Bertha's Thanksgiving Tale: A Triple Junction Excerpt

This Triple Junction excerpt contains a Thanksgiving tale from Bertha von der Lahn, the Burg Lahn storyteller, par excellence. It is a reworking of one of the Breton tales collected and retold by Anatole Le Braz and contained in the collection Celtic Legends of the Beyond: A Celtic Book of the Dead; this version has an introduction by Derek Bryce. It's available used in print and there might also be an older version downloadable from Gutenberg. As you might guess, Ankou, the Breton harvester of the dead appears more than once in these tales.

Bertha's tale focuses on the 99 inns along The Paths of the Dead and one of its travelers.

***

Gus and I leaned forward in anticipation. Bertha's eyes gleamed dark iron and cloudy nights. Her face lost the skepticism and impatience one usually saw when looking at my aunt. Instead, Bertha radiated wisdom and subtlety. She seemed to hold all of the secrets of the past and the future in her palms, pressed together in front of her.
 
She began her tale.

The man who used to be Haerviu trudged behind the others. The way was long, he heard the man before him say. But Haerviu didn't remember starting out on this path. He also didn't know why he was here, following behind a line of trudging people. It was dark, the way lit by a wan moon, not the harvest moon he remembered seeing last.

He stumbled as he tried to recall what he had last done before embarking on this journey. He remembered telling his wife he had to bring in the rest of the grain. He smelled rain. His wife Gael had begged him not to go out. It was already dark, and the dray horse was prone to be skittish at night.

He remembered hitching his horse to the wagon and setting out along the rows. And then… he only remembered hearing his horse whinny in fright.

And then he was here. Haerviu tugged on the tattered shirt of a man in front of him. "Do you know where we are going? Has his lordship called us to the castle?"

The man shook off his hand. Haerviu started to reach out again, thinking the man hadn't understood him, when a voice next to him, timid and gray said, "The Paths of the Dead, my good man. That's what we're traveling. The Ankou has collected us this very night."

Another spoke on his other side, "Here, it is always night."

Haerviu wanted to stop his beating heart. But he didn't feel his heart beating in his chest. He felt empty. And sad. He thought about his horse and his wife and his children. To be fair, he may not have thought of them in that particular order.

Gael had borne him ten children. Two of them he had buried before they reached their first year. Of the others, six remained to him. If it was true what the man had said, if he had died out there on his lonely field, then he only hoped his children would care for Gael. And for his horse. If she had spooked, then it was only her nature and not her fault. It was Haerviu's fault for not listening to his wife.

These thoughts kept him occupied for a time. Then he began to wonder just how long the Paths of the Dead were. He was already dead, so he couldn't die of boredom. But he would have liked to have a rest, to be able to come to terms with his lack of life. It seemed so unfair.

Could Ankou be bargained with? He'd return to give Death his due as soon as he made sure his wife was taken care of. That she had enough to get her through the winter. No reason she should suffer because of his foolishness.

The lights caught his attention. Before long, they came by a building. It looked like a traveler's inn, a

place where a man could put his feet up for a while and slake his thirst. Haerviu didn't think the Ankou would mind if he took a few minutes to do that on his way to whatever lay at the end of the Paths of the Dead.

He turned to go through the double doors leading into the wooden shack that, despite its shabbiness, looked inviting. A tug on his arm accompanied the gray voice, pleading, "Don't go in there, my good
man."

Haerviu could see no one. Then he looked down. A small man, a true dwarf, strode beside him.

"Why shouldn't I go in there?" he asked. "You could come with me. We could share a pint and talk about things. I have so many questions. And then I want to find the way back. There must be a way."

"Aye, 'tis said there is one," said the dwarf. "But this is not the place to while away your time. Answers ye may have, but they will not bring ye any joy." The man spoke with a northern accent, brisk and colorful and no longer timid.

"Well, then, maybe we'll see each other farther down the road," Haerviu said.

"Look for me in the halfway house," the man said.

Haerviu nodded his farewells and went in.

The tavern was full, and there didn't seem to be any place for him to sit. A shout from the back drew his attention. He saw a chair that was free and sat at a table with a half a dozen people. Three of them played musical spoons on the wooden planked table. The thump of the metal on the wood was deafening. Two others nursed their mugs of cider.

Haerviu felt a sudden deep thirst and called for the barkeep. Soon he had his own mug of cider. Before he took a drink, he chanced a look at the man sitting next to him. His skin was pale and thinner than Gael's Sunday crepes. The man had eyes the color of a storm-laden sky, but they were as lifeless as the man looked.

The man laid a bony hand on Haerviu's arm. "It's a little early on the journey to be drinking," he said.

Haerviu shrugged him off. Hopelessness settled over him. It seeped from all the corners of the room, weighing them all down like anchor stones. Like gravestones. "What's it to you. We're all dead. Whether we come to the end of the path sooner or later doesn't matter anymore." Tired and sore, the feeling permeated his ghostly body like a day and a night pulling his horse Soizig through the mud.

He couldn't accept the way things had turned out, and it made him just want to drown his sorrows.

"Stay your hand and go further," the man said. He rose. "I'll come with you so you won't be alone. The way is dusty and long, I'll not lie to you about that. But with two of us it will go quicker. At least let's make it to the halfway house together. Then we can have a drink. If you don't do that, you'll never end your journey."

"And what about you? Why are you sitting here still, a'takin' your ease?"

It seemed to Haerviu that a light flickered in the back of those cavernous eyes. "I've been waiting for someone like you. Someone with the strength to seek the path of return."

Haerviu put down his mug, and the two of them left the place. They rejoined the Path, but now there were no other dead ones. Just the two of them. The man pointed ahead. "Ninety nine inns line the way. At the halfway house, there we may talk."

"Why not here? It will ease the time."

The man shook his head. "Not here. Not now. The Paths of the Dead are long and untrustworthy. Think hard on the ones you left behind, on the things you left behind. Then, when we've got there, I'll tell you a story."

So Haerviu did what the man told him, his hopelessness shed as soon as they left the first tavern. He realized it was the place itself that had worn him down. He drew pictures in his mind of his life and his family and let that be his candle, brighter than the pale moon that tracked them. Haerviu counted the inns and lodges they passed, each one different; each one looked better than the last. A deep urge threatened each time: unshoulder his load and go in. Just one drink…

"One sip of cider can't hurt a man, can it? Not when our cares are behind us?"

"Listen to you, now. You're speaking from the desperateness of the dead."

"Aye," Haerviu said.

***

Haerviu and his gray companion reached the halfway house. Haerviu had lost count a ways back and had no concept of how long it had taken them. He didn't know they were there until his traveling companion pointed to it.

"That's it," he said. "Now we can go in."

"How do you know it?" Haerviu asked.

"I've been here before," the man said, but said no more.

This place was twice as big as the first tavern, furnished with wide benches, and an upper level - maybe more than one. Haerviu couldn't see past the gloom of the first couple of rickety steps. He didn't feel the need to go upstairs.

Many people about the place. Haerviu thought they look faded, as if they might not be there at all - just shadows that clung to the walls. The two men sat with their backs to the wall and faced the front door.

"Keep your eye on the door," the man said. "It's better that way."

"If you say so," Haerviu said. Mugs of mead appeared in front of them.

This time, the man raised his to Haerviu. "Drink, my friend, and let me tell you of the great forest, the forest of ancient priests. The one that marks the entrance to the Lands Beyond, to the Ankou's domain. And no man who passes within can return, lest he is one of Ankou's chosen."

The barley mead tasted heavy, good after the long trudge, and Haerviu felt that he could listen to this man's tale, maybe forever. It did his heart good -- the heart that no longer beat within his breast.
Haerviu nodded to the man to continue.

"Somewhere deep in the Lands Beyond, though, there is a way back. It has been traveled before, but not by any man among the living. It's said that there are demons and dragons and trials that no man whose heart is heavy with wrongdoing can surpass. It is said that the great Mirdan is imprisoned there."

Haerviu finished his mug and called out for another. It appeared in front of him before he had finished shouting for it. "Mirdan and Nyneve?" Haerviu snorted. "An old folk's tale for the superstitious ones. Them that still believe in korrigans and banshees. Mirdan ran off with one of the Fae, he did. That's what they tell. She imprisoned him on an island where a man may never return."

The gray man seemed to grow less substantial with each draught from his stone mug. His skin showed patches of bone and his face became more sunken and drawn. His voice took on a rattle. "There is an island. On that island is a cave. It is the cave that leads back to life. I know because I've seen it."

Haerviu put down his mug. "Then why didn't you go back? Why are you here? And how did you travel backwards on the Paths of the Dead?"

The gray man nodded at each of Haerviu's questions, as if he'd been expecting them. "My name is Bran. I was one of the Ankou's chosen. I followed him once to the Lands Beyond. But I am not dead. At least not in the waking world. Here, I might as well be dead. But until I am dead, Ankou will not put me in his great forest. That is my punishment. One of my punishments and the least one."

"Bran? From the tales?"

The man shook his head. "Not that Bran. I am human. At least I was. I don't know what I am now. Cursed, I'd say." He lifted his mug with a weary arm. It shook with the effort. A new mug appeared in front of him, filled to the brim. Bran took a sip and sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Only the dead may pass through the cave. Since I am not dead, I cannot pass." He opened a malevolent eye at Haerviu. "And I should by rights be trapped there forever. But I escaped to return here." He shook his head. "'Tis not a better place to wait out eternity. But at least it isn't as dry." He tipped his mug again.

"And what would you have of me? Will you take me to this place and show me how to get through?"

Bran shook his head. "I may not."

"But I may." The timid voice of the dwarf spoke up from the side of the table. "I can take him to the island. For I'm not a man."

Bran looked at the tiny man. He laughed, and the effort split the skin next to his mouth, showing a bit of the skull that lay just beneath. "So you may. But will you?"
The man nodded. "Try my luck. 'Tis my death."

"Right you have it," Bran said. And he began to tell them the way of things and how they were to get through Ankou's Forest and navigate the Lands Beyond. But what became of them, no one knows, for when you traverse the Lands Beyond, if you manage to come back to the waking world, you are sworn never to tell anyone, for good or for ill. And it's a pact made in blood with a curse that goes beyond death, as Bran will tell you. Because he's been there.

***

Bertha paused and seemed to come back from a long way off. She cleared her throat. Sebastian refilled her Armagnac. She nodded to him and drank down a portion of it. "Sorry, Basti. I didn't mean to pick such a long one. It just came out that way."

I poured myself more coffee and gestured with the cafetiére to Hagen. He nodded, and took a cup for himself. Heinrich had been so rapt with Bertha's story, he had to shake himself to bring himself back to the present.

When Sebastian came back to us, he poured Heinrich an Armagnac and one for himself. "Where did you get that tale, Berti?"

Bertha shook her head. "Just a minute." She put a hand on the piano, her eyes faraway again. Then she finished her Armagnac and walked to us, setting her glass on the table.

"Do you want to sit?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No, Schätzchen. I need to stand awhile. Otherwise, the tale don't settle right. Down here." She smiled at me and put her hand on her stomach. And then bent her head for a few moments, her palms together.

We waited, each of us wrapped in our thoughts. Heinrich's song about Mirdan had obviously inspired Bertha to tell this tale. I wondered if she had made it up on the spot. But it sounded too real for her to have invented it.

"I've seen the other side of that cave," I said.

***

 

photo credits

PeterThoeny Leaving the circus behind, a new path opens up via photopin (license)

Wayne Stadler Photography Never is a Promise via photopin (license)

Big Grey Mare Happy Thanksgiving To All via photopin (license)

Triple Junction, Book 5 of the Schattenreich: excerpt and cover reveal

Finally! Triple Junction, the last book in the Schattenreich series (but not the last of the Schattenreich!), soon to be released in ebook and trade paperback. 

Sorry for the delay, but we are accompanying our terminally ill cat, the handsome and intrepid Ramses (also known as Miezie and the model for Cicero in the Schattenreich books) on his last days with us. I hope there are still many days still remaining for our dear friend of 17 years (see picture at bottom), but it is hard to be sure.

Consequently, I am also behind on getting the Terrae Motus Books website ready for launch (it will eventually replace sharonreamer.com). To keep abreast of new releases and giveaways/promotions exclusive to subscribers, please sign up to receive my quarterly newsletter. I had planned on a 3rd quarter release of both the newsletter and the ebook (uh, that was last week, right?), but am now looking ahead to a fourth quarter, post-holiday, gentle launch of both paperback and ebook. It will be available before that time, wide, in a variety of outlets. Naturally, I will post updates on the blog.

So, on to the excerpt. I have picked this passage, not at the beginning but only a little ways into the book, as it's a nice standalone scene and provides a good framework for the novel and its themes. And of course, I didn't want to reveal spoil the wedding, which occurs near the beginning of the book. 
  

Book 5 of the Schattenreich

Chapter 6

We started from Lahn-dunum, the Schattenreich counterpart to Burg Lahn that now existed firmly within the borders of Ande-dubnos. I hadn’t been here since Heinrich, Hagen and I drank the funky-tasting water infused with the essence of the Dreams that allowed us to see into each other’s souls. I jumped at the eerie wailing emanating from the depths of Lahn-dunum’s crypts. I had last been down there when my uncle Niehls stabbed me in the neck.

Heinrich looked as puzzled as I felt.

Hagen didn’t. “Lahn-dunum has a new guardian. But he is still experiencing some, ah, adjustments to his new home.”

Sebastian crossed his arms. “Is he secure?”

“Quite,” Hagen said. “But I haven’t had a chance to check in on him recently. That will have to wait until a later time. Brides first?”

Hagen pushed open a set of double-doors leading out of Lahn-dunum. I’d never entered or exited through the front doors before. Or even remembered seeing them. Another first. Maybe they only existed on this night, Kala Goañv, Samhain, the festival associated with the end of the harvest and the coming of winter.

And now it would be celebrated as the eve of our wedding night. My second wedding night.

We reached the wooden bridge that separated Ande-dubnos from the Schattenreich. Its carved railings resembled my bedposts. In the dark, I could only hear the water rushing underneath. Because of more than one fateful encounter here, I looked both ways before hurrying to follow the others across. I supposed we were making a shortcut through the Schattenreich, but wasn’t sure. Hagen led us to the right, down a darkening path, lined on either side with brambles and sickly looking trees.

“Haven’t been this way before,” I mumbled.

“It’s not usually open to travel,” Hagen said.

The two full moons in the sky shone with a pale, pearly light. Heinrich reached upward and twisted his hand as if turning a faucet. We were blanketed in moonlight that cast an envelope around us, holding the darkness at bay. My moon shone through the trees, not quite full. It no longer had a dark growth blotting out its brilliance. I breathed out in relief, my legs feeling more solid.

We reached an archway of thick, tangled branches.

“Watch out for the thorns,” Hagen said. “They induce a stupor, followed by pain.”

We moved through the arch singly. I went last, holding my traveler’s cloak tight around me. Heinrich pulled out a binioú kozh, his Breton bagpipe; it looked ancient and more like a water bladder made from goatskin than a bagpipe. He played a few notes.

I shifted on my feet. “Are we waiting for someone?”

A series of plaintive cries reached us. Not wails; they sounded more like pleas, pleas to the living. Even though I didn’t understand the words, I understood their meaning: Give us life. Give us your life.

And there they waited, far from us, across a wide open plain bordered on the far end by forest. Even at a distance, they were easy to see; four of them, sunken-in men, their clothes in disarray and their hair plastered to their heads.

“Who are you?” I felt myself calling to them.

Hagen grimaced and grasped my shoulder, his arm around me. With his other hand, he covered my mouth. “Don’t—”

The sky lightened as if from a sudden brightening of the moons. The ground shook. I took a breath to shout a warning, but Hagen kept his hand firmly over my mouth. My eyes closed for a moment. When I opened them, the four men had closed at least half the distance between us. I hadn’t even seen them move. They cried again, the mournful sounds penetrating my skull, making me shiver.

I wanted to mimic their cries. My throat tightened.

Hagen nodded to Heinrich, who started a slow dirge on his bagpipe. The men turned and marched away in time to his music. We followed the dead men in one long procession. I fought the fright gripping my groin by putting one foot in front of the other.

The well-trodden path, its dark gravel ground into the equally dark and foul-smelling earth was bordered on either side by withered plants and bare-limbed trees that seemed hunched over with their own weight. We followed it into the woods. We were in Ankou’s domain. The sudden knowledge didn’t cripple me with fear – I was with Hagen and this was where he came to do his Ande-dubnos duty by guiding the dead to their final resting place – but it didn’t encourage relaxation on my part.

We made the trek in grim silence, relieved only by snuffling sounds from either side of the path. I looked once. Orange-red eyes glared back at me. Whatever creature belonged to those eyes had bulk, a darker shadow hulking against the darkness.

But although the creature jerked upwards when our eyes met, it didn’t move to intercept us. After that, I kept my eyes fixed on Hagen, striding confidently in front of me. Heinrich flanked me from behind, followed by Sebastian. He hummed quietly.

The path ended at a steep bluff. The dead men had deserted us, vanishing into a mist that rose behind us. Hagen turned and moved backwards along a faint trail that wound down, his hands braced on stones and protruding, famished-looking tree roots that lined the way. Once he reached the bottom, he motioned for us to follow him.

In the twilit evening we scrambled down. A patch of moonlight just behind a range of hills in the near distance called us on.

“Are we there yet?” I asked.

He smiled. “Just over the hills.”

The meandering trail through gentle hills led us into a bowl-shaped dale. A single-file procession marched downwards from the hills opposite us. Hagen called a halt when we reached a jumble of moss-covered boulders to the right of the path.

“Just find a place to sit comfortably. We won’t have long to wait,” Hagen said.

Heinrich slung his binioú kozh in preparation for playing, and Sebastian sat next to me, taking my hand in his.

“Who are they, Tadig?”

“Departed souls.”

“What are they doing here?”

“Celebrating. And remembering. Like us. Look. A few of the Tud join us.” My father pointed behind us, to the path we had just taken.

A line of about a dozen Tud, one of several races of beings who inhabited Ande-dubnos, came our way. These were the tall ones with fair skin and long silvery hair. They stood near a group of boulders to the left of the path. A couple of them nodded to us, and they watched Heinrich expectantly.

Then I saw Ankou. He stood where the path opened out to the grassy dale, where the dead had just passed. He wore his black cloak and wielded his iron-tipped staff, his legs spread. His hair blew behind him, his skin an unearthly white. He waited until the last of the dead passed by. When they were all gathered in the middle of the downs, Ankou rapped his staff on the ground three times.

The dead began to sing. Ankou rapped his staff three more times. Some danced, but mostly they moved amongst each other in a grim Irish wheel, touching one other as they passed, many of them turning, gazing as if searching for someone or something, the short cropped grasses not even marked by their passing. Hagen gazed in the same way. He tapped Heinrich on the shoulder.

Out in the middle of the dale, Hagen and Heinrich’s mother Isabel glided past the other souls. Her face had none of the life and hope so visible in the pictures Heinrich had shown me in Dinard, but she was beautiful, with a kissed-by-moonlight paleness contrasting her long dark hair and slender form.

Beautiful and dead. So near but so far away.

Heinrich played a few notes on his bagpipe, then stopped to sing to her in Brezhoneg, not a funeral dirge, but a song that sounded both happy and sad. Heinrich’s clear voice conveyed respect and longing.

Isabel glanced once our way and then continued her search. Was she looking for Hagen’s father Theodor? One of the dead men took her hand and led her in a slow dance. She didn’t resist. The others joined them, swaying and turning to Heinrich’s song.

Ankou kept a close watch on his flock. When one of them strayed too far towards us, he would call them back with a commanding voice that touched me in the deep place where my fear of him still lived. But what could he possibly threaten the dead with?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to that question, but as I turned to ask Hagen, Ankou stood before us. He had moved across the dale in less time than it took me to open my mouth to speak, as quick as the dead men who had led us here. I turned my face away, unwilling to meet Ankou’s eyes.

His claim on me had not yet come to pass; he would have to wait. I married the man of my heart’s desire tonight and was still very much alive and a part of his life. Ankou bowed and reached out a hand to me. Was he asking me to dance?

I shrank back. Hagen reached me and took my hand in a tight grip. He held out a hand to ward off Ankou’s advance. “Your claim on Katarin is not yet due. What do you seek from the living?” A ring of light glowed a ghostly white on Hagen’s little finger.

Ankou bowed. “A dance to celebrate Kala Goañv and the day of your promising.”

Was our wedding night to be the cause of hostility? Hagen couldn’t tell me about the unfinished business between them because of a geis. But if all Ankou wanted was a dance, then I could do that. I took my hand from Hagen’s and extended it to Ankou.

A light touch on my shoulder made me turn my head.

“May I have the pleasure of a dance with you, milady?” Brionne, the Tud I once met at the Sea of Dreams, the night Heinrich and I made love for the first time, stood next to me. For the evening’s festivities, he wore a burgundy red suit featuring a double-breasted long-tail coat that went well with his platinum hair. Hagen smiled and nodded his head in approval.

Brionne bowed to Ankou and turned back to me. Ankou’s face betrayed no emotion, but a brief smile of acknowledgement appeared.

I gave Brionne my hand. “I’d be honored.”

The other Tud danced with us, their long arms and legs swirling, rising and falling. Ankou swiveled his head to watch us. Their enthusiasm pushed me into a frenzy, just like on Kala Hañv, the Maifest, when I ran with the Tud to honor Eduard’s passing. Here it had none of the urgency of the Wild Hunt I had fled.

I didn’t need to escape Death. Not tonight. Not yet.

Hagen joined Heinrich in his song, his voice higher but in harmony. I’d never heard him sing before. The words poured out evening a rich timbre; although I didn’t understand their meaning, the carefully contained emotion behind them seemed clear. Sebastian added his voice to the chorus, and put his arms across their shoulders. Heinrich ended the song with a few plaintive notes from his Breton bagpipe.

I curtsied low to Brionne and thanked him for the dance before turning again to the dead. The souls in the middle of the downs continued their own songs, voices strengthening and then fading away. Sobs and cries issued forth. They intensified their movements as if working up to a grand finale. At a signal from Ankou, they abruptly turned and began the climb back to where they had come from.

Hagen took a few steps closer to Ankou. They faced off, their words swallowed in a wind that swirled around them, a wind Ankou caused with a flourish of his iron rod, so that none of us were privy to their conversation. Heinrich held me around the waist.

Finished with what they had to say to each other, Druid and Death regarded each other across the short distance between them before Ankou turned and followed his flock, his long hair flowing around him. He turned once more and bowed to me before continuing on his way. My husband started after him, a momentary sadness lingering in his expression, until Sebastian clasped him by the shoulder.

We began the trek back home.

our beloved Miezie

Immortal Guardian stories in German - Die Serie des Ewigen Wächters - Live!

First of all, the edits are progressing on Triple Junction, Book 5 of The Schattenreich. I expect an early fall release. Excerpt and cover release in early September.

Secondly, for the German readers out there (you know who Du bist), especially those who have been asking me when German translations will soon be available for my Schattenreich novels (leider noch nicht), here are excerpts from the German versions of my first two short stories from the Immortal Guardian series, Die Schwingen des Wächters and Das Auge der Sphinx, translated from the English to the German (aber nicht rückwärts rum) by Lieselotte Kill (planned release: early August LIVE!) . Universal links below.

Aus Die Schwingen des Wächters, Copyright 2015, Sharon Kae Reamer

Amazon worldwide German version 
Amazon worldwide English version


 Das grelle Licht blendete ihn für einen Augenblick. Enkidu stellte sich vor es sei der Funke des Lebens nach dem Tode oder die Berührung der Götter. Ein Raum, den er niemals zuvor gesehen hatte, erschien vor ihm und er spürte den Schlag seines Herzens. Es war, als ob jemand kochendes Öl durch seinen Körper fließen ließe.

Er atmete tief ein. Eine Frau stand vor ihm. Sie war etwa einen Kopf kleiner als er, hatte einen olivfarbenen Teint und braunschwarze Augen; ihr glattes Haar fiel wie ein gelber Wasserfall über ihre Schultern bis auf die Brust. Sie beobachtete ihn, ernsthaft und konzentriert. Er fand ihr starkes, herzförmiges Gesicht verführehrend, schon deshalb, weil es nach seinem Tod das Erste war, das er sah.

Enkidu hatte keine Ahnung, in welchem Teil des Himmels oder der Hölle er angekommen war oder welche Gottheit vor ihm stand. Sie schob ihr Haar mit beiden Händen zurück, so dass es hinter ihre runden, aber aufrechten Schultern fiel. Die Goldfäden, die ihr weißes ärmelloses Gewand am Mieder und am Saum durchzogen, passten zu der üppigen Menge Gold an ihren Armen und um den Hals und betonten ihre Schönheit.

„Sei willkommen“, sagte sie.

„Sei bedankt“, Enkidu neigte den Kopf und breitete seine Hände aus als Geste der Unterwerfung. „Wie kann ich dir dienen?“ Ihr Willkommensgruß und seine Entgegnung waren in einer Sprache gesprochen, die er niemals zuvor im Leben benutzt hatte.

Sie machte einen Schritt auf ich zu, einen kleinen nur, aber er musste darüber lächeln. Sie sah so sterblich aus.

„Du musst wissen, warum ich dich zurück gerufen habe.“

Enkidu hob den Kopf. „Zurück?“ Er bewegte sich langsam im Kreis, sein starrer Blick auf den steinernen Dämon gerichtet. Der hatte den Körper eines Löwen und die Schwingen und den Kopf eines Falken.

***

Aus Das Auge der Sphinx, Copyright 2015, Sharon Kae Reamer

Amazon worldwide German version
Amazon worldwide English version

Er meißelte vorsichtig eine kleine Unebenheit von ihrer Wange und strich dann mit der Fingerspitze darüber, um die Stelle zu prüfen. Fahles Tageslicht tauchte die Dombauhütte in sepiafarbene Töne und erzeugte fleckige Schatten. Die vielfachen heiseren Rufe einer vorbeiziehenden Gruppe von Fußballfans hallten auf dem großen Platz wider. Vögel, die auf einem Sims über ihm saßen, stimmten ihre Abendgesänge an. Lavendel und Nelken in Töpfen verströmten ihren Duft. Ein Windhauch strich durch sein Haar, eine kurz gelebte, aber perfekte Ewigkeit. Jetzt ist eine Ewigkeit, in der ich leben will.
Der letzte Rest des Tages, diese wenigen kostbaren Augenblicke, ließen ihn fast vergessen, was er wusste: Zeit existierte nicht.

Er strich mit den Fingern über den Stein, tastete nach Unebenheiten und dabei richtete er die schleifenförmige Bewegung auf eine raue Stelle unter ihrem Kinn. Leandro wusste, dass er jede Sekunde der Ewigkeit brauchen würde, um seine eigenen Unebenheiten zu glätten.

Er  richtete seine Aufmerksamkeit auf den scharfen Meißel, den er am liebsten für das Formen von Gesichtern benutzte. Steinerne Augen starrten ihn aus einem Gesicht an, das seit hunderten von Jahren tot war. Er wurde aber nicht müde, es zu formen. Leandro trug die Büste zu einem der langen Tische. Er setzte sie vorsichtig ab und trat zurück um zu sehen, was noch nicht stimmte, dabei wischte er den Staub von seinen Händen. Mangel an Schuld. Die Augen schauten ihn nicht mehr anklagend an.

„So spät noch bei der Arbeit, Leandro?“

 Miriam lehnte an der Wand am Eingang zur Werkstatt.

„Ah, Frau Richter.“ Ein kleiner Ruck mit einem eckigen Schaber vollendete den Bogen einer Augenbraue. „Wie sind Sie hereingekommen?“

Markus hat mich hereingelassen, als er ging.“ Sie ging auf Leandro zu und schaute sich die Einzelheiten genau an, die er gerade geformt hatte. In seinem Körper kribbelte es, als sie näher kam. Miriam zog die Rundungen der Büste mit dem Zeigefinger nach. „Sie ist wunderschön. So wie alle deine Schöpfungen.“

„Sie hieß Nanaia, und ja, sie war wunderschön.“ Er drehte sich um und legte seine Hände auf Miriams Schultern. Er küsste sie einmal auf jede Wange. „Hallo, Miriam. Es ist gut dich wieder zu sehen.“

Sie lächelte, als ihre Blicke sich trafen. Miriam trat einen Schritt zurück, und ihr Lächeln verschwand. Sie sah sich in der Werkstatt um. „Alle sind schon gegangen, nur du bist noch hier? Ist es nicht ein bisschen unheimlich, alleine hier zu dieser Nachtzeit, über dir türmt sich der riesige Dom?“

Er zuckte mit den Schultern. „Das finde ich nicht. Faule Sommerabende unter dem Dom helfen, meinen Verlangen nach dem ewigen Paradies zu stillen.

Sie hob sein Schnitzwerkzeug auf und betrachtete jedes Teil sorgfältig von allen Seiten. Wie sieht es mit Abendessen aus? Geht natürlich auf mich.“

Er hakte seine Daumen in den Bund seiner Jeans. „Stell dir das vor. Hauptkommisarin Miriam Richter will mich zum Essen ausführen. Sollte mir das zu denken geben?“

Miriams Lächeln war kein warmes Lächeln. Sie strich sich über ihr kurzes schwarzes, mit Silberstreifen durchzogenes Haar. „Bei mir solltest du immer auf der Hut sein. Ich bin nichts als Ärger.“

***

Shaky Ground, Book 2 of the Schattenreich, A New Year's Excerpt

The excerpt takes place close to the halfway point of the book, just after Caitie has had a New Year's eve dinner with Sebastian von der Lahn. She and Gus's neighbor, Samantha Eschweiler, have that...and a few other things...to discuss.

Shaky Ground, Book 2 of the Schattenreich series, on sale for $2.99 through Monday, January 5th, 2015 (oh, and Primary Fault, Book 1 is also on sale for $2.99, just saying)



 ***

Samantha opened the door right away. After I gave her a tight hug, she allowed me inside.

“Hey, Sam, good to see you.” I went straight to the kitchen bar.

She went into the kitchen, and peered into the oven. “Hi, Caitie. How was New Year’s at Burg Lahn?” Her cheerful demeanor surprised me. I had expected at least a few Sam pouts.

“Different.”

She eyeballed a question at me.

“Sebastian and I cooked together.”

She laughed. “You can cook?”

“Not really, but I am good at following instructions.”

“That’s a side to your personality I’ve yet to see.”

I tried to bristle, but failed. “I can be compliant.”

Samantha pulled out an oven tray filled with homemade bruschetta. “So, what in the world did you two have to talk about?”

 “Family,” I said.

“Did you trade reminiscences about vacations on the French Riviera?”

“Ha ha. I was trying to pry information out of him. I think your prejudices against the aristocracy are not warranted in Sebastian’s case.”

“Information? About Hagen?”

“Yes. And Heinrich.”

“Who’s Heinrich?”

“Hagen’s twin.”

Samantha almost dropped the tray. She slid everything onto a plate and set a bottle of red wine and two huge wine goblets in front of us. I grabbed a toasted baguette slice covered with roasted peppers and stuffed it in my mouth.

“Delicious.”

“Nothing special.”

I snorted at her and grabbed another one.

“So,” she began, wriggling on her stool. “Are you telling me there are two men who look like Hagen von der Lahn walking around? God help us.”

“No, silly; they’re fraternal.”

“Oh. I get it. Heinrich is the homely one with the big heart.”

Despite my reservations about Heinrich, I had to admit that what he looked like when he wasn’t in his Scottish wildcat form was the polar opposite of homely. “Um, sorry to disappoint you, but he’s quite handsome; slightly rugged.”

Her eyebrows perked. “Rugged. Soulful brown eyes?”

“Nope. Same dark blue ones as Hagen’s.”

“Really the same?”

“Exactly the same,” I said, sighing.

“Was he there too?”

“Who?”

“Heinrich, at Burg Lahn,” she said, exasperated.

“Oh. No. He stays at his mother’s estate in France in the winter,” I said.

“Told you. French Riviera after all.”

“No. Somewhere in the Bretagne. In Dinard.”

“Oooh. Sounds very Heathcliff.”

“I’m supposed to visit him next month,” I let slip casually.

She chirped at me. “This is serious. First, dinner with Sebastian von der Lahn and then a visit to the country estate. Have you picked out a dress yet?”

“Samantha, I’m warning you,” I said, growling. “How do you know Sebastian anyway?”

“I’ve seen him at Lerbach. He comes in for lunch occasionally.”

“Does he come in alone?”

“No. Sometimes he meets with that banker, Wilting-Boxberg.”

“And otherwise?”

“I’ve seen him with a dark-haired woman,” she said.

I took a healthy sip of wine. “But you don’t know who she is?”

Sam reflected for a moment. “No, but I’d guess they’re family. There’s a definite resemblance.”

A mystery family member? I nibbled on another bruschetta. “The Wilting-Boxbergs are neighbors.”

“That explains a lot,” she said. “My, you’re hungry.”

“I skipped dinner.”

“I can make more—”

“No, it’s okay. The Wilting-Boxbergs were all sitting down to tea when I got there on New Year’s.”

“Susanna too?”

“Yup, she and I had lunch together at Lerbach yesterday,” I said.

Samantha managed to bristle quite well. “Well, you’re moving in different circles now.”

“Sam, for goodness sakes. She’s quite sweet. I still can’t fathom why Hagen would pick me over her.”

“Why do you say that?”

I rubbed my nose. “Susanna’s really pretty. And poised. She’s just so perfect. In every way.”

“That’s Mary Poppins, Caitie. Besides, who wants perfect?”

“Well. They would have made an ideal couple.”

“The only one who thinks that is her mother,” Samantha said. “If Hagen wanted Barbie, he could have had any number of them by now.”

I remembered Sebastian’s words about my not being Hagen’s most beautiful lover. “So you think he prefers Midge.” I felt glum as I stuffed the last piece of toast in my mouth.

She laughed. “If anyone is Midge, it’s me. My mom has an original from the sixties. She looks exactly like me, including freckles.”

“Well, I’d rather be Midge any day. She’s perky at least. Barbie looks like she’s just gotten home from her lobotomy.”

“Who needs brains when you’ve got shoes to go with every outfit?” She giggled, snorting.

“And if you lack a frontal lobe, you really do need to have color coordinated clothes.” I dribbled red wine on my shirt.

We both cracked up. It felt good to laugh hard and it felt nice being there with Samantha. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her company. She refilled our wine glasses and we moved to the couch.

“Have you heard from Hagen lately?”

I just shook my head, wishing we could get off the subject of Hagen. For a minute, I had imagined I was enjoying myself.

“It’s just so strange. First he gives you this beautiful pendant, and then a car, for God’s sake, and goes poof into the night.”

I sighed. “It was morning when he left.”

“What do you mean morning?”

“We spent the night together and he left in the morning before I woke up,” I said.

“Without even a goodbye kiss?”

“My but we’re nosy today.”

“Well, you would have given him a goodbye kiss if you were going away for a couple of months, wouldn’t you?”

I would never have gone in the first place. “Well, since you asked, we had plenty of those in the hours before he left,” I said. And a farewell message, a message that haunted me each night. Words came into my head.

Night is longing without you.
The dawn breaks cold.
With no promise of your touch,
a barren land.

“Oh,” she said, subdued.

The dawn breaks – the morning after. “Let’s see. That was on the winter solstice, the twenty-first. Gus was here the night before, right?”

She didn’t answer right away as she was busy opening another bottle. “He came by for a while. We were busy plotting how to hide your car.”

“But he didn’t stay long?”
“Why do you ask, Caitie?”

Her closed expression. Gus’s reluctance to talk about it. “It’s all right, Sam. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What do I think?”

“I’m not trying to muscle in on anybody,” she said.

“Who said that? Shit, Sam, you’ve been raising four kids. And working. And organizing the whole circus by yourself. Why shouldn’t you want someone in your life?”

“We’re good friends.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Sometimes I just need a little affection.”

“And Gus obliges.”

“It wasn’t premeditated.”

“Okay. I believe you. What comes next?”

“Look. Gus is very sweet. But besides friendship, I don’t think anything else would work.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not really my type,” she said.

Gus and Samantha had complementary personalities, but there was no Fourth of July and fireworks – they were more a lazy summer day with a good book.

“Except in certain respects.”

“I like things the way they are. He’s one of the best friends I have, and I don’t want to lose that,” she said.

“And Richard is more your type?” I didn’t attempt to keep a note of skepticism out of my voice.
She swirled her wine, conjuring a pout from the depths of the red liquid. “He was a lot different when we met.”

“I could have guessed that,” I said gently.

She waved her hand. “He was always self-centered. It all worked as long as things went the way he wanted them to.”

I listened, taking a drink of wine. Either this one was smoother than the last bottle or I was.

“I wanted to go back to work, and he balked. With two small kids, it would have taken more of his time to compensate.”

“Uh huh. That’s typical,” I said.

“Yeah. So after things came to a head, we separated to reconsider our options. The separation was mainly his idea.”

Richard had neglected to tell me that tiny detail in his side of the story.

“And you moved in with his mother,” I said.

“My mom and dad are divorced. My mom’s half American, half Irish and moved back to Ireland after they separated, so I can’t just run to her whenever I have a problem. Richard’s mom’s always been a big help. And we get along just fine. She thinks he’s a jerk.”

I choked on my wine. “Really?”

“Yeah, well, her husband walked out on her,” she said.

“And then?”

“Well, Richard and I kept circling each other, trying to figure things out. I got pregnant with the twins. That ended the standoff,” she said.

“I think I know most of the rest of the story,” I said, “at least up until New Year’s.

She looked at me, pout in place again. “Do you know everything about what Richard did?”

“You mean his affair with Dagmar Abel?”

“Not just that. I mean with Gus.”

I hesitated, but there was no longer any reason to hold back information from Samantha. “Richard told me that Dagmar had backed him into a corner.”

Sam continued communing with her glass.

“He left to protect you and the kids…and his own reputation, I’d guess. Then he panicked. She threatened him; he felt he had no other option. I am quite sure she made her threats believable.”

“He wanted to save his own ass,” she said.

I took a long sip of wine. “Okay, Sam. I think that is a given. But Richard also helped me secure Gus’s release. Have you considered giving him a chance anyway?”

After not finding the answer in the wine she was sloshing back and forth, she looked at me. “I told him he would have to go to the police and tell them what he knows.”

“You want him to go to the police? Gus and I’ve spent a lot of our own juice making sure Richard stays out of it.” I hoped my exasperation wasn’t too obvious, but I could already picture the murderous look on Hauptkommissar Miriam Richter’s face when she found out I’d known about Richard all along.

Sam leaned back and closed her eyes. “I know, Caitie. But if it hadn’t been for Richard, Gus wouldn’t have been in this mess to begin with.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. What did Richard have to say about it?”

 She opened her eyes and put her feet on the coffee table. “He said he’d think about it.”
“And?”

“Apparently, he’s still thinking.”

“You mean he hasn’t contacted you since then?”

“No mail. No phone calls. No skywriting. Gar Nichts.”

“Shit, Sam. You called him out and he ran away.”

She got up and rummaged in a kitchen cabinet. She came back with chocolates and handed me the open box. “I’ve been hiding these since Christmas.”

I took one while waiting for her to answer.

“I’ve already talked to a lawyer. If he doesn’t come across, we’re through,” she said.
“Is that the real reason?”

She took a chocolate. “He was very attentive on New Year’s. It could have had a chance.”

I felt tired all of a sudden. “Do me a favor. Let me know before Richard goes charging off to Frau Richter. She’ll find a way to blame everything on me.”

“Okay. I’ll warn you.”

I got up to leave, my head fuzzy from too much wine. “Let’s get together after I visit Heinrich.”

“I want all the details,” she said. “He sounds intriguing.”

I snorted. All the details. I had questions and a lot of anger to get through with Heinrich. I lurched to the front door, glad I only had to walk a few feet before I could fall into my own bed.

Shadow Zone Excerpt and Cover

Here's the cover and an excerpt from Book 4, the penultimate novel in the Schattenreich series, and the sequel to Primary Fault, Shaky Ground and Double Couple. Release date for the trade paperback is planned for October 31. The ebook will follow shortly.

Chapter 3

He found me as I stumbled out, bereft of emotion, alone. I repeated the mantra of my journey through the forest once more. Where am I. Who am I. It had lasted a lifetime or no time at all. No sound, no smell. Souls don’t smell. Souls yearn.

Ankou saluted me, two fingers to his forehead, and then gestured in front of him. He wore no hat and didn’t have his curved iron. “Let us walk a-ways together. Katarin.”

“Is that my name?”

“It is the one I have given you.”

Ankou, the being who embodied Death, had his own, private name for me. I wasn’t thrilled about that. His appearance matched the one I had last seen as I lay bleeding out – a devastatingly attractive man but still cadaver-thin and tall – the ears ended in subtle points. His demeanor suggested antiquity, but his movements and face belied any suggestion of age. His hair blew back in a gentle breeze that swirled around his body, which was clad in black and gray, of course. His clothes bore decorations of silver and gold to match the highlights in his ankle-length hair and those dark eyes rimmed in silver.

“You control the wind like you control people’s deaths?” I asked him, fascinated, despite a lingering dread in the presence of the being I had feared since childhood.

A sad smile crossed his face. Was it just for my benefit? He had helped me find my way through his forest, but I was unconvinced it was a good idea to place trust in Death.

“A minor skill.”

“You look different. Why?”

“You have hated me your whole life. Your death allowed me to redeem myself, and…” He paused as we stopped at a crossroads.

I looked back the way we had come. No landscape or path. No forest, nothing but horizon, bleak against a gray sky. The way straight ahead and the way that crossed it were also bare of landmarks.

“And?” I prompted.

“And find a form that pleases you, my lady.” Ankou took a shallow bow.

“This one is a remarkable improvement on how you showed yourself to me the first two and a half decades I’ve known you,” I said.

He acknowledged my comment with a crooked smile.

“This is it, then. It is time for you to take me with you. Where do we go?”

“This is where we part,” he said. “I must attend. And you must return to—”

“Life. I wish I could.” I tried once again to remember names, but found I couldn’t. Not yet. At least he had given me a name.

“It is your decision.”

“My decision…where I will spend my death?”

“Your decision about how you will live,” he said. “What your choice will be.”

“I don’t understand. Didn’t you help me die?” I died in the arms of…one I loved. But Death had eased my pain, had made it easy, had banished my fear.

“Not a true death.”

“I died, but I’m not truly dead. Yep. That makes sense,” I said.

“You’ll have to make your way through the Between Lands alone, I’m afraid.”

“I walked through your forest. Are we all planted there? Good guys in front, bad guys in back? Tall trees are souls who count, aren’t they?”

His smile radiated true warmth. “You understand.” He twirled his arm in the direction of where we had come from. The forest emerged, as if from behind a mirage. “The Lands Beyond begin there.”
“Lands Beyond?”

“My domain.” He waved his arm. “I also have some control over the Between Lands, but it is a more variable landscape.”

I shrugged.

“At first, I hoped there would be some who I could keep with me. But over the years, the centuries…there was but one and then…” He shook his head. “You and your family and your ancestors, all the ones back to those first priests, the ones who bargained for power – none of them had your power to see through to the heart of things.”

“I’m good at figuring things out. You know, analyzing data; it’s a natural talent.”

Death laughed, both a rich and hollow sound. “No, that’s not it. You’re the one.”

“One what?”

“The apex.”

“Oh, that. That Anam thing. If you say so.”

“I do.”

I squinted at him, wondering if I could see beneath his facade. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to keep me with you?”

“Blood is powerful. Your blood, especially.”

Anam. Anamorphosis Was that it? “I don’t know what Anam means.”

“Soul. Eneff. Anima. Many languages, same meaning. Anam crosses all veils. You embody it.”

Figure it out. My ancestors bargained for power. One of them broke their bargain and so we were all cursed. My father’s brother wanted what I have. Anam. The apex of the life-soul-tree was where power concentrated. Power over the veil.

If I died giving birth, like my mother and the women in my family before her, then my girls would inherit it. But if I were the apex, the last one, then they would be free. Wouldn’t they? Would they have power without the curse? That was something any number of entities, human or otherwise, would like to control. Could everything really be that simple?

“I get to go back? To live again?”

He nodded. “Have you chosen an Aspect?”

“You know about all that?” I felt empty and weary and would have liked to just sink into a small insignificant heap on the ground for a few seconds or even an eternity.

“It’s what the lot of you seem to enjoy doing. If one of you has a particular affinity for the Aspect you’ve chosen, it becomes a significant part of your…self.”

“Oh. Cool. I picked that guy who turns himself into a swan to be with his lover.”

Ankou’s smile graced his face with an unearthly beauty. “Oenghus mac Oc. Nice.”

I sighed. “Glad you approve. So which way should I go from here?”

He turned sideways, held out his arms as if he were about to perform that Greek dance the men
do and then lowered them. “Walk that way,” he crossed one arm over his chest and pointed straight ahead. “Just follow it until the end. You will pass the Lecksteine along the way. Before the end they will become irresistible.”

“Salt licks? Like for deer in winter? And what happens if I taste them?”

“They represent the guilt of your past. You will live a portion of it again, once for each time you partake.”

I shivered.

“That way,” he crossed his other arm over and pointed down the intersecting road, “leads to a less untimely trek, The Paths of the Dead, but I fear your control of your craft is not yet sufficient to overcome its…hurdles. And there,” he twisted his head in the opposite direction, “may take you where you most want to go.”

“How do you know where I want to go?”

Ankou unfolded himself. “It’s what we live on.”

“You live on snatches of memories?”

“What you retain from the Dreams. We feed on them.”

“You feed on the Dreams? I thought it was blood and lust that satiated you.”

“What do humans most dream about based on your recent journey?”

Ankou retained his appearance, but I imagined I saw the immaterialness lurking beneath it. Always changing. Always hungry. Everything was hungry here.

“You’ve given me important information. I assume you want something in return?”

He laughed. It now had the sound of a symphony orchestra – but slightly out of tune. “That was for free. There will be ample opportunity for me to collect from you, Katarin.”

“While I have you in a talkative mood, tell me: where does that name come from?”

“Some special ones I collect receive a name from me. It marks you.” He bowed again. “The name Death calls you with is your true name.” His eyes sparkled with silver.

Katarin – Kati – that private name from a man I loved like the smell of an early summer morning sitting on the porch, the smell of simple pleasure and the yearning for it to continue. “He knows my true name. The man I love is Death’s right-hand man.”

Ankou didn’t say anything.

“What’s his true name?”

“It is a name of power. What do you offer in return?”

“You gave him my name.”

“He paid for it, pays for it still.”

“You partook of my life’s blood.”

He bent his head in acknowledgement. “Exquisite, it was.” He leaned down and whispered, his silvery hair caressing my face. The name fled from my consciousness as soon as he spoke it, but it lingered there, deep. I knew somehow it would return at my bidding.

“Use it wisely. The name compels.”

My true name had not been used to compel, but it did all the same. “This druid crap is hard on a body. I think I’ll head that way.” I crossed my arm towards the path he had indicated would be the one where I most wanted to go. I took a few steps away from him.

“Until we meet again, Katarin. Fare thee well.”

I ran fast down the path, stopped and turned. Ankou held up two fingers spread in a vee, an easily understood symbol both in his world and mine.

“You, too, Ankou. Don’t let the job get you down.”

He saluted me in that flippant way, two fingers to his forehead with a slight bow of his head. And then he vanished.

“I hate it when they do that.”

The path, dusty and long, stretched out in front of me.

***

The Between Lands

Dusty and long, one foot after another. I saw movement. Compared to the nothing I’d been staring at for the past…hours, days, centuries, it was a veritable hive of activity, caused by something; or things. As I got closer I wasn’t so sure I wanted to. They were alive – at least as far as anything was alive in this place. The Between Lands, Ankou had called them. Maybe these things were a form of Between Life.

They came up to my knee on average. One was taller. He – or it – might have been the one in
charge. He acted like it. But none of the others paid him any heed as he ordered them around with loud grunts and slaps to the portion of their anatomy that normally would qualify as a head. They had a mossy look about them – old, dried-up moss, brown with patches of gray and green. A memory…he had mentioned them once and said they were called moss men and they controlled the borders. But the borders to what?

They were furiously throwing up a wall of sorts – a mass of mud or clay mixed with tree branches and stones. I could still clamber over if I hurried – and if I could find a way through them. They looked harmless, but had an air of malevolence about them. Did they have teeth? I edged closer, but they continued to pretend I wasn’t there. Maybe I wasn’t. I held up my hand. It looked real enough. I could see the veins, dirty fingernails – was that Hohes Venn muck? – and fingerprints.

I held both hands palm out and shouted, “Stop!” They ignored me. Maybe they didn’t have ears or they didn’t understand English. What was the word in Brezhoneg? “Paouez!” I screamed. One of them looked at me for a second and then looked away. It was a response. I didn’t know whether it was the language or the scream.

I’d had a lot of practice screaming recently and was getting good at it. It tore out of me, a cumulative primal scream that had gathered strength through my being drugged, dragged into a swampy fen, stabbed, and accompanied by a rude relative on a ram-headed dragon into the depths of the Dreams where I was chased by a nasty dude with a double penis. The peak was being greeted by my lifelong fear transformed into a Celtic deity oozing sexy with his every gesture who pointed me across a desolate landscape that was supposed to lead me back to life. A life I desperately wanted. But I had to get past these goons first.

As the scream tapered off, the moss men were all staring at me with beady little eyes the color of pond slime. The head honcho guy put his sticklike arms on his torso, about hip-height, right below his…head. Neckless head honcho guy reached into a satchel – I hadn’t noticed it before because it was the same color as his skin – that looked even more fungus-like. He fumbled around for a few seconds. The others looked from him, to me, to him, to me.

I wondered if I should scream again. I drew in a lungful of air, opened my mouth, and Neckless consulted with his neighbors. A huddle formed with a lot of activity that included grunts and squeaks and other sublingual mutterings. Then the whole troop disappeared in a blink. Maybe two. What was left was the six-foot high wall.

Well, I’ll be damned. Screw that.

I was halfway up the wall. Stick arms scratched and moss-covered stumpy legs kicked. I fell. Landed on my butt. Grunty chuckles came from inside the wall. For my second try, I made a running start. Fingertips reached the top of the wall, and I hauled myself up, shimmying the rest of the way while securing a firm grip on the ledge at the top – not wide but enough to grasp. I was about to swing a leg over when a dozen of the little jerks appeared at the top, slimy eyes blazing. They pushed me off. I landed in a crouch.

Frustrated and sore, I walked left. The wall went on for longer than it first appeared. I began to think it was one of those nifty illusions when one of the creatures poked his head around the corner. Not far at all.

Unless they’re building another fucking wall.

I ran. Just as I rounded the wall, it curved in front of me on both sides – and ended behind me – a solid barrier. I had no choice but to go ahead. The wall tapered to nothing as suddenly as it had formed. Looking back, nothing remained of either wall or landscape. There were just trees in back of me, in front of me, and on either side. I caught a glimpse in the darkening sky of the moss men running away.

I looked down. I was as dirty as they were and covered in mud. A few nicks and scratches showed through the grime where they had attacked me, the dried blood making a darker contrast. But blood meant life. I walked deeper into the trees.