Carnival Souls

The Forest of Sighs and Sorrows

He and Lira stayed on either side of the trail, scanning the ground for more clues. But the tracks held straight and true along the shore.

"How did it drag him this far?"

"He might have been tangled in the rope or knocked unconscious," said Lira. "It looks like the horse was headed for the trees." She broke into a jog, no longer looking for more prints. Owen followed, slipping on the sand. It took them five minutes to reach the trees and Owen shuddered to think of Genzel being dragged such a far distance. At least the sand wasn't rocky.

Before them, the trees of the forest loomed over their heads. Their trunks were smooth, black wood while their dark-leafed boughs reached towards both sky and ground with sharp, clawed branches. It was clear that they were very far from Zabaria's domain.

"I don't like the feel of this place," muttered Lira, echoing his thoughts. She reached into the side pocket of her pack and pulled out the knife. Owen followed suit. The trail ended at the trees. Nearby a broken rope lay slack around a massive trunk.

"Spread out, but stay within earshot," said Owen. A few yards apart the two began to sweep the ground. Silvery coils of mist wound between the trees and played tricks on their eyes. Owen's hand was clammy on the hilt of the knife, but whether it was from mist or fear, he wasn't sure.

Mist. I thought this place didn't have weather.

But it clearly wasn't a natural mist. It spun through the air like an ocean current, lingering in dense, opaque clouds in certain places, sometimes reversing direction on its own. It held a chill that Owen hadn't known since entering the spirit world, settling in his joints like ice. His breathing slowed and he exhaled great clouds of fog that didn't dissipate but just made the hazy air thicker. Slow and sluggish, Owen tried to make his way farther into the trees.

"Papa!"

Owen stumbled at the high-pitched cry. "Lira?" he called hoarsely.

"Papa!" came the disembodied cry again. Owen gripped the knife more tightly. It was a child's voice raised in distress. "Lira!"

Owen froze as a tiny girl emerged from the mist. Clothed in a small coat with silver buttons, lips pushed forward in a childish pout with curly black hair pinned under a tiny cap, she seemed to be an apparition, for Owen could nearly see through her to the trees on the other side.

Rational thought told Owen that ghosts didn't exist, but he quickly struck that from his mental register of indisputable facts. Common sense told him a little girl posed no major threat to him, but again he wiped that thought from his mind.

Instinct told him not to underestimate her.

"Who are you?" he asked. He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

She scowled. "Papa why are you sleeping?" Owen looked behind him, but there was nothing there except more trees. He began to sidestep around the girl, but her gaze didn't follow. She was looking at something Owen couldn't see.

"What do you want?" said Owen, louder this time.

"Have you been drinking again, Papa?" she scolded. "Mama says it gives you nightmares." She stormed off into the woods, little oxford shoes not making a sound.

Owen followed at a distance trying to keep her in sight, but the fog was making it difficult. Soon enough he lost her and realized with a start he had no idea which direction led back to the lake. Everywhere he turned it all looked the same. Panic crept over him, freezing him even more thoroughly, when he heard another voice.

"Please. Please don't make me." Again, it was the voice of a girl, but this time she was older and, from the sound of it, crying. Owen turned toward it, fearing for Lira, when he nearly collided with an older apparition. This one wore what once might have been a fine dress, embroidered with small flowers and trimmed with lace that had since fallen in disrepair. Her limp curls were pinned to the side and silver tear tracks glimmered on her cheeks. She looked right through Owen. "Please don't make me, Papa. I'll find another way. Please don't make me marry him."

Suddenly tongues of silver fire sprung up around her, crackling and hissing. There was the sound of breaking wood like an enormous tree being ripped in half, a horse's dying scream, and then above it all, the wailing of the girl as the fire consumed her and she was lost from sight.

Owen scrambled away from the flames, tripped over a tree root, and fell hard in the dirt. His elbow stung where it had caught a rock. The flames died down and reformed with the mist, revealing Lira, horror-struck and stiff-limbed, on the other side.

Her lips were nearly blue and her hands shook. "What—what was that?" she stammered.

"I don't know," said Owen, pushing himself to his feet. "But we need to find Genzel and get out of here."

"I found him," said Lira, still staring at the spot where the apparition had vanished. Her voice had the quality of someone who had spent too long in a snowstorm. "He's back there." She pointed a trembling finger over her shoulder. "He's unconscious, but alive. I was coming to find you when I heard the screaming."

Owen took off in the direction she indicated, anxious to get away from the clearing. He took Lira's arm and steered her around. "C'mon."

Lira took the lead, following a path of white marks she had cut into the tree trunks along the way. If he wasn't so cold, Owen would have felt hot from embarrassment that he hadn't thought to set his own trail markers. After several minutes they came upon Genzel lying on his side. A trickle of dried blood, now brown, ran from a wound at his temple into his scraggly beard. His pants were ripped at the knee and the shoulder lifted off the ground seemed to be at an odd angle.

Moving closer, Owen could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. The old man's lips moved silently, like he was talking to himself in his sleep.

"I didn't get a chance to try and wake him," said Lira. "But it almost looks like he's dreaming, doesn't it?

Owen crouched down and put two fingers to the side of Genzel's throat. His pulse was rapid and, this close, Owen could see his eyes moving rapidly beneath his wrinkled eyelids.

"Whatever it is, it isn't a good dream." He rocked the old man back and forth like trying to wake a sleeping child and called his name to no avail. Lira moved to kneel on the opposite side of his head and used her water bottle to clean the cut and wash his face as best she could. Once she had finished picking debris from his hair and beard, she looked up at Owen with solemn eyes. "What do we do?"

Owen weighed their options. Not that they had many. "Let's try and get him back to the beach."

Mindful of the dislocated shoulder, Owen heaved Genzel up under his arms. He moaned in pain but didn't wake. With Lira carrying both packs, the two made their slow way back to the black sand beach. The physical exertion at least had the good side effect of warming Owen up. By the time he set Genzel down on the sand as far from the forest as he could manage, his back ached and sweat poured down his face.

"At least it's warmer out here," Lira remarked. She gave the forest a dark look. The cold had indeed receded the father they had gotten from the trees, but it wasn't really warmer. It was just the lack of cold in their bones. 

"What do you think that place was?"

She opened her mouth to reply when Genzel gasped and snapped up, eyes rolling and chest heaving like he had been resuscitated. "Bebinn!" he said, looking at Lira. "I'm sorry." 

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