Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“We make our own ghosts,” I said, “and then give them permission to haunt us.”

He looked at me again, speculatively. “Your thought is your reality.”

“What?”

“Abdu’l-Baha Abbas Effendi-a nineteenth-century Persian idealist. There are infinite meanings buried in that statement. A man can spend many years pondering it, trying to apply it, yet grasp but one or two.”

The words struck a chord. Goldie had grasped at least one of those meanings. He used it to manipulate light and energy. I’d grasped one of those meanings, too, the night before we left the Preserve. But I had the feeling Doc was talking about something else and perhaps speaking more to himself than to me.

“There’s a land bridge!”

Magritte’s excited cry interrupted my thoughts. No wonder Muhammad had favored a cave for his meditations. I urged Sooner forward. When I rejoined Goldie and Enid, Magritte was bobbing at eye level, pointing south.

“Well, it’s more of a sandbar, really,” she said. “But it looks like it might go all the way across… sorta.”

Everyone turned to look at me.

“It’s all we’ve got,” I told them.

Maggie’s land bridge was about three miles south as the crow flies. I considered the possibility of finding some way to turn us all into crows for the rest of the trip, but there was no time to thoroughly ponder the effect of thought on reality, so shape-shifting was not an option.

The bridge had apparently once been part of a county-maintained road. Now it was little more than a ridge of rock and dirt and pocked tarmac that had collected sand, uprooted trees, brush, pieces of human habitation, whatever had chosen to drift down against it.

It looked treacherous as hell, but it did seem to go all the way across the river (if such it was), with the exception of some visible channels where the slow-moving current had crested it. There was no way to know if those channels were passable without going out onto the ridge.

We went.

Once we left shore, the sensation of having stepped into an alien world was overpowering. The sky overhead was dull pewter, the water greenish gray. Mist rose like dry-ice vapor to carpet the river’s surface and festoon the twists of wood and brush that bordered our dangerous corridor. All color seemed drained out of the world.

Even we looked gray.

We traveled single file, picking our way carefully across the debris, sometimes dismounting to lead the horses through narrow or difficult passes. I led the way, followed by Enid and the airborne Magritte, acting as lookout. Goldie trailed behind Enid, leading two of the three packhorses. Colleen came after, with the remaining “mule” sandwiched between her and Doc.

The rear horse in a train, Colleen had taught me, will always be a little skittish. For this reason, a mounted animal should always bring up the rear. The packhorses were nervous in spite of the precaution, and who could blame them? There was little visibility, the constant slap and moan of water, miserable damp and cold, uncertain footing, and a pervasive stew of smells, all of them unpleasant. Enough to give anyone the jitters-equine or human.

The channels we had seen from shore marked where the river had overwhelmed the tarmac and broken through, forming rough spillways. We hit a number of these in the first half of our crossing. The water in them was never more than about two feet deep-roughly knee high on your average saddle horse-and it was sluggish, as if rendered torpid by the cold.

If pressed to guess, I’d have to say the river was between six and eight miles across, including its flood plain. I couldn’t help but wonder what was feeding it and how; none of the theories I came up with were particularly comforting.

Just past the halfway mark, we came upon a long stretch of uprooted trees and boulders filled in with coarse, treacherous sands. It took an exhausting hour and a half to navigate less than seventy-five yards. We rested after that on a high spot in the narrow ridge, ate a little, spoke less, and watched the water move by around us. It had a soporific effect. If I closed my eyes I could almost imagine myself in a rowboat, drifting down a lazy, peaceful stream, fishing, maybe. Except that I had never cared for fishing and the temperature was near freezing.

I opened my eyes to a slight disturbance out in the murky water below us. What appeared to be a large tree had caught on a submerged snag and bobbed in place about thirty yards out. A moment later it just disappeared. Sucked straight down or …

Adrenaline went to high tide. I got up, no longer drowsy. “Let’s move out. We’ve still got a trek ahead of us. And the sooner we get off this strand, the better.”

I didn’t have to say more. Everyone was as eager to move on as I was.

“Did you see that?” I asked Goldie as we sorted ourselves back into order.

“I’m not saying,” he told me, then, “What did you see?” “A tree.”

“Uh-huh. I saw a tree.”

“What was your tree doing?”

“Exhibiting un-tree-like behavior.”

“Currents,” I said.

“Oh, I certainly hope so.”

In what seemed like ages, we drew within tantalizing sight of the nether shore and I could make out the silhouettes of buildings in the distance. I glanced back at Enid. He was smiling. Magritte, floating at his shoulder, was also smiling. We could smell dry land.

Then hell erupted. Behind me someone shouted a warning. There was a wild thrashing of water, the thunder of hooves on rocky ground, a scream that could only have come from Colleen.

I twisted in the saddle. Past Enid, past Goldie and his two charges, I could see that another animal floundered in the water. It was Colleen’s pack mare. The bank she’d been traversing was gone, undercut by the river. Where the trail had been, there was now a yawning sinkhole.

The mare’s lead line, snagged around Big T’s saddle horn, threatened to drag him and Colleen both into the muddy current. The big roan’s hindquarters were already half in the sink, while his forelegs flailed at the slope, spraying wet sand and rock in every direction.

There was no way to turn Sooner on the narrow trail without ending up in the river myself. I dug in my heels and drove him up the ridge to the first place wide enough for me to slide off and scramble back.

I didn’t get far. Goldie’s abandoned mount was charging straight at me. I had nowhere to go but into the rocks and brush that studded the side of the ridge. Cursing, I struggled back up onto the trail and turned just as Colleen’s horse lost his footing and slid backward down the embankment.

Water flew. The gelding lunged upward, trying to take the bank, but the pack line snugged to his saddle horn pulled him back. He upended and hung almost upright for a moment, staggering on his hind legs. Colleen tore at the pack line. At the last possible moment she got it free and hurled it into the air, where a flash of aqua intercepted it. Magritte.

But it was too late, Big T lost his battle with the slope and pitched over on top of Colleen in a spray of dirty water.

My head felt as if it might explode. I shouted wordlessly and flung myself along the ridge, shoving past the quaking packhorses.

Magritte had pulled the pack line around the thick limb of an uprooted tree. Goldie snagged the end, using his weight to keep the line tight, playing tug-of-war with the struggling mare. He needed help, but that would have to wait. I scrambled past him, slipping and falling, tearing clothing and flesh on rock and brush.

Doc was already down in the freezing flood, grappling with Big T. The horse struggled to right himself, his eyes showing white, his distended nostrils spouting steam. Doc had gotten hold of his headstall and somewhere found the strength to keep his head above water. With a final, roaring heave the horse twisted upright and surfaced, nearly bowling Doc over.