Enchanted Forests (41 page)

on his stomach. Winded, he stared down at the rag rug under-

neath his nose.

"Justin!"

He looked up, saw his sister's feet, and got to his own.

"What?" He touched his chest; it was covered in red, piaid flan-

nel. His grandfather's pajamas.

"You were screaming."

"I was—" He walked over to the window, yanked the curtains

back, and looked out into a clear, cold sky. It was dark now;

moonlight glittered on the snow, the sun's ghost. He pulled me

curtains back into place, cutting the outside world off.

He turned to stare at his sister. Her eyes were ringed black;

they always were when she wasn't sleeping well. She was

dressed in her housecoat and her old slippers, and she was tying

knots in the belt as she watched him, her face full of open con-

cern.

270                    MicLelle Sagara

"It was your cooking," he said at last. "Tomorrow, I make din-

ner. Got it?"

That does it. Next time, Chris cuts the wood. Any responsible

person would've built up enough of a stockpile for the winter in-

stead of making their younger brother freeze. Even though he

was in boots that practically topped his knees, he could feel the

sting of the ice and snow. Chris was going to give him hell for

not strapping his feet into snowshoes. Again.

How the hell was I supposed to know it was all this deep? His

breath was condensing on his face, and the drops were crackling

into ice. Tune to go home.

There was a shadow across the snow—long, thin and skeletal.

Not an ounce of blood moved in his veins; it was frozen solid.

Taking a deep, icy breath, Justin Larkin turned around. Five

feet away, bony claws attached to the snow-covered bark of an

oak, one of the creatures stood watching him,

At this distance, it looked a little less like a creature out of

nightmare, and a little more like something out of a bad B

movie. Except for its eyes. The eyes were like slate; colder than

the winter, gleaming like the soul of the ice itself.

Justin took a step back, and then turned suddenly; the forest

was empty, except for this one walking skeleton. It made him

feel slightly safer. But only slightly.

The circle, he thought. I'll just head back to the rowan circle.

Either that, or I'll wake up. Come on, sunshine.

"So, uh, come this way often?" Justin took a step back; the

creature stayed anchored to the tree beneath its claws. "Uh, I'd

like to stay and talk, but I, uh, have to be going now. That all

right with you?"

Its Ups stretched wide over rotten teeth. "The sssssssssspring."

Before Justin could faint or run, he was suddenly very much

alone. He waited a moment before he dared to look around at the

ground where the creature had made its stand. It was untouched.

Great. I'm losing my mind in the middle of nowhere, with only

my sister for company.

He was certain that he had never felt a winter so cold, and he

longed for the city. It was big, yes, and dirty; there were all the

usual signs of urban decay on select downtown street comers;

there was too much traffic, too much hostility, too much stress.

But there was also life, warmth, motion; there was a sense of

things being done, of connectivity, of purpose.

GHOSTWOOD             271

He had come to Chris* place to escape all of that, but found

that emptiness, the vast expanse of untouched wilderness, per-

versely reminded him of the things that it wasn't.

That, and his nightmares in the city were profoundly more

mundane. He might wake up in a sweat from dreams of a tax

audit—he was not completely organized for a self-employed

man—but he didn't wander around the ice and snow looking

over his shoulder for walking cadavers who made the coming of

spring sound like a dire threat

He had mastered the art of walking in snowshoes, and so no

longer tripped on his feet. He wore an undershirt, a shirt, a

sweater, a coat, a vest, a scarf, a hat, thin gloves and thick mit-

tens, as well as two pairs of socks and moon boots. He carried

a flashlight, just in case he was stupid enough to be caught out

after sunset.

Sunset, across the expanse of untouched snow, should have

been beautiful. The sun's rays, tinged crimson and orange, seep-

ing across the horizon had always been one of the sights that he

valued when he came to visit his sister.

But tonight, for some reason, it was cold. Just cold.

He watched it, waiting for something to click.

Something snapped instead. He turned slowly, flashlight in

hand, to see the creature of his daytime nightmare. This close to

the boundary of night, Justin should have been terrified.

But the creature looked less skeletal, somehow. A little less

gaunt

"You again," Justin said, through clenched teeth that he hoped

resembled a smile.

The creature said nothing, but rather stared at the horizon with

unblinking eyes. He pointed straight ahead, to where sun met

ground, and as Justin followed his long, bony finger, he saw

blood, rather than light, across the crust of ice.

"Sssssspring."

"What's wrong with winter?" Justin asked, half-expecting the

vision to be gone again when he turned from the dying sun. But

the creature remained, staring at him with eyes that were still

colder than the season.

No answer was offered, but suddenly, none was wanted. Justin

knew that the winter here had lasted too long.

"Diiiiiiie."

He took a step back, and then stood his ground. The creature

stared at him for a moment, then turned slowly and began to

shamble off through the trees.

272                    Mickelle Sagara

Justin stared down at his flashlight, and then looked up at the

stiff, emaciated back of the winter creature. I am an idiot, he said

to himself. A complete fool. An utter moron. He carefully

clicked the on switch of the flashlight—which, through two lay-

ers of wool was no mean feat—made a prayer that the batteries

weren't as old as he thought they were, made another, quite dif-

ferent, prayer, and then began to follow.

The creature made no noise as it walked. It wore no snow-

shoes, but seemed to move through the ice and snow as if they

were liquid. No evidence of its passing remained.

Not so with Justin; he kicked up a spray of snow-dust that his

flashlight shimmered off, snapped the occasional brittle twig as

it caught on his scarf, and walked into the lower skirts of snow-

covered pines. But he followed.

Once or twice, the creature looked back, its icy eyes unblink-

ing. But, seeing Justin, it nodded, and continued to walk.

He had no idea how much time passed; he was barely aware

when twilight slipped into night. The moon was bright enough to

see by; it made a mockery of battery power as it glinted across

sheets of thin ice and thick snow. Justin held the flashlight

tightly anyway. It had become a talisman of sorts.

He listened for the sound of night creatures, but there were

none. No owls, no winter birds, no animals. They're sleeping, he

thought, as he drew the light closer.

No, they're dead.

He didn't know why he thought it, but once thought, it was

hard to forget. Like the verse of a song that somehow managed

to cling to his mind, he replayed the words over and over. They

felt right, but they felt wrong.

He was so intent on them, that he almost walked into the back

of the creature; it had stopped suddenly, and pivoted, without

making a sound. Justin lifted the flashlight and saw that the crea-

ture was no longer alone. Others of its ilk were gathered by the

trunks of bare trees, glaring at him in silence.

He studied them, let the light skim their faces.

In his first nightmare, they had seemed of one kind, but now.

he could see differences. Their cheekbones, their foreheads, their

heights—each was unique, as people were. Some, in fact,

seemed to be so different in build—broad and short and stocky,

rather than tall and delicate—that they might have been different

species.

GHOSTWOOD

273

Had they been alive.

As if aware of his appraisal, they stood and endured it. And

then, as the light left the face of the last one—although he

couldn't have said how many there were—they all turned as one

person and looked toward the center of their gathering. He fol-

lowed their vision.

He thought to see something magical, something poetic, some-

thing deadly.

He saw a car instead.

The fender was bent, and rust spots were slowly devouring the

paint job at the edge of the trunk. "What the hell?" He began to

walk toward it, and the creatures made way for him, opening

their ranks to let him pass unhindered. But they began to chant

a single word.

"Ssssspring."

He barely heard it. The back of the car was fine. But as he be-

gan to circle the car, he saw that something was very, very

wrong with it. The passenger and driver's seats were gone in a

press of metal and broken glass. The engine had been crumpled

with the hood; the front tires were completely flattened.

The light began to shake; his hands could barely hold it.

Slowly, numbly, he approached the driver's side of the car. There

was blood down the side of it; a thin, red trickle.

There wasn't much left of his car.

His mouth dry, he turned to look at the watchers. And he was

suddenly alone in the forest. They were gone; there was no car.

The wax begonias had been drowned, all right; on close in-

spection the thick leaves were almost mushy. The old man cactus

wasn't going to make it either. The jade plants were tough

enough to take Chris for a little while, and Justin was pleased to

think he could save them. The solarium, with its plant-covered

walls, wasn't the best place for them, but he could move them

around.

The Japanese maple by the door was in need of repotting. And

the violet ... he lifted it from the shelf and looked more closely

at the planter. Then, slowly, he set it down. He began to look at

the dying plants more carefully.

It was cold in the solarium.

"Where are you going?"

"For a walk."

274                    Michelle Sagara

"Don't you think that you've done enough walking, Justin?

I'm really starting to worry about you. Look at your eyes,

they're—"

"Chris, you aren't my mother. I've got to walk." He saw her

start to pull a sweater over her head. "Alone."

"But—"

"I'll be fine." He tied the last knot and stood up.

"Justin—I'd like the company."

He shook his head, feeling pained. "I'll be back, I promise.

And I'll be better company then."

When he left the garage, he was pale. He carried a flashlight

in one hand and a shovel in the other; the shovel was heavy. He

walked westward, with purpose. To the rowans.

He wasn't surprised when they came. They fell into lockstep

around him; he was certain they were growing in number at his

back. Almost, he felt as if he were leading them to a bizarre re-

ligious service. They weren't silent, of course.

The rowans stood out in the moonlight and the bitter, bitter

cold. But they were not the trees that he had once disliked; they

were guardians, they were living henges. He passed through

them with ease, but his followers did not. He turned to see them,

wide-eyed, as they began to ring the rowans.

"Spring, eh?" he said, as he lifted the shovel. "I'll do my

best." His hands were shaking so much that he dropped the

shovel three times before he managed to clear away some of the

snow. The dirt was frozen, and it was harder than the ice to get

rid of. But he worked; he didn't even sweat.

The night passed into dusk, and finally, when dawn broke, the

ground had been shifted enough so that Justin Larkin could see

what was buried at the heart of the circle. It was what he ex-

pected, no more, no less.

No one heard his scream; it was voiceless.

"Chris?"

She looked up from the paper, but the smile mat was begin-

ning shattered when she met his eyes. She set the paper aside.

"Yes?"

"How did I get up here?" He came and sat down beside her

on the old couch; she was a foot away, but the distance could just

as well have been miles.

"You drove."

GHOSTTOOD             275

"Where's my car?"

Her face paled. "Your car?"

"My car."

"It's—it's at the garage. Repairs."

He nodded. Passed a hand over his eyes. "Why do you have

my plants?"

"Y-your plants?"

"Chris, I recognize those planters; I should've seen it right

away. Why do you have 'em?"

She looked down at her hands; they were clenching and un-

clenching almost convulsively. "I—" Her eyes teared.

"Chris—I'm dead, aren't I?"

"No, you're not!" She stood suddenly, and the tears began to

fall; her eyes were red, her lips shaking. "You aren't dead—don't

you see? You're here, you're with me!"