Council of Souls

by Jen Printy

  CHAPTER NINE

  Once when I was a child, my brother, Henry, tossed me into the shallows of Walker Pond when he found me asleep by the water’s edge. I had skipped out on chores, leaving Henry to do them all himself, and I deserved what I got. I remember waking out of a peaceful sleep disoriented, not knowing which way was up, panic squeezing every ounce of oxygen from my lungs. Although lacking, it’s the best description I can conjure of what I’m feeling now.

  Groping through the murk, the world around me tilts and spins, messing with any sense of space or direction. The swirling motion causes my stomach to revolt, bile searing my throat. Unable to see through the unrelenting darkness, I rely on my hearing, but all is silent except for the sound of my heavy breathing echoing in my ears.

  Something tugs at my sleeve, and I jerk away. The night I made my bargain with the council, I saw what lives in those shadows. That creature’s red eyes are forever burned into my memory. My heart pounds, and my breathing speeds up. My eyes dart back and forth, but I see nothing except the blackness. A hand grabs me tight under the bicep, iron fingers digging into my flesh. Or are they claws? I contort, doing my best to twist out of the grip, but despite my struggle, the hand drags me forward. My field of vision bursts from a dark nothingness into a dimly lit void. Artagan and Leah stand in front of me.

  “Faith, Jack. Find a wee bit now and again, would you?” Artagan grumbles.

  “You could have helped him. Led him through,” Leah snaps.

  “I’m not the man’s babysitter.”

  “Drop it, please. I’m fine,” I say. “You need to focus on this job.”

  Her eyes are locked on mine. Leah’s expression is one I recognize. She’s concerned, and I wager after that spectacle, she’s having second thoughts about letting me tag along. Who could blame her?

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she breathes.

  Embarrassed by my lack of faith, I nod, fixing my gaze on the scene in front of me.

  Muted and lacking color, silhouettes and blurs of motion dance in front of us as if we’re looking out fogged glass. As the murk recedes, it reveals an empty train station. A slanted overhang extends out to the edge of a stone-paved platform. Except for the occasional flooding pool of light cast by one of the suspended lamps, the boarding area lies in shadow. From our vantage point, we’re emerging from a shadow along the station’s rear wall.

  I’m drenched in sweat and still a bit dizzy. The thought of fresh air beckons me. I step forward, but Artagan takes hold of my shoulder and shakes his head. Then, counting to two on his fingers, he points to the right. The slow rapping of high heels echoes down the long, paved platform. Through a thin veil of haze, I see two figures approach—an older gentleman supported by a petite younger woman. Although age and time mar the man’s face, the similarities between him and his escort are plain—same broad-tipped nose and diamond-shaped chin. Father and daughter would be my guess.

  As the two draw close, the man’s foot catches on an uneven pavestone, sending him staggering toward us. It takes every ounce of restraint for me not to reach from the shadow and grab his arm as he stumbles into the wall. The daughter rushes to his side. Wrapping her arm around his waist, she props a shoulder under his armpit. Through it all, her expression remains unhampered. Either the girl’s calm by nature, or she has done this before.

  “I’m fine. Leave me be,” he says, attempting to brush her away.

  His daughter grumbles under her breath but complies.

  The man sags against the wall, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath. Even though he shows no sign of detecting us, I hold still, not moving a muscle. At this close distance, it’s clear he’s not as old as I thought. Whatever he suffers from, his battle has been long and drawn out, leaving its unmistakable mark. The dark-violet circles under his hollow eyes emphasize the pasty-gray color of his skin. Deep depressions dent his cheeks, adding to his near-death appearance. As his strained expression turns imploring, the man shifts his gaze to the wall and stares straight at Artagan. Only an inch stands between them.

  The muscle at the corner of Artagan’s mouth twitches.

  “We should’ve brought your wheelchair,” the young woman says, drawing the man’s attention away.

  “Nonsense,” he mutters then pushes away from the wall.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this, Dad?”

  “Like I said, I’m fine. Besides, your aunt is expecting us,” he protests. After some persistent urging, he sighs and takes his daughter’s outstretched arm, and the two lumber down the long train platform, vanishing around the far corner.

  Leah lets out a long breath. “Could he see us?” she asks.

  “No, no matter what it seemed.” Artagan fishes a small pewter flask from his breast pocket, engraved with a coat of arms, a phase in Latin inscribed beneath the crest. It’s been over a century since my last Latin lesson, but I’m able to translate the flourished script with some difficulty. Truth, the daughter of time, it reads.

  After taking a quick nip, he glances back at Leah. “I know he doesn’t appear to have long on this earth, but you’ll find looks can be deceiving. Sometimes a man who seems to stand at death’s door can live for years, while one who looks as healthy as a horse can drop dead without the slightest notice. Death likes to keep them guessing.”

  “But if you know he wants to die?” I ask, shifting my focus in the direction where the man disappeared.

  “The bottom line is that mortals do not decide their death. Not how, not where, not when. And tonight is not that gentleman’s night.” Artagan’s expression shifts from one of indifference to one with a distinct flavor of bitterness. Unless you’d like to take care of him yourself?

  A cold prickle stirs at the base of my neck. I look away, shaking my head.

  Artagan lets out an emotionless chuckle. “Didn’t think so,” he mutters. His smugness is infuriating.

  I ignore him and walk down the platform toward Leah, who now stands a few paces away, studying an oversized subway map. Under a pane of plastic, colored lines branch out from the center in angular patterns.

  “I thought there was a turn after Charles Station,” she says, her finger running over a straight portion of the red line.

  “Is it there or not?” Artagan asks, his foul mood from the previous event lingering.

  Leah hesitates for a moment. “Yes, it’s there. Right after the tunnel. I can see it here,” she says, pointing to her temple. “According to the map, the next station is closed for renovation. I was thinking it’s a pretty sharp turn, so if the conductor is speeding, that should work, don’t you think?”

  Artagan bobs his head, outwardly impressed. “With that curve, anything over forty will do the trick. And we can step into the shadows after Charles.” Satisfied with the plan, he falls silent, sipping from his flask.

  My eyes wander from Artagan to Leah. She’s staring again, and from her taut expression, she’s worrying. Probably about me. I feign a grin.

  “You look better. You were green there for a bit. I should have warned you. Shadow walking is like riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair.”

  “First off, stop worrying about me. I refuse to be a distraction. Second, the comparison wouldn’t have helped. I’ve never ridden a Tilt-A-Whirl, and I don’t think I ever will. Nothing about that experience was a selling point. Shadow, one. Me, zero.” I wink, compelling the corners of my lips upward.

  My tactic works, at least for the moment. Leah giggles. “That’s nothing. You should see Grady after he rides the merry-go-round. Way greener than you. He still rides it every year and swears up and down he’s not sick. You’d think—”

  A train’s whistle blows, cutting off Leah’s words. Her face falls sober, looking uncomfortable once again.

  Artagan pats her shoulder but otherwise ignores her nerves. “Your lead,” he reminds her.

  In the distance
, a pinpoint of light spears through the darkness. Leah swallows hard. Her fingers wrap around her locket. Taking her free hand, I give it a gentle squeeze before letting go.

  She leans her head against my shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Where else would I be?” I kiss the top of her head.

  The train slows in front of us, jerking before coming to a stop. I trail Artagan and Leah, stepping into a car filled with unsuspecting passengers. My eyes dart from face to face. Almost a hundred at a quick estimate, and there are four other cars besides this one, each full. Against my better judgment, I lean to Artagan’s ear. “Which ones?” I whisper.

  He smiles without an ounce of genuineness and whirls his pointer finger in the air.

  My heart migrates into my throat. “All of them?” I mouth.

  Except one. A vagrant sound asleep in the last car.

  My eyes shy away from the throng of unsuspecting faces—all laughing, carefree souls who will soon be no more to this earth than a loved one’s memory. A weightiness settles in the back of my throat, and I wish I’d taken Artagan up on his offer of a few swigs of liquid courage. Dragging my sweaty palms up and down my pant legs, I steel my emotions and look up, my gaze searching for Leah. She and Artagan have moved toward the engineer booth, only the back of their heads visible through the crowd. Weaving my way through the people, I follow.

  As the train picks up speed, it lurches, jolting me sideways. I stagger and knock into an elderly lady. Beads scatter as her necklace hits the floor and roll into the dark corners of the car, most certain never to be seen again. An ornate silver crucifix lies at my feet.

  A rosary. Of all the stupid… And at a time like this.

  I bend and pick up the small cross off the dirty floor. From the intricate craftsmanship and the worn edges, the rosary is an antique. And by the lady’s dismayed expression, it’s probably a family heirloom. After brushing off the sand and grime on my sleeve, I hold out the pendant to the lady. “My apologies,” I say.

  Wrinkles stretch along the woman’s age-worn cheeks as she smiles at me. Then without a word, she reaches out, but instead of taking her crucifix, she grabs my arm and yanks me to her. She’s remarkably strong for a woman her age. The friendliness vanishes from her face, and she mouths, “I know why you’re here.” Her vigorous pale-gray eyes flick toward Leah and Artagan and then back to me.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand erect, and polite or not, I stare.

  “Right now, you’re wondering how I know so much?” Her dark smirk widens. “And what threat I might be to your plan.”

  A flush of adrenaline surges through my body. My eyes narrow, and the muscles in my jaw tense.

  The woman releases my wrist. Settling back into her seat, she taps the cushion next to her, inviting me to sit. “I’m sure your friends can do without you for a little while. Gladys, by the way.”

  With her petite stature and puff of pure-white hair, it’s hard to see this woman as threatening. Nevertheless, I know all too well never to judge a book by its cover. Although she might be nothing more than off her trolley, it’s a risk I’m unwilling to chance. Who knows what havoc she could cause. Leah needs this gathering to go well. Death is watching. Therefore, I sit.

  “I’m Jack,” I say, resting my elbows on my knees. “So why are you here?”

  Gladys smiles, seemingly delighted I’m playing along. “Because I decided today was the day. And unlike most, I can control my own destiny.” She leans over and yanks an oversized patchwork bag out from under the seat. Riffling through its contents, she mumbles to herself. Her hand reemerges with a tin box—its sides dented and a scene of Santa and his reindeer flaking along the corners. She opens the lid and pushes the container toward me. “Gingersnap?”

  “No, thank you.” God only knows what she put in them.

  “Suit yourself,” she says, peering into the tin. “I’ll admit they are better with tea, but no time for that, is there?” Without taking a cookie for herself, she snaps the lid shut and stuffs it back into her bag.

  “I haven’t been on a train since I was a child, not since the Great Crash of ’39. Do you remember it?”

  I stare at her, shaking my head.

  With no urging, Gladys continues. “I was one of five to survive. A miracle, they called me. My name was in all the papers. Losing both my mother and father at such an impressionable age—I was but thirteen—I didn’t see my escape from death as such. Now, looking back, that’s what it was. A miracle. Because of it, I’ve lived a remarkable life. Short by some standards, but long enough for me. We can’t all be Endless, now, can we?”

  My throat goes as dry as parchment, but I keep my face casual as if we are talking about the weather or some other mundane topic.

  Gladys smooths out the skirt of her navy polka-dot dress with her palms. I see the struggle in her almond-shaped eyes—faith combating doubt. She tilts her chin up. “I want you to know I’m not scared. As I said, I chose to be here. On the other hand, I am anxious about the process, but I suppose that’s only natural.” She looks to me for confirmation. When she finds none, her firm expression wavers.

  When she speaks again, the somber tone is gone, replaced by a jovial jaunt. “Oh, the things I’ve done. I was an opera singer back in the day. At twenty-nine, I sang with Edmund Chipp at the Royal Panopticon. It was quite an honor. The Queen herself came to hear us. Not bad for a girl from Cheapside. And I’ve traveled. Oh, have I traveled. I’ve sat on the banks of the Ganges, seen the Great Pyramids in all their glory—before the earthquake took their beauty—gleaming white in the high afternoon sun. I’ve witnessed the Northern Lights from the summit of Mount McKinley. Oh, what a sight. Yes, I’ve had a beautiful, adventurous life,” she says, looking out the window.

  My mind grapples with her words. I try to remember when the pyramids lost their luster. It was well before my time, that’s for sure. But Edmund Chipp is a name I recognize. When I was a boy, my mother had made an uncharacteristic trip to London to hear him play. That would make Gladys close to my age. But I look twenty, and with her white hair and wrinkled skin, we appear generations apart.

  Gladys goes on, a quizzical eye resting on me. “You’ve struggled. Lost love once. I can see it in your eyes.”

  I almost jump when she grabs me by the wrist. She twists my hand around, so the palm faces up. Then with a gentle touch like a goose-down feather, she traces each crease from my wrist to the base of my fingers, studying the crooked, gridded pattern as if they were telling her a story. “And you have more struggles to come.” My stomach dips, and I pull my hand away, but I can’t deny the truth in her words.

  Gladys looks down, her long, graying lashes veiling her eyes. “Never mind this foolish old woman and her ramblings. I’m sure I don’t know what I’m talking about half the time.” When her gaze returns to mine, a reassuring smile flickers across her lips. “Always remember, ‘It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.’ I like to think I gave him that line, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have agreed.”

  “Gave whom? William Shakespeare?” I ask as if the words hold no meaning.

  “Yes, from Julius Caesar. William told me the Lord Chamberlain’s Men did a wonderful job with its portrayal. Never saw the play myself. Back then, London was never a place I enjoyed.”

  I stare at her, still debating whether or not she’s mad.

  A robotic voice crackles from the speaker overhead. “Next stop Charles Station,” it announces.

  Time to go. Artagan’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

  Gladys’s crooked knuckles turn white as she grips the crucifix, and she shrinks into her seat. Although questions still clutter my mind, the time for any inquisition is gone.

  “Thank you for spending your time with me. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice comes out in a hush.

  Now, Jack!

 
I nod to both of them and rise to my feet, but Gladys’s bleak expression gives me pause. The lights flicker. Someone screams. Conflicted, I glance into the darkness—the way of my escape—but my feet don’t move. When the lights return, Artagan and Leah have vanished.

  As Charles Station flies by in a streak of colors, Gladys grasps my wrist, her viselike grip cutting off circulation to my hand. Panicked, people murmur to each other. Some of the passengers, anticipating what’s coming, place their heads between their legs. Others shout. Others pray.

  The train tips. A deafening sound of grating metal joins the choir of screams, and then all goes black. The last thing I remember is the sickening feeling of falling sideways before losing consciousness.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I wake to a shrill ringing in my ears.

  My brain is slow to think. An acrid smoke pervades the air, suffocating what little oxygen I have in my lungs. So many parts hurt, it’s useless to take inventory. I am lying on my back. Something hard and rutted presses into the base of my spine, warping my body into an uncomfortable position. Limbs cold as ice, and a coppery taste fresh in my mouth, I concentrate, trying to piece together what happened.

  Moments whirl through my head—the crescendo of screams; the sound of grinding metal, unnerving like nails on a chalkboard; the frightened look on Gladys’s pale face as the end drew near—all accompanied by a rambling welter of emotions.

  I haul in a deep breath and cry out in pain as fire erupts in my abdomen. Gritting my teeth, trying to keep my breathing even, I force my eyes open.

  Face to face with a bent sheet of metal, the full weight of my situation hits home in a rush of shock and annoyance. Dammit! Sandwiched between mangled steel and rubble, I find myself entombed in the wreckage. It’s dark but not pitch-black. Dim light filters into the confined space, washing the colors from everything and casting ragged shadows along the walls of debris. Light, no matter how muted, suggests a possible escape from my makeshift tomb. I assume Artagan will come back for me, but after everything—getting lost in that dark vortex then refusing to leave the train when ordered—I doubt he’ll be in any great hurry. Knowing him, despite the fact Leah’s probably frantic right about now, he’ll wait until the last second, just before the rescuers arrive, to make me sweat and teach me a lesson.