The weather was cooler this far north and it had grown colder over the course of the morning. He had been carrying the ancient parka with him but eventually he slipped it on again. One of the houses they passed, a rambling thing made of stone and mortar, had a plume of smoke rising from its chimney and the smell of the fireplace seemed to welcome them. Oliver was not a fool, however. They might deceive these country people, but there would be no real welcome for him, no respite, while the threat of death hung over his head.
“How much farther to Perinthia?” he asked, as they trudged up another rise in the Truce Road, which was broader now and spread with gravel.
Kitsune turned her jade eyes upon Frost, her cloak pulled around her so completely that her face and feet were all that was visible of her body. The winter man glanced at the sky, tracking the sun.
“Once we cross the Atlantic Bridge, half a day to the outskirts of the city. Even if we go on without rest all through the daylight hours, it will be night before we reach the city. We will have to camp and make our plan once night falls.”
Oliver considered his words and then frowned. “How far to this bridge?”
“The
Atlantic
Bridge,” Frost repeated, as though correcting him. “We’re nearly there.”
As they followed the Truce Road up that long rise, Oliver realized he could hear the river ahead. When they reached the peak and looked down into the river valley, he smiled in wonder. The river looked to be nearly a mile wide, and its current was swift and deep. The road went on a short way, down the other side of the hill, and then the bridge began. Small islands dotted the river and this place had obviously been chosen for that very reason. Stone pilings had been built upon the islands, and the bridge, a masterwork of stone architecture, spanned the entire river, touching down on each of those islands in turn, arching over the rushing water. Greenery grew thick upon those islands, and upon the one in the center there was an orchard of various fruit trees. From this distance it was difficult to tell how many different sorts of fruit grew there, but the colors were remarkably vivid. Oliver’s stomach rumbled at the thought of that fruit and he recalled the tins of SpaghettiOs in the pocket of his parka.
“We might have to stop and have a picnic on the way.”
“Perhaps,” Kitsune said, slipping past him and starting down the road to the bridge. She glanced back, face partially shadowed by the hood of her fur, and smiled playfully. “Is this your first time across the Atlantic?”
Oliver and Frost followed after her, the rush of the river growing louder as they neared its banks. The sun glinted off the rough water, sparkling brightly. Out in the deep current something leaped from the water and splashed down again before he could get a good look at it.
“What do you mean, first time? I’ve never been here before. How could I have crossed the river?”
Beside him, the winter man laughed softly. It was a surprisingly gentle noise. “The Atlantic, Oliver. Kitsune is teasing you. The name of the river is quite literal. The bridge spans the Atlantic . . . which here is not an ocean, but this river. Breadth and distance are relative, depending upon which side of the Veil you are on. Nothing is exactly the same. In our world, Atlantis and Lemuria still exist. The Atlantic Ocean is merely a river. The English Channel in your world is, here, the Sargasso Sea. And it is vast.”
They reached the bridge, and as they started across, treading upon bleached stone, Oliver stared toward the other side of the river.
“So, you’re telling me that’s Europe over there?”
Frost sighed. “Oliver, this isn’t your world. You’ve got to understand that. While every place here corresponds with a location in the mundane world, the two are not the same. Not at all. They exist parallel to each other . . . but they are not mirror images.”
Kitsune was ahead of them, hurrying as though she did not like being on the bridge— or perhaps she hated being above the water. Oliver ran his hand over the stone wall beside him, marveling at its smoothness. As he walked he looked down at the turgid water.
“But if this is the Atlantic, then when we reach the other side of the bridge, the land that we’ll be standing on will . . . correspond . . . with Europe?” He laughed at the absurdity of it, at the marvel of it.
“Not precisely.”
Oliver glanced sidelong at Frost. The winter man tilted his head, icicles cascading around his face.
“The United Kingdom, actually.”
White birds dove and soared above the water, circling above the tiny islands in the river. The rush of the river and the song of those birds were the only sounds he could hear. With all the wonders of this place he had not properly appreciated that facet of Frost’s world. The quiet. The peacefulness. Oliver could only take it all in and keep walking, musing to himself about what they would find when at last they reached Perinthia. In his mind he had built up certain expectations and he realized now that he would have to put them aside. It was a mistake to make any presumption at all about the world beyond the Veil and what he might find here.
His mind wandering, Oliver caught his foot on an upraised chunk of rock. He stumbled but managed to avoid falling. Looking back, he saw that some of the stones were buckled and cracked where something heavy had crossed the bridge. He glanced ahead and saw other such places and he wondered what monstrosity was so heavy that each of its steps would do that sort of damage. After thinking about it for a moment, he realized that there might be any number of things in Euphrasia that could be responsible, from giants to dragons to Heffalumps, for all he knew.
Oliver smiled at the thought and shook his head. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to meet it.
As he hurried to catch up to Frost he saw that farther ahead, where the bridge passed above the largest of the islands it spanned, Kitsune had paused. Some of the fruit trees were so tall that they grew higher than the rail of the bridge and the fox-woman was standing completely still, her body arched as though preparing to strike at some unseen enemy. Yet seconds passed without her moving as Oliver caught up to Frost, and then the two of them made their way toward her.
Wary, Oliver kept far away from the trees that grew beside the bridge. Frost followed suit.
“What is it?” the winter man asked.
Kitsune’s jade eyes flashed in the sun. She sniffed the air. “There. In the branches. Something watches us.”
For long seconds the three of them stood silent and unmoving, peering into the treetops. Oliver felt a rush of heat prickling his skin even as a gust of cold wind swept across the bridge. His heart raced and he could hear it beating inside his head. Only the wind and the river made any noise. The birds that had been circling overhead had disappeared and nothing rustled in those branches. The trees were taller than any fruit trees he had ever seen. There were apples and pears, peaches and nectarines, and in the middle a trio of cherry trees, branches festooned with dark purple fruit.
“Show yourself,” the winter man commanded.
A wave of cold emanated from him far more frigid than the wind. Oliver glanced over to see that Frost had his hands raised, fingers pointing toward the trees as though he meant to pluck some of that ripe fruit. Hunger rumbled in Oliver’s belly. He studied the fruit more closely. Once upon a time, his mother had taken him and Collette to an orchard in New Hampshire in the early fall to pick apples. Most of the nectarines were gone by that late in the season but Oliver had passed a tree that had a single, perfectly ripe nectarine hanging from a high branch. It had been the sweetest, most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Fruit of the gods. Now that the memory had returned he recalled that it had been his father who had plucked that fruit down for him. How odd, he thought, that he should have forgotten such a thing. His father’s presence on such an excursion would have been remarkable, even then. He had even shared a bite with his father and relished the warmth of the man’s smile. The recollection of that smile, of that rare moment of unguarded fondness, sent a wave of regret through Oliver, but he brushed it aside.
He had always tried to be the son Max Bascombe wanted, no matter how miserable it made him. Now fate had intervened. The mundane world that his father so cherished had been revealed to be a sham. And instead of relishing it, Oliver had to focus on just staying alive.
“Are you sure, Kitsune?” he asked, shifting the strap on the shotgun case that he wore slung across his back. “I don’t see—”
Still tasting the twenty-year-old memory of that nectarine, his eyes were on that particular tree. As he turned to glance at the fox-woman, though, he caught sight of eyes in the branches of the tallest of the cherry trees.
“Oh, fuck—” he snapped, stumbling back a few steps and slipping the shotgun case off his shoulder.
Kitsune leaped toward him, diminishing in midair, fur rippling as she transformed. She landed lightly on the stone bridge on fox feet and took up a position just in front of him, peering into the trees, trying to see what he had seen.
“What is it, Oliver?” Frost asked.
“The cherry tree,” he replied, unsure if the words made any sense. He narrowed his eyes and looked again, searching for what he had seen before. The tree itself, or so it seemed. Something with the gnarled look of tree bark but the color of the ripest cherry.
“Show yourself, or I freeze the tree from peak to root,” Frost warned. He stepped toward the tree, cold mist swirling from his hands.
Oliver started forward also, out of both fear for his friend and concern for his own self-preservation. Whatever was in that tree, its mere presence made him feel as though spiders were crawling all over his skin.
Kitsune uttered a single bark. Oliver glanced down at her, trying to understand what she wanted him to do.
Then the thing in the cherry tree spoke.
“I don’t like the sun,” it said. “And I like strangers even less. Strangers on the bridge.” The voice was thickly accented and sticky, as though the speaker had difficulty prying the words from a mouth full of honey. “However, I have been known to be hospitable to Borderkind. Especially in times such as these.”
The branches shifted as the thing in the cherry tree scuttled forward. At first he had thought it actually a part of the tree, but now as its weight bowed the limbs beneath it and it paused, sprawled across several branches only a few feet from the stone rail of the bridge, he saw it more clearly. Its arms and legs were so long and thin they might have passed for tree branches, if Oliver had not just seen the thing move. Its prehensile toes wrapped around its perch and its fingers were three times the length of a man’s, with six or seven joints per digit. With that cherry skin, the texture of bark, it blended perfectly at the heart of the tree. Out amongst the leaves, however, it was out of place. Pink eyes like the bright, moist meat inside the fruit, were set deeply into narrow features beneath a smooth pate.
Kitsune barked again and Oliver flinched. He still clutched the shotgun case in his hands but had not even attempted to unzip it for fear of drawing the creature’s attention. For the moment, it peered curiously at Frost.
“Your offer of hospitality is appreciated,” the winter man replied, moving nearer the branches. The thing in the cherry tree studied him. “But I am afraid we do not have time to rest.”
Frost let his gaze linger upon the thing almost in warning, then glanced over his shoulder at Kitsune and Oliver. “Move along.”
The branches wavered again as the creature moved nearer, bending the limbs now so that it was only inches above the stone rail. The tips of its fingers had reached the sunlight and it flinched away a moment before grimacing and settling down once more. The wind shifted and swirled the smell of ripe fruit all around them.
“Do not be foolish,” the thing said, spread like a spider upon the branches. “You may not be hungry, but I saw the lust in the human’s eyes when he looked upon my fruit. He is desirous of a taste, and rest is always welcome. The river will replenish you, my shade comfort you, my fruit feed you.”
It snapped off a cluster of cherries from the end of one branch and held them out toward Oliver. For the first time it really addressed him, and there was a cajoling kindness in its voice as though he were indulging a child.
“If you mayn’t stop, at least have the sweetness of these cherries upon your journey. They are the fruit of the gods. Like nothing you have ever tasted.”
That sticky voice was reassuring, despite its obvious exasperation with their distrust. Oliver slung the shotgun case back over his shoulder and went to take the proffered fruit.
“No,” the winter man said sternly, a frigid breeze swirling around Oliver’s hand as he reached for the cherries. Frost formed on their purple skin. “Take nothing. You are an actor. Have you never read the ancient plays? As a student of legend, have you never read the thousands of tales that warn against taking gifts from those you meet at the roadside? Are you so foolish as to accept food from the hand of a demon?”
In the shadows of the cherry tree’s branches, the creature laughed. Leaves shook. It threw the cherries in its hand onto the bridge, where they lay in the sun, unclaimed.
