Dark Company (11 page)

“Please,” she said, indicating that Caddy should climb.

A shadowy form stood at the top of the ladder then disappeared. “Who’s that?” Caddy asked.

Hex said nothing, gesturing again that Caddy was to climb, which she did, whispering her song under her breath as she went.

When Caddy reached the top of the ladder, she was astonished to see dozens of people squatting like refugees on the hay-covered
floor. They looked at her with curiosity, though no one spoke. She pulled herself up. Hex followed close behind.

A middle-aged man approached and clasped Hex’s hand. He nodded toward Caddy.

“Is this her?”

“Yes.” Hex guided Caddy to an open space on the floor. “Sit here. You’ll know what to do. Trust yourself.”

Hex took a place next to the man who’d greeted her. Caddy sat down. The group lay back and she did the same, clasping her necklace in her bandaged hand. Across the loft, someone hummed a single deep note. It hovered in the air like a giant bee. The others joined in, matching the frequency, the entire barn pulsing with the vibration. The note was a narcotic in Caddy’s veins. Its draw was irresistible. Her eyelids fluttered and her hand flopped to her side. In spite of her fears, in spite of everything that had happened, her mind relaxed, and her consciousness loosened. She’d pulled away from her body as easily as shedding an old coat when a hand slipped into hers. Turning her head, Caddy found Poe’s deep brown eyes looking back at her.

S
kylark raced through the glistening streets of the city, impervious to the sweet song of the Musicians and their canaries. How could she appreciate anything when the mouse was lost somewhere? How could she have been so stupid? She skimmed along the sidewalk. Everywhere, there were beings and totems moving purposefully, some carrying books, some huddled in scholarly groups talking, some ascending stairs with their totems into buildings that were so shiny and tall and imposing she could never imagine having a reason to go there. What a mess she’d made of things! Overtaking a group of recruits, she caught her reflection in the window of some administrative-looking place and stopped dead. Her feminine shape and violet eyes shimmered mockingly back at her. There was no hiding her shame. She’d really screwed up this time. Sebastian was lost and it was her fault.

A group of silver beings scrutinized her as they glided by. She turned away from her reflection in disgust and continued cruising through the bustling streets. No one else seemed stressed at having lost their totem, or about interfering with the written text of the Unfolding, that was certain.

But where was she going? Skylark stopped again and nearly caused a collision with a group of Messengers gliding behind her. She apologized, thought to ask one of them for directions to the Hall of Records, then realized she need only think of the place and she would be there. Closing her eyes, she envisioned the Hall’s gilded domes and ornately carved pillars. Were the stairs marble? She couldn’t remember so she left that part out. She could only hope that her partial memory of the building was enough to take her there.

“I’m a leaf …” she whispered, “I’m a leaf on the water …”

In an instant she was standing at the base of the stairs, staring up at the grand entrance to the Hall. It was far more elaborate than she’d remembered. She took a tentative step onto the first stair. No alarms rang. No guards hustled out to escort her off the premises. Emboldened by the lack of response, Skylark floated as casually as possible up the stairs, swerving around a group of Chroniclers who were leaving the building. They were lost in discussion and barely noticed her as she slipped through the tall brass doors.

Skylark entered an immense room flanked by rows of arched doorways. The floors were yellow granite and glowed with the subtle lustre of a ripe pear. There was a hushed atmosphere, and she understood immediately that this was a place of great importance and learning. In the rooms beyond the doorways, beings of every Frequency hunched over tables, studying.

At the end of the main hall was another arched doorway. Adopting a serious face, Skylark conveyed herself to the room as though she had every right to be there and peeked inside. It was like looking through a porthole into a small ocean. From the domed ceiling, long spines of honey-coloured light stretched all the way to the floor. In the centre was a simple grey marble podium supporting a large, leather-bound book. Was this
The Book of Events
the silver being had spoken of? There were no
signs, no indicators of any kind. She waited, expecting someone—or something—to show up and tell her to leave. When nothing happened, she drew closer.

The book was thick with a plain brown cover and not a single identifying mark. Skylark ran her finger along the edge to open it. The book was fused shut. She used a measure of force and still it wouldn’t open. She picked the thing up. It wouldn’t budge. The book had a mind of its own. How was she supposed to find the mouse if it wouldn’t cooperate? Gritting her teeth, Skylark set upon it, yanking on the cover until the curator materialized—a silver being with a seriously frosty attitude.

“We don’t do it manually,” it said disparagingly.

Skylark hid her hands in the folds of her robe and waited for further instruction. The curator just faded out, leaving her alone again.

“Excuse me,” she said. “How do we do it?”

The being’s disdainful face reappeared. “With your thoughts, of course.”

Skylark concentrated on the scene in her mind, conjuring the soldiers in their uniforms and all the guns and smoke. She focused on the face of the dying soldier. Sadness and anger welled up in her, and she had to struggle not to cry. The book began to shake. The more she thought of the scene, the angrier she grew and the more the book shook, revving like an engine. All at once it blew open, the pages rattling past in a blur, turning faster and faster, the book threatening to launch off the podium and fly across the room.

“Stop!” she shouted, and the book slammed shut.

She cringed when the curator returned.

“The book is not to be abused with negative emotions. Please control yourself.”

“Yes, sorry.” Skylark smiled politely and tried to think of the scene without feeling the pain. As soon as she thought about the
soldier, the book cracked open and began flapping faster than before. She ordered it to stop again and was just about to give up when she got an idea. She would remove herself from the scene.

Closing her eyes, she imagined the battlefield and the soldiers lying there. She contained her thoughts, avoiding the images that evoked the strongest emotions. To her delight, the book opened as if brushed by the gentlest of breezes. It serenely furled its pages and came to rest. Skylark peeked at the page. There it was before her, the entire battle scene in miniature, playing out in words and pictures like a movie. A learned voice began to narrate:

“The Seven Days Battles. American Civil War, June 25 to July 1st, 1862. Confederate leader Robert E. Lee attacks Union general McLellan near Richmond, Virginia. The battle resulted in heavy losses for both armies—”

“Thank you,” Skylark said, cutting the narration short. It seemed rude, but she didn’t have time to listen to some long-winded explanation right now. She had to find the mouse.

And then she had an idea—the kind that would likely get her into trouble. What if she were to ask about the boy? She convinced herself that her situation couldn’t possibly get any worse, and decided to summon the face of the boy in her mind. The book’s pages slowly flipped and there he was, sitting on the steps of a school, reading! Her soul nearly leapt from her body. It had actually worked!

“Go to a time when we were together,” she said.

Pages turned and stopped. The boy was holding a girl—a beautiful blond girl with soft grey eyes. Skylark’s particles ignited at the sight of her. She had the loveliest face. Who was this magnificent human?

It came to her in a burst of light.
She
was the grey-eyed girl! This exquisite creature in front of her was her human self. Joy surged through her. She could actually feel the weight of the boy’s embrace, as though he were holding her, right here, right
now. She watched him kiss the girl and her own lips sparked as if electrified.

“What are their names?” she whispered.

“Walters, Megan,” the book recited in its neutral voice. “Edgar, Allan. Also known as Poe.”

At the sound of his name, Skylark swooned. The dam broke in her mind and the lake of human memories flooded over her. Her knees shook as she gripped the podium, barely able to keep herself from flying apart, the images tumbling over her in roiling waves of emotion. Her entire life in blistering seconds. From the moment she came bawling into the world, through every childhood loss and victory. Her parents’ faces flashing in and out. Her friends, her frustrations, her bliss. Her home! With its red-brick walls and hollyhocks in the garden. And then the haunting strains of the loveliest song she’d ever heard. She was a young girl, standing on her father’s feet, dancing in slow circles across the living room, her mother looking on with so much love.

“Skylark,” her father called her. “My little Skylark.” It was his favourite song.

Glistening tears of liquid light streamed down her face and dropped onto her robe. The memories collided and swirled past—until they reached her life with him. Here they began to slow, every image of Poe causing a deep tremor of longing in her soul. How fine he was to her! How much fun they used to have together! Just looking at him made her dizzy with happiness. Every kiss, every caress made her burn ever brighter for him. She was Meg and he was Poe. Together. Forever. And look! There she was, riding her bike to school to meet him. She could feel the breeze in her hair, feel the thrill of anticipation, her feet pushing against the pedals—

The reel of images abruptly broke, flickering like old film before disappearing altogether. Skylark cried out in anguish. “No! Bring him back!”

The sound of her voice echoed off the alabaster walls. The book had closed. Skylark paced around the room in desperation. She had to see him again. What was stopping her from going to him, right now …?

The mouse. She felt a stab of conscience when she thought of him. She was duty-bound to retrieve Sebastian before she did anything else. She had no choice. He was a part of her now. Biting her tongue, she suppressed a scream of resentment. She would return for Poe, she promised herself. The second she got a chance. No matter what. Now that she knew he was real, now that she knew how to find him, she would never rest until she held him in her arms again.

Skylark streaked from the Hall, immune to the inquisitive looks from passersby. She searched the streets for a quiet place to make the jump. She wanted to be alone when she transported herself, in case something went wrong.

Several blocks from the Hall she found a peaceful little garden with a small stream trickling from a limestone boulder. There was a stone bench beside a cluster of pink lilies. Perching on the bench, Skylark slowed her mind, reluctantly pushing Poe from her thoughts as she focused her intention on the place in time where the Seven Days Battle had happened. The rumbling began and the stars blurred. With a vigorous cork pop, she appeared in the middle of the field. She looked around. The air was clear and silent, the battlefield empty. Was she too late?

A solitary bluebird called. Skylark drifted, a lonely ghost on the war-torn landscape, searching for Sebastian. When she couldn’t find him, she sat on a rock beneath the canopy of a giant maple tree and agonized. Now that she was here, the weight of her situation fell heavily upon her. She’d lost her totem. She’d let Sebastian down. How could she have been so selfish? She hadn’t thought about him once the whole time she was looking for Poe. She was so caught up in herself, in her memories of her
human life. She couldn’t think straight when it came to Poe. Just thinking about him made her crazy. She was messed up, a jumble of self-pity and shame. Tears filled her eyes. She covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, Sebastian. I’m so sorry.”

After several minutes of crying, she heard a voice.

“What ails you, child?”

Skylark raised her head with a loud sniffle. “Hello?”

The wind rustled the leaves of the tree. She was utterly alone. Now she was hallucinating on top of everything else. The tears began again.

“Why do you cry?”
the voice asked.

Skylark sat upright. “Who are you?”

“Ask me what I am.”

“All right. What are you?”

“I am Sugar Maple.”

Skylark twisted around to look at the tree. Its bark was scarred with bullet holes. Several limbs lay broken on the ground, blown from their sockets. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be impolite … but am I sitting next to you?”

“I’m sitting next to you,”
the maple corrected her.

“Oh.”

“What are you?”

She wiped the tears from her face. “That’s a good question. Maybe you can tell me.”

“Well … you’re too small for a Warrior. I’ve seen many of those over the years. And you’re too big for a sylph. I give up. Tell me.”