The Sweet Far Thing

Page 24

“Ann?” I reach out, and she slips her cold fingers into mine, holding tightly. I take a deep breath, and we step forward. For a second, it feels as if we’re falling, and then there is nothing but the dark. It smells musty and sweet.
“Gemma?” Ann’s whisper.
“Yes?”
“What has happened to Felicity?”
“I’m here,” Fee says. “Wherever that may be.”
I swing the lamp in first and am able to see a few feet ahead. It’s a long passageway. The lamplight falls on high arched ceilings of pale stone. Roots dangle through cracks here and there. In back of us, Spence sleeps, but it’s as if that world lies behind glass, and we push on.
As we pass, the walls flicker with a faint glow, like hundreds of fireflies lighting the way ahead, while the path behind us shifts into darkness again. The passageway twists and turns in a confusing fashion.
Ann’s jitters echo in the tunnel. “Don’t get us lost, Gemma.”
“Will you be quiet?” Felicity scolds. “Gemma, you’d best be right about this.”
“Keep walking,” I say.
We come to a wall.
“We’re trapped,” Ann says in a shaky voice. “I knew it would come to this.”
“Oh, do stop it,” Fee barks.
It has to be here. I won’t give up. Let the magic go, Gemma. Feel it. Unleash its power. Something’s calling to me. It’s as if the stones themselves are waking. The outline of another door appears in the wall, fierce light bleeding around its corners. I give the door a shove. It swings open, accompanied by a flurry of dust, as if it has been sealed for ages, and we step into a meadow redolent of roses. The sky is a clear blue in one direction and the golden orange of sunset in the other. It’s a place we know well but have not seen for some time.
“Gemma,” Felicity murmurs. Her awe gives way to jubilation. “You’ve done it! We’ve made it back to the realms at last!”
CHAPTER NINE
“IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL!” FELICITY SHOUTS. SHE TWIRLS ABOUT, making herself so dizzy she falls down in the tall grass, but she’s laughing as she does.
“Oh, it is like the most wondrous spring I’ve ever seen,” Ann murmurs. And indeed, it is. Long velvet ropes of moss hang from the tops of trees like gossamer green curtains; branches blossom with pink and white flowers. A gentle breeze sweeps them onto our upturned cheeks and lips. They nestle in my hair, making it smell sweet as new rain. I rub a flower between my fingers, inhaling its scent; I have to be sure that it is real, that I am not dreaming.
“We’re really here, aren’t we?” I ask as Fee entwines herself in the moss as if it were ermine.
“Yes, we are,” Fee assures me.
For the first time in months, hope flutters up through my soul: If I can do this, bring us into the realms, then all is not lost.
“This isn’t the garden,” Ann says. “Where are we?”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking about. Tall slabs of stone have been erected in a seemingly random pattern that puts me in mind of Stonehenge. Winding through them is a faint dirt path that reaches from the door to the realms beyond. The path is difficult to see, as if it hasn’t been used in a very long time.
“There’s a little trail here,” I say. “We’ll follow it.”
As we walk away, the door fades into the rock.
“Gemma,” Ann gasps. “It’s gone!”
It’s as if someone has tightened a string around my heart. I try to keep my wits about me. I take a step toward the rock, and the door glows once again.
“Oh, thank heavens,” I say, letting my breath out in a whoosh, relieved.
“Come on,” Felicity pleads. “I want to see the garden. I want…” She doesn’t finish her sentence.
We follow the path through the stones. Despite being pockmarked with age and dirt, they boast an impressive array of friezes showing women of all sorts. Some are as young as we are; others are as old as the earth itself. Some are clearly warriors, with swords held aloft to the rays of the sun. One sits surrounded by children and fawns, her hair flowing in loose waves to the ground. Another, dressed in chain mail, wrestles a dragon. Priestesses. Queens. Mothers. Healers. It is as if the whole of womanhood is represented here.
Ann gawks at the woman with the dragon. “Who do you suppose they are?”
“Perhaps they were of the Order or older still,” I say. I run my hand across a carving of three women on a barge. The one on the left is a young lady; the one on the right is a bit older; and in the center is a crone holding a lantern aloft, as though she’s waiting for someone. The picture gives me a strange sensation in my belly, as if I’ve glimpsed the future. “They’re remarkable, aren’t they?”