Her eyes, Margo realizes, are too bright. Like the world around them, they seem artificial and enhanced. Her focus too sharp.
They suddenly halt their shifty behavior. The bright blue of her irises twists like smoke clouding them over until they are completely black. The dark, beady eyes stare strangely focused on Ian.
Her lips pull back over her teeth and a guttural growl seeps through. Cameron and Ian both react on instinct, shoving Margo behind them. The sudden movement throws her off balance, and her hands awkwardly fly out to catch herself.
The girl’s glare snaps away from Ian and to Margo’s exposed marks. Her eyes widen greedily, again shifting into a golden hue. She’s found what she is looking for.
Her back hunches in preparation to lunge, calf muscles tighten ready to coil. That’s when Margo notices the serpentine mark winding down the side of her right thigh.
Margo curses, having finally realized who is before them. “There are only a few who have seen her in person and can live to tell about it.” That’s what Cameron had said.
Just then, a faint voice calls out in a foreign language from the depths of the forest. The girl’s eyes change back to the strange, glowing blue as she whips her head toward the sound. She clenches her jaw.
The shouts fade away. Margo strains her ears but the chirps and tweets of the woods overpower all other sounds.
Slowly, the girl turns back toward Margo — her target, her prey — eyes slowly lightening into a crystal blue as if only to frighten her more. She leans in again, ready to lunge. Cameron shifts his body between Margo and the girl.
“You have to go!” Ian suddenly barks. He glares darkly at the wild girl.
The foreign calling breaks out again in the distance. The girl hisses, eyes shifting to a ferocious black. She creeps forward a few more steps. The look on her face nearly satisfied, her target in reach, but her internal conflict holds her back from attack.
“NOW!” Ian shouts.
She howls an animalistic scream that twists Margo’s stomach. The girl spins toward the voice in the forest and in a matter of seconds disappears into the trees, her dark hair streaming behind her like silk.
“Go!” Cameron jerks Margo by the elbow pulling her across the field. Ian sprints ahead and hacks even fiercer at the greenery blocking their path. They tear through the vines and shrubs as fast as they can, hoping the girl wouldn’t return with a change of heart.
“Was that — was that the Beast?” Margo cries.
“Yes,” Cameron answers shortly. He forces her through an opening.
“What was that shouting?” she asks.
They both automatically look to Ian who remains silent. Margo can’t help but wonder how a boy who spent his Jamyrian life in the Water Forest could know so much about the Beast.
“We have to be close!” says Cameron. “I thought that field was it, so we can’t be far!”
Margo forces her way through a tangling of greenery, disturbing a colony of purple and green beetles that scuttle up the trunk of a large tree. She falls into another open area, bracing herself for what might lie ahead.
This clearing is much different. It is the largest amount of open land they’ve seen in some time stretching at least fifty yards in diameter. A quaint hut made of dark wood is nestled in the center. A stream winds along the opposite edge of the forest. Bounds of strange plants lean against the side of the hut. Strange tree carvings and sculptures litter the yard — that’s what it feels like now: a yard.
They hadn’t just smelled a chimney. A bonfire is ablaze on a sand-covered area, and kneeling next to the fire is who Margo assumes to be the Witch. Once she catches sight of them on her land, she rises to her feet.
She has to be in her mid-twenties or so and wears a magenta freeform skirt that ripples in the light breeze. Her upper body is covered in an assortment of brightly colored sashes that wrap around her torso at random. She is embellished in all sorts of bells and bangles, beads and jewelry, and jingling bones. A golden hoop pierces her nose.
Of all the oddities that make up the Witch, it is her long blonde hair that sticks out the most. It is worn in dreadlocks and tied to the underside of her locks are three feathers. They are tucked below her right ear, sticking out so the fiery orange is still visible enough to make contact with the sun and reflect its glistening light.
The Witch’s face is calm and expectant. Her outfit jingles with every step as she walks forward to greet them. “Welcome, Cameron,” she says. Her raspy voice has an unfamiliar accent. “You bring dee Mark to see me.”
There is no need for a response to this statement, but still he nods apprehensively. “We need your help.”
“I knew of your arrival,” she says without acknowledging his words, “years ago. I roughly calculated dis day when the last Mark entered. See, what I did was…count. I count dis way:” — she holds her fingers up to demonstrate — “one, two, three, four; two, two, three, four; three, two, three, four…. For entire day, I count. Sixty seconds a minute. Sixty minutes an hour. Twenty-four hours a day — and I see dat it doesn’t add up! Da sun, da moon — it doesn’t add. So I multiply and add and…calculate, until I knew when you’re coming. Around dis many days, da New Mark will arrive. And, knowing Nick, he would one day send ‘im — or her — to me.” Her smile is eerie accompanied with the wild look in her eyes. “Dat is how I know.”
Margo looks to Ian, unsure of how to respond. This woman seems, not dangerous, but unstable.
“Come. You must be hungry?” she asks. “I have prepared stew for you.”
“The Beast is not far,” Cameron says.
This seems to have surprised this so-called future-seeing witch. “Da Beast?”
“Does she normally roam this far north?” Cameron asks.
But before the Witch can respond, Ian interjects. “Never.”
All three pairs of eyes turn to him.
“You seem to know a lot about her,” says Cameron.
“Do I?” His face still holds its antagonistic glare.
Cameron’s face isn’t far off. “Care to share?”
“There isn’t anything to share,” he snaps. “Anyone who lives in Jamyria would know about the Beast.”
“True,” agrees Cameron. “But you didn’t live in Jamyria. You lived in the Water Forest.”
They lock eyes. Ian’s glare slightly molds into fear.
“Enough,” interrupts the Witch. “We must get inside. Now.”
Slowly, they break their stances and follow the Witch inside her home, which is even more peculiar than the outside. The walls are made of wood and are covered in odds and ends from twine to masks to baskets of fruits. There’s only one room and one of the four walls is covered in shelves from the ceiling to the floor. All sorts of bottles filled with twigs and spices and herbs are scattered randomly across the shelves.
The other side of the room has a fireplace with a large caldron in its center. And directly in front of them is a narrow bed that also serves as a couch.
“D’you like some stew?” the Witch asks pushing everyone to the other side of the room, so she can make her way to the fireplace.
“Yes, please,” says Margo quickly. Margo’s trust runs thin but so does her appetite.
They soon all have sizable helping of the thick stew and eat in silence even though they know there is much to discuss. The Witch never takes her eyes off Margo, which makes her feel uncomfortable.
“I have something for you,” she says, putting her dish aside. “Something I acquired many years ago.”
She crosses over to her wall of shelves and rummages through her things. She takes all of the bottles and herbs off one of the thicker shelves, placing them on the shelf below. Once completely cleared, she slowly slides the shelf itself off the wall with a horrible screeching sound. Hidden in the interior of the shelf is a box attached to the wall; the shelf is merely a shell.
Inside the fixed box, the Witch pulls out a curved, sheathed sword.
“For
dee Marked One,” she says handing it Margo. “A sword worthy of a strong woman’s control.”
Margo reaches for the blade awkwardly. It’s lighter than expected, yet sturdy.
“Take it out,” she orders.
The arced blade glistens in the firelight as Margo slowly pulls it by its hilt. Long, lean, simple, and without any flaws — the blade is absolutely stunning. Nearly ten inches from the tip a short point juts out from the blade, angling downward.
“What’s this?” she asks, gesturing to the tiny point.
“It does more damage,” explains Cameron, “when you pull it back out.”
“Oh....” The gift suddenly feels heavy. Margo silently sheaths the sword with a frown.
“Dese are yours,” the Witch continues and withdraws two smaller, curved blades. She holds them out handle first for Ian to accept. “For dee swift and agile, for da boy with da strength of two. I gather you will find dem familiar.” She looks knowingly at him while he pulls them from her grip.
Though slightly apprehensive, Ian cannot help but to smile as he takes the dual blades.
“And to dee protector of ‘er heart,” she says. She pulls from the hidden shelf the longest of the four swords. This sword’s appearance is more medieval than the others. It has a bejeweled T-shaped guard and a leather-bound hilt which Cameron grasps valiantly. He stares at its pointed tip before giving it a swooping twirl and sheathing it.
“Daggers for you three, as well.” The Witch places three blades the length in Margo’s forearm on the small table.
“This is...very kind,” says Cameron. His face grows softer. “If I’ve ever offended you in the past, I am sorry.”
“Let dere be no worries,” the Witch simply says.
“I could question how you got these,” Ian gestures to the armory laid out before them. “But what I’m more curious about are those feathers. How is it you have three?”
“Ah! Dee feather of da clarxen,” she says gesturing to shimmering feather nestled in her hair. “Given to those who can handle power. Da clarxen select only dose who are worthy to carry a feather for protection. It is a rarity to be given one. Dese two,” she points to the smaller, less flamboyant feathers, “are from his underside. Less powerful but still dangerous, terribly dangerous. Da bigger feathers, like dis, are absolutely lethal.”
“I have one,” Margo says without thinking. The words fall from her lips before she grasps the Witch’s words. Lethal?
They all look anxiously to Margo.
“You never showed me that?” Cameron says at the same time Ian says, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Show us,” the Witch says more calmly.
“I — uh — well, it’s back at my home.” She can picture exactly where she left it: inside her work coat, tossed over the footboard of her bed.
The Witch’s eyes widen. Cameron and Ian exchanged a worried glance.
“You mean it was in the Real World?” Cameron asks Margo, though he looks to the Witch for an answer.
“Yeah, I found the feather before I even saw the globe. Then, it was the bird that led me to the globe later in the day.” She suddenly feels foolish having never shared the information before.
Nobody spoke a word, each consumed by their own thoughts.
“Dis could be disastrous,” the Witch finally says
“Yes,” agree the boys.
“If dat feather were to fall into dee wrong hands… If someone were to accidentally…” The Witch stops and shakes the thought away. “As you can see, I never leave mine lying around. Dey should not be taken lightly.”
“I didn’t know,” Margo cries.
“If it fell in da wrong hands…” the Witch repeats to herself, still shaking her head.
“What could happen?” Margo whispers.
“Depending on its size and da strength of dee bird it came from, it could do anything from take out a building to a city.” Her face remains serious.
“So they say…” Ian says unconvinced.
“You wish to find out?” the Witch warns. “You may not have a home to return to.”
A shiver breaks through Margo as she processes this.
The Witch walks out of her tiny home muttering, “It seems dis time dee clarxen have made a tremendous mistake.”
Chapter Eighteen: Under the Lighted Tree
The sun sets behind the southern trees, painting golden shimmers across the water’s surface. The man’s footsteps sink into the muddy bank. Kneeling down at the edge of the winding river, he runs his grimy fingers over the rocky shore; pebbles slip through them. Something is out of place here. Something different….
The river stones shuffles behind him as one of his men approaches. “What is it, Saul?”
“Something strange,” is his only reply.
Between two fingers, Saul grasps a flat, metallic rock. He studies it with care, flipping it over once or twice. Copper, he realizes, and a vicious grin spreads across his face.
He scans the grounds to find another copper round tucked away in the bed of rocks which leads to a spot further down the shore where a collection of them are scattered.
“So you’ve found him, Nick Thomas,” he nearly whispers. Saul reaches to scratch the back of his head, where a thin layer of dirty blonde hair covers the circular marking on his scalp.
“Sir…?” another one of his men asks in confusion.
He rises to his feet. “Gentlemen, I believe the Marked One is near.”
*
Somehow her heart kept beating. Like how a body can still function without its brain. Your body continues to work, but your soul moves on. Margo did not wish to move on.
Gravel digs into her thighs and blisters pucker her face, but she refuses to move away from the fire. Refuses to move on. How much easier everything would be if she could simply deny the one muscle from contracting: her heart. And as she watches the flames lick the inside of Kylie’s door, Margo knows she would stop it were she capable.
Of the three cars that collided, all but one person escaped. Margo screws up her face as the tears finally come.
Why Kylie?
Someone relocates Margo again; who it was, she’ll never know. And what feels like hours later, the flames are diminished leaving behind the skeletons of three smoldering cars.
Margo winces. She is shaken by her broken side. “Hey, kid!”
She finds the officer’s face. Something in her expression causes him to postpone his questioning. He calls over a nurse instead, leaving Margo to talk to the man who originally rescued her.
A slew of noises flood the street making it is nearly impossible to hear their conversation, but Margo strains her ears, hardly acknowledging the nurse who is prodding at her arm. Between the man’s stony face and the few words she picks up, Margo wishes she hadn’t listened.
“Already dead,” he says. “Couldn’t make it.”
The officer nods at him and places a kind hand on his shoulder. Margo leans over and vomits.
The nurse’s words do not reach her.
She is mildly aware of her mother’s unconscious form being carted off into the ambulance.
“I think your humerus is broken,” the nurse says. “And definitely your clavicle.” He presses lightly on Margo’s chest.
He misreads her vacant expression. “Your upper arm and collarbone, I should say,” he adds, turning to his things. “Hold still for a bit.”
The pain is excruciating, a hot knife under her skin, but Margo pulls herself to her feet and leaves the nurse behind, ignoring his protests.
She is not certain why she is walking over to him, why she is doing what she is about to do, but she has to see for herself. With a steadying breath, she taps the officer’s pudgy shoulder. The bulky sheet in the middle of the street screams for her to run away. But Margo owes it to her sister to be brave.
He turns back in surprise as the question burning inside Margo escapes her lips in the most surreal of moments.
“Are you sure
about this?” he had asked her. “Are you sure…?”
*
Margo sits upright in a flash. Embers are all that remains of the fire. Nothing has changed — the four of them are still crowded within the Witch’s tiny hut, she on her narrow bed with Margo, Cameron, and Ian squeezed tight on the floor.
She slaps a hand on her clammy forehead.
“You always wake up,” says a voice that gives her a start.
She looks down at the boys to find Cameron staring up at her.
“There’s always something on my mind,” she whispers. Kylie’s chain feels as if it’s digging in the back of her neck. She is thankful to have awoken before recalling the image of her corpse. The wishbone charm imprints on her thumb. The same charm she retrieved from Kylie’s blackened, shriveled wrist. It was the only surviving totem from her bracelet, the others no more than melted, indistinguishable lumps. Kylie used to call it her lucky day charm.
“So talk about it,” says Cameron. Careful not to disturb Ian, he sits up next to her.
She shakes her head, willing away her sister’s face.
“I sometimes forget that you’ve only been here a few days.”
“Six to be exact,” she reminds him.
He scrunches his face in concentration for a moment before saying, “How easily do you think you can sneak out of here?”
“Easily.” She grins.
Cameron lights a lantern once on the other side of the front door. “I was hoping to show you something since we’re so close. It’s better to see at night.” He holds out a hand for her to take. “I hope you don’t mind getting your feet wet.”
Margo accepts his hand, eying him suspiciously. “What, is this a date or something?” She imagines a Jamyrian date in the middle of the woods.
“Well, yeah…I guess it is,” he muses.
They make their way to the tiny creek that runs along the edge of the trees and step into the shallow waters. It flows no higher than their knees, but the water is shockingly cold. Margo shivers.
Jamyria: The Entering (The Jamyria Series Book 1) Page 21
