Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“Should we wake them?” I whisper, nodding at Doc and Cal and trying to shake the cramps out of my legs.

“Not yet. Let’s make sure it’s worth waking them first.”

Colleen moves to the horses-possibly to read their grapefruit-size equine minds-while I squint into the misty woods, hoping not to see fiery eyeballs peering back.

“Shit,” I hear Colleen growl above the whinnying, then, “Wake up! Doc, Cal! C’mon, c’mon, come on !”

Behind me they stir, they stretch, they come to befuddled wakefulness, they realize where they are and bolt from their bedding. They are taking up weapons and stations when I see the first pairs of eyes. I glance behind me and wonder if the rocky outcropping before which our very nervous horses now quiver will be help or hindrance.

Lanterns flare at the periphery of my vision. I rip the lid off my fire pit and light up. The flames are sluggish, but they go. To my right and left I hear the rustle of tarps being whisked aside. Flames leap.

“Doc, stay with the horses.” Cal’s voice comes from my left. “Keep them calm. If the twists get past us, take them across the stream and get as far away as you can.”

Doc argues, albeit unsteadily, “We should all leave. If we move now-”

“We could be separated,” Cal finishes. He dumps wood on his fire; it spits bright cinders into the air.

On my right, Colleen hunkers down behind her own column of flame, crossbow locked and loaded. None too soon. Dark shapes materialize out of the shrubbery. As we watch, they go from solid to vapor-black on black, smoke on ink. They may not be able to surround us, but they can easily push us up against the rocks or into the creek if they attack.

They don’t attack. They just melt into the trees and watch us. All we can see of them is those burning red eyes. After about an hour of this, they glide into a different formation. I can feel all four of us clench, expecting an attack. None comes.

Another hour ticks by. We speak in whispers, keeping each other alert. Cal wonders aloud what they’re waiting for. I don’t want to find out, I seriously don’t.

“Just pray they don’t start singing,” Colleen says.

I take that as an order.

It occurs to me that we could be sitting here till dawn, and I wonder if our fires and lamps will last that long. We are destined to find out. My pile of wood is dwindling and Cal is dropping on his last log when Colleen swears.

“Dammit, the lamps.”

They die as we watch. Then it begins to rain again. It’s a gentle rain but it’s killing our fires, and the dimmer the fires get, the closer the menace moves. I recall that Colleen theorized our shadowy friends were afraid of rain. I could say “I told you so,” but decide it would be exceptionally bad timing.

The twists begin to make a sound that’s less like singing than like wind through high-tension wires. Then they move, oozing toward us like sentient oil slicks. Like the thing in my nightmare. Our pathetic horses are freaking. I can hear Doc desperately trying to calm them.

“Torches!” yells Cal, and lights one. Firelight gleams down the wicked length of the sword he readies in the other hand.

The twists dance at the edges of the light, shapes shifting, now solid, now ephemeral, always distorted, as if they’re dressed in clothing that twists and deflects sight. They advance, they retreat, they keen and wail, they eddy like candle soot. And I realize that they’re more than just sensitive to the light. They’re terrified of it.

The fire I shelter behind leaps no higher than my thighs. I drop the machete and hold out my arms-palms up, eyes closed-and imagine four people and six horses inside a snow globe. My palms tingle. My eyes open to a veil of blue-white light.

“Sonofabitch!” Colleen squeals like a five-year-old and leaps back from the shimmering curtain.

Beyond the veil, our would-be gourmands shriek in fear and fury. I want to laugh, not at Colleen (although I have to admit she looks damn funny-kind of like a guerrilla goldfish), but at the sheer exhilaration of what I’m doing.

If they came like smoke, they leave like a buffalo stampede. When the thrashing fades, the wood is as tranquil as a Robert Frost poem. There is only the whisper of rain and the breathing of ten relieved creatures in a bubble of light.

I hold the globe of light around us for another several minutes, until I’m sure I hear nothing in the woods beyond. Then I let it go. It does a Fourth of July fireworks fade. So does my energy. Hands on knees, I pant like a dog.

“Bozhyeh moy,” says Doc softly, and I think he crosses himself.

“What the hell was that?” Colleen demands, her eyes still raking the woods.

Cal utters a single bark of laughter. “Cool.” He grins at me sideways in the flicker of struggling firelight. “That,” he says, “was a step above your usual parlor tricks.”

“I’ve expanded my repertoire. So, what do we do, boss? ‘Do we go or do we stay?’ ” I half gasp, half sing this last bit, then pull myself upright.

Cal sends me a quick glance before sinking to his haunches. “If we could count on them staying away…” He shakes his head, flinging water from his hair. “This weather is miserable for traveling.”

“Look, here’s an idea-why don’t you and Doc stand watch while Colleen and I grab some sleep? If the horses act up again, wake me and I’ll blow another bubble.”

Cal surveys our soggy campsite. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could set up a ‘bubble’ and have it stay put?” “I … I don’t think so. That took a lot of effort.”

“Could I get you to try? Anything, Goldie. All it needs to be is flashy.”

Flashy. “Okay. Lemme see what I got.”

I fashion a ball of blue-white light, rolling it between my hands, feeling the texture of the power against my palms. They all slog over to watch me, looking like a gathering of drowned cats in the pale light. Rain drips from their hair, glitters on their eyelashes, and trickles down their cheeks.

I take my ball of light, set it about four feet off the ground, and let go. “Stay,” I tell it, and step away.

It stays.

“You’re still thinking about it,” says Cal. “Walk away and make another one.”

I do as asked. When I’ve finished and set the second globe, I glance back at where the first one was-and still is. Cool . A little Goldie goes a long way.

When I cozy down in dry clothes inside my pup tent, a perimeter fence of obedient light-balls stand guard over my sleep. I send them my last conscious thoughts.

When I wake at dawn, the rain has stopped and the sky is a bright blue, streaked with flame. The light-globes are gone.

“How long did they last?” I ask Doc over a hasty breakfast of dried fruit and flatbread.

“Almost two hours. It appears they extinguished when you entered deep sleep. But we had the fires up again by then.”

I get my bearings, listening to leaves, and we mount up, striking out due west. Just after noon something changes. We are within sniffing distance of the Ohio River. Behind me the others discuss whether to ford the river or try to find a bridge. I’m idly wondering if there might be trolls under bridges these days when a window opens in my mind through which I catch the scent of a melody.

This is neither my memory nor the memories of leaves, this is the real deal. Without a moment’s thought, I turn my horse and head due north.

“Goldie?” Cal comes up beside me. Sooner (a nervous Nellie if there ever was one) prances and rattles his bit. “Don’t we need to find a place to cross the river?”

I only half hear the question. “River? No… he’s on this side. Up ahead. North.”