In front of the Bridge, only a couple yards away from the edge of the precipice, was a roughly constructed booth with no windows and a stripped, slanted roof steaming slightly in the light breeze. From either side of the closed door, which was hidden behind a torn curtain, a gate that reeked of excrement and old blood wrapped its way around the building and created a wobbly circle that enclosed the entrance to the bridge, forcing the dead to walk through the hut first. If Ian had bothered to ask, he would have learned that the fence was made from old bones stripped off of dead souls, some pieces still attached to decaying muscle and flesh. All around that gate, close enough to have a clear view but not so close as to touch the gory remains of the human deceased, stood dozens of souls gathered to watch others cross the Bridge of the Dead.
Dread rose in Ian’s gut, and he struggled to keep his eyes away from the souls. Beside him, Whisper drew in a deep breath to ready herself for the confrontation, then marched into the shabby construction, keeping her head low and her face concealed. After a moment’s hesitation, Ian followed. When the tattered cloth dropped behind his back, he felt as though he had just sacrificed his chance to return among the living.
Inside the foul-smelling hut, two hulking, enormous figures stood side-by-side in nearly pitch-black darkness. A single white flame wavering from a gray candle in the corner provided the only light. In that dim pearly glow, the brown-ish gray walls that slowly oozed something thick and putrid seemed to pulsate and quiver, dizzying the air. Afraid to look at the surreal surroundings and even more surreal creatures, yet strangely intrigued, Ian lowered his head and stared out the corners of his eyes. The sights fascinated him. Whatever the walls were made of, they were alive, dripping the thick brown liquid across the floor like a slow-moving water fountain and clutching his feet when he tried to move. The candle was the only decoration, somehow mounted to the sodden walls, with stringy strands of wax descending to the ground that formed a small gray construction mirroring that of the Bridge of the Dead. There were two doors to the hut, the one he and Whisper had entered, and the one being guarded by the Watchmen.
Whisper nudged him forward, and Ian was face-to-face with a species of bloodcurdling creatures so revolting that even his worst nightmares would have been offended. Standing eight inches taller and hovering over Ian with boneless and fluid backs, the two identical beasts glared at their victim through watery black eye sockets with uneven gray circles in the center. They faded in and out of the background they had become a part of, their flesh loose and wavering in a nonexistent breeze. With horror, Ian watched as slimy, worm-like creatures slithered in and out of the rotting holes that pierced their slack skin.
When the dead souls opened their mouths to speak, their mouths distended and distorted their faces, translucent eyes rolling back into their heads and jaws audibly popping out of place, thin strings of flesh stretched across the gaping black hole, revealing rotted teeth.
“Who…are…you?” The whispery, slow, guttural voices blended together in a horrific melody that vibrated through Ian’s blood. He swallowed hard, fear creeping into his throat as the creatures swarmed over his body, gaping mouths threatening to swallow him whole. “Speak…or be cast into the darkness.” Their arms rose and intertwined, fingers pointing into nothing
“I-Ian,” the man stuttered, taking a step back only to be shoved violently from behind by Whisper. “Ian Daivya.”
“Ian…Daivya…You seek passage…across the Bridge of the Dead.” The creatures spun around him so fast and so blurred that he became dizzy and stumbled. “The gods forgive…only the sacred………You…are…not…worthy…”
Swallowing his fear, Ian lifted his head and struggled to catch the eyes of the dead souls. “I want my son back, and you won’t stop me.”
A strange sound suddenly filled the small room, a whirling of accusations and doubts and fears screaming from the mouths of the Watchmen, surrounding Ian in a claustrophobic cage of invisible forces. Somewhere behind his eyes he saw his son fading away into a blanket of shadows, his gray face and empty eyes melting into the background. He heard his wife’s tearful sobs, her bitter words blaming him for their son’s death. And, worst of all, he felt the painful reminder that he was an unfaithful husband, a distant father, and a selfish man. Against the wall, Whisper watched silently, eyes narrowed curiously.
“No. No!” Ian fought against the current, forcing his way through the force-field until he was nearly toe-to-toe with the dead souls. “I am none of those things! You will not make me feel like a failure, and you will let me pass to the Bridge of the Dead!”
The Watchmen dropped the cage, and the room stood still. They seemed to be considering his declaration, their glare burning through him. Ian met their stare, refusing to relent despite his heart shaking in his heaving chest. These fiends, these creatures of darkness, did not have the right to judge him, and he would not allow them to rip his soul to pieces with ignorant words.
“Your conviction…will not lead…to your son…but to your devastation.”
Despite their words, the Watchmen moved, one on either side of the door. After only a second’s hesitation, Ian swallowed his doubt, put on a mask of courage, and strode through the door. The sight that met his eyes was much like the one on the other side of the shack, and, unsure what to do, he decided to wait for his guide and gather his shaken wits.
Inside the tiny room, Whisper stepped forward without concern, her slender face cloaked in shadows by the thick hood. The creatures swarmed around her in fluid movements, happily judging her soul, measuring the courage in her heart. Their rancid breath and cold, liquefied flesh were insults to her senses, but she remained in spot, standing tall and proud, unfaltering, the corners of her mouth curving ever so slightly into a smirk of impatience and boredom.
Then, as quickly as the Watchmen had swarmed to her body to eagerly shame and humiliate her very self, they snapped back to face the woman, inquisitive scowls crossing their death-like faces.
“Only fools…willingly come…..to the Land of the Dead,” they declared in unison, speaking quickly and harshly. “….Why?”
Whisper’s eyes only narrowed more. “…Atleisdi,” she answered in a hushed tone that matched their own.
The word vibrated in the air, and for a moment the room was filled with a palpable respect mixed with fear and awe. The flame of the candle flickered, and the Watchmen bowed their heads ever so slightly. They let her pass, gesturing to the door that led to the Bridge of the Dead.
“You…are…ready,” they said as she approached the threshold, and Whisper turned her head in their direction, acknowledging their approval with a knowing leer before leaving them behind to face her fate on the other side of the bridge.
Chapter 8
Unable to sleep, Julia pulled on a coat and stepped outside the tent, careful not to wake her snoring sister. She zipped up the entrance behind her and took in the sleepy campground sights. It was nearing two AM, the bright full moon high in the sky, casting a soft glow around the trees. Her parents had called the search quits for the night only two hours ago, and were sleeping fretfully though soundly in their trailer. Some of her other family members, the ones that decided to stay through to the end, had pitched their tents at one of the two sites and had all turned in for the night. Only a few police officers remained awake, sitting at the picnic table beneath their own tent, keeping watch for the volunteers out searching or, if they could be so blessed, for the missing child.
Julia was glad everyone in her family was asleep. She was tired of the pity, the sympathy. She knew they were just trying to help, but none of it did. And to make matters worse, Ian hadn’t returned from his trip with the Indian woman. Julia wasn’t worried about him getting lost, for her husband knew the woods and directions well, and if he wasn’t lost, then there was only one other thing he could be doing. And she blamed herself.
She didn’t really think it was Ian’s fault that Cole was missing; it was simply easier to blame him. Cole had
nearly fallen into the river on her watch, and she’d barely saved him from that. Children were prone to wander away, get excited when something catches their eye and curiosity gets the better of them. Ian should have been watching to make sure he didn’t wander off, but parents weren’t perfect. Ian was all she had right now, and Julia needed him.
Deciding to finally take action, Julia strode over to the police tent, damp from the fog by the time she got there. “Officer Duff,” she greeted the young man who had been a part of the search since day one.
“Mrs. Daivya,” Duff, the eager, relatively new officer with a muscular frame, light brown hair swept back from his face, and wide brown eyes, returned the greeting. He blew on the hot cup of coffee he had just poured. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
“Yes, I know.” Julia took the second cup of coffee he poured and offered to her. “That’s why I wanted to see you.”
“Me?”
“Sheriff Forbe said that you were the one who went looking for that Whisper woman when Cole disappeared. He said that she could help find him.”
Uncomfortable because he knew where the conversation was heading, Duff shifted from foot to foot and stared into his coffee. “Yes. Whisper often helps out when someone is missing. She knows how to track in the woods. But I can assure you, Mrs. Daivya, that she had nothing to do with your son being missing.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that’s against her way. She and old Smoke Speaker live by the old ways.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning…they believe that what they do determines the very world around them. If they do something wrong then they might throw the world out of balance. They are all about balance, and life. People go to them for healing medicines, for spiritual matters. And Whisper…” Duff shrugged, picturing the woman he’d known for more than ten years. “Whisper is just like the Elder. They aren’t bad people. She’s not bad. She’s different, but…still great.”
Suspicious, Julia angled her head to the side and stared at the young officer. “And how long have you and this Whisper been seeing one another?”
“Us?” Duff couldn’t help but laugh. He set his coffee down and held up a hand. “Don’t get the wrong idea, ma’am. We’re not together, nor have we ever been. I’ve just known her for a long time.” It was true that Duff thought Whisper was the most beautiful, intriguing woman he’d ever known, and longed for her to be in his arms, but he would never act on his emotions. While he secretly loved the woman, she also terrified him. Something about her eyes made his blood run cold.
“Okay, so you aren’t sleeping with her, but you know how to find her, right?” Julia persisted. She didn’t really care about any sort of relationship the two may have had. “You know how to find this Elder Smoke Speaker?”
“Well…yes.”
“Good, then you’re going to show me. My husband was last seen walking into the woods with Whisper and he hasn’t returned yet. So I’m going to find him. At first light, you’re taking me to them.”
Leaving the officer behind in a slightly confused stupor, Julia stalked back to the tent for a few hours’ sleep before her morning trek through the woods.
Ian stood on the edge of the cliff, alternating speculative looks from the deep, black pit of eternity to the lone figure about to step across the Bridge of the Dead. From the bottomless gorge he could hear the agonizing screams of those who fell and continued their descent, heard their pleas for redemption, the careless laughter of the souls who lined the gates. Across the canyon, way off in the distance, burned the dark orange sun, the only light in a world of gray.
Whisper stood at his side, arms crossed, her thick hood having fallen back from the breeze that drifted up from the gorge to reveal a face void of expression. She didn’t speak, didn’t notice the screams, but instead simply watched. Her lack of concern for the dead soul about to face his fate made Ian wonder if she already knew his destiny.
At the bridge, a man stood with clenched fists. In life, a life taken away only one week ago, he had never been the nervous type. Throughout his entire sixty-three years he had always known what he wanted, and how to get it. His confidence granted him success as a well-traveled and even more well-respected Ivy League professor, as well as a large family of five children and eight grandchildren, with more on the way. He’d had a large circle of friends, a cozy home, and a beautiful sailboat that some joked he loved more than his wife. In the end, it had been the boat, and the raging sea, that had taken his life and washed his body away into oblivion.
Even in death he stood regally, as though posed before a large classroom of envious students eagerly awaiting his intellectual words. The nerves that showed in his clenched fists did not show on his face. At his feet was a pair of Dobermans, both former pets, one having died of cancer and the other after being hit by a car. And both, as pets, had been greatly loved and treated accordingly. They hunched and growled, ready to protect their master loyally and fiercely, and the small smile playing at the corners of the man’s mouth hinted that he had nothing to fear.
He took a step onto the bridge and the smile faded, his confidence waned, when forms began to appear before him.
Ian’s breath hitched in his throat as he watched. First a female deer took shape, a wide bullet wound in her side. And another, a buck, antlers removed but for two jagged and scabbed stubs. Two boars stood shoulder to shoulder, blood dripping from their mouths. Just behind them were four fawns bleeding from the necks, and a handful of birds perched on the railing. Then a furry gray cat, one front leg twisted cruelly, shimmered into sight. A flurry of rats and insects finished the challenging line of defense.
“A hunter,” Whisper said quietly, “who hunts only for glory.”
Ian, his throat dry, felt his heart pound for the stranger. “So…every hunter faces his kills?”
“No…only those who disrespect the sacrifices made in their name.” When Ian frowned over at her, the woman, her eyes dark and sad, gestured to the bridge. “The deer, birds, and boars he left for dead, taking the antlers before the buck’s last breath even left his body. He tortured them for his own joy. The cat he found lying in the grass with a broken leg, and ignored. His time was more important than the pain of a helpless creature.”
“And the rats and bugs?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Nuisances.”
“How do you know all that?”
Whisper offered a nod to the doe that was gazing right at her. The innocent creature’s quiet words traveled across the eternal screams to meet the woman’s ears.
“They told me.”
Seeing that she was intent on watching the feat, Ian swallowed the rest of his questions and turned his eyes back to the bridge. The professor had squared his shoulders and braved another few steps, ignoring the taunting, high-pitched laughter from the dead audience behind him.
Without warning, the deer charged, heads low, nostrils flared. The guardian Dobermans charged back, snarling and biting, tasting blood, wanting more. They attacked the fawns first, easily overpowering the young animals still wobbly on their legs, then took the doe down in a matter of seconds, ignoring the pounding hits they took in their sides from the buck and the jabs from bird beaks. Whisper’s breath caught sharply, but she said nothing.
The cat nimbly raced past the dogs and leapt for the professor’s face. Panic swept through his eyes as his arms lifted, his hands protected. Seeking revenge, the cat hissed and clawed, then shrieked with agonizing fury when the man got a firm hold on its body and slung it over the side of the bridge.
The deer, cat, and two birds were finished, the buck leaning heavily against the rope, panting and bleeding. Unfortunately for the professor, one of his dogs was down as well, trampled by the buck and gored by the thick tusks of the boars.
He was halfway across the bridge, stomping on the insects and kicking the rats aside, coming face-to-face with the boars, barely noticing the buck that was beginning to f
ade away. The two sets of eyes that stared at the man were full of hate and rage, and those that stared back at the boars were ready for a fight.
The Doberman leapt first, taking a bite out of one boar and reaching for the throat of the other. The professor ran, kicked, and fell when his ankle was caught in the mouth of his enemy. Ian winced when the Doberman yelped, convulsed, and fell silent after being struck in the side, and the man was left to fend for himself. He stole a quick glance to Whisper, shocked to see the glint of satisfaction in her eyes.
She knew the professor didn’t stand a chance.
It took only a few more seconds for the animals to work together, ramming the man against the rope, and hoisting him over the edge with the help of the injured buck. He screamed the entire way down, his voice fading only when the animals disappeared from the bridge, and disappeared into eternity.
Whisper shifted her eyes to Ian. “Let us pray you succeed.”
Chapter 9
He took a few moments to collect his thoughts, calm the nerves that had leapt into his throat at the sight of the professor tumbling over the edge of the bridge. His mind struggled through its own history, searching for potential threats, desperately trying to remember any time he was cruel to the earth’s gentler creatures.
Whisper stood a few feet behind him, fighting back her own nerves. She may not like her traveling companion, but she needed him nonetheless. Without him, there was no way to guarantee the success of her mission. And worse, no way to go back to fix the failure.
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