Chapter 19: Out of the Fire

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I don’t want to look towards the voice.

I mean, come on. Can you blame me? Every goddamn time I’ve bumped into something since that ritual in the woods, it’s been some hideous thing that wants to eat me. Aside from William, I guess.

But now he wants to eat me too, so that doesn’t count anymore.

“What’s the matter, little one?” the voice coos. “Don’t want to open your eyes?”

I know I’m being ridiculous. I mean, I did just beat off whatever’s in that tunnel, didn’t I? Or maybe it was dumb luck. I don’t know, maybe everyone in this weird dream looks like an enthusiastic toddler that bit into a glowstick.

“My dear,” the voice speaks. It’s a woman - it’s definitely a woman. She has the kind of voice that people would refer to with campy phrases like melted chocolate and warm honey. Honestly, what do those things even mean? Can you imagine what that sounds like? I can’t. “You cannot just lie there forever. You’re in the way.”

That gets me going. I roll violently (read: gracelessly) to my feet, stumble for a moment, and then force myself to look the newest abomination in the eye.

A beautiful woman stares back at me, blinking in confusion.

I need to be clear about what I mean by beautiful. I’m not talking ‘damn, I want to be her’ pretty. I’m talking ‘maybe I want to be with her’ pretty. And I’m straight. Mostly. Probably.

The longer I stare, the more I’m starting to question it.

Her skin is flawless. This is the color people imagine when they think about Snow White. Her lips are full and red, and her eyes - her eyes are the widest I’ve ever seen, and shockingly blue. Like, are those contacts? blue.

And her hair. Her hair is this rich golden color. It dangles down in long, flowing curls, all the way to her hips. Her clothing is a riot of colors, reds and yellows and rich purples. I don’t really recognize the getup - it’s a dress of some kind, with a sash around the middle. It kind of makes me think of those pictures I’ve seen of Greek statues. Toga, maybe?

“You’re alive.”

Her words snap me out of it, which is good, because I might actually have been leering at the poor woman. God, I hope not. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry, uh. What?”

She laughs. The sound is as beautiful as she is. Musical. Downright lyrical. I immediately start rifling through all the jokes I know and lining them up to see if I can get her to do it again. “I said you’re alive. You’re so…hmm. Well.” She purses her lips. “Usually dreamers are a bit less well formed, so I thought perhaps you were a lost soul. But you aren’t dead, are you?” She gives her head a quizzical tilt, and her hair falls past her shoulders. The cut of her outfit leaves them bare, showing the soft curve of them where they connect with her throat…

What is wrong with me?!

“Listen, yeah.” I give her what I’m sure is my absolute worst, most awkward smile. “Yeah, I’m lost. I’m um, I’m dreaming.” I grimace. “And not dead, or I hope not at least. Would you mind pointing me towards. Um.”

I pause. Towards where? I don’t even actually know where I am. I’m at least smart enough to figure out this isn’t a normal dream. You’re not supposed to know you’re dreaming, not unless you’re doing it lucidly. But if that were the case, I would be at the wheel, right? In control of everything?

I sure as HELL don’t feel like I’m in control right now.

“You’re filthy,” she says, laughing again. Usually this would be a biting comment, but she says it so nicely. Besides, she’s not wrong. I am fucking filthy. I probably look like a walking ball of mud right now. Suddenly self-conscious, I peer down at myself. I’ve left a trail of gunk from the limestone door over the soft green grass underfoot. My entrance has quite literally made a stain.

“Oh,” I mumble. “Oh, sorry.”

She laughs again, and the sound is kind. She reaches out towards me and places a hand on my arm, and I instinctively flinch. I don’t want her getting any of this goop on her fingers. Especially given where it came from. It’s probably toxic or something.

“Come,” she says. “I will help you, but first let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

She gives me a smile, and I swear my insides positively liquefy.

I let her lead me. If nothing else, at least this is leagues better than anything I’ve dealt with thus far. Hell, even if she kills me I’m not sure I’ll mind. She could probably make murder feel amazing.

Earth to Lydia, I think. Hey. You there? Wake up.

The air here smells amazing. It’s fresh and rich with the scent of wildflowers and loam. After whatever hell I just crawled through, I’m convinced this must be heaven. Maybe it is. Maybe she’s wrong and I actually am dead.

If I get to stay here, I guess I’m alright with that.

She leads me to a clearing surrounded by weeping willows and one beautiful laurel tree. There’s a pond in the middle of it without a hint of algae: just clear and crisp. It’s fed by a babbling stream that falls languidly over the edge of a nearby ledge, the sound of the water tittering pleasantly in my ears.

“Alright,” says the beautiful woman. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

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My brain bluescreens. Error 404. I don’t consider myself to be the most modest person in the world or anything, but stripping down in front of strangers doesn’t sound like my idea of. Well. A good idea.

Plus, what would I look like next to this woman? Oh my god. I don’t want her to see me naked.

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” I say. My voice comes out much more high pitched than I’d intended. “You know, I should wash the clothes too. They’re um, muddy.”

She stares at me, amusement curling the corners of her full mouth. I feel my face turn bright red.

“There’s no need to be shy,” she encourages. “Really, I’ve seen many people naked in my time. You won’t look any different.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I blather. “Really, it’s no big deal. I wouldn’t want to make you, um. Uncomfortable…”

She gives me a strange look, one I can’t interpret, then reaches out her hands and grasps the edge of my shirt to pull it upwards.

I, in a display of unrivaled brilliance and poise, whirl towards the pond and dive head-first into the water, clothes and all.

The water is a shock. Not because it’s cold, but because it’s warm. I’d expected fresh mountain water, clean but frigid. It’s so warm in here I feel like I’ve just gotten into the bath. Is it a hot spring, maybe? It didn’t look like one from the outside. Usually there’s some discoloration, a bit of an odor…

When I pop my head back out again, the beautiful woman is gone.

I freeze, limbs barely treading water. Swiveling my head, I try to figure out where she might have run off to. There are plenty of places to hide, of course. I mean, we’re in a forest. Kind of. More like a glade, because glade sounds fancier. Or a glen?

It occurs to me I don’t actually know the difference between these words.

“You know,” someone says. “Usually by the time I arrive, visitors are already wearing. Less.”

I whirl. The movement isn’t particularly smooth - I can swim, but it’s more of an undignified doggie paddle. Think frog, but missing a leg.

My visitor is not the pretty woman who brought me here. In fact, it’s not a woman at all, which naturally makes all my hackles stick straight up. If I were a porcupine, there’d be casualties. I find myself eying a man. I can only see the top half of him - the rest is hidden by bits of shrubbery. He’s lithe, with the muscle definition of a runner or a swimmer. Long black hair coils about his head, and poking up out of said hair, I can see a pair of. Of…

A pair of tiny horns.

Well that’s not a good sign.

The man steps beyond the hedge and further out of the line of trees. From the waist down, I see a pair of furry legs that end in cloven hooves. He’s wearing a belt, with a pan-flute dangling off of it, bouncing jauntily against his hip. I should mention he’s not wearing anything else. Thank god the aforementioned fur is long.

“We don’t get many visitors these days,” he sighs. “It happens, you know. People forget to come. They tend to be rather fickle. It’s the mortality, I’m sure. Memory can only survive so long when your lives blink out as fast as they’re lit.”

“Uh,” I reply, helpfully. “Sorry?”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Oh, never fear. Just an old man bemoaning the past. What do you call them now?” His head tilts to the side. “The…good old days?”

I nod uncertainly. He doesn’t look old to me. I mean, I’m not an expert judge of half-goat-men, but if I had to guess, I’d probably put him at thirty at most. And that would be if I were feeling harsh.

He’s near the edge of the waterline now. Finding a rock, he situates himself upon it, plucking the pan flute deftly from its string. Now that he’s closer, I can see that his ears are tipped and fuzzy around the edges, like an eager chihuahuas. I swear I see them twitch a little when he gets a better look at me in turn.

A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. “Ahhhh,” he says. “You’re no ordinary visitor, are you? You’re special.”

I reflexively wade back a few feet. This man is handsome - in spite of the whole half-goat thing - but he’s not giving me the same sense I got from the woman. There’s something about him I find reflexively off-putting. I feel a bit rude about it - I’m in his home, after all, or what I assume is his home - but still. All I’ve got to go off here is gut instincts, so I’m gonna go with them.

“Not a very talkative creature.” He states. I can’t quite tell the color of his eyes. His pupils are weird - horizontal squares that are currently so wide I get the impression of two black holes looking at me. It’s not a pleasant feeling. “That’s alright. I imagine you’re simply nervous. Humans these days aren’t accustomed to speaking with gods anymore.”

I can’t help myself. I blurt: “Gods?”

His smile grows wider. “Of course!” He replies. “Surely you must recognize me. My name isn’t that faded from time.”

I squint at him. I don’t really want to say that my only point of reference is The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. I’m pretty sure this guy isn’t going to invite me in for tea and biscuits. I’m getting more ‘betray me to a witch’ vibes, if I’m honest.

The smile fades slightly. “No?” There’s a huff, his chest deflating at the blow to his ego. “It’s such a pity. The others who’ve passed through, there’s no flavor anymore. No spark. No flare.” He flashes his fingers through the air and wriggles them. “You’re so up-tight these days, you mortals. Whatever happened to dancing naked under the light of the moon?” He eyes me, tilting his head from one side to the other. “Tell me, do you usually bathe with clothes on?”

I do when creepy goat-men are watching me, I think, but I say: “It just didn’t seem appropriate to undress.”

“Oh no?” He runs his tongue along his flute, then plays a few experimental notes. “Why not?”

“I mean.” I frown. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Mmmm,” he replies. “Lost, are you?”

“Yes,” I admit. “And pretty eager to get back. There are some things I’ve gotta deal with.”

He turns his head to inspect me more carefully. “And what things are those? What could you possibly need there that you cannot get here?” He lifts a hand, gesturing to the sunlit glade around him. “This is a paradise, dear girl. If you keep wandering, there’s no promise you will end up somewhere better. In fact, there’s a great deal of chance you’ll find yourself somewhere worse.” His voice dips low, edging towards menace. “Far, far worse.”

A chill runs down my spine. It isn’t that he’s threatening me, per say - it’s the memory of that thing in the tunnel. The one that tried to drag me down.

I have to admit, he has a point.

“I can’t just stay here,” I protest. “I have to get back.”

“Get back where?” he asks.

I’m about to reply when he puts the flute to his mouth and starts to play.

The music. The music he plays is like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It’s beautiful, but there’s also a sadness to it. An immense and terrible sorrow, one that worms straight into my heart and digs itself in. My legs churn the water more slowly, but I find myself slowly drifting towards him, getting closer to the edge of the pond.

He continues to play. Every note beckons me. I find I want to reach out towards him. To ask him why it is he’s so very sad. I know that I could make him feel better. I could sooth his hurts. And I should, shouldn’t I? I should find a way to heal him. No one should hurt that way.

“Her sisters thought they could hide her from me, you know,” he says, pulling his lips away for a moment.

“Mmm?” I murmur, my eyes lidded, one hand outstretched towards him. I don’t quite remember getting out of the water, but I stand there, dripping wet. My clothes hang heavily on me.

“She was playing with me, of course. Pretending to run. I chased her, but by the time I caught up with her, they’d transformed her into a reed. A lovely little river reed. They thought I wouldn’t notice, of course.” He smiles warmly at me. “They thought they were very clever.”

His words don’t really register. I’m still thinking about comforting him, and really, why shouldn’t I? He lost a friend, didn’t he? That’s what he’s saying, isn’t it?

“Still,” he murmurs. He turns the pan flute in his hands, running his fingers softly along its length. “She makes such beautiful sounds, doesn’t she?”

I stiffen. The words and their meaning register loud enough in the back of my mind that it grants me a precious moment of clarity. As I watch, he brings the instrument back to his lips again, breathing his words into the hollow reeds as he meets my eyes.

“I wonder what sounds you’ll make.”