A Vial of Life
Page 43
Among the sea of other familiar faces, I also caught sight of Abigail Hudson. This was the first time I’d seen her since the day I’d first left The Shade all that time ago. She was standing a few rows back from the front, next to Erik. He had an arm around her waist while she rested her head against his shoulder. Both of their gazes were on the ceremony, their expressions worried and somber. I was pleased to have the chance to see her again. While the romance between us had never worked out, Abby and I had become good friends before I’d left. I’d wondered how she had been doing, and to see her in the arms of Erik was comforting. I was glad that she had found someone else, and if Erik was anything like the man Kiev had turned into for Mona, I was sure that he would make her happy.
Drawing my eyes away from Abby, I was about to move closer to the center of the courtyard through the crowds when my hearing was assaulted with a deafening tune. The same tune that had beckoned me across the Pacific. It started up again, louder than ever before. As was the case the last time I heard this melody on arrival within the island’s boundary, it was no longer beautiful to me. It was far too loud for me to appreciate it. It rang in my head so intrusively, I barely had room in my mind for my own thoughts.
Where is that sound coming from?
I glanced around the funeral ceremony once more and figured that now was as good a time as any to find out. I moved away from the courtyard, turning in a circle and straining my hearing to ascertain which direction the noise was coming from. It definitely wasn’t coming from anywhere near the beach behind me. No. The melody was coming from the mainland, its shrill tones piercing through the trees behind the witch’s temple. I followed the sound as best as I could, through miles of dark woods, until I neared the part of the island that was designated for agriculture. The trees thinned and gave way to meadows of corn and wheat, sprawling orchards, and a sea of vegetable fields. It was by the witches’ magic that we were able to grow such fresh produce without the rays of the sun.
I paused, trying to find my bearings. The tune was drifting toward me from the direction of the vegetable fields. I moved forward swiftly again, my feet grazing the soil. I passed through several fields, until the melody reached a fever pitch and stopped. My mind stopped ringing and the quiet, soothing sounds of the island returned.
But it meant that I’d lost the trail again. Now I might need to wait hours before it started up… although it had sounded so close to me. It’d been louder than ever a few seconds ago. I was certain that it came from somewhere in these very fields surrounding me.
I stopped amidst the potato crops and scanned the area once again. To my left was a thin line of trees, marking the border between the potato and cauliflower fields. At the end of this row of trees was a small farmhouse that hadn’t been inhabited for decades. Although I’d spent most of my life on this island, I was quite sure that I had never stepped inside of it, even as a child.
Then I spotted something strange. Gathered beyond the building, deeper into the cauliflower crops, was a crowd of people. Except, as I moved closer, they weren’t exactly people. They were… ghosts. Perhaps fifty of them, all hovering near the farmhouse.
I was momentarily stunned. I found myself rooted to the spot, just staring at this odd crowd. There were men and women of all ages, and even some children. Some wore casual, modern clothes like jeans and t-shirts, while others wore outfits that looked like they belonged in the eighteenth century; the women wore long, heavy frocks, while men donned breeches, cravats, and pleated coats. The only thing in common was that their attire looked ripped and ragged, and sometimes even stained with blood. That, and they all appeared to be humans, or rather had been humans in their former lives.
What in the world…?
Through my confusion, I realized that this was the first time I’d thought about the fact that ghosts even wore clothes. I looked over my own form. I was wearing the same clothes I’d worn before leaving my body—a cloak, ripped shirt and pants—only now the fabric had almost become a part of me. The garments were just as intangible and wispy as the rest of my form. I couldn’t take the clothes off, or even touch them—my hands just ran through them, as they did with everything else I tried to make contact with. It appeared that ghosts took on an identical appearance to the body they left behind. Almost like some kind of distant reflection, a shadow of their former selves.
Heads turned toward me as I arrived within ten feet of the crowd. They looked me over curiously.
“Who are you?” I asked in a hushed tone—hushed not because I had any reason to be quiet, but because I was still in a state of surprise.
I received several frowns before spirits from the crowd began calling out their names. “Augustus Croft. Tiffany Adkins. Tim Forney. Charlie McGuire. Lucinda—”
I held up a hand. I really wasn’t interested in knowing their names. “Wait, wait. I mean, where do you come from? Why are you here?” My confusion deepened as I gazed around at their bedraggled forms. “Did you all take the potion too?”
They appeared to be bewildered by my last question.
“Potion? What’re you talking about?” The woman who’d called herself Lucinda stepped forward. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with ebony skin and curly black hair tied up in a bun over the top of her head. From her rich accent, I guessed that she was from the Caribbean. She wore a suit that reminded me of those worn by air stewardesses—a gray skirt and jacket with a brooch attached, and a blouse whose front was drenched in blood.
Drawing my eyes away from Abby, I was about to move closer to the center of the courtyard through the crowds when my hearing was assaulted with a deafening tune. The same tune that had beckoned me across the Pacific. It started up again, louder than ever before. As was the case the last time I heard this melody on arrival within the island’s boundary, it was no longer beautiful to me. It was far too loud for me to appreciate it. It rang in my head so intrusively, I barely had room in my mind for my own thoughts.
Where is that sound coming from?
I glanced around the funeral ceremony once more and figured that now was as good a time as any to find out. I moved away from the courtyard, turning in a circle and straining my hearing to ascertain which direction the noise was coming from. It definitely wasn’t coming from anywhere near the beach behind me. No. The melody was coming from the mainland, its shrill tones piercing through the trees behind the witch’s temple. I followed the sound as best as I could, through miles of dark woods, until I neared the part of the island that was designated for agriculture. The trees thinned and gave way to meadows of corn and wheat, sprawling orchards, and a sea of vegetable fields. It was by the witches’ magic that we were able to grow such fresh produce without the rays of the sun.
I paused, trying to find my bearings. The tune was drifting toward me from the direction of the vegetable fields. I moved forward swiftly again, my feet grazing the soil. I passed through several fields, until the melody reached a fever pitch and stopped. My mind stopped ringing and the quiet, soothing sounds of the island returned.
But it meant that I’d lost the trail again. Now I might need to wait hours before it started up… although it had sounded so close to me. It’d been louder than ever a few seconds ago. I was certain that it came from somewhere in these very fields surrounding me.
I stopped amidst the potato crops and scanned the area once again. To my left was a thin line of trees, marking the border between the potato and cauliflower fields. At the end of this row of trees was a small farmhouse that hadn’t been inhabited for decades. Although I’d spent most of my life on this island, I was quite sure that I had never stepped inside of it, even as a child.
Then I spotted something strange. Gathered beyond the building, deeper into the cauliflower crops, was a crowd of people. Except, as I moved closer, they weren’t exactly people. They were… ghosts. Perhaps fifty of them, all hovering near the farmhouse.
I was momentarily stunned. I found myself rooted to the spot, just staring at this odd crowd. There were men and women of all ages, and even some children. Some wore casual, modern clothes like jeans and t-shirts, while others wore outfits that looked like they belonged in the eighteenth century; the women wore long, heavy frocks, while men donned breeches, cravats, and pleated coats. The only thing in common was that their attire looked ripped and ragged, and sometimes even stained with blood. That, and they all appeared to be humans, or rather had been humans in their former lives.
What in the world…?
Through my confusion, I realized that this was the first time I’d thought about the fact that ghosts even wore clothes. I looked over my own form. I was wearing the same clothes I’d worn before leaving my body—a cloak, ripped shirt and pants—only now the fabric had almost become a part of me. The garments were just as intangible and wispy as the rest of my form. I couldn’t take the clothes off, or even touch them—my hands just ran through them, as they did with everything else I tried to make contact with. It appeared that ghosts took on an identical appearance to the body they left behind. Almost like some kind of distant reflection, a shadow of their former selves.
Heads turned toward me as I arrived within ten feet of the crowd. They looked me over curiously.
“Who are you?” I asked in a hushed tone—hushed not because I had any reason to be quiet, but because I was still in a state of surprise.
I received several frowns before spirits from the crowd began calling out their names. “Augustus Croft. Tiffany Adkins. Tim Forney. Charlie McGuire. Lucinda—”
I held up a hand. I really wasn’t interested in knowing their names. “Wait, wait. I mean, where do you come from? Why are you here?” My confusion deepened as I gazed around at their bedraggled forms. “Did you all take the potion too?”
They appeared to be bewildered by my last question.
“Potion? What’re you talking about?” The woman who’d called herself Lucinda stepped forward. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with ebony skin and curly black hair tied up in a bun over the top of her head. From her rich accent, I guessed that she was from the Caribbean. She wore a suit that reminded me of those worn by air stewardesses—a gray skirt and jacket with a brooch attached, and a blouse whose front was drenched in blood.
