by Leslie Edens
“And you wrote to me, too,” I ventured. I caught the quick side glance he sneaked at me.
“I may have,” he said in a tiny voice.
“Are you going to tell me why?” I said.
He was studying his floating toes, fingers laced behind his back. “Because . . . I don’t know. Why do you write? Why does anybody? To make contact, I suppose.” He stared up at the pale-lit sky, avoiding my gaze. “Anyway, I told you that there was too much spectricity. I went to the junkyard to take care of it, and that is all. I do maintenance all the time. I’m like . . . a technician for spectricity.” He gestured widely toward the murky sky as if it held the answers.
“So where did you send this spectricity?” I asked.
He faced me, staring wide-eyed.
“Up!” he said.
Stifling a laugh at his sincerity, I said, “No, I mean, why’ve you sent it up?”
“It dissipates up there. It sometimes builds up too much on the lower levels, so I send it up,” he said.
“What is it, exactly?” I asked.
“It’s spectricity! Didn’t you see it, buzzing all over the place?” He flapped his hands, like that made it obvious.
“I saw it. That doesn’t mean I know what it is.” Actually, I had more than seen it. I had been experiencing it throughout my entire body.
Emmett frowned. “Well . . . most of us don’t know what spectricity is. Exactly. We do know it builds up from time to time, and then it’s got to be removed.”
“With a giant tuning fork?!” I said.
“With a . . . certainly! A giant tuning fork is the best, if you can get it. What’s wrong with that?” he asked, his eyes even wider.
I shook my head at him, not buying the innocent act. All that writing he did took effort. He had more in mind than to “make contact,” that I was sure of. “You don’t strike me as much of a technician.” I gave him my best squinty look, and he shriveled under it. “And what am I supposed to do about my dog?” I gestured upward.
Emmett shrugged, watching the bat-dogs chase each other through the air in crazy circles. “They seem happy enough—better adapted to the spirit world, too. It’s you I’m a little concerned about.” He lowered to the ground and linked arms with me. Whistling to the Chihuahuas, led me toward the tree line. The tiny flying dogs spun dizzily after us. We strolled through the meadow at a swift pace. Emmett tugged to guide me around a smooth-edged hole in the ground. “Spirit portal. Look out. Fall down that one, and you could be reborn as someone’s child in your realm.”
I twisted to see this curiosity and almost slipped down another large hole with smooth edges.
“Eww, that’s a nasty one. Leads to the Underwood. You really don’t want to fall down there. I should keep a better eye on you,” said Emmett. He rested his hand on my shoulder. I glimpsed a round, white shape and turned—was that an eyeball sitting on my shoulder?
“Made you look!” said Emmett, giggling. He popped his eyeball back into the socket before I could react, then flashed that disarming smile. I shook my head, suppressing a smile of my own.
“You know, you’re kind of silly for a . . . what are you, a ghost?” I said.
Emmett puffed up a bit, and he began to rise, as if floating on the current of words that now escaped his mouth. “Technically, I’m a spirit. Ghosts are haunters like Valente, tied to the mortal realm. I’m not nailed down—I can go wherever I want. Yes, but sadly, my sense of humor has probably gone out of style. They tend to do that. Go out of style faster than fashions. One day you’re putting on your spats, and you realize your jokes are no longer funny. People are hissing at you, and you don’t know if it’s the threads or the jokes.”
I’d released his arm, for he’d levitated up nearly two feet as he lectured. His words spent, he whistled to the Chihuahuas, glided down, and caught my hand in his. He hummed a little tune as we strolled through the weird, hole-filled meadow, flying dogs buzzing overhead, for all the world carefree and satisfied. Perhaps this is what gravestones meant when they said, “Rest in peace.”
“How old are you? You look my age,” I said. We dodged another portal hole.
“I was your age—fifteen—the last time it happened. But I’m ages older than that. I’m what people in the mortal world call an ‘old soul’ except rather than wise, age has made me addled, I think.” He half-smiled, his black eyes twinkling.
“Really, Emmett. How old?”
“Somewhere around two thousand, I think. I know I’m over a thousand. Not that I can remember much—but I do have a record of it,” he said.
“Two thousand? Years?” I stopped short, imagining the things he must have seen. Yet he didn’t remember?
“I know what you’re going to say. What use is it being so old if I don’t remember anything? And the answer is, I don’t know. I do recall some of my most recent life, which ended in 1900. Emmett Fitzhugh, 1885 to 1900.” He eyed me, gauging my reaction, and whispered, “Of course, most beings are older than they appear.” He waited, his black eyes squinting until they glittered.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. You are aware at least of spirit names?” he said.
I shook my head no.
“No?! Oh, my All! You need to know that! Listen, spirits have one name in the spirit world and can take on many others in the mortal world when they are reborn. But we must keep our spirit names hidden from the Turned Against. They can use our names to control or destroy us.” He waited, staring at me intensely. “Your own spirit name, for example.”
“I don’t know it,” I said in a tiny voice. “But wait—is that spirit name thing the reason your name is so long?” I said.
“That is exactly why my name is so long,” said Emmett.
I squeezed my eyes shut, reaching out to sense the form of his name. Emmett, Emmett, Emmett—like his hair or his eyes, it was part of him. The long tail of his other names trailed after the first, surrounding it in a turbulent haze of words, letters, identities.
“Your spirit name is Emmett,” I said. “But it’s all hazy and unclear. Why are all those extra names attached?”
I opened my eyes to find him watching me. When I gave him my full golden-eyed stare, he held my gaze easily, his eyes searching mine. Whatever he found must have pleased him, for he flashed a delighted little smile.
“That is in remembrance. I have kept the names of many of my lives,” he said.
“How, if you don’t remember living them?” I asked.
Emmett sniffed. “I’m a mid-level spirit. We have our ways of knowing. I, for example, have a record of much of it. Also, we have a hypnotist. Madame Fustery. Lovely lady. Marvelous at calling back memories for spirits.”
I had to turn away, disconcerted by the way he held my gaze. My weird golden eyes didn’t bother him in the least, but looking into his eyes gave me the sensation of falling. My stomach had that fluttery feeling again, and heat rose to my face. Maybe he was mesmerizing me. I distrusted that fuzzy feel of his name. He was Emmett—and yet he was not. But I sensed his honesty, too. How he confused me!
“Who you are, Emmett, it’s a slippery thing,” I said.
“Truer words were never spoken. You excel at telepathy. You’ll be a splendid medium,” he said.
“Like my father?” I said. “Where is he, anyway? If this is the afterlife—”
“Sorry to be enigmatic, but we’d better discuss it in the safety of All’s Hold. This is not the safest time and place to have that conversation.” We had reached the tree line, and I walked up, but he blocked the way with his arm. “The forests here are a little strange. I don’t really know why I came this way. Completely foolish way to come with a mortal such as yourself. However, if we move quickly through the Disenchanted Forest, we should avoid any unfortunate incidents with the Feeders. Just keep your—ahem—spirits up, okay?”
“O-kay . . . Feeders?” I was so busy imagining what Feeders might be that I missed Emmett’s joke. Unfortunately, I also missed his litera
l meaning, for the second I entered the woods, a great overwhelming emotional weight rolled down on me like a thousand depressions. I stopped cold. “Ugh,” I said.
Emmett regarded me, totally unfazed himself. The Chihuahuas flapped around, wildly rolling their eyes, even though they were weirder than anything in the forest. They flew to Emmett, who allowed them to crawl inside his waistcoat. There he apparently absorbed them, for they disappeared without a sound. I watched this, frozen in misery, my spirits were so low.
“Girl—Aether! Stay with me, now!” shouted Emmett. In response, I slumped against a tree. The sticky surface of the bark gave way, and my head sank into it little by little.
Dark molasses thoughts oozed through my mind, slow and despondent. What difference did anything make. I was a freakish girl lost in the spirit world with two bat dogs and a weird ghost boy who couldn’t even remember my name. My friends would think I was crazy. My father was gone forever, and so, probably, was Sam. What did it matter if I sank my head into this tree?
From very far away, I heard the whirring of some annoying insect. I listened, distracted. The sound resolved into Emmett’s voice, talking on and on. “Oh no, Aether, that’s a slough tree. Don’t put your head in there. That’s exactly what it wants you to do. I just knew it was a bad idea to come this way. Come on, if you put your head in there, you won’t get it out again. Pull it out of there. Pull it out!”
A long, mournful, hooting howl sounded through the forest. It ended in a high-pitched shriek, like a woman in pain. I straightened in alarm, pulling free from the tree’s suction in the process. “Coyotes! Sybil, where are you?” I shouted.
I searched the forest shadows, but saw no coyote pack, no junkyard, no sand. Where was I?
“Those aren’t coyotes. They’re Feeders,” Emmett said with an airless sigh. “And they’re so tiresome. Always sucking the souls out of those who despair. Especially dangerous to mortals, I’m sure. And you are not very effectual at warding off despair. Low marks on this test.”
I lifted my head and fixed on Emmett’s eyes. In my stupefied state, I leaned toward him, drawn into their blackness, like falling down a well. My head spun.
“I do like walking in the woods,” Emmett continued. “And one thing you’ll learn about spirits, they stick to their habits. It’s practically all that gets us through the centuries. But you look dreadfully miserable. The Feeder is probably picking up on that. Oh, great All! Here it comes!”
The forest, already dark, grew even darker as a gloomy mist settled in. Ear-splitting shrieks and howls bounced off the trees and echoed all around us. I froze.
“Don’t let it get to you,” said Emmett. “It’s just a big, ugly, soul-sucking predator that threatens the fearful and the desirous. So clichéd, really.”
From between the trees, a dark, wraithlike shape emerged. I could see only blackness under its ragged and ghostly hood. A pair of wolf-like fangs floated before its head, snapping and slavering. Without a second’s hesitation, the horrific creature charged straight for me!
“Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if we floated over this part of the forest—much as I hate to fly,” said Emmett. He reached out to me. I grasped at him in fear, spectricity shocks searing up my arm and into his. He gritted his teeth and lifted up like a black-and-white balloon, drawing me after him. Up I drifted, light and buoyant, amazed at how easy this was, rising higher and higher through the treetops. The Feeder below howled in disappointment. Then, as we cleared the tree line, the Feeder’s teeth detached and launched through the air, snapping wildly. They hooked into the heel of my left shoe. I slipped the shoe from my foot. It fell, teeth attached, spinning into the woods. Emmett glided still higher, the Feeder’s frustrated howls fading as we sped upward.
“That was quick thinking. I didn’t like that shoe either,” said Emmett.
Stunned, I didn’t answer, but spread my arms wide instead, feeling the musty spirit world rush past my ears. I was really here. Jubilant thoughts replaced despondent ones as low-hanging clouds tickled my nose, and I tried a little swoop, still holding tight to Emmett’s hand.
“It’s so beautiful up here! I had such horrible thoughts, but now they’ve all lifted!” I shouted. I kicked off my other shoe and watched it spin all the way down to the dark trees below.
“Yes, that’s what happened the last time I took someone in there, and I had to float her out too,” said Emmett, but he stayed tight-lipped and grim until we cruised lower and alighted on a dale of gray grass beyond the Disenchanted Forest.
“That was so awesome! I hope we get to do that again!” I said, all breathless and flushed and not a little tingly from holding Emmett’s hand.
“Not if I can help it,” said Emmett. I noticed his haggard face and shaking hands.
“What is it? Are you bothered by flying?” I asked.
“Flying and I don’t get along,” he said. “Close to the ground is for me. A little low floating—fine. But you can keep the sky swooping. I hate it up there.”
We strolled in the gray grass, getting used to land again.
“Why don’t you like to fly?” I said.
“I knew you were going to ask. I don’t know, okay? Something must have happened to me in the air. I either died, or perhaps someone I loved died. I don’t remember,” he said.
“You died? You mean—” It struck me then what Emmett’s two-thousand-year existence must necessarily entail. Why hadn’t I realized before? I mean, I knew he was dead, but—
“Emmett, how many times have you died?” I asked.
He turned away, inspected the gray trees on the horizon. After a moment’s silence, he spoke, his voice tense and quiet. “First thing you should know: this is sort of a private issue among us. It’s like someone in the mortal world asking a very personal question. If everybody knew how many times I’d . . . done it, you know, it, death. They already think I’m a little loopy. Let’s say it’s a sensitive topic.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” I patted his arm, sorry I’d pained him.
He stared down at my hand. “Yes. Well. All you need to know right now is I haven’t done it in quite a while. My last life was a lulu, and I am not, repeat, not, going back. I’m happy to stay right here, safe and sound, where spirits will always want and respect me.”
We passed through a grove of trees. On the other side, a sea of dark buildings huddled below, filling the valley and climbing the surrounding hillsides.
Emmett let out another of his airless sighs. “Home again. Heather Despair—welcome to Dead Town.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dead Town
I gazed, spellbound, at the dark spirit city. Cuidad del Muerto! This had to be it!
“Beyond the city is the Dead Sea.” Emmett snickered. “We thought it would be funny to call it that. You have a Dead Sea in your realm, I know. But our Dead Sea really has the dead in it. It’s a cleansing pool for the newly dead and a portal for them to travel to other places. You might call it a spirit highway.”
I squinted into the distance, where I could make out a silver mirage shimmering on the horizon. “You mean they’re all swimming around in there?”
“Exactly. I swam around in there for about, oh, say, ten of your mortal years after my last death. That’s a bit above average.” He paused and cocked his head, listening to some faraway tune. I strained to hear the tinny song, barely audible.
“You have one among us, don’t you, girl? What, what was your name again? Blast it. I’m going to have to write it on my inner eyelid to remember, and I hate to do that.”
“Oh, don’t! I’ll remind you. It’s Heather,” I said, taking his arm. He dematerialized a little, arm buzzing. “All right?” I asked. He nodded, a delighted grin crept onto his face, and he solidified again. What on earth—I mean, what in the spirit world—was wrong with him now? “What do you mean by ‘one among us’?” I asked.
“Someone who has died,” said Emmett in an even voice. A little
shock hit the pit of my stomach when I realized who he meant.
“My father! He’s here?” I stood on tiptoe, straining to hear that little tune, scanning the fields, the distant city, anywhere he might be.
“He’s not likely to greet you,” said Emmett, still in that same blasé voice. Did he have to be so casual about death? Tears had risen to my eyes, and I blinked them away, frustrated.
“When—how can I see him? I have to see him! This is the afterlife, isn’t it? Don’t people see their deceased loved ones when they visit the afterlife?” I asked.
Emmett stopped midstride and whirled, his posture stiff, one hand in the air. He hovered up onto his air-soapbox. Uh-oh. Lecture time.
“Strictly speaking, this isn’t the afterlife, because that term loses all meaning once you’ve been around the metaphysical block a few times. But the short answer is no. You do not immediately run into your loved ones when you visit this place. That’s like assuming that because you’re in New York City, you’re going to run into Theodore Roosevelt. What you call the afterlife is really a vast network of spirits in various states. Where we really are and whether any of us is living or dead is anyone’s guess. Most of us only know where we are relative to other nearby dimensions. What I can tell you is that, unlike mortals in your realm, many of us here are aware of other lives we’ve had. So, there’s that. But am I alive or dead? Who knows. In this dimension, I do not.”
Waiting for Emmett’s spate of lecturing to pass, I concentrated on the funny little tune instead. Flashes of my father trickled through my mind—his scratchy beard and his dusty, inky smell. The insistent baritone of his voice sounded in my head, though I heard no words. But the tune was taking shape all the same. “I can feel him. I can even hear him. He’s near,” I whispered.
Emmett had lowered to the ground, but now he sprung back up. “Hold on one moment, Miss, Miss . . . Aether.”
“Heather.”
“Miss Heather—are you sure that’s it? Could have sworn it was Aether,” he said.
I shook my head no, about to tell him I knew my own name, when another jagged little song distracted me. I heard a creak of leather, sensed spikes, torn jeans—Sam! He was here, somewhere! He was really here!
