Winterkill (26 page)

My dreams
. Yes. She's exactly the girl I've been dreaming on—the one who's been calling to me, asking me to find her.

I spin about. I have no idea where I am. Seems I'm west of the grove, but I can't be sure.

A small trail empties out ahead of me. I push ahead, watching the trees for the girl to reappear. When I brush aside the branch hanging over the end of the path, I draw up short. The pole with the red cloth bends in a frost-filled breeze.

I'm back at the Crossroads.

I close my eyes and breathe deep so my mind doesn't splinter into pieces.
Easy.
It's day. I've been here before and lived to tell the tale. There's no way she's a Wayward ghost looking for some sort of revenge.

Is there?

My grandma'am's ring feels hot and bright on my finger.

The girl appears at the top of the hill that leads to the gibbets. She smiles again—that same shy smile. Then she beckons and disappears down the other side.

My chest is tight and my hands shake as I pull my cloak tight around me. Should I follow? I try to think on what waits for me back at the fortification, but all I feel is a nothingness that wants to swallow me whole.

I am Discovery.

The wind gusts at me something fierce as I climb; I have
to bend my head against its force. When I crest the hill and raise my eyes, my heart stops. I'm a good hundred strides from the gibbets at the bottom, but it's plain from this distance: the cages are empty.

Empty.

I try to catch my breath back in the rushing wind. The girl is moving sure among the gibbets, heading for the far side.

My feet move, slipping down the cliff. By the time I reach the bottom, my skin is slick beneath my winter clothes. Sweat beads on my upper lip and I breathe hard, staring at the rusted cages. The doors hang open, like the skeletons inside them pushed them out and flew away. Or . . .

Like they were never there to begin with.

This can't be. I bend, put my hands on my knees and hang my head, trying to slow my breath. My grandma'am's ring glares at me.

Have I plain lost my senses?

A thin, fluting whistle echoes through the Crossroads. This time I know it straightaway: it's the sound I heard when Kane and I hid in the cabin's cellar—the same sound Brother Stockham followed that day I saw him in the woods.

My eyes search for the sound.

It's the girl, waiting outside a line of trees on the far side, her fingers to her lips. She makes the sound once more, then gestures for me to follow. She's not smiling anymore, she's beckoning urgent-like.

My voice comes out a croak. “Wait!”

She doesn't.

I lurch after her. I can't be left alone in this place.

The wind rushes over the hills and sends the gibbets
twisting as I stumble through. There are hot tears on my face—when did I start crying?

Back in the woods we're sheltered from the wind. She's ahead, not stopping, leading me with little backward glances. The stark-white poplars are sun-blasted bones now and white flakes are falling around us like ash.

When I stumble over fallen brush and fall to my knees, she pulls up short and waits for me to get to my feet. Then she's off again. We come to a tree-dotted hill. She stops and whistles again. It echoes through the woods.

And then, a whistle answers back.

She smiles and starts up the hill before us.

My leg is on fire and every bone in my body feels boulder heavy. I scramble through the slick dead leaves, pull my heavy body up the incline. When I get to the top, I recognize the hill we've climbed. We came from a different direction and are looking at it from the side.

It sits at the bottom of the gully, flickering with light like a tiny candle: the cabin. She's led me to the cabin.

I hobble down the slope as fast as I'm able, but she's far faster. She gets to the cabin and darts round the side, up the steps, and in through the door.

My breath is coming fast and jagged, the pain a white-hot blaze searing into my hip. I am dragging, dragging my body with me, my mind drifting slow like the ice in the river.

I cross the clearing. The bright taste of blood is hot in my throat. I half crawl, half stumble up the steps, reach for the door with clammy hands. I'm about to push it open when it swings wide and a backlit shape blocks my path.

Hands seize the front of my cloak and drag me across the threshold. The light is so bright, spots dance in my eyes. The door slams behind me and I'm pushed to the wall and held firm.

A muffled voice reaches my ears, speaking words I can't figure. The shape before the light shifts like it's reaching for something.

More light illuminates the space, bringing the shape before me clear.

I want to scream, but my voice is gone.

I'm staring at the Elephant Man.

I JERK BACKWARD, TRY TO SCRAMBLE AWAY, BUT
there's nowhere to go. I'm caught, my back pressed against the wall, my cloak held tight in one leathery fist. Behind the Elephant Man looms another. There are two, leering with bulbous eyes, raspy breath.

The ghost girl led me to my death—led me to the
malmaci.

I lunge forward, clawing and raking at the Elephant Man. It loses its grip on my cloak and falls back. Putting my head down, I draw back and then push off the wall, charging straight through the center of them. I knock both off balance and burst through, but I'm brought up short by a painful choking feeling. My cloak is tight around my throat—one of them has a corner of it. With a swipe I tear it free and lunge forward again. My eyes are blurry with tears, but I can see two walls facing me. That crate with candles sits on the floor. Where is the door? I've lost it. I'm cornered.

I whirl. They're both shouting strange words, advancing on me with their hands up, like they're cornering a wild animal.
I won't be able to surprise them this time, and there's no way I'm strong enough to get through them again. I shrink back against a wall, sink to the floor, and throw my arms over my face. I can't die here. Not like this.

A girl's voice rings out:
“Nakana!”

There's a silence. I brace myself for their hands on me, but nothing comes. Peeking out over my forearm, I see the Elephant Men draw back. They look at one another, shifting their weight. Then the ghost girl appears, pushing her way between the creatures. She points at their faces, points at me.
“Mâkwêyihtam.”

The one before me cocks his head. He speaks to her—it's muffled. They're half human, half . . . I can't figure. Their nightmare faces are shiny and smooth and the sounds they're making . . .

She kneels in front of me and her hands flutter up to touch me. I flinch and duck my head.

“We won't hurt you.”

She's speaking English. I risk another look over my arm. She's smiling at me. But then I look to the Elephant Men, standing there, hulking and rasping. She looks over her shoulder, points again to their faces.

There's a sound of protest from one of the Elephant Men.

“It's
her
,” the girl says.

There's a pause while the Elephant Men look at one another, their heavy breathing filling the cabin. Then the Elephant Man closest to me reaches a leather-clad hand to his neck. There is a popping sound as he touches something under his chin, and then he pulls at his face. His bulbous eyes and long nose strip away, and in their place is a darkhaired
young man with a sharp face and deep brown eyes. He holds his elephant face in his hands, staring at me.

The other does the same—making the popping noise, pulling at the face. He has a rounder face, and the same beautiful eyes. Somewhere in the back of my mind I take in that both boys are dark-haired, have slightly dark skin—like the girl—and wear blue clothing.

“Akohp,”
the girl says to them.

The sharp-faced boy springs to a corner of the cabin and returns with a wool throw. He passes it to the girl and steps back again.

She reaches forward with the blanket. My mind is going every which way. I let her wrap it around my shoulders. My fingers are wooden as I grasp the blanket and try to get a breath.

“We won't hurt you,” she says again.

I want to speak, but my tongue is sluggish, my thoughts are splintered. Is she . . . Are these my Lost People?

“You understand?
Tu comprends?
” She puts a hand on my knee. Her hand is warm.

I draw a breath.

She peers at me. “
Parlez-vous francais ou anglais
? English or French?”

I force my voice out. “Eng-English.”

She sits back and says, “We've been looking for you a long time.”

I frown. There is a long pause where we do nothing but look at one another. Her eyes are shiny.

I force out the only thing I can think to say: “W-w-why?”

She smiles. “Because you're the Lost People.”

They wrap me in another blanket and pour me a drink that the girl—Matisa—says will bring warmth to my insides. I can't figure how: it's cold on my tongue, but sure enough, when I swallow, a real pleasant warmth spreads in my chest.

I watch them move sure but quiet about the cabin, shifting silent to a pack in the corner, over to the strange glowing torch that sits on the floor, back to one another. They speak their language here and there, and speak English to me in words that sound both drawn out and clipped.

Matisa settles beside me. She gestures to the boys. “My brother, Nishwa”—she points to the round-faced boy—“and my cousin, Isi”—the boy who had me by the cloak. Nishwa inclines his head, his eyes curious. Isi looks at me with a wariness I'm well used to.

They're wearing the strangest clothes I've ever seen. Tight-fitting pants and shirts, jackets similar to a kind I've seen in storybooks—and moccasins.

They're real enough, surely not some fearful imagining, and they don't look like they want to hurt me. There's something about their dark eyes and straight hair that tugs at my thoughts. They don't look like anyone I know. No, that's not true. They look something like the south-quarter people. Like the First Peoples part of them.

They remind me of Kane.

“I'm Emmeline,” I say.

Matisa nods. “I know.” She smiles. “I dreamt you, Emmeline. I've been dreaming you a long time.”

“I've been dreaming you too.” Never saw her face in my dreams, but I know it's her; I can feel it. We study one
another, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Why did you call me that? ‘The Lost People'?”

Matisa looks at the boys. They sink to their haunches on the floor and she swings around so she's facing me. Her brown eyes are warm, her face open. “The answer is long.”

But I have so many questions I don't wait: “Where did you come from?”

She cuts the air with her palm. “Far away. Farther than you can hope to walk in a week.”

“How did you survive?”

“I dreamt we would survive this place.” Matisa lifts her chin and throws a look at the boys. “If we follow our dream paths, we know these things.” Nishwa fiddles with his elephant mask.

She looks back at me like she's explained everything.

“Your dreams told you how to survive the
malmaci?
”

Matisa frowns like she doesn't understand.

“The bad spirit that lives in these woods,” I explain.

Matisa exchanges a glance with the boys.

“How did you survive out here?” I ask again.

Three pairs of soft brown eyes measure me. The wind outside the cabin howls.

Isi crawls forward and speaks to Matisa in their language. His eyes have barely left my face since taking off his mask. Matisa nods and waves her hand, dismissing his words. Then she pours me more of the warming drink as he sits back.

“Our people left this place long ago. I know nothing of this
malmaci,
” she says.

I study her face. She's telling the truth. Is it possible they just didn't encounter it in these woods yet?