Wendolyn is aware that she sounds like a petulant child. But she does not care. She is a child. And she is angry at her father. She is angry at him for taking her away from the only thing that is familiar to her at a time when she doesn’t even recognize herself. And she is angry at him for letting her live with this feeling of not knowing. Not knowing her own mind. Not knowing the Nameless Fear that haunts her father. Not knowing how a woman made out of water could rise up out of a lake and attack her.

  Her father continues in his effort to pull her from the tree: “I am not permitted to leave you, Wendolyn.”

  Not permitted? Wendolyn thinks. What does that mean? Not permitted by whom?

  But before she can ask the question out loud, the wind turns just slightly away from the lobes of her ears, and Wendolyn is now able to hear a clamor above them that was hidden by the baying mountain air.

  The clamor unnerves Zongshi, and Wendolyn’s eyes are drawn skyward, where she sees a huge black stain spreading over the moonlight. It looks like a dark, endless hole widening in the firmament, and it has a disembodied voice that pierces the night.

  But as she looks closer, Wendolyn realizes that the dark stain is actually a massive blanket of black birds -- the very kind she had seen escape the watery fist at the river. And the voice is actually the flock’s collective harsh cry, which sounds like a demon chorus.

  “Darklings. They have found us,” she hears her father say, a current of dread pooling just below his voice.

  Wendolyn looks to her father, who is also eyeing the intimidating horde of birds.

  Darklings.

  This is the first Wendolyn has heard that name.

  Then, to Wendolyn’s surprise, her father leaves her side. He rushes to the middle of the road, where he relieves his shoulder of the satchel. He pulls the flower from the bag, unwrapping it, revealing its greenish glow, which pushes against the darkness.

  Wendolyn’s grip on the tree loosens as she is mesmerized by the luminescence of the flower’s petals, which are still trapped beneath a bell-shaped glass jar. While Wendolyn has seen discrete portions of the flower through the sliver where the cabinet doors meet imperfectly, she has never seen it in full. But seeing it now, seeing all of it, it is beautiful. And she suddenly wishes that her father had kept it out on display, instead of hiding it in the cupboard.

  Her father searches the ground for something, feeling around beneath the crusted snow. After a moment, he pulls a rock the size of his fist out of the white earth. And with another look at the bird-filled sky, Wendolyn’s father turns back to the flower and brings the rock down on the protective glass, smashing it into shards that scatter in the snow.

  With the bell-shaped jar destroyed, the glowing petals lift off the stems. They appear to be flying of their own volition, choosing their direction.

  Wendolyn watches them as they float up into the sky, mesmerized by the green flecks disappearing into the upper levels of night, escaping behind the birds. For just a moment, the splendor of the petals allows her to forget about the sense of looming danger.

  But her father returns to her side, and so does the sense of fear.

  “Give me your coat,” he demands.

  “What?”

  “Your coat. Give it to me.”

  Wendolyn obeys, handing her coat to her father, who then ties it to Zongshi’s back. Then, with a whisper into the horse’s ear and a slap of its backside, her father sends Zongshi off into the night.

  “Zongshi, no!” Wendolyn cries out after her always-horse. But Zongshi does not look back.

  As her father speaks, he removes his own coat and wraps it around Wendolyn to keep her warm: “Zongshi will carry your scent in the other direction. Perhaps that will allow us the time we need to escape.”

  “Will we see him again?” Wendolyn asks, her heart squeezed.

  Her father is caught without an answer, and only says: “We must hurry.”

  After picking up her spear and strapping it to his back, her father then grabs Wendolyn by the arm and pulls her along as he enters the trees, moving fast.

  “What was that back there with the flowers? Why did you--?” Wendolyn begins to ask.

  Her father interrupts her. “It was a signal. For help.”

  Wendolyn is surprised to hear an answer from her father, instead of a deflection.

  “Help? To protect us from the birds?” Wendolyn looks back over her shoulder, still able to glimpse patches of the haunting black birds through the tops of the leafless trees.

  Wendolyn can barely keep pace with her father, whose weight now carries him faster down the densely treed hill that leads to the stream.

  “It is not the birds that you should fear,” her father shouts over his shoulder.

  Just then, an angry noise rips through the forest. Louder than anything Wendolyn has ever heard before. As if the mountain itself just gave a deep-throated roar.

  “That,” her father says. “That is what we should fear.”

  If possible, Wendolyn’s legs move even faster, and she tells herself that she will never let go of her father’s arm. Not ever again.

  ◆◆◆

  The icy fangs of winter nip at Wendolyn’s neck and ankles as she tries to keep up with her father. They have pushed deeper into the woods, the path ahead thick with branches. But while it is dark, Wendolyn recognizes their surroundings: they are near Sanctuary Rock. She is reminded that just a fortnight ago she was playing games with her friends. And she wishes desperately that she was in the midst of a game right now, not running for her life.

  Suddenly, a branch seems to reach out of the fog and grab her arm. The end of the limb wraps around her elbow, keeping her from moving forward. How is this possible?

  “Father!” Wendolyn shouts.

  Her father looks back and immediately his eyes go to the branch, which seems to be the appendage of a living, breathing creature, intent on stopping her. Wordlessly, her father unsheathes a double-edged scimitar from his backstrap and slices through the branch, freeing Wendolyn. But then a new branch appears, seizing Wendolyn’s leg. Her father hacks at the branch, again freeing her.

  As Wendolyn whips around, she sees that the forest has come alive, with branches interlocking everywhere, the trees taking on the look of a predator.

  She looks to her father. “What is happening?!”

  “Climb on my back,” he says.

  Wendolyn obeys, throwing her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

  “Hold on tightly,” he instructs. “And do not look behind us. No matter what you hear.”

  Wendolyn can only nod her assent as her father takes off with her on his back. As they reach the interlocking branches, her father chops away at them with his scimitar. With each branch severed, a new one reaches out, the forest folding in on them ever faster. But her father drives at the trees, fighting his way through.

  Then, a noise from behind.

  The deep-throated roar.

  Closer now.

  Try as she might, Wendolyn can not stop herself from turning her head to see what is coming for them. Through the woolly darkness, she can just make out three figures, with one of them towering over the other two. And there is something else: a small, faint red glow that penetrates the night.

  “Wendolyn, turn away,” her father commands as he continues to hack away at the branches bending into their path.

  She listens, turning back into her father’s neck, her chin at his right ear.

  “Father, what--?”

  But he does not let her finish. “I need you to hold on as tightly as you can. Do not let go.”

  Wendolyn’s arms hug her father’s wide shoulders, her body leaving no air between the two of them. And as she looks ahead, she sees why her father wants her to hold on so tightly: they have reached the precipice that runs along the forest; the place that she and her friends call the Edge of the World.

  Her father leaps from the ledge!

  And now they are falling, her father’s elbows squeezing her knees into his ribs, the tops of the trees in the valley below racing up toward them.

  She has always wanted to know this sensation. Often, when she looks at falling snow, she thinks: What would it feel like to drop out of the sky? And when she has felt lonely, or felt the oppressive guilt of her mother’s death, she has lined her toes up at the edge of the precipice and leaned her head out, daring the wind.

  The drop is impossibly fast, the violent music of the air lasting only a second. But more impossibly, her father lands on his feet, his legs absorbing the hard earth of the valley floor. There is barely a bend in his body. And there is not a break in his stride as he presses forward. It is as if the hundred foot fall was no more than a step down a staircase for her father.

  As Wendolyn tries to process the impossible landing, her father carries her to the stream carved into the valley, where he splashes into the water. She has learned from her father that a scent is best lost in the running water, and she imagines that is what her father is up to now, attempting to lose their pursuers.

  But once again, the branches come to life. And down here in the valley, with the trees crowding together, the interlocking branches create a dense wall. It is too thick for her father to penetrate with his scimitar. He turns, trying another route, but all of the trees are conspiring against them. In moments, Wendolyn and her father are trapped in a prison of limbs. And above them, the canopy is brimming with the black birds -- the darklings, as her father called them -- the moonlight flickering through their beating wings.

  Her father sets her down on the ground, then puts his hands on her shoulders as he looks directly into her eyes.

  “Listen to me,” he says gravely. “I have kept you in the dark for too long, and I am to blame. I thought I was protecting you, but now I see that perhaps…” He does not finish this thought, but instead says, “Now you will have to confront things as they truly are.”

  She hears the Nameless Fear in his voice. But there is something else, something she has never heard before. He is speaking like a man who has accepted his fate, like he is about to surrender to death.

  Outside the prison of limbs, the three figures approach, deliberate but slow.

  Her father rushes his words out in a whisper: “Wendolyn, you have a great weight that sits upon your shoulder. Remember those words, for they will determine the fate of many.”

  The words of her father ride the wind to her ears, and she tries to make sense of them. But before she can ask her father for more, the tall figure, hidden behind a cloak, sweeps the air with his hand, and the branches part for him, creating an entrance.

  “Get behind me,” her father says as he shoves the spear into her hands.

  Wendolyn does as she is told. From behind her father, she has an interrupted view, and she must peer around his wide shoulders to see.

  Two of the men remain unlit by the moon, their faces in the shadows as they stand sentinel at the treed entrance. Meanwhile, the cloaked figure approaches, the flickering moonlight revealing an iron mask beneath a cowl pulled low. His mouth, if he has one, is hidden under the mask. And there are two holes for his eyes. The right one appears normal, the white of his eye peeking out from the mask. But his left eye burns with a piercing red glow, like a distant star being swallowed by the deepest night.

  “Give me the girl,” the cloaked figure says, his molten voice finding Wendolyn’s insides, sending a deep shiver through her entire body at once.

  “She does not have what you want, Waldron,” her father says.

  Waldron.

  Wendolyn presses her memory for the mention of that name, but she has never heard it before. And still, her father seems to know this fearsome being.

  “And yet you have been hiding her all these years?” Waldron asks. “No. She has what I want. And she will give it to me.”

  Wendolyn searches her mind, trying to imagine what she has that this man -- this thing -- believes she can give him.

  “Now, you will stand aside. Or you will die.”

  The cloaked figure flashes an imperious glint from his right eye that nearly pulls Wendolyn in his direction. But her father challenges the command, standing firm as he grips the handle of the scimitar tighter.

  “I will not be ruled by your words,” her father says, a strain in his voice.

  “Oh, right, you swore an oath,” the figure says, a gravel-filled laugh echoing in his throat. “Might I suggest you find another purpose.”

  “I serve the will of the Caemon and the Shen. I have sworn to protect the Descendant. Should I fall here this night, others will rise and your time will end.”

  Wendolyn does not recognize her father’s words. The Caemon? The Shen? What are these things? Are they the people that he has alerted for help?

  “So, you have chosen your fate,” the cloaked figure says as he allows for a lingering pause before he turns to the two sentinels standing in the shadows. “Kill him.”

  The sentinels step forward, the fractured moonlight reaching their faces and revealing yellowed teeth and rotted gums. The one on the right bears a deep red scar that begins at the base of his neck and then marks the side of his face. The one on the left is missing both ears.

  Both sentinels smile as if they know something that Wendolyn and her father do not. Then suddenly, the men transform into creatures borne of the devil. Their eyes snap to a reptilian citrine. Their flesh stretches and thickens as they double in size. And finally, their spines crack and split as wings grow from their backs.

  Saurians.

  Wendolyn has heard tales passed around the village: ghost stories whispered before flickering bonfires about these beasts that once terrorized humans before they were trapped within the stone of Mount Saurian. But never has she believed these monsters were anything but myths to entertain.

  And now they are snarling only twenty feet from her.

  “Enjoy yourselves, my pets,” Waldron says, prompting the saurians with an outstretched chin.

  Without looking, Wendolyn’s father reaches behind his back and grabs the spear from Wendolyn’s trembling hands. In one motion, he launches the spear at the earless beast, catching him in the shoulder. Before the saurian can react, her father dives at the beast, wrenching the spear’s tip from the gash it created, causing the wounded saurian to loose a shriek of pain into the night. The other saurian, the one with the scar, unleashes a hot white flame from its jaws. But its streak of fire misses her father as he rolls beneath the saurian, slicing its leg with his scimitar as he goes.

  Wendolyn watches in disbelief as her father -- wielding his scimitar and the spear -- is able to outmaneuver the saurians, spinning and flipping and dodging in ways that Wendolyn has never seen. She has known this man since she was a baby on her back, but in this moment she does not recognize him as his feet seem to push off from thin air. The only moment she has seen her father move with such speed was when he grabbed that drunkard in the market, mistakenly believing he was a threat to Wendolyn.

  One of the saurians swings his tail at her father as the other throws a claw. But her father is able to slice the tail and evade the talons, angering the creatures. As the saurians continue to swat at her father, he proves to be quicker than light itself, and frustrates the two beasts.

  “Enough!” shouts Waldron, growing impatient with his minions. The red-eyed being waves his arm and suddenly her father flies through the air, an invisible force thrusting him backward, until his body crunches against a wall of branches.

  “No! Father!” Wendolyn cries out as his body falls to the frozen ground.

  Wendolyn feels her heart beating faster, slamming against her chest wall like a bird trapped in a cage. Her father has been overpowered.

  “So, that is what she believes? That you are her father?” Waldron asks, and his words scratch at Wendolyn’s mind as she tries to makes sense of them.

  “What does he mean?” she asks her father.

  Her father’s eyes lock with hers, and Wendolyn sees an apology writ deep within them.

  Before Wendolyn can press her father on the matter, he turns away from her and wings his scimitar in the direction of the cloaked figure. But as the double-bladed weapon sails through the air, Waldron flicks his wrist, and redirects the scimitar back toward her father. Wendolyn watches in horror as the scimitar drives deep into her father’s belly. His mouth opens to cry out in pain, but shock swallows his voice; and his scream is as soundless as the falling snow. Then his knees buckle, and he falls to the ground.

  “No!” Wendolyn yells as she races to her father’s side. His body is slumped over, ribbons of blood staining the pure white snow around him.

  Wendolyn’s knees sink into the cold ground as she cries over her father, appearing helpless for the first time in Wendolyn’s life.

  “Father, get up!”

  She heaves him over by his shoulder, rolling him to his back so that she can see his face. His breathing is labored, and his skin has turned the color of ash from a long dead fire.

  “Wendolyn…” he says, straining to breathe, his right hand holding his wound, his left hand reaching out and grabbing onto Wendolyn’s sleeve. “Wendolyn, I’m sorry… I could not protect you.”

  From outside the prison of limbs, Wendolyn hears a cacophony of voices. She looks up to see torchlight bleeding through the branches. While they are far off, she can just make out faces from the village. They have come to save her and her father!

  “Grab her,” the cloaked figure says to his sentinels. “We have what we came for.”

  “No!” Wendolyn shouts, as one of the saurians pulls her away from her father, a piece of her sleeve ripping away in her father’s grasp.

  “Wendolyn…” her father says weakly, desperate to save her, but unable to lift even his arms.

  Then, as Wendolyn attempts to fight off the saurian -- the torchlight and the hue and cry of the villagers still far off in the night -- a blunt fist comes down on her head and her world goes black.

  {Richard}

  Richard wakes drenched in sweat, his nightshirt clinging to his chest and shoulders; his hair, damp. His heart beats with the quickness of a galloping horse.

 

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