Beyond the Western Sun

by Kristina Circelli

  “Okay.” Ian could accept that. “But if you were able to find all the other boys before they died, why couldn’t you find Cole?”

  “It was too late for your son, and so I offered you a way to save him.”

  “Okay.” He could accept that as well, and though he wasn’t feeling any better, Ian sat back down and ran his filthy hands through even filthier hair. He took a few moments to calm his nerves, and was glad that his guide was so even-tempered. She balanced him out. She hated him, but balanced him nonetheless. “So…Cole’s…The Raven-Eater…I don’t know…I guess…Hell, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you like me?” The question came out wrong, making him sound like a seventh-grade boy in puppy love with the cute girl from homeroom, and embarrassed him completely.

  Whisper observed the man curiously. “Why do you think I do not like you, Mr. Daivya?”

  Ian huffed and gave Whisper a fatherly look of sarcasm. “Oh, please. You refuse to say my first name, you treat me like a pile of dog shit you just stepped in, and besides the fact that we’re here for my son, you seem to want nothing to do with me.”

  Toying with a strand of sleek black hair, the tattooed young woman pressed her lips together and found it interesting that her traveling companion would even bother to ask such a question.

  “I do not call you by your first name, Mr. Daivya,” she began coolly, “because you are my elder, and I was taught to respect my elders. Only elders that are friends are called by their first names. However, while I respect your place as my elder, I find it hard to respect you as a person, or as a father.”

  “Why?”

  Whisper thought back to the first time she met Ian Daivya. How long ago that was, she didn’t know. Two days, two weeks, two years, time was different in the Land of the Dead. “Do you remember when we searched the river, the first day in the woods?”

  “When you sliced open your hand?”

  “Yes.” Whisper glanced down at her hand, gently touching the thin scar spread across her palm. “When I asked about the fate of your son, I was met with conflicting answers. Some, the whispers that traveled the wind from the Land of the Dead, guided me here. Others spoke of you unkindly.”

  “Others like who?”

  “A tiny creature came to me, Mr. Daivya, known as the cowbird, a black bird with a brown head, a bird that looks to others to raise its young, leaving its eggs in the nests of another to be reared at the cost of the stranger’s offspring. The cowbird is representative of abandonment, the need to face responsibilities. It speaks to your failures as a father, as a man, and as a respectable human being. You have much to prove, Mr. Daivya, if you wish to save your son.”

  Ian blew out a breath. If he’d thought he was embarrassed by his question, then he didn’t know what to call the emotion created by the answer. No one, not even his wife, had ever made him feel so small, and the fact that he actually felt bad slightly angered him. He didn’t like that Whisper had that kind of power over him, could make him question himself. Oh, yes, he would prove whatever he had to prove to the woman, and she would learn to respect him.

  Whisper understood Ian’s silence to be that of uncertainty, shame, and resentment, just as she had expected. But she couldn’t be bothered by his emotional shortcomings. There were bigger things to worry about.

  “May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Daivya?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Why did your son die?”

  Ian sighed and lowered his head. He didn’t see the way the RiverKeeper paused just long enough to shoot Whisper a warning glare, and didn’t see her smirk and narrow her eyes in response. “Cole was always a curious kid, always had lots of questions and if you didn’t give him an answer he liked he’d go off and find it on his own. He swore up and down he saw a ghost the first day we arrived at the campground, and my guess is he went looking for it when we were at the park.” He never would have thought Cole would go on a ghost hunt, but then again, he didn’t really know his son all that well.

  “He must have fallen into the river. He’s not a very good swimmer, and is afraid of the pool we have at home. I’m not sure why. But I guess it doesn’t matter. If what you said is true, then he didn’t stand a chance anyway. That Raven-Eater was determined to get him.”

  When he was finished, Whisper nodded slowly, chewing on her bottom lip. She could feel the dry, blistered skin on her face crack with each movement, and was pleased that Ian’s flesh was worse than her own. “Well then, Mr. Daivya, I suppose the matter is settled.” She lowered herself to the floor of the small wooden ferry, lying back and placing her coat behind her head. “You should rest. The river is the only peaceful part of our journey.”

  Although he wanted to ask why she didn’t seem pleased with his answer, Ian relented and leaned back against the railing. He wasn’t going to argue with the need to rest.

  Chapter 15

  Somewhere deep inside the magnificently sinister mountain of winding halls and dark caverns that housed the Raven-Eater and his infinite army, Cole Daivya sat huddled against a grimy wall, clutching his skinned knees to his chest and shivering.

  He wasn’t cold, though. He was terrified.

  It was his fault he was there, trapped in a small oval room filled with old bones and smelly piles of black goo. He was in that room because he had misbehaved, had sassed the two guards who were hurting his arms when they carried him up the stairs to the tower, but he had been brought to the tower because he hadn’t listened to his mother and father.

  It was supposed to be an adventure, searching through the woods for the ghost he was absolutely positive he saw. If he could prove there were ghosts at the campground, then he could have believed in them, and done research on them when he got home. He loved research, and learning new things. The ghost had been there, just beyond the edge of the playground, and since his dad wasn’t paying attention it had seemed like a good time to go on his adventure. The ghost, a little boy ghost that laughed and danced and played in the fallen leaves, led him to the river, where he floated across the water and beckoned for his new friend to follow.

  Cole was afraid of the water, but the rocks had formed a path across the river that looked easy to navigate. Plus, it didn’t look too deep, so if he fell then surely he could have made it to the shore. But his foot slipped and he had plunged into the icy water. The shock of the cold had stolen his breath straight from his lungs, and his head dunked underwater. Beneath the surface, frantically clawing at water, Cole had felt his body rushing down, slamming against rocks and logs. His leg jammed in the crevice of one rock, his body trapped under the surface. He remembered looking up through the waves to see the blurred image of the ghost staring down at him sadly, and suddenly pain and fear overcame him, and he lost the fight.

  Then he surfaced into a world of gray, and nothing was the same ever again.

  Two figures that Cole thought looked like the bad guys from The Lord of the Rings, except they were taller with black skin that oozed white pus, were waiting for him. Without speaking, they each grabbed one of Cole’s arms and dragged him away, ignoring the boy’s screams, his cries, his desperate questions and pleading wishes to go home. Without stopping, they marched across the Bridge of the Dead and into the Western Sun, oblivious to his agonizing wails as his eyes melted. And then, when on the steps of the Fire Tower, Cole had found the strength and courage to kick one of the guards in the shin, and trip the other. His actions did not go unpunished.

  Picking himself up off the floor, Cole dusted off his hands and wiped at his eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He wanted to go home. His clothes were dirty and torn and his shoes had fallen off a long time ago. His hair was caked with dirt and he was covered with scratches. But he didn’t care what he looked like. He just wanted to be with his mom and dad again.

  What frightened him the most was that he didn’t know where he was. He remembered falling into the river, and wondered if he had died and this w
as where people went when they were dead. But if that was the truth, then where was everyone else? Besides the two guards, Cole had only seen one other person, and the man who came to the doorway of the dungeon room filled the boy’s nightmares and turned his blood to ice.

  The terrible man stood in the doorway for only a short time before nodding. “He will do,” he had said, his voice so deep and booming that it sounded like thunder rolling across the black sky. Then he had disappeared and the guards stood watch so that he couldn’t escape.

  Dragging himself over to the lone window no bigger than a box of crackers, Cole peered out at the vast, strange land. He was high above the ground, looking down on treetops, small mountains, and the edge of a valley. Animals that Cole couldn’t identify were wandering about, and villages filled with people were spread all around way off in the distance. He longed to be with those people, but any sign of life was so far away that he doubted anyone ever came close to the tower. They were smarter than that.

  Suddenly the door opened, and Cole’s knees buckled in fear. He braced himself against the wall, eyes widening when a woman stepped through.

  “Hello, my son,” she said tenderly, her voice calm and soothing and reminding the child of the classical music his mother liked to play. She kneeled down in front of him. “My name is Gentle Heart. I am your mother.”

  Cole stared at the woman with disgust. She was pretty, with long black hair filled with beads and feathers that hung down to her hips, soft brown eyes, and a kind smiling mouth. She wore a tan dress with red stitching across the front and down the sides, and her wrists, neck, and ankles were decorated with glorious jewels. But he didn’t care that she was pretty, or that she looked nice.

  “You aren’t my mommy,” he spat out violently. “My mommy has green eyes and brown hair and doesn’t wear dresses. You’re a stranger.”

  Gentle Heart smiled sadly, understanding his hate. “My little Fighting Fox, I am your mother now. You must accept that.”

  “No! And my name is Cole! Cole Daivya!”

  She once had another name as well, one that she fought hard to keep. But in time she was defeated, and Gentle Heart became her soul. “Sweet child, this is your life now. Behave, my little Fighting Fox, and you will be rewarded.”

  Instead of answering, Cole crossed his arms and stepped away from the stranger. He didn’t want to listen, and Fighting Fox was a stupid name anyway. Who wanted to be a wimpy little fox? He wanted no part of it.

  Gentle Heart rose and offered the boy a bundle of cloth. “These are for you, a gift. I hope you’ll like them. I will come back later with food.”

  Cole waited until the door closed behind her, then kicked the clothes across the room.

  It seemed like a lifetime before they reached the opposite shore. Whisper slept the majority of the way, lost in a dreamless sleep free of the worries that burdened her shoulders when awake, but Ian was cursed with restlessness. He couldn’t get his mind off of Cole, off the story of Sun Eagle or Raven-Eater or whatever he was called now. More, he still couldn’t figure out how he was even there, on a ferry being oared across the river by an ancient, gray-haired man with rotted teeth.

  When they were within mere feet of the shore, the RiverKeeper slid down into the dark water and pulled the craft through the mud, steadying the boat so that his passengers could exit safely. Whisper waited until Ian had stepped onto the shore before rising. She stretched, gathered her packs, and turned her eyes to the old man when she passed.

  “Why are you here, Kanegv?” The RiverKeeper’s hoarse question was more accusatory than curious. “There is no hope in the Land of the Dead.”

  Whisper glanced over her shoulder at Ian, who was watching them intently but far enough away to miss what was being said. “There is always hope, RiverKeeper,” she replied softly. “For those who demand it.”

  “You know I cannot ferry him back across the river. There are rules in the Land of the Dead, Kanegv.”

  “We all have a price, RiverKeeper.” Whisper leaned close and shifted so that her back was to Ian. The black clouds appeared to float down and cast her eyes in gloom, shadowing her face with an evil aura when she met his stare. “Yours has been named before.”

  The RiverKeeper curled his lips in a callous sneer, his homely face contorting into a visage of conniving comprehension. “What could that miserly man possibly have to offer?”

  Lifting a finger to her lips to illustrate the need for secrecy, knowing she could trust his silence only because he would want the offer for himself, Whisper lowered herself so that she was nearly nose-to-nose with the cursed old man.

  “He will be carrying with him the blood of the half-breed.”

  Her quiet, slowly-spoken words filtered through his ears and brought back memories of a promise made to him so many years ago. The RiverKeeper’s brooding black eyes lit up, widening just enough to show his interest. He turned and sloshed through the mud and water, climbing back onto the ferry with cracking bones. When he had settled in his place, gripping the splintered oars tightly, he offered a final look at Whisper.

  “Perhaps there is hope after all, Kanegv…For those who demand it.”

  Whisper watched the RiverKeeper until he had disappeared into the dark fog, praying to Creator that the bribe would be enough, and knowing it would be. Approaching her side, Ian attempted to read her lips, as the whispers passing them were unable to reach his ears.

  “What did you say to him?” he asked, gazing through the fog at the blurred outline of the ferry. The RiverKeeper gave him the creeps.

  “I secured passage back across the river.”

  “Why would you need to do that?”

  Whisper shrugged, not in the mood for another history lesson. “The RiverKeeper ferries souls to the Land of the Dead, Mr. Daivya. He is bound by the law of the Raven-Eater to keep the souls from returning.”

  “Then how do we get back?”

  “We all have a price,” she repeated, “even in death.”

  Chapter 16

  Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing herself, Whisper shouldered her pack, secured her bow, and headed away from the river. Ian, again irritated by her frustrating coyness, fell in step behind her, touching a finger to his scarred face. His wounds were healing fast, and he hoped that was because injuries healed quicker in the Land of the Dead instead of the alternative, that they had been there a lot longer than it seemed. The thought of Julia being left all alone, searching for her son, wondering where her husband had gone, was too much to bear.

  Then again, he mused, she probably thought he had gone into the woods with Whisper for some quality alone-time with the beautiful stranger. That was more like Julia, to assume the worst about her husband, and that fact lessened some of the guilt about leaving her to fend for herself. As far as he was concerned, he wouldn’t have to sneak away into the woods if she showed any interest at home.

  The woods opened up into a spacious clearing, trees and underbrush cut back in a lengthy and wide rectangular shape. Crudely made constructions, some in the shape of huts and others taking on an appearance of old-fashioned longhouses, lined the edges of the clearing. Thick logs were tethered together with strong straps of sinew, topped with dried fronds, the ends of which flapped quietly in the light breeze. Windows and doorways were cut out of the wood, covered by pieces of cloth. The houses were spaced just far enough apart to allow room for vegetable gardens in between each one, food gardened by the dead and meant only for the dead to eat. At one end of the clearing was a fenced-in patch of grass, where creatures that Ian couldn’t identify were grazing contently, and at the other end was a small but clean pool of water, where three women sat washing their clothes.

  The ground was pure dirt without a hint of grass, and as he walked across it Ian heard, for the first time since he had died, a sound that was both eerie yet welcoming—that of a child’s laughter. He turned to the source and watched a little girl no older than five race around a fire pit while a small gray dog chased a
fter her. Sitting in the doorway of a hut, dressed in a long, faded dress, was a young woman with short blond hair, smiling as she kept an eye on her daughter.

  Had he of asked, Ian would have learned that they had been violently murdered by a serial killer seventy-three years ago, their bodies buried deep in the earth behind a junkyard in rural Texas. Had he of gotten close enough, he would have seen the savage scars across their throats and chests. Not having received the proper burial, they were cursed into the Land of the Dead, forever separated from their family. But they had found a new family here, among men and women who understood their pain and loneliness, and the longer they resided in that clearing, the more they all came to see one another as their own blood, traces of their old life drifting away.

  This was a village of dead but happy souls. They walked freely and calmly across the plaza, tended to their gardens, chatted amongst friends. There were no obligations to fret about, no schedules, but simply all the time in the world. For Ian, idle time was boring, useless, and frustrating, but these souls seemed to enjoy the freedom away from the stresses of the living.

  “Kanegv!”

  Whisper turned, the briefest of smiles flashing across her face as she embraced the woman who approached. “Annabelle,” she greeted, holding the older woman by the arms and touching her forehead with her own. They took a silent moment to themselves, each recalling memories of life in the living world. It was rare to hear her true name spoken so lovingly, and Whisper enjoyed the sound.