25. The Call #4
As she slowly approached a solitary pond, the golden-bronze exoskeleton had crept up her arms in tapered waves of metal until there was little space left to fill, organic like vining leaves and jagged feathers welded to her skin.
Sparks danced before her eyes as a gold-plated mask formed over the upper half of her face, wrapping around one eye and extending downward in a sharp, elegant curve along her cheek.
Through the settling ash, Flora noticed the rotting wood of an old hut collapsing into the water. All at once, she recognized the place.
A memory unspooled in her mind: a little girl opening her eyes in shock to a dark forest. The girl splashed out of the pond frantically, sprinting into the darkness past where Flora now stood like a ghost.
The birds fell silent. The roaring creatures of the forest held their breath—waiting, watching from the shadows as though a predator were passing through.
The lilies’ light danced across the barely moving water near the edge of the pond as she looked down. Memories of her seven-year-old self were growing hazier as voices echoed in her mind, pleading for her to follow the sound deep in the Forest.
Flora knelt at the edge of the water, closing her eyes tight as she tried to ground herself in reality. After a moment, she muttered, “I suppose I should kill you to silence your obnoxious breathing.”
A dark reflection shimmered in the ripples of the pond from a high branch. She knew it was there, but, in this blissful rage, she was devoid of fear. The creature’s heartbeat quickened, its black coat stretching and contracting with each breath.
“Do you hear it?” the creature said. “Do you hear the call?”
“Obviously,” she replied, glaring at the demon in the reflecting pool.
“Why don’t you follow it?”
“I…” Flora furrowed her brow, struggling to think. “I’m not even supposed to go into the Forest.”
“Well,” the creature whispered, its voice like thorns wrapped in silk, “you’re already here, aren’t you?”
Flora growled, seething as she slashed at the reflection with her bladed fingers. She looked up from the ravaged surface of the pond. “Why don’t you mind your own?—”
There was nothing there.
Flora caught her breath, looking around sharply as she crept away from the water.
For the rest of the day, Flora wandered through the woods, ignoring the siren song in the distance and fighting desperately to keep her delusions and fits of anger at bay.
Her stomach grumbled, and curiosity slowly led her along the stone path, out toward the familiar sound of a roaring spring.
By now, her fits had subsided, and hallucinations no longer caught her off guard.
She emerged from the shrouded woods to an outside world that was no less dark than the Forest, with the real night sky hanging high above.
Under the sliver of a crescent moon, Lunara’s sleepy eye looked down upon her.
The activity near the spring and along the creek had ceased. Likely, everyone who could be healed had been, and everyone who didn’t make it was shuttled back to the city wrapped in sheets.
Flora watched as the night lilies unfurled, glowing like nightlights along the path to the village. She heard a meow from the shadows.
“Marco?” she said, kneeling down as her old friend ran to her feet to greet her. Old Zet had stayed behind when the village was under attack, she recalled. Marco may well be all alone. She scratched Marco’s chin and smoothed the fur of his head.
The village was quiet, save for distant music playing from an old radio. As the voice rose and fell in the still night, Flora looked to the only house with a candle lit in the window. Slowly, she made her way toward the light with Marco at her heels.
Flora wiped her breath from the glass and peered inside.
She could hear the muffled serenade of John Denver from the table, pondering the meanings of love.
Beside the old radio, a shadow sat with his head in his hands, his dark blond hair tearing between his fingers, his face contorted in agony.
He tapped his foot, but not to the beat of the music.
He loved this song; he loved all of them.
She could remember his voice singing the words in her head better than she could remember the original.
She reached out for him behind the glass, feeling as though he were more than a world away.
The music swelled, and as Flora’s heart ached, Noec’s shoulders began to tremble.
John Denver sang in poems of warmth and shelter, but those words were no more than reminders of what they lacked. They were wishes made on dandelions, blown away in the wind. Her fingers pressed against the cold glass, but Flora was a ghost, barely real and barely alive.
The music softened, and Marco meowed at Flora’s feet.
There was a fresh, irritated spark that lit within her at the sound.
Once more, her tender heart was filled with inexplicable rage and she knew—she wasn’t ready.
She looked at Noec, sinking into his chair, and knew she still wasn’t ready to face him.
So, she returned, as if mechanically, to the seductive hum of Night Sky Forest.