It was a simple statement of fact, but it was a warning, as well. Why is it sacred?" he pressed.
The Spider leaned close. "The spirits live in the mountains. Some are as the wind. Some are flesh and blood. They speak with us when We chant their names. They tell us of their will. We give them offerings and make sacrifices so that they will protect us."
The others, standing close behind the speaker, nodded in agreement. Logan could tell that this was serious business for them, that these people regarded their relationship with the spirits of the mountains-whatever they might be-as they would a religion.
"Will they let no one pass to the other side?" he asked.
The speaker shook his head, hands making a warding gesture. "You must turn back."
Logan sighed. He didn't know what to do next. He didn't think reasoning was going to work here. He would have to take a different approach. Or maybe he should just turn around and try to find another way, one that would allow him to avoid this blockade.
"Do you have an offering so that we may permit you to go?" the speaker continued.
Oh, so now it's blackmail, he thought in disgust. He shook his head. He didn't have time for this. But he wasn't going to get into a fight if he could avoid it. "Let me get out and see," he said.
He opened the door and stepped out of the AV, bringing the black staff with him. As soon as the Spiders got a look at the staff, its carvings clearly visible against the polished surface, there was a collective moan. The entire body moved back from him as if it had been scorched by fire, a scattered few dropping to their knees, one or two actually covering their eyes. Logan froze instantly, not sure what was happening.
The speaker hunched forward a step, bowing deeply. "You are a magic wielder!" he hissed. "Forgive us, please. We did not know."
Sorry, sorry, sorry, whispered the cringing forms. Logan looked from face to face in disbelief.
"Do you require our lives as payment for our foolishness?" the speaker asked softly.
"No," Logan said quickly. "No, I don't require anything. It's all right."
His mind raced. "I just need you to tell me how to find my way through the mountains."
The speaker, head bowed until now, risked a quick glance up. "You would visit with your own kind? I should have realized what you wanted. Of course, of course. We can help you. We can show you where they are. Come this way."
He set out at once, the others hastening after him, casting anxious glances back at Logan and the AV. Logan climbed back in the vehicle and started forward once more, working his way through the obstacles, following the dark gathering that flowed ahead of him. Maybe this was going to work out after all.
They continued up the road for another two or three miles, the Spiders moving smoothly and easily over the terrain, seemingly tireless, their dark forms scattering out ahead in the deepening dark. He thought to turn on the running lights, but he was afraid that would frighten them. They were clearly a highly superstitious bunch, if they believed in mountain spirits, and he couldn't be sure what else might disturb them. All he needed to do was find his way into the mountains, and he could leave this business behind. Besides, the sky was sufficiently clear that slivers of moonlight cut through the cloud cover and washed the landscape in a pale soft glow sufficient for his needs.
As they traveled, more Spiders joined those already leading the way, until there were easily more than a hundred. They were of all shapes and sizes, probably of all ages, big and little, old and young, and it became clear that word of his coming had spread to the larger community. More appeared with the passing of every minute, materializing out of the dark, come to see the magic wielder. He found himself wondering how large their community was and how distant their village. Did they even have a village? How did they live?
He knew so little about Spiders, he realized. Tiny splinter groups of mutants ostracized by everyone, they had been forced to make their own way in the larger world. They had survived by burrowing, Michael had told him once.
Humans, they had gone to ground when the bombs fell and the radiation poisoned everything. They had survived by living on earth, air, and water that should have killed them, but instead had caused them to mutate. Like the Lizards and the other breeds. Normal humans wanted nothing to do with them; normal humans could not imagine living as mutants did, would not have dreamed even of touching them. Humans had gone one way, mutants another. It remained to be seen how it would all come together down the road.
If it ever came together at all.
It was more than an hour later when they reached another crossroads, a new highway intersecting the one on which they traveled, this one running east to west from the plains into the mountains. The speaker came back to the AV and bowed. "The pass lies that way," he said, pointing up the crossroads and toward the peaks. "Should we come with you?"
Logan shook his head. "You have done more than enough to help me."
"The other man asked us to go with him so that he could be certain of the way," the speaker explained.
Logan frowned. "Have others like me come through here?"
The speaker nodded. "Only the one, more than two years ago. He carried a staff like yours. We did not recognize him. We did not understand who he was. We challenged him, and he revealed himself to us through use of his magic. Thirty lives were taken in payment for our foolishness. It was a necessary lesson, he said."
A rogue Knight. Logan had heard of them, a few only, men and women who had lost their way and their belief and become demons themselves. It was rare, but in the madness of the apocalypse, it happened.
"No lives are required here," he assured the speaker and those others pressed close enough to hear.
A murmuring rose from those gathered, borne on a wave of gratitude. Logan shook his head in disgust.
"Will you tell the spirits when you see them that we remain faithful?" another asked, one whose face beneath the patches of hair was deeply wrinkled and spotted with age. "Will you tell them we are grateful for their protection?"
Several answers came to mind, but he said only, "I will tell them."
He left them clustered at the base of the mountains, gathered together at the crossroads, a collection of strange creatures with strange ideas. He felt oddly ashamed of himself for playing into their fantasies about mountain spirits, but he couldn't think of a better way to handle things. They seemed convinced that such spirits existed, and it would have been foolish for him to try to convince them otherwise. Even so, he didn't like pretending at things he knew weren't true.
He drove ahead through the darkness along a road that was mostly clear, a two-lane concrete ribbon that wound upward through foothills toward a black massing of jagged peaks. He should have waited until daybreak to attempt this drive, but he was anxious to get on with things. He could see well enough by moonlight to find his way, and if he drove slowly and carefully he should be able to reach the other side before morning and could sleep then.
"As long as there isn't another slide blocking my way," he muttered. Then he smiled. "Or unfriendly mountain spirits who don't appreciate my passing through."
He considered throwing the finger bones again, but it didn't seem necessary at this point. What he was looking for was somewhere on the other side of the Rockies, so he might as well wait until he had crossed to reevaluate which way he needed to go. Unless something drastic changed, he was headed into the northwest part of the country or maybe even into Canada. There was nothing to say that the gypsy morph hadn't chosen to hide outside the United States.
Boundaries didn't mean much at this point. Less still, if you were a creature of magic.
Or a wielder of magic, like himself. That was what the Spider had called him. But he knew what he was. He was a hollowed-out shell that had been infused with fresh purpose and a cause. He was a dead man brought back to life by an encounter with the Word. He was an orphan lost in a world of orphans, but unlike so many, he had been found. He was not a wielder of magic; he was its servant.
He ate a little and drank from a water bottle as he drove, keeping his eyes on the road and his attention on the task at hand. The road twisted and turned through the rocks, and now and again he encountered massive boulders hunkered down like predators to block his path. The air turned sharp and cold as he ascended, and breathing became more difficult. He was up about a mile by now, and light-headedness brought on by the thinning air forced him to concentrate harder. He was deep in the mountains, no longer climbing but simply navigating through narrow defiles and towering peaks, a solitary sojourner in an empty land.
Then fog began to gather and settle in about him, a thin blanket at first that quickly thickened to something much more unsettling. There was no reason for fog to appear this high up on a night that had been clear and in weather that had been untroubled. He watched it tighten like a shroud, shortening his vision to less than fifty feet, then thirty, and finally to ten. He slowed the AV to a crawl, switched on the fog lights, and waited patiently for the heavy mist to break. It did not; if anything, it got worse. Time passed, a steady unraveling of minutes that left him numbed and weary. He blinked against his sleepiness, sipping at the water bottle, humming tunelessly. His thoughts drifted and scattered like dried leaves blown in the wind.
You should have listened to them, a voice said suddenly.
He glanced over and found Michael sitting in the passenger's seat, rigid and unmoving, eyes directed straight ahead. He stared for a minute, and then looked back to the road.
"You aren't here. I'm imagining you," he replied.
There was no response. He glanced over, and Michael was gone. He felt a chill run down his back as he realized what had just happened. The change in altitude coupled with exhaustion was causing his mind to play tricks on him. He took a deep, steadying breath and let it out, nosing the car ahead. The fog couldn't go on for much longer; it had to break soon.
I wouldn't be too sure of that, boy, Michael said.
He was back in the passenger's seat, his craggy profile expressionless as he sat staring out at the night, hands resting comfortably in his lap atop his Ronin. Logan risked a quick glance over, unable to help himself, feeling the cold seep back into his bones. There was a pale light all around Michael, a hint of something otherworldly, of an ethereal quality that living things did not possess.
Mountain spirits, he thought in disbelief, then cast the thought away.
"You're dead, Michael," he said. "Have the decency to stay that way."
Beside him, Michael shimmered and vanished. Maybe that was all it took, he thought. Just tell them to go away and they would. He smiled despite the shiver that swept through him. Very accommodating, these mountain spirits.
He glanced back at the empty seat several times after that, trying to prevent any reappearance by telling himself that if he kept watch, it wouldn't happen. He was anxious to get clear of this fog and these mountains now, to get far away from them. Then he could get some sleep and stop hallucinating. He hadn't realized how tired he was, and when he coupled that with the traveling conditions and his mental state, he could understand why he was seeing dead people.
I don't think you should keep going this way, a new voice said. I think you should turn back. This road doesn't belong to the living, Logan.
His father was sitting next to him now, a less clear apparition than Michael, but real enough that it caused him to start. His father wouldn't look at him, staring straight ahead as Michael had, an ethereal presence that suggested he could vanish in an instant's time. As Logan continued to stare at him, he did just that. He shimmered, melted into mist, and was gone.
And Logan looked back at the highway just in time to slam on the brakes and swerve to avoid a huge boulder blocking the center of the road. The Lightning skidded along the moisture-dampened road toward a low guardrail and a drop that fell away into blackness. Logan pumped the brakes and pulled the wheel all the way over so that the vehicle was sliding sideways and out of control.
It stopped beside the guardrail with inches to spare. The engine killed with a grunt, and the steady hum turned to a soft ticking in the night silence.
Logan sat without moving, staring at nothing. He closed his eyes and waited for his heart to slow and his breathing to steady. It was all right now, he told himself. But maybe he had to stop after all. Maybe there was nothing for it but to wait for morning and to try to sleep until then.
No rest for the wicked, whispered Michael.
No rest for the living, said his father.
He sighed and opened his eyes. There was no one there. He was alone, locked inside the AV, the soft lights of the dash and the slow ticking of the engine the only signs of life.
Outside the AV, the fog was closing in like a living thing, tendrils tightening about the vehicle, shutting off the sky and the earth, wrapping like a spider's webbing. At first, he thought he was mistaking what he was seeing. It was so deliberate, so purposeful. But then everything disappeared in a sheet of damp white, and he knew that despite what common sense and reason told him, there was something out there and it was trying to take control.
Should have turned around, said Michael.
Never should have come, said his father.
Faces began to appear outside the AV, ghostly apparitions that materialized one by one and then pressed close to the window glass. Eyes as blank as bare walls peered from faces etched by pain and suffering. Such eyes could not see, and yet it felt as if they did. Hands reached out and brushed the glass, and he flinched. They were all around the Lightning now, and their numbers were increasing by the minute. He reached quickly for the starter, intending to get out of there. But the motor would not catch. It would not even turn over. The vehicle was dead.
He sat staring at the controls, and then looked up again at the faces. He recognized the ones closest. They were the faces of men and women he had fought beside while he was with Michael. They were the faces of slaves and victims he somehow remembered out of so many he had tried to free. All of them were dead now. He knew it instinctively, not just from their apparitional appearance, but from what he felt inside, too. They were ghosts, and they were there to haunt him.
But what did they want?
Two new faces came into view, sliding through the crowd until they were right up against the driver's window. His throat tightened. It was his older brother Tyler and sister Megan, gone all these years, their faces unchanged, frozen in time. They stared at him blankly, dead-eyed and directionless, but aware, too. They knew he was there, inside the Lightning. Like all the others, they had come looking. Like all the others, their need was a mystery he could not decipher.
He squeezed his eyes shut. They were not going to disappear like Michael and his father. They were more than smoke and mist, more than insubstantial specters, more even than ghosts conjured by imagination. They were creatures of magic and spirit life, brought to him to achieve something, and they would not depart until he responded to their presence.
He opened his eyes and stared out at them. Sometimes you had to confront the dead as well as the living, the past as well as the future. Sometimes the two were so inextricably interlocked that there was little to distinguish between them. It was so here. Mountain spirits or something more insidious, there was a joining that reasoning and common sense could not undo.
He seized his staff, opened the door, and stepped outside the AV to confront whatever waited.
The outside air hit him with a blast of cold that nearly knocked him backward, an icy rush that cut right to his bones. The wind was blowing hard, something he hadn't realized before because its force was having no effect at all on the ghosts crowded around him. They neither advanced nor gave way as he emerged, but held their ground and swung their blind gazes in his general direction. A few lifted their hands as if to touch him, but their efforts were feeble and more demonstrative of need than intention. Shivering in the sharp chill of the wind, he brought the black staff around in front of him, letting the natural light reflect off its surface. The wind howled in response-or perhaps it was the ghosts-and the deeply etched runes flared with inner light, with their infused magic, fiery and bright.
The spirits of the dead fell back, and for an instant Logan believed they would disperse. But in the distance behind them and farther up the road, a strange darkness had begun to gather. More ghosts were emerging from its roiling mass, pressing forward to join those already surrounding him. He watched them approach, half disbelieving what he was seeing, half recognizing the inevitable.
The dead had not appeared of their own volition; the dead never did. They were either summoned or sent; he knew that much from his time as a Knight of the Word.
But what was the source of the darkness to which they were responding?
He gripped the black staff and started forward, pushing through the gathering of spirits, their white emptiness giving way, their ephemeral presence dissipating and re-forming as he passed. Only a confrontation with their source would resolve what was happening. If he was to break free of this-whatever this was-he would have to face down the thing that was causing it, the darkness from which these spirits emerged. It hung thick and impenetrable as he approached, but even as he reached its edges he still could not put a name to it.
He brought up the staff, its magic already summoned and flowing over him in a bluish light, encasing him in its armor. He felt the warmth of its protection enclose him and was reassured. He lashed out at the blackness, ripping at it as he would a piece of cloth. It split apart easily, unable to hold together, collapsing before him, and a fierce joy engulfed him, a sense of empowerment.
But the split lasted only a moment, and then almost effortlessly the blackness repaired itself, the jagged tear resealing. More ghosts emerged from its dark breast. More faces pressed forward. Again, he attacked. Again, the blackness split apart and again quickly resealed and re-formed, unaffected. If anything, the roiling mass appeared to be an even larger and more inexorable presence.
Now the hands of the dead were touching him. He could feel them stroking his body, their fingers as cold and icy as the mountain wind. He could feel their chill dampness against his skin; he could feel it through his clothing.
The effect was unpleasant and oddly debilitating. He could feel his strength eroding, bleeding away.
Angry now, he tried a different approach. Instead of a tearing, rending attack, he used the magic like a huge windmill in an attempt to sweep the blackness away. His efforts worked. The wind he generated exploded the dark mass, and the fire burned what remained to shards of smoke. He stood watching in the aftermath, breathing hard. Nothing of the darkness remained. The way forward was clear.
But then the ghosts of the dead pressed up against him anew, touching him everywhere, more insistent now, more demanding, and he saw that the blackness was beginning to re-form. He stood stunned as it tightened and grew ever larger, pressing toward him, the empty-eyed ghosts pouring from its opaque center in knots. There were so many now that they were tumbling over each other in their efforts to reach him. The entire pass was filled with them.
He experienced a sudden panic, and he understood its source immediately.
He had thought he would always be ready for the unexpected when it surfaced. He had told himself that he would know instinctively what to do when threatened.
But he was lost here; he was adrift without a lifeline. His attempt at attacking the blackness, at causing it to dissipate or erode, was yielding nothing at all, and he did not know what to do about it.
He took an involuntary step backward. Something about the way he was fighting this battle was doing more harm than good, and if he didn't discover what it was, he was going to lose.
He gathered his thoughts, tightened his resolve, and pushed back the feelings of fear and doubt. He had survived too many fights to lose this one. He was a Knight of the Word, and he would not give way.
He stared at the darkness, and then turned his attention to the white, empty faces surrounding him. Perhaps the spirits of the dead were not as invulnerable as their source. He went into their midst, fighting back against his revulsion, armoring himself against the touch of their fingers, speaking words of magic to banish them. He used the fire of the staff to sweep aside each as he passed, and to his satisfaction they began to disappear, one after the other. He did not look to see how many were still coming, but kept his eyes on those pressing closest, looking at each, recognizing each, knowing he must acknowledge them if they were to be sent back to where they belonged.
He did not know for how long or to how many he did this; he lost track of time and numbers and simply kept pressing ahead. The faces came and went in a wash, so many he remembered, so many he had known. He said good-bye to each as the fire consumed them, facing down the emotions that welled up within him. What he felt was a cold certainty, a hard-edged understanding of what he was doing to himself by banishing them. He was losing his past; he was giving up his memories. With the disappearance of each white face, he let go of a little more of what he remembered.
He understood now that he was the one who had summoned them, perhaps without realizing it, perhaps with help from whatever lived in these mountains.
The darkness was his, the past carried on his shoulders, memories of the dead, of those he had known and cared about and could not forget. They weighed on him; they haunted him. He had kept them shut away until tonight, then set them free.
There would be no peace for him until they were locked away again, this time for good.
The mass of white faces thinned to only a few. His brother and little sister were before him now, their blank stares sad and lost in a way he could hardly stand. He reached for them and touched them fearlessly, letting the terrible sensation of their presence wash over him as he sent the fire of the staff through their empty forms until they slowly faded away. Dead and gone, he realized, never to return. Already, their faces were so vague in his mind that he could not reconstruct their features.
When he stood alone finally, the darkness that had blocked the pass had dissipated entirely. Nothing remained but rock and cold and black night. He stood looking at nothing, and then turned back to the AV. His father and Michael stood beside it, white and ephemeral, the last of his ghosts. They were staring not at him, but at something beyond him, something he could not see. He did not hesitate, but walked over to where they waited and touched each in turn with his magic, saying good-bye. They did not speak to him or look at him. They simply stood before him as if awaiting the inevitable. Then the staff swept through them, and they, too, were gone.
In the aftermath, he thought about what the Spiders had told him. He did not know if their mountain spirits were entities that had given life to his ghosts or if they were manifestations of the ghosts themselves, but he had been wrong to disparage them. He had not believed they existed, but now he understood that they did. Not everything that was real in this world could be seen.
He looked around for other ghosts, but the last of them had disappeared.
He could feel his memory of their faces slipping away. Although he tried, he could not seem to hold on to it. Perhaps he would remember a few of them, the ones he had known best, but most were gone forever. He had banished them with the Word's magic, and he knew that by doing so he had made it impossible for them to return.
Their absence left an ache in his heart, a void so huge that he could not fathom how he could endure it. But when he tried to dispel that ache, he found he could not. For an agonizing moment, he was eight years old again and had just lost his family for a second time.
Only this time, he discovered, there were no tears to be shed. As he stared out into the darkness and the sweep of the land, his eyes were dry.
Chapter TWENTY.
NOON WAS LESS than two hours away, and Hawk was thinking about who he would take with him when he went to his meeting with Tiger. Midday today was the designated time for delivery of the pleneten, and while Hawk was anxious to get the serum into Tiger's hands so that he could help Persia, he was troubled by everything that had happened over the past few days. He might have been willing to dismiss both their encounter with the dying Lizard and the Weatherman's discovery of the nest of dead Croaks as all-too-familiar occurrences in a world where death and dying were commonplace. But Candle's vision of something bad coming their way, coupled with their chilling experience in the warehouse basement, had left him convinced that things were changing in the city and not for the better.