The Lake of Souls (3 page)

As another week dragged by, I withdrew further and further inside myself. I no longer answered people when they asked a question, only grunted like an animal. Harkat had tried talking me out of my mood three days earlier, but I swore at him and told him to leave me alone. He lost his temper and took a swipe at me. I could have ducked out of the way of his chunky grey fist, but I let him knock me to the ground. When he bent to help me up, I swatted his hand away. He hadn’t spoken to me since.

Life went on as usual around me. The Cirque folk were excited. Truska — a lady who could grow a beard at will, then suck the hairs back into her face — had returned after an absence of several months. A big party was held after that night’s performance to celebrate her return. There was much cheering and singing. I didn’t attend. I sat by myself at the edge of camp, stony-faced and dry-eyed, thinking — as usual — about Mr. Crepsley.

Late in the night, there was a tap on my shoulder. Glancing up, I saw Truska, smiling, holding out a slice of cake. “I know you feeling low, but I’m thinking you might like this,” she said. Truska was still learning to speak English and often mangled her words.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” I said. “Good to see you again. How have you been?” Truska didn’t answer. She stared at me a moment — then thrust the slice of cake into my face! “What the hell!” I roared, leaping to my feet.

“That what you get for being big moody-guts,” Truska laughed. “I know you said, Darren, but you can’t sit round like grumpy bear all time.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” I snapped. “You don’t know what I’m feeling. Nobody does!”

She looked at me archly. “You think you the only one to lose somebody close? I had husband and daughter. They get killed by evil fishermen.”

I blinked stupidly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Nobody here does.” She brushed her long hair out of her eyes and gazed up at the sky. “That why I left home and joined with Cirque Du Freak. I hurted terrible inside and had to get away. My daughter was less than two years old when she die.”

I wanted to say something but my throat felt as though there was a rope tied tight around it.

“The death of somebody you love is the second worst thing in world,” Truska said softly. “Worst thing is letting it hurt you so much that you die too — inside. Larten’s dead and I am sad for him, but if you go on as you are being, I will be sadder for you, because you will be dead too, even though your body lives.”

“I can’t help it,” I sighed. “He was like a father to me, but I didn’t cry when he died. I still haven’t. I can’t.”

Truska studied me silently, then nodded. “It hard to live with sadness if you can’t get it out with tears. Don’t worry — you’ll cry in end. Maybe you feel better when you do.” Standing, she offered me a hand. “You is dirty and smelly. Let me help clean you up. It might help.”

“I doubt it,” I said, but followed her into the tent that Mr. Tall had prepared for her. I wiped the traces of cake from around my face, undressed, and wrapped a towel around myself while Truska filled a tub with hot water and layered it with scented oils. She left me to get in. I felt foolish stepping into the sweet-smelling water, but it was wonderful once I lay down. I stayed there for almost an hour.

Truska came in when I’d stepped out of the tub and dried myself. She’d taken my dirty clothes, so I had to keep a towel wrapped around my middle. She made me sit in a low chair and set about my nails with a pair of scissors and a file. I told her they wouldn’t be any good — vampires have extra tough nails — but she smiled and clipped the top of the nail off my right big toe. “These super-sharp scissors. I know all about vampire nails — I sometimes cut Vancha’s!”

When Truska was done with my nails, she trimmed my hair, then shaved me and finished off with a quick massage. When she stopped, I stood and asked where my clothes were. “Fire,” she smirked. “They was rotten. I threw them away.”

“So what do you suggest I wear?” I grumbled.

“I have surprise,” she said. Going to a wardrobe, she plucked forth brightly colored clothes and draped them across the foot of her bed. I instantly recognized the bright green shirt, purple pants and blue-gold jacket — the pirate costume I used to wear when I lived at the Cirque Du Freak.

“You kept them,” I muttered, smiling foolishly.

“I told you last time you was here that I have them and would fix them so you can wear again, remember?”

It seemed like years since we’d stopped at the Cirque shortly before our first encounter with the Lord of the Vampaneze. Now that I cast my mind back, I recalled Truska promising to adjust my old costume when she had a chance.

“I wait outside,” Truska said. “Put them on and call when you ready.”

I took a long time getting into the clothes. It felt weird to be pulling them on after all these years. The last time I’d worn them, I’d been a boy, still coming to terms with being a half-vampire, unaware of how hard and unforgiving the world could be. Back then I thought the clothes looked cool, and I loved wearing them. Now they looked childish and silly to me, but since Truska had gone to the trouble of preparing them, I figured I’d better put them on to please her.

I called her when I was ready. She smiled as she entered, then went to a different wardrobe and came back with a brown hat adorned with a long feather. “I not have shoes your size,” she said. “We get some later.”

Pulling on the hat, I tilted it at an angle and smiled self-consciously at Truska. “How do I look?”

“See for yourself,” she replied, and led me to a full-length mirror.

My breath caught in my throat as I came face to face with my reflection. It may have been a trick of the dim light, but in the fresh clothes and hat, with my clean-shaven face, I looked very young, like when Truska first outfitted me in this costume.

“What you think?” Truska asked.

“I look like a child,” I whispered.

“That is partly the mirror,” she chuckled. “It is made to take off a few years — very kind to women!”

Removing the hat, I ruffled my hair and squinted at myself. I looked older when I squinted — lines sprang up around my eyes, a reminder of the sleepless nights I’d endured since Mr. Crepsley’s death. “Thanks,” I said, turning away from the mirror.

Truska put a firm hand on my head and swiveled me back toward my reflection. “You not finished,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I’ve seen all there is to see.”

“No,” she said. “You haven’t.” Leaning forward, she tapped the mirror. “Look at your eyes. Look deep in them, and don’t turn away until you see.”

“See what?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. Frowning, I gazed into my eyes, reflected in the mirror, searching for anything strange. They looked the same as ever, a little sadder than usual, but …

I stopped, realizing what Truska wanted me to see. My eyes didn’t just look sad — they were completely empty of life and hope. Even Mr. Crepsley’s eyes, as he died, hadn’t looked that lost. I knew now what Truska meant when she said the living could be dead too.

“Larten not want this,” she murmured in my ear as I stared at the hollow eyes in the mirror. “He love life. He want you to love it too. What would he say if he saw this alive-but-dead gaze that will get worse if you not stop?”

“He … he …” I gulped deeply.

“Empty is no good,” Truska said. “You must fill eyes, if not with joy, then with sadness and pain. Even hate is better than empty.”

“Mr. Crepsley told me I wasn’t to waste my life on hate,” I said promptly, and realized this was the first time I’d mentioned his name since arriving at the Cirque Du Freak. “Mr. Crepsley,” I said again, slowly, and the eyes in the mirror wrinkled. “Mr. Crepsley,” I sighed. “Larten. My friend.” My eyelids were trembling now, and tears gathered at the edges. “He’s dead,” I moaned, turning to face Truska. “Mr. Crepsley’s dead!”

With that, I threw myself into her embrace, locked my arms around her waist, and wailed, finally finding the tears to express my grief. I wept long and hard, and the sun had risen on a new morning before I cried myself out and slid to the floor, where Truska slipped a pillow under my head and hummed a strange, sad tune as I closed my eyes and slept.

CHAPTER THREE

I
T WAS A COLD
but dry March — star-filled nights, frost-white dawns and sharp blue days. The Cirque Du Freak was performing in a large town situated close to a waterfall. We’d been there four nights already, and it would be another week before we moved on — lots of tourists were coming to our shows, as well as the residents of the town. It was a busy, profitable time.

In the months after I first cried in Truska’s tent, I’d wept a lot for Mr. Crepsley. It had been horrible — the slightest reminder of him could set me off — but necessary. Gradually the tearful bursts had lessened, as I came to terms with my loss and learned to live with it.

I was lucky. I had lots of friends who helped. Truska, Mr. Tall, Hans Hands, Cormac Limbs, Evra, and Merla all talked me through the hard times, discussing Mr. Crepsley with me, gently guiding me back to normality. Once I’d patched things up with Harkat and apologized for the way I’d treated him, I relied on the Little Person more than anyone else. We sat up many nights together, remembering Mr. Crepsley, reminding each other of his personal quirks, things he’d said, expressions he’d used often.

Now, months later, the tables had turned and
I
was doing the comforting. Harkat’s nightmares had returned. He’d been suffering from agonizing dreams when we left Vampire Mountain at the start of our quest, dreams of wastelands, stake-filled pits and dragons. Mr. Tiny said the dreams would worsen unless Harkat went with him to find out who he’d been before he died, but Harkat chose to accompany me instead on my hunt for the Vampaneze Lord.

Later, Evanna helped me stop his nightmares. But the witch said it was only a temporary solution. When the dreams resumed, Harkat would have to find out the truth about himself or be driven insane.

For the last month Harkat had been tormented every time he slept. He stayed awake as long as he could — Little People didn’t need much sleep — but whenever he dozed off, the nightmares washed over him and he’d thrash and scream in his sleep. It had reached the stage where he had to be tied down when he slept — otherwise he stumbled through the camp, hitting out at imaginary monsters, causing damage to anything he encountered.

After five days and nights, he’d fallen asleep at the end of our latest show. I’d tied him down in his hammock, using strong ropes to strap his arms by his sides, and sat beside him while he tossed and moaned, wiping green beads of sweat from his forehead, away from his lidless eyes.

Finally, early in the morning, after hours of shrieking and straining, the cries stopped, his eyes cleared, and he smiled weakly. “You can untie me … now. All done for tonight.”

“That was a long one,” I muttered, undoing the knots.

“That’s the trouble with putting … sleep off so long,” Harkat sighed, swinging out of his hammock. “I postpone the nightmares for a while, but I … sleep longer.”

“Maybe you should try hypnosis again,” I suggested. We’d done everything we could think of to ease Harkat’s pain, asking all the performers and crew in the Cirque if they knew of a cure for nightmares. Mr. Tall had tried hypnotizing him, Truska had sung to him while he slept, Rhamus Twobellies had rubbed a foul-smelling ointment over his head — all to no avail.

“No good,” Harkat smiled tiredly. “Only one person can help — Mr. Tiny. If he returns and shows me how to … find out who I was, the dreams … will hopefully stop. Otherwise …” He shook his squat, grey, neckless head.

After washing off the sweat in a barrel of cold water, Harkat accompanied me to Mr. Tail’s van, to learn our schedule for the day. We’d been doing a variety of odd jobs since hooking up with the Cirque, putting up tents, fixing broken seats and equipment, cooking and washing.

Mr. Tall had asked me if I’d like to perform in the shows, as his assistant. I told him I didn’t want to — it would have felt too weird being onstage without Mr. Crepsley.

When we reported for duty, Mr. Tall was standing in the doorway of his van, beaming broadly, his little black teeth shining dully in the early morning light. “I heard you roaring last night,” he said to Harkat.

“Sorry,” Harkat said.

“Don’t be. I mention it only to explain why I didn’t come to you straightaway with the news — I thought it best to let you sleep.”

“What news?” I asked warily. In my experience, unexpected news was more often bad than good.

“You have visitors,” Mr. Tall chuckled. “They arrived late last night, and have been waiting impatiently.” He stepped aside and waved us in.

Harkat and I shared an uncertain glance, then entered cautiously. Neither of us carried a weapon — there seemed to be no need while we traveled with the Cirque Du Freak — but we bunched our hands into fists, ready to lash out if we didn’t like the look of our “visitors.” Once we saw the pair sitting on the couch, our fingers relaxed and we bounded forward, excited.

“Debbie!” I yelled. “Alice! What are you doing here?”

Debbie Hemlock and Chief Inspector Alice Burgess rose to hug us. They were simply dressed in trousers and sweaters. Debbie had cut her hair since I last saw her. It was short and tightly curled. I didn’t think it suited her, but I said nothing about it.

“How are you?” Debbie asked once I’d released her. She was studying my eyes quietly, checking me out.

“Better.” I smiled. “It’s been rough but I’m over the worst — knock on wood.”

“Thanks to his friends,” Harkat noted wryly.

“What about you?” I asked the women. “Did the vampaneze return? How did you explain things to your bosses and friends?” Then, “What are you doing here?” I asked again, perplexed.

Debbie and Alice laughed at my confusion, then sat down and explained all that had happened since we parted in the forest outside the city. Rather than make a genuine report to her superiors, Alice claimed to have been unconscious the entire time since being kidnapped by Vancha March. It was a simple story, easy to stick to, and nobody had cause to disbelieve her.