Echo North

by Joanna Ruth Meyer

  I felt small and lost and empty. I didn’t want that moment to ever end.

  “I will miss you, when you’ve gone,” said Hal quietly into my hair. “More than you can imagine.”

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  He glanced away, wordlessly folding my hand into his, and didn’t answer. He seemed older than I had ever seen him, weighed down with memory and sorrow and time.

  “Hal.” Tell me the truth, I wanted to beg him. Please. There’s so little time left.

  “I hope so. I hope—” He cut himself off and I dared to lift my free hand and touch his face, turning it once more to mine.

  “Hope what?”

  He swallowed, but did not pull away. His pulse beat quick and sharp in his throat beneath my fingertips. “I hope that you will not grow to hate me.”

  I tried not to feel like my heart was breaking. I tried not to see that his was, too. “How could you even say that?”

  “Thank you for trying to save me.”

  And he bent his head and kissed me, soft and gentle and tangled in starlight. I kissed him back, despair unfolding inside of me, my hand wrapped around the packet of matches waiting in my pocket to free him, or destroy him, or maybe both.

  THE WOLF WAS WAITING FOR me in the hall when I left the library, the print of Hal’s kiss still warm on my lips. I wanted to tell him that I knew his secret, that I was going to free him.

  I love you, stranger I met in a book. I love you, Wolf who once was human.

  “My Lady Echo,” he said, his voice slow and rough. “Will you walk with me in the garden? One last time?”

  My heart pressed hard against my rib cage. There was maybe an hour left until midnight. No more. “I would be happy to.”

  I followed him out to the garden and we rambled quietly through it, the stars gleaming cold over our heads, me bundled once more in the fur cloak. The wolf paced beside me and I lay one hand on his shoulder, trying to give him what comfort I could.

  We sat behind the waterfall for nearly half an hour, the fire warm at our backs, and my hand went frequently to my pocket, checking that the matches were still there. I pondered telling him what I was planning to do, but what would that accomplish? There was a bond laid on him—he couldn’t talk about “her” in the house. And what if my attempt to tell him nullified everything? Or worse, what if he grew wild again and tried to stop me? No. It was better if he didn’t know.

  “I will miss you, Echo Alkaev,” said the wolf, gruff and sad. “More than you can imagine. I am sorry. For everything.”

  Tears swam before my eyes. “You won’t have to miss me, Wolf. I’m not going to let you go. Do you hear me? I’m not going to let you go.”

  But he sighed and laid his head on my knee.

  It was almost midnight. I wondered what would happen if we both stayed in the room behind the waterfall. If that would be enough to break the curse.

  But the wolf rose wearily to his feet. “It is time, my lady.”

  I nodded, and asked the house to bring us to the bedroom. A door appeared in the back of the cave, and we walked through it into the corridor just outside of my room.

  It was strange, getting ready for bed for the last time. I dressed behind the screen, fumbling to transfer the matches from my skirt to the pocket in my nightgown. Snow fell soft outside the patch of window. I sent the screen away and crawled into bed. I blew out the lamp.

  I heard the wolf crawl up beside me, his breaths uneven and quick, matching my heartbeat.

  Did he know what I was planning to do? Would he stop me if he did?

  “Good night, Wolf,” I whispered into the darkness.

  “Good night, Echo,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I LISTENED TO HIM BREATHE BESIDE me, quieting my own breaths, trying to quiet my heart. The compass-watch ticked away the minutes against my breastbone and I waited, the packet of matches pressing sharp against my palm.

  His breathing evened out, after a long, long while. I felt sure he was asleep, but still I waited, doubting my resolve.

  At last, when the night was half spent and I couldn’t wait any longer, I reached quietly for the lamp on the bedside table.

  I freed a match from the packet, and struck it. There was a flare of light and a smell of sulphur, and I lit the lamp with trembling hands, then shook the match out.

  My heart was a tumult in my ears. I could barely breathe.

  But I turned in the bed, and lifted the lamp to illuminate who lay beside me.

  A little cry escaped my lips, and the hand holding the lamp shook.

  It was Hal, lying there. He slept deeply, his face pressed into the pillow, his eyes shut tight. He looked different than he had in the books, lines in his face and threads of silver in his hair, but he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  I wanted to set down the lamp, crawl into his arms and fall asleep with my head tucked under his chin. But I didn’t, just watched him, the lamp quivering in my hand.

  Hal shifted in his sleep, and the movement startled me. The lamp wavered, and, shining like a spot of amber, a drop of oil spilled onto his cheek.

  For half an instant, nothing happened, and then Hal jerked awake, a cry of pain on his lips. His eyes roved wild around the room, and fixed in horror on my face.

  “Echo,” he gasped, his voice high and hoarse. “Echo, what have you done?”

  The room began to shake.

  I dropped the lamp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  FLAMES LEAPT UP FROM THE FALLEN lamp. The house shook. The world shook.

  “Listen to me,” said Hal. “Listen to me. She’s coming, Echo. She’s coming to take me and you must leave this place. As fast as you can, do you hear me? Run. Run through the wood to your father’s house and don’t look back.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders and I stared at him, shaking as violently as the house. “Hal, I thought—Hal—”

  “Promise me. Echo, you have to promise me you’ll run, that you won’t try and find me. Not this time.”

  The flames crawled higher, casting wild shadows on Hal’s face. Fear seared through me. “But what about you?” I cried over the noise of the house. “I wanted to save you!”

  “You have.”

  He clung to me as the house wheeled roaring around us, and then all at once a spot of snow touched my cheek and a coldness deep as death crept into my bones.

  Hal released me. The house was gone—we stood in the snow below a high hill, the lamp somehow still beside us, spitting flames into the dark.

  And then I realized we weren’t alone. Enormous black wolves were coming toward us, their eyes glowing red, their teeth flashing sharp in the firelight. Foam dripped from their mouths.

  Hal’s eyes met mine. He stood in the snow in only his shirtsleeves, shuddering with cold.

  I had chosen wrong.

  I had betrayed him.

  “The Wolf Queen has claimed me.” His words sounded hollow, his voice not quite his own. “She enchanted me.”

  I whispered, “And if I hadn’t lit the lamp?”

  “I would have been free, but Echo, that doesn’t matter—”

  “Where is she taking you? How can I save you?”

  The wolves drew closer. They wore silver collars around their necks, and their cruel muzzles were studded with jewels that glittered in the light from the burning lamp.

  “Hal, please. Where is she taking you?”

  Pain stretched across his forehead, snowflakes catching on his eyelashes. “She rules in a place where the mountain meets the sky, and the trees are hung with stars.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The wolves drew closer.

  “Echo, you have to run. You have to run far from here!”

  “Hal!” I grabbed his sleeve.

  But two of the wolves seized Hal’s arms in their huge jaws. They ripped him away from me.

  “HAL!”

  He looked into my face, his eyes wet. “North, ever n
orth. But Echo don’t come after me. Promise me you won’t. This isn’t what you think, and I couldn’t bear it if—”

  I blinked and he was gone, no trace of him or the wolves but the lamp burning bright, oil seeping like blood into the snow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  SO I LOST HIM TO THE snow and the ice and the wolves. I lost him to the wind and the dark. I lost him to a flare of lamplight and a spot of oil.

  I lost him, and it was all my fault.

  I dropped to my knees, screaming his name into the dark. Shame raged inside of me.

  He was gone, he was gone, he was gone.

  I wept as I knelt in the snow, the cold and damp creeping through my thin nightgown and soaking me to the bone. My tears turned to ice.

  But no amount of regret could erase what I had done, could bring him back to me.

  I lifted my shuddering head and stood, my legs so stiff and cramped with cold I barely managed it. I was an aching, wretched void, my heart a bird flown from its cage, my soul a wisp of smoke evaporated on the wind.

  Some distant part of me knew I would freeze to death before the morning came if I didn’t do something. Numbly, I rescued the lamp from the ground. The flames had burnt out but there was a tiny bit of oil left, and matches still in my pocket. That distant, thinking part of me understood I’d need both.

  The snow fell thicker; huge wet flakes settled heavy on my shoulders. The thinking part of me scanned my surroundings for shelter, and spotted a little cave miraculously dug into the side of the hill. I wondered if the house was somehow still looking out for me.

  I slogged through the snow in my soaked stocking feet, forcing myself to hold onto to the lamp even though I wanted to smash it against the rocks.

  I ducked into the miraculous cave and my heart seized up. It was the room from behind the waterfall, or what was left of it. The armchairs where the wolf and I had sat so often were smashed beyond repair, the little side table tilted over between them. There was a broken tea set, scattered cake crumbs. The fireplace, thick with ashes. Ragged edges of bandages, a jar of salve. A bloodstain on the floor, where the wolf had lain while I stitched his wound closed.

  I couldn’t bear it, but the thinking part of me broke the end table, used the pieces to build a fire.

  I stared into the flames without seeing them. All I saw was Hal, sleeping beside me, the spot of oil burning his cheek. I saw him jerk awake and realize what I’d done.

  Saw him standing in the snow in his shirtsleeves, his eyes dark with terror.

  Saw the wolves pull him away.

  He was gone, he was gone, he was gone.

  I had no more tears, but still I wept, dry and ragged into the flames.

  And I swore by my father, by my scars, by God in heaven, that I would find him, that I would atone for my mistake and free him from the hell I’d sent him to.

  Ever north. Where the mountain meets the sky and the trees are hung with stars.

  I would find him, even if I spent my whole life searching.

  I DREAMED OF A WOOD: a clearing under cold starlight, an arching hall made of twining trees, open to the sky.

  The Wolf Queen was waiting for me, on a throne made of thorns.

  She was extremely tall, with long silver-white hair that flowed down around her shoulders and pooled in her lap. Her hands were furred with silver, her fingers ended in claws that had been sharpened and ornamented with jewels. Her face was too angular to be human, her lips unnaturally pale. Gray lupine ears showed through her silver hair.

  Her eyes were pure fire.

  She rose from the throne and came toward me, the grass flattening under her feet as she walked. She touched my face with one clawed hand. “What will you do, Echo Alkaev?”

  Even in my dream, I felt the bite of her claws. “I will find him. I will free him. And I will destroy you.”

  She laughed. “You are wrong three times over. But come, if you can. I think I shall enjoy it.”

  And then she released me.

  The dream changed.

  Hal lay on his side in an underground hollow, his wrists and ankles bound with roots. Blood stained his white shirt. Ragged sobs wrenched his whole body.

  “Hal!” I screamed. But I was frozen in place. I couldn’t go to him.

  And he couldn’t hear me.

  He wept and wept.

  Somewhere above, the Wolf Queen was laughing.

  I WOKE TO FIND MYSELF half-buried—snow had drifted into the cavern while I slept. I shoved free, numb with panic, hating myself for falling asleep.

  The house had one more offering: a fur cloak in the snow just outside of the cave. All I had left to my name was my mother’s emerald ring, and the compass-watch from Rodya, ticking steadily against my heart.

  I shrugged into the cloak, opened the compass.

  I went north, to where the stories always said the wild things lived, where the folktales came from and still magic in the mountaintops.

  I passed through open fields of snow and scatterings of forest, climbed up and over a jagged mountain range. I stopped at the first village I could find and bartered away the cloak for supplies, asking everyone I met if they had heard of the Wolf Queen, or a place where the mountain met the sky and the trees were hung with stars.

  No one had. They all stared at my scarred face and whispered about devils and passed me hurriedly by.

  Every night, I dreamed of the Wolf Queen. Sometimes she spoke to me, and sometimes she did not. But she always, always laughed. And there was always Hal, standing in the snow in his shirtsleeves, or sobbing in the dark, blood staining the ground.

  Winter deepened as I journeyed further north.

  I happened on a reindeer caught fast in a briar bush. The wind whipped icy down from the distant mountains, and I almost left the beast to her fate, but something pricked my heart and I stopped to help her. I wrestled her free from the brambles and we sheltered together underneath an outcropping of rock as the storm raged fierce and cold around us.

  After that the reindeer traveled with me, sharing in my feasts and in my famines, too. Her antlers were velvet and she made her own heat and could sniff out the barest traces of lichen under the snow. Her company eased my heart a little, at least during waking hours.

  The weeks dragged on.

  I heard no word of the Wolf Queen, no hint of the place ever north. Despair numbed me. Dreams haunted me.

  And then I met a reindeer herder in a snowstorm. He shared stew with me from an iron pot hanging over his fire, lent me furs to wrap around my shoulders. I scooped the stew into my mouth with such haste I burnt my tongue, but I didn’t care—I hadn’t eaten anything in two days.

  “There’s a storyteller who comes sometimes to the village on the mountain,” the herder told me. “He spins tales of wonder and horror, stories no one has ever heard before. If anyone knows of your Wolf Queen, it’ll be him.”

  And so I crossed the valley and climbed the mountain to the ancient village on its ridge.

  I came to find the storyteller.

  I came to find you.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  STEAM CURLS UP FROM THE SPOUT of the teapot that sits on the oft-polished table between us. Through the narrow window to my right I can look down the mountain into a sea of fog and snow-capped peaks, but instead I study the man sitting across from me. He’s past forty—neither as old nor as young as I imagined in the day and a half it took the reindeer and me to climb the mountain. He has black hair with a few threads of silver, weathered brown skin, and a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes are like bits of dark glass, staring beyond me as he ponders the impossible story I’ve just told him.

  It’s taken three days, the telling. I’m running out of coins to pay for tea and meals in this tiny mountaintop café. The owner, a wrinkled old woman with shrewd eyes, tried to throw us out the first night when she had to close up shop, but I sold her the reindeer and she let us stay.

  My voice is hoarse from all this talking,
no matter how much tea stirred with honey I’ve drunk.

  I watch my companion, his brown fingers—each bearing a brass ring—wrapped about his tea mug. When I first started telling him my story he asked a few questions, but after that he just listened. I feel exhausted, oppressed by the weight of my own words.

  “Well?” I say, when the minutes stretch on and he doesn’t offer any commentary on my mad tale.

  He adjusts his glass gaze to my face. “It is very strange,” he muses. “I seem to remember hearing that story once before.”

  “You can’t have. You are the first soul—the only soul—I’ve told it to.”

  He peers intently at me for half a moment and then gives an absent smile. “Just a dream then, I suppose.”

  I’m not sure why he thinks that matters—I don’t even care if he believes me, or if he ever could.

  “Can you help me? The herder down the mountain swore if anyone on God’s earth could tell me about the Wolf Queen … it would be you.”

  The storyteller nods, a regal dip of his chin. “I know of the Wolf Queen.”

  My head feels like it’s fracturing into a thousand pieces but I force myself to focus, listening with every ounce of my being. “What do you know of her?”

  “Old stories. Whispers. Fragments of tales.”

  His voice is deep and rich, with a singer’s cadence. I lean forward without meaning to, my tea forgotten. “Who is she?” I ask him.

  He leans toward me, too, his elbows pressed hard into the table, his rings clinking against the tea mug. He lowers his voice. “Some say she’s a witch, an enchantress of terrible power. A shape-shifter, a fairy, a demon from hell.”

  “But who do you think she is?”

  He doesn’t reply for the space of too many heartbeats. He pours himself more tea, drizzling it with honey. A gust of wind blows snow against the window glass, and it seems to be tangled with a high, eerie laugh.

  I grip my own mug tighter and try not to hear it.

  “To make a bargain with the Queen of the Wood is akin to making a deal with the Devil,” says the storyteller. “The price is the same. She steals your life from you. Your heart. Your years. Your soul. Yet when she traps you in her domain you beg her to bargain with you.”