They were letting him pass, he realized, without a fight. As though he could read their minds, he understood their actions. Whisper had once said that the Land of the Dead was a dark place because of the Raven-Eater, and that his destruction meant the dead could once again rest in peace. Cole was the key to his destruction, and so even the animals that would love to see Ian tormented were willing to set aside their grudges for a greater cause.
Preparing himself for a run just in case, Ian jogged across the bridge, casting a lone glance down at the three cats as he passed, who merely blinked and swished their tails. Amazement nearly halted him, but he kept his composure and convinced himself not to show his fear.
“Tomboy,” Cole whispered when he peeked out from his father’s shoulder and caught sight of the white cat. “Hi, Kitty.” His aunt’s cat lowered his head in response, a sign of respect for the boy.
The race across the bridge was a lot faster than Ian remembered, obviously because this time he wasn’t being torn to pieces or being watched by a woman who hated him. He silently thanked whatever greater being was responsible for making the return trip surprisingly simple. The dead souls at the gate were silent, angry that their show ended with such anti-climactic results.
Ian stopped at the door that led back to the Watchmen. While the bridge may have been a breeze, he doubted that the ghoulish guards would be willing to let him pass without confrontation.
Heaving in a deep breath, Ian lifted a hand to open the door—and was violently sucked inside.
Ian tumbled to the floor as Cole landed hard against the dripping wall. Cole screamed when the brownish goo seeped across his arms and shoulders, locking his wrists in place. The child kicked and squirmed against the strange restraints, getting trapped further in the wall the more he struggled. Ian grabbed his son’s arm, pulling hard, but not moving the boy so much as an inch.
“Let him go!” Ian shouted when the two guards came into view, gray and black mist swirling and forming their eyeless outlines. “You want a prisoner, you deal with me!”
The Watchmen spun around in at dizzying speeds before coming to a dead stop on either side of him. Ian’s eyes took a moment to adjust. “The unworthy…has returned….” they rasped, shoving Ian back a few steps with a strong, invisible force. “The unworthy…shall not…pass.”
When Cole was pulled further into the grisly dripping wall, Ian reached out only to be slammed to his knees as the Watchmen moved closer, gaping mouths threatening to swallow them both whole. “You have to let us pass. Both worlds depend on it.”
Hoarse laughter erupted from the depths of the guards. It reverberated off the slimy walls, rumbling throughout Ian’s head. “Such confidence…from the unworthy…” One of them spun around Ian, observing their captive. “Do you know why…the half-breed…returned?”
“Whisper?” Ian thought back to their first trip across the Bridge of the Dead. He had known then that something had been said during her exchange with the Watchmen, but as always, she kept her true motives hidden. He was slightly surprised to hear that they had known who she was. “To…to rescue her mother from the Raven-Eater. To save Cole.”
The Watchmen laughed again, and Cole shouted for his father when the harsh sounds pounded painfully in his ears. Ian looked over to see tears streaming down his son’s cheeks, but the guards had him in a strong hold so he couldn’t grab the boy in his arms and whisper that everything would be alright.
“The half-breed returned…for one reason…” The Watchmen shoved their dark faces mere inches from Ian’s, and only then did he see the reflection of his own face in two cloudy makeshift eyes shared by the guards. “Atleisdi.” The word echoed around the tiny room, the white flame of the lone candle flickering. “Atleisdi,” they repeated. “Revenge.”
“Revenge? Revenge against who? The Raven-Eater?” Their death stare confused him. He already knew Whisper’s goal was to save Blue Feather and kill the Raven-Eater. So what was the Watchmen’s point? “I…I don’t understand.”
“Kanegv knew her destiny…Why…did you…make this journey?” the Watchmen asked. “Why is your son…in the Land of the Dead? Why…did your son…die?”
It was the same question Whisper had asked him several times. And still, he had the same answer. “The Raven-Eater wanted a son,” he replied hastily. “He tricked Cole into his death. Ah!” he shouted when his feet were lifted out from under him and he tumbled to the gooey ground. At the same time, Cole moved further into the wall. Ian reached out, desperate to touch his son, save his little boy. All he could see were Cole’s hands, face, and feet—a grim, grotesque portrait of the Watchmen’s mysterious magic.
“Why is your son…in the land of the Dead?” the Watchmen asked again, beginning a slow circle around Ian. “Why…did he…die?”
“Because…” he struggled to think of the answer they wanted. He still didn’t understand why he had been faced with this question from the very beginning, one he thought he already had figured out. “Because Whisper let him die, so she could return to the Land of the Dead and have her revenge!”
The Watchmen’s spinning quickened, accusations and questions and condemnations mumbling in their draft. The faster they spun, the faster Ian become conscious of the fact that they were sucking the air from the room. His lungs began to burn, and he started to panic as he frantically searched his mind for the answer.
Why was Cole in the Land of the Dead? Why did he die? Why….Because the Raven-Eater wanted a son, because his own was brutally murdered...Because Whisper and Smoke Speaker needed an excuse to go to the Land of the Dead…Because Cole was tricked by a so-called ghost into attempting to cross the river, where Whisper watched him drown and did nothing to save him…Because Cole wandered too far away from his father on the playground, and didn’t listen to orders to stay in sight…Because….
And then the truth finally set in.
Because Ian was musing over the idea of having an affair with Rebecca, instead of watching his son.
“Oh, God,” Ian whispered, clutching his aching chest when the realization struck. His fault, he thought as his lungs screamed for air and his body involuntarily heaved. His own fault.
“It’s my fault!” He nearly choked on the genuine words, breathing in empty air as Cole’s cries faded into the background. His mouth dried and his head spun light-headedly. A curtain began to close across his vision as he clutched his throat. “It’s my fault…he died.”
Suddenly the spinning stopped. Ian gratefully heaved in deep breaths, surprised to find that he was crying. The guilt and grief that racked his body over the major part he played in his own son’s death was almost too much to bear. His greed, his selfishness, his desire to fulfill some stupid fantasy with a woman who meant nothing to him, all led to this very moment.
And all this time, throughout the entire journey, Whisper had known. She had tried to get him to realize the error of his ways, without actually revealing the truth herself. That was what she meant, he thought, when she said he was yet to prove himself a man. It was a test of his worth as a man, as a father, as a dead soul worthy of his second chance in the Land of the Living.
When Ian lifted his head, the Watchmen were regarding him with cool, almost indifferent stares. “It was my fault,” he said again, shakily rising to his feet. “I wasn’t watching him, and he wandered away. If I had been paying attention to my son, he would still be alive.”
Without a word, the small hut shook and Cole tumbled out from the wall, covered in sticky brown goo. He crawled over to Ian, who picked him up and wrapped strong arms around his frightened, mud-encrusted boy. “Let me make up for this,” he said, his demand coming out more as a plea. “I have to make this right, and to do that I have to return to the living world.”
“So…you…believe…”
“Yes, I do. I really do.” That surprised him more than anything.
“Ian Daivya…Creator…is…forgiving.”
Then the Watchmen stepped to the side, the tatter
ed cloth door blowing wide open. Ian took one final glance at the ghastly guards, then raced past them into the darkness.
Fresh from her father’s makeshift prison cell, Julia squared her shoulders, stepped out of her car, and walked up to the front door of the funeral home. She felt lethargic and heavy, but attributed the sensation to grief. Not aware that time had slowed, she never even noticed that what should have been a fifteen minute drive took longer than two hours.
Before stepping inside, Julia took a moment to crane her neck and stare up at the sky. Dark clouds had crossed over the sun many days ago, and with each passing hour they thickened and moved faster throughout the sky as though on a mission of destruction. It was spooky, an ominous sign of a danger she was yet to understand.
Shaking off the feelings of trepidation, Julia shoved open the door and entered. An uncomfortable stillness instantly greeted her. The room was vacant, sparsely decorated walls making the small space seem even lonelier. Not even the bright flowers lining the windows and countertops could bring any cheer into such an empty room. The coffins didn’t help either.
A man stepped out from a back office. He was tall and lean, with thinning gray hair and thick glasses that sat atop a small nose. He was dressed nicely, a white polo shirt and pressed jeans making him look more like a teacher than a funeral home director. “Mrs. Daivya,” he greeted, a bit surprised to see the small, exhausted-looking woman. “I was expecting you quite a few days ago.”
“I was…held up,” Julia replied, shaking the man’s hands. “I’m ready to go over the plans.”
Frank Farber regarded Julia with a sad stare. He’d watched far too much of the news coverage on Cole’s death, and while he had never personally experienced the loss of a child, he felt like he knew the entire Daivya family just by seeing so much of their grief on television.
“Mrs. Daivya,” he began, walking about the counter. “I just wanted to say how—”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Julia interrupted, stifling a yawn and wondering how she could react in such a way. She sniffled while running her hand over a casket far too small for an adult. “Such a shame we have to use these,” she whispered to herself, turning back to Farber. “When can we do this?”
Farber cleared his throat and pulled a small stack of papers from a cabinet. “Well, I took the liberty of putting some things together, based on when we last spoke. With the flower arrangements, minister—”
“No,” Julia cut in again, this time more forcefully. “No frills, no show, no people. My son has been put through enough in his death. I want him buried now. When can that happen?”
Understanding her need for urgency, Farber shut the folder and looked at Julia knowingly. “Tomorrow.”
Chapter 42
Putting aside the incredibly painful realization that hit him square on the head at the Bridge of the Dead, Ian ran as fast and hard as he could across the open land surrounded by mountains. All around him dead souls reached out and moaned for mercy or snarled in vengeance for a crime Ian never committed against them.
Dirt and grime clawed at his new eyes as his feet screamed with each step. His scraped heels and mangled toes couldn’t take much more, and his shoes were now mere remnants of rubber cast off long ago. Bloody footprints made a trail from the Western Sun, a trail that left both a visual and aromatic mark for the army that marched with a quickened pace. He could do nothing but grit his teeth and suffer silent screams as he pushed through the burning agony. His arms felt like Jell-O, but held on to Cole as though the boy would disappear again were he to let go.
Ian’s breath wheezed out of fiery lungs. The roar of the Western Sun had faded now, and only the pale gray light of the land Whisper called Waiting lit his path. The trip back seemed faster, perhaps because his focus was on one thing—the lake that took his life.
When the trees that cloaked Whisper’s Waters came into view, Ian allowed himself to stop. He set Cole down on his feet and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Cole, listen to me,” Ian panted, his chest pleading for a break. He glanced over his shoulder when a huge rumble rocked the earth, and tightened his hold as the Army of the Dead broke through the Western Sun. For a single, incredible second, their vast line eclipsed half of the sun, shadows rising into the sky, spreading across the lands.
“Daddy, the bad guys!”
“I know! I know, Cole! Listen!” Ian pointed to the forest. “We have to go to a lake, okay? And we have to go underwater. When we go underwater I need you to blow out all your breath, okay? Do you understand?”
Confusion crossed the boy’s filthy face. “But…but how will I breathe?”
“Cole, you have to trust me, and we can go home. Do you trust me?”
Cole hesitated. Clutching his hands together, he looked around, thinking of any other way to escape this scary place of zombies and ghosts. He didn’t want to go back into the water. The water was why he was there in the first place, and he was scared. He didn’t even like to swim in his pool at home. But he knew he had to be brave, so he faced his father with wavering yet growing courage.
“Yes,” he said determinedly.
“Good.” Ian nodded and straightened, his back cracking and popping in protest. Though he too wished there was another way, any other way, he reached down and picked up his son with the last strength he had left. A rock flew past his ear, and he turned to see that soldiers from the Army of the Dead had picked up weapons and had incredible throwing distance abilities. Some had sticks and were slowly sharpening them. Ian tightened his hold on his son and fought a painful cry when a second jagged stone came flying his way and struck him solidly in the back. Soon, they would have spears, and he would be no match for their wrath. He had to move, and had to move now.
“I promise that this will all be over soon, Cole. And we’ll get back to your mommy and everything will be better again.”
With his promise ringing in the boy’s ear, Ian began his final race into the woods.
Whisper led the way to the top of the Fire Tower, each step echoing off bare yet dripping stone walls. Her eyes were clouded over with concentration as she let her feet be guided by the directions inked into her back throughout the years leading up to her death. She had endured that pain for this very moment, the walk up those long, winding staircases, anticipating the future with each step that echoed off bare stone walls. The only light that cast their shadows eerily behind them, making their trio double in size, was from the torch Gentle Heart was forced to carry.
From behind, the timid wife sniffled and racked her brain for a way out of this mess. Escape was out of the question. Whisper stood before her, a powerful woman who could kill those who shared her blood without thought, and the Raven-Eater walked steadily behind her, a man who cared only for complete and total annihilation of the Land of the Living. For pure torture purposes Whisper had decided to force her to endure the long walk so, as her daughter had declared with such detachment, she would have that much longer to reflect on the treacherous action that took place in the Land of the Dead eighteen years ago.
Gentle Heart didn’t understand how Whisper could see her action as anything but loving. She had given her daughter, only five summers old at the time, a chance to live, a chance to be free of a father who was determined to see her put to death and had attempted to murder her himself. The fact that Smoke Speaker would later use her as a way to return wasn’t something she had anticipated, and though Gentle Heart certainly faulted her father for raising Whisper to be a vessel of revenge rather than a granddaughter, she nonetheless failed to see the true source of the girl’s hate.
Her heart broke as she watched the fascinating yet horrifying black lines pulse across Whisper’s back as they neared the top of the Fire Tower. To be so young and have such a mark forever etched into her skin…Gentle Heart silently raged over the Elder’s actions. No other hand could have done such a thing, and she knew her father’s work when she saw it. It was little surprise, then, that Whisper had developed such animo
sity towards her mother.
Perhaps she truly is her father’s daughter, Gentle Heart thought sadly, and knew then that if she couldn’t escape, then her only other option was to somehow reach Whisper’s compassionate side. Her human side. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, she still had some part of her, however buried, able to see the good in the world. As her mother, Gentle Heart had to try.
“Kanegv—” she started, only to be shoved in the back by the Raven-Eater. She bit back a cry of pain, pressing her lips together and fighting to disregard the sore spot now throbbing in her left shoulder. If Whisper heard her attempt to speak, she made no acknowledgement. Instead, she merely kept her pace until they reached the door that led out to her murder. Gentle Heart chewed her bottom lip, searching her soul for the inner strength her daughter had, the faith her father believed in with such conviction. When Whisper turned, a hand on the thick, rusted metal lock, she spoke out with the only thing that came to mind.
“Kanegv, you are better than him,” she said low and quickly, staring her daughter straight in the eyes and refusing to back down when the haunting darkness threatened to swallow her whole. For a moment, she thought Whisper was considering her words, perhaps impressed by her courage to not break the visual connection.
Her hope vanished into the depths of lost souls when Whisper narrowed her eyes, shoved open the heavy door, and pushed Gentle Heart through.
Chapter 43
Today was the day her son would finally be laid to rest. When Julia woke in the morning, she felt no satisfaction that her son would be at peace, no closure that this nightmare was over. She was merely empty. Her heart had stopped beating for any and everything other than the necessity to rise for Cole’s funeral.
It would be private, she had decided, only her and her son. After everything that had happened since Cole’s disappearance, no one else deserved their chance to say good-bye. Not her sister, who stuck around only to flirt with the young deputies, not Sheriff Forbe, who had called the night before to inform her that Elder Smoke Speaker had died in the middle of the night. Not even Olivia, who had stood back and watched as her daughter was locked in a cold, unfeeling bathroom.
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