The Immortal Fire

by Anne Ursu

  CHAPTER 25

  Bread Crumbs

  YOU HAVE BUSINESS AT OLYMPUS?” THE PURPLE woman asked.

  Zee looked around, bewildered. He had no business at all now except finding his cousin, who had not come out of the clouds. “Pardon me,” he mumbled to the nymph, and had turned around to dive back into the clouds when a long arm grabbed him and pulled him back.

  “You have business at Olympus?” she repeated.

  “I—” He looked back behind him. “I need to find my cousin.”

  “Very well,” said the woman.

  A sudden wave of nausea brought Zee to his knees. He felt as though the world was swirling around him, and when he finally recovered he found himself alone in the dark. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the sky-brightness, but when they did he realized he was no longer on a marble staircase in the clouds, but rather standing in a dark forest. The trees around him were enormous, thick, and shadowy, with great limbs that contorted as they reached out to one another. A heavy cover of dark leaves obscured the sky. The whole place was eerily quiet, with no wind or rustling or anything to let you know the forest was alive, was of the Earth—yet Zee still felt with eerie certainty the presence of creatures lurking in the shadows. It seemed like he had landed on the very expensive set for a film version of Hansel and Gretel.

  “Charlotte?” Zee called weakly, looking around.

  He was conscious of a tightness in his chest and a thinness in the air and a slant to the ground. He was high, and going higher.

  A flash of memory hit him—tendrils of cloud wrapping around him, pulling on him, infesting his lungs, filling him with the bizarre and terrifying sensation that he was going to drown in the clouds. Was Charlotte still trapped there?

  He had to get back. He didn’t know how—since he’d apparently been dumped here by the random skinny purple lady—but he had to help her.

  He looked around for some sign, some indication of the way out. But there was nothing, just this endless fairy-tale forest, and he was out of bread crumbs.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried to dull the panic inside him. It could not be that he had lost Charlotte after all of this. It could not be that after everything they had been through, after everything she had survived through her very Charlotte-ness, she would get trapped inside some malevolent cloud-thing.

  No. Of course not. How had he gotten out? He’d struggled through. He’d pushed against the encroaching wisps and gotten free. It was nothing Charlotte could not do, nothing she had not done many times before. Encroaching wisps had nothing on Charlotte. She had gotten out. She was fine. The random skinny purple lady had asked what his purpose was, and he said to find Charlotte, and she’d sent him here, to what could only be the slope of Mount Olympus. Very helpful, the random skinny purple lady.

  “Charlotte?” he called again, taking a step forward. Something seemed very wrong to him, and it was not until he took another step that he realized that when his feet hit the falling leaves, they made no sound at all. Everything was entirely silent.

  “If a Zee falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a noise?” he muttered to himself.

  A flicker of movement near a lithe, graceful, skinny tree caught his eye, and he whipped his head around, trying to find the source. It was not something near the tree that was moving, but something within it—a shadow that shimmered slightly just under the surface of the tree, and then was still. He stopped and stared, not trusting his eyes. And then something separated from the tree—a tall, willowy female form the color of bark. She was a shadow, a ghost, transparent and insubstantial. Zee took a step back and she froze, then melted into the next tree, and all was still again.

  Zee set his jaw. There was nothing to do but go forward. Charlotte was here, in this forest, looking for him and making her way up the mountain. He would do the same. And then—

  Oh! Zee had forgotten entirely about the Flame, and he reached his hand to his back pocket to see if the lighter was still there. When his hands felt the familiar rectangle, he exhaled in relief. It would be just like him to lose the Flame of Prometheus—hidden by the great Titan five millennia ago, sought for centuries, faded into legend, and then found and irrevocably lost by Zachary John Miller, age thirteen.

  In truth, Zee was uneasy about the whole thing. Mr. Metos had said that people did not necessarily want to know the truth, and Zee understood. People, he’d noticed, were fairly attached to their own beliefs. He’d caused enough trouble in his life without unleashing worldwide chaos. Charlotte seemed to think that because someone had led them to the Flame, they were supposed to use it, but Zee had been led a lot of places in the past year—none of them good.

  But, as Charlotte said, the gods wouldn’t like it at all, and that alone was worth a good deal. He wished, though, that they had come up with something else.

  Like Steve. It isn’t often that the thing that Zeus fears most in the world appears in front of you. Perhaps they should have talked to Steve, explained, had him overthrow Zeus (how exactly? Challenge him in Quiz Bowl?) and then install some benevolent Canadian rule over the galaxy.

  Or something.

  But Steve had fled, and this was all they had.

  As Zee walked, he began to sense some kind of presence behind him, something as silent as the forest, and he looked again to the trees. But this was different—there was something, something at the edge of his field of vision, some strange, diffuse glow that quickly disappeared into the darkness. Something nudged at him—it was so familiar, but he couldn’t place it, nor could he understand why he suddenly felt so cold.

  “Charlotte?” he called again helplessly. His voice seemed to be swallowed by the unyielding silence. She could be a few feet away and not hear him.

  And then, suddenly, noise—loud, ominous, closing in. The ground trembled beneath him, and the trees seemed to bend slightly to make way. Then, bursting into view, came a pack of white wolves the size of bears. Their fur gleamed like sun on new snow, their eyes were gold, their red mouths grinned as they sprang across the forest floor. Zee did not understand how they could be making noise—they seemed to almost fly as the forest parted around them—but he did not have time to consider the situation too carefully, given the pack of enormous wolves heading right toward him.

  Something in his head was telling him to move—and quickly—but the sight of the wolves was so beautiful, so dazzling, he could not really pay attention.

  The wolves were not alone. Galloping behind them was a tremendous black horse ridden by a goddess-size woman with black hair and skin of blue-tinged white. On her head was a thin diadem with a small crescent moon in front, and she carried an elegant moon-tipped bow and a quiver of silver arrows. Everything about her seemed to shine—not like a jewel, but like a single star in a black sky. She was the only light in a world of absolute blackness.

  That voice in Zee’s head was more urgent now, yelling something, and Zee wanted it to stop, be quiet, it was distracting him from the sight before him. The gleaming hunting party grew closer and closer and Zee stood in its path, watching, waiting, his whole body tense with anticipation. If he could just see this goddess’s face, look into her night blue eyes—

  A large hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backward. He found himself on his bottom on the ground behind one of the massive trees as the hunting party passed him by. They flew off into the distance, and when they disappeared, the trees closing behind them, it was as if the whole forest let out a breath.

  Zee’s heart raced, and he felt like he had just awoken from sleepwalking to find he’d almost walked off a cliff.

  “Artemis really doesn’t like it when mortals see her,” a low voice said behind him.

  He whirled around to find himself staring up at a creature with the torso of a man, the legs of a goat, a young man’s face, and small goat horns. A satyr.

  “You are fortunate. Those wolves are trackers. If Artemis asked them to find you, you would have no hope.”


  The satyr was a little taller than Zee, with gray skin and fur and big eyes so dark they were almost black. He carried a very large backpack, as if he was on a long journey. There was something very pleasant and open about his appearance, and Zee found himself feeling oddly comfortable.

  “Th-thank you.”

  The satyr bowed. “Always a pleasure to help a traveler,” he said in his low, soft voice. “It is not very often we see mortals in here these days, and you are the second today….”

  At these words, Zee straightened. “Was the other a girl? My age, smallish, peach skin, red hair, freckles?”

  The satyr’s eyes widened in the picture of surprise. “Why, yes! Do you know her?”

  Zee exhaled. She was all right. Of course she was; she was Charlotte. “Where is she? Where did she go?”

  “She went ahead, to the gate to Olympus. She was looking for her cousin—is that you?”

  “Can you show me?” he asked, not even trying to mask the urgency in his voice.

  “Of course,” said the satyr, bowing again. “Follow me, my friend.”

  Just then Zee noticed the strange glow he’d seen before, again just out of the corner of his eye. He looked toward it, but still could see nothing. “Did you see that?”

  “Must have been a nymph,” said the satyr. He straightened, and a look of pain flashed over his face. “My friend, might I trouble you for a favor? This pack I carry is a little heavy, and it is getting difficult to walk. It would make our journey easier if you wouldn’t mind helping me a bit with my burden.”

  Zee nodded. “Of course!” The large pack bulged on his back, and Zee suddenly noticed weariness in the satyr’s expression. He felt a pang of guilt—he should have offered.

  “Thank you,” said the satyr, lifting the large pack carefully off his back. He opened it and pulled out a white, disc-shaped stone about the size of a dinner plate.

  “It’s a rock,” Zee said, surprised.

  “Yes,” said the satyr simply. “Thank you, my friend. I am so grateful.” He handed Zee the rock—which was heavier than it looked—and without prying any further, Zee wedged it under his arm.

  “Much better,” said the satyr, and he hoisted the pack back up and began to walk forward through the trees. Zee followed him uncertainly, conscious of the feeling of eyes on him as he moved. Which was probably because there were—as he passed through the trees he noticed shadows moving within the bark, and while everything was as silent as death, he could almost feel them whispering to one another about him. He got the strangest feeling he would not like what they said.

  And there was something else, too, something that lurked at the edge of his perception, something that felt familiar and yet entirely wrong, something that made him put his head down and focus only on the path straight ahead.

  “If I may ask—,” said the satyr.

  “Anything!”

  “You and your cousin, well—are you the ones…that is, we have all heard tell of the mortal children who went to the Underworld….”

  “That’s us,” Zee said, his jaw clenched a little.

  “Well,” said the satyr, nodding his head in a bow. “It is an honor.”

  Zee squirmed a little. “My cousin,” he asked, “did she say anything?”

  “Oh,” he said offhandedly. “Not really. She was worried about you. She’d tried to go back for you and then found herself here.”

  “Oh,” said Zee. He could empathize. They walked on quietly, making their way through the silence. Zee realized his chest felt tight and he was laboring to breathe, and he wondered how high up they were. He got the distinct impression they were getting higher. Which, he supposed, was the point.

  “Olympus is ahead?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the satyr. “We’re heading to the entrance.”

  “And can I just, you know, walk on in?”

  The satyr paused. “The gods have their ways of trying to stop you,” he said. “But in the end, the choice is yours. There is a goddess there, Hecate, the goddess of the crossroads. If you still want to pass when you get there, she will let you in.”

  “What do you mean, still want to pass?”

  But before the satyr could respond, Zee felt a rush of motion just behind him and stepped out of the way just as a white stag came running by. It was tremendous, magnificent, so white it glowed against the dark trees, and as it leaped along it seemed to almost float in the air. Time slowed for a moment in deference to the creature’s graceful strides, and Zee could see every muscle ripple through its flank as it moved. He let out a gasp as it passed, beautiful and as quiet as the night, as the forest itself.

  “Wow,” he muttered.

  He turned to the satyr, ready to ask about the stag. The satyr was bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

  “Are you all right?” Zee said. “Can I carry something else for you?”

  The satyr looked up at him, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course!” Zee said.

  Sighing in obvious relief, the satyr unbuckled his pack and handed Zee another smooth white stone. Zee frowned at it but did not ask questions, merely tucked it under the other arm. His back and arms protested, and Zee eyed the satyr’s pack wonderingly. It still looked quite full, and he didn’t know how the satyr had made it this far.

  “Thank you, my friend,” said the satyr. “Shall we?”

  They moved forward again, Zee keeping one ear open for approaching giant stags or drooling tracker wolves or whatever else the forest might hold. The air seemed to thin with every step, and the stones seemed to grow heavier and heavier.

  “How much farther do we have to go?” Zee asked, trying to make it sound like he was only curious.

  But before the satyr could answer, the forest ahead began to glow. And then, all of sudden, a line of faceless, glowing, human-like forms appeared across the way. The Dead.

  Even from a distance, Zee felt the chill of their presence. He looked around instinctively, as if he could just turn in another direction and forget they were there, but through the leaves and thick trunks he could see that they were everywhere, surrounding him in a vast circle, still and watchful but somehow menacing, like the ghosts of past misdeeds that linger at the edge of consciousness.

  Zee could barely stand to look at them. The Dead, ignored and abused by Hades, who was too consumed with the reluctant Queen Persephone to care for his subjects, the ghostly manifestation of everything that was wrong with the gods, left to rot in the emptiest corners of the Underworld. He and Charlotte had wanted to save them, had been desperate to do something for them, but there was nothing they could do. He had thought of them so much since they’d returned from the Underworld—but it was nothing like seeing them.

  “What is it?” asked the satyr, looking bewildered.

  “What are they doing here?” breathed Zee, glancing around. The Dead did not move.

  “Who?”

  “Who? The Dead!” Zee motioned to the vast circle around him.

  The satyr lowered his pack and looked around. “You see the Dead?” he asked, blinking. “Where?”

  “What do you mean where? You don’t see them?”

  “No!” The satyr’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “There are no Dead here. But…the forest can do funny things to mortals. Sometimes if there is something weighing on your conscience, it can manifest itself here—I believe it is the gods’ way of distracting people from their quests for Olympus. It’s just an illusion, though. Best to ignore it.”

  Zee blinked. “My conscience?”

  “Yes,” said the satyr. “Because you left them. You were so concerned about the Dead, but you left them down there. That must eat at your conscience—”

  Zee’s jaw dropped. “I—uh…no, I—”

  “Oh, well,” the satyr said. “Good.” Closing his eyes, he exhaled heavily and adjusted his pack.

  “There was nothing we could do,” Zee continued, his voice suddenly tight. “Wha
t could we do?”

  “Did you try? You had an audience with Hades. You saved his reign, right?”

  “I—” Zee’s throat tightened. It was true. They had had an audience with Hades, who should, after all, have been a little grateful to them. And they had not said anything. Here they were, telling themselves they were the sort of people who saw injustice and could not sit still, and it was exactly what they had done.

  He looked around at the circle of Dead, and they looked back at him blankly. He took a step forward, as if to say something, though he did not know what.

  And then one of the Dead broke ranks and stepped toward him. It should have been ominous, but it wasn’t—there was something about the presence that signified something quite different. Zee’s breath stuck in his chest as it took another step, and then he blinked, and suddenly they were all gone.

  Zee stared at the space where the Dead had been, feeling at once relief and a great sense of loss. That was not—it could not have been…

  “It’s all right,” said the satyr, stepping toward him. “It’s not real.”

  “One of them moved toward me,” he said quietly.

  The satyr’s horns twitched thoughtfully. “Do you know someone who has died recently?”

  Pursing his lips, Zee gave a short nod.

  “As I said,” the creature continued, his voice kind, “the forest is a strange place. It can do things to you.”

  Zee looked down. Had he seen his grandmother? If it was his own mind doing this to him, well, then it didn’t matter. It was not real. And if his conscience was burdened over the Dead, well, nothing like seeing Grandmother Winter as one of them to make it worse. She was down there, wandering aimlessly, being harassed by Harpies, losing all her Grandmother Winter-ness, and he had blown his one chance to save her.

  “Are you all right?” asked the satyr softly.

  Zee nodded slowly. There was nothing to do now but keep going.

  The satyr let out a great grunt as he hoisted up his pack again, and Zee eyed him. His steps were slow and labored, and after some time he was able to convince the satyr to give him one more stone.