands were empty. Dia, he had one job . . .
“Gone. I opened it as soon as I stepped through the door. The ink inside is now a garden, an adorable Kid who ran to their parent, some rare parrots Zuni would love, a stack of books that stretched up to the clouds, and, quite sinisterly, a set of shackles.” His words were thick with emotion, but his smile didn’t falter.
“Are you crying?”
“I wish,” he said with a sharp laugh. “Nothing works right here.” He pulled her into an embrace, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and into her hair. The smell of him: cloves, lemon, and perfectly imperfect.
“I'm glad you’re all right, but Diavala . . .” Celia didn’t know how to end that sentence. Where did she go? In the land of impossibility, what had ultimately happened to Celia’s nemesis?
Griffin understood the look on her face without her having to say a word. He clicked his tongue and said softly, “At some point, you either have to let the hate and fear go or let it burn you down.”
She rolled her eyes. “Stop quoting Ficus. Am I in hell?”
A soft, rumbling chuckle pressed from his chest to hers. “Listen to her, okay? I know you can do it, Celia. Breaking her curse is the last thing, and then we can rest.”
“What do you mean?” she said quickly. Griffin was making it sound like the curse wasn’t yet lifted . . . His body tensed in her arms, and Xinto flew from his shoulder to hers before trying to burrow himself down the back of her shirt.
Celia stepped out of his embrace as if she’d been burned. “Diavala,” she hissed.
“You need to be done,” Diavala said, grabbing Celia’s arm. Seconds ago, that same hand had been full of tenderness. Now it pinched with festering hatred. “It’s been hours now, Inkling, and I sense there’s still ink inside you.”
It hadn’t been hours. She’d only just started. “You should be able to create here,” Celia said, her anger rising all over again. What angle was Diavala going for now? “You told Griffin this would break your curse, so why are you still here? Leave us alone!”
“You might have to push him out,” Diavala said, hauling her forcefully away. “Get ready.”
Xinto objected, buzzing in loud circles.
Celia objected too.
But Diavala’s grip was too strong, too tight, and Celia couldn’t yank free.
“What are you
talking about? Push him out where? Stop yanking me!” She was trying to listen, but Diavala always made simple things impossible.
“Listen, Inkling, as much as I love the idea of sharing this space with you and tormenting you forevermore, I grew quite fond of your plague doctor. His mind flits around like butterflies, and he has a devastatingly perfect way of understanding subtlety.”
“What does that even mean?” Celia had resigned herself to an eternity in this place, aimlessly walking, or flying, or crawling, as she tried to give back every drop of ink. Again, Diavala was there to change the game.
“Just finish releasing the ink so we can get this over with,” Diavala said, irritated.
Celia, trying to wrap her mind around those words, blinked as Diavala stared at her. She asked the same question again, but this time low and quiet, laced with fire. “What does that mean?”
“I’m going to stay, and he’s going to go. With the door between us, my memories will be here with me, and he’ll be free.”
Diavala had finally wrestled Celia to where she wanted her. With one more hard yank, she let Celia’s arm go and stepped back. The door was within arm’s reach, a leftover glowing thread suspended in midair, showing Celia the way out. The rose on the doorknob beckoned for Celia to grab it and throw it open.
“Lyric and Zuni were supposed to destroy the doorknob,” Celia said, blinking. If they didn’t, that meant that Halcyon or anyone else, or the ink itself, could still get out.
“They were,” Diavala said, “but I told them he would do it himself.”
Celia shook her head.
This didn’t make sense. The idea that Diavala would want to save Griffin was world-altering. She could have already crafted a body for herself, and been enjoying a heaven she’d missed out on for a thousand years. The fact that she was waiting in order to try to save someone was . . .
No. Griffin was foolish to trust her. He’d known that the cost of his freedom from Diavala would be his life; endlessly roaming the afterlife—alive-ish—his payment. He’d made peace with it.