Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

As the sun exorcised the stubborn chill that had sneaked into her body, Hannah knew they would reach the forest of ghosts before the sun had passed overhead, and she would find the answers.

Alen suddenly tugged on his own reins, then dismounted with the agility of a man many Twinmoons his junior. If alcohol had ever impaired his physical, cognitive and mystical abilities, there had been no sign. He rode tall in the saddle and didn’t appear to be suffering any back pain; he didn’t complain of saddle soreness, of cramps, or any of the long list of ailments that had been irritating Hannah since she agreed to tackle this journey. He hadn’t been drinking much, either – a few swallows around the fire each evening, a morning mouthful or two to wash out the overnight bitterness: that was it.

Hannah was proud of Alen and confident – more confident, anyway – that he might actually succeed in sending her back to Denver. His face had regained some colour, and she thought the former Larion Senator was feeling a renewed sense of mystical strength as long-untapped reserves of magic bubbled to life.

Alen had loosened his reins as Hoyt had dismounted, and indicated Churn and Hannah should do the same. He got some long leather straps from his saddlebag.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Take one of these and thread it through your reins, then form a loop, like this.’ Alen demonstrated by turning the leather strip back on itself and knotting it tightly several times. ‘Then we’ll clip yours to Churn’s, his to Hoyt’s, and Hoyt’s to mine.’

Through the loop in his own reins, Alen drew a length of heavy twine which he knotted to the back of Hoyt’s tunic belt, tugging on it sharply several times to ensure it would not come loose.

‘There we are,’ he said. ‘Now, run your hand through the loop in your reins.’

Hannah did so, feeling the leather slide up her forearm and expose pale flesh beneath her tunic. ‘What if it’s not-’ she began.

‘Tight enough?’ The old magician read her mind. ‘Then unhook it, tighten the loop and try again, or use another strap to fix it to the wrist of your tunic. The horses shouldn’t spook in the forest, and assuming Hoyt manages to lead them, they can drag the rest of us along until we clear the far edge.’

Hoyt asked, ‘How will I know when we get there?’

‘I imagine it will be when we stop raving,’ Alen replied, cheerily.

Hannah used another length of leather to tie herself securely to the chain of reins linking the four horses. As brave as she was determined to be, she was not taking any chances. One glance at Churn assured her that the burly mute wasn’t leaving his life to the fates either. She smiled at the sight of his massive forearm, as big around as one of her calves, looped several times in whatever loose string, rope, leather, even cloth Churn could find; wide-eyed, he stared back at her, looking as desperate for an alternative as she had been only a few minutes before.

At least I’m not the only one terrified, Hannah thought, wincing at what she could only imagine the silent Pragan might experience at the hands of the haunted forest.

‘Sorry, Churn. But I think we just have to do this,’ she whispered.

Signing slowly so Hannah could understand, he said, ‘I don’t want to go in,’ in exaggerated gestures.

‘Neither do I, my friend, but drinks are on me when we get to the other side,’ Hannah said softly.

‘Make it six, and I’ll follow you anywhere.’

She laughed: she understood that! ‘Done. Six it is.’

It would be impossible for them to ride like this, Hannah thought, wondering why Alen had insisted they link their mounts together so soon. As he double-checked the knots on the sacks, she asked, ‘Why are we going on foot now? Shouldn’t we ride until we get to the forest itself?’

Alen motioned towards a stand of white birch trees, their paper bark peeling in the autumn chill. The grove rained a cloudburst of tiny leaves with each gentle gust of wind that blew through the foothills. There, half-buried beneath a mound of yellow leaves was what remained of a traveller: man or woman, Hannah couldn’t tell. Seated against a tree trunk, it looked like the figure had expired right there, legs crossed as if relaxing in the shade with a cold beer and a good book; there were no signs of struggle. The dusty grey cadaver was little more than a mummified husk; it looked like a statue. Hannah thought that if she wandered close enough, she might be able to read a bronze plaque, set with mortar into a carved piece of granite, Sunday Afternoon by Michael Adams.

‘Good God, look at it,’ she whispered. ‘It died right there, sitting there.’ Except for the few funerals of friends’ grandparents, and the man Churn had killed while saving her life, Hannah had never seen a dead body up close, certainly not one who had died while wasting away an afternoon beneath a favourite backyard tree.

‘What is this place, Alen?’ she whispered as her eyes moved from the dead body to the old Larion Senator. ‘What are we doing here?’

Alen smiled, summoning as much confidence as he could. ‘We are taking the first of several difficult steps to send you home. So please, tie that loop tight and walk beside your horse. Let him lead you, and I will see you on the other side.’ The old man brushed a strand of hair away from Hannah’s forehead, then grabbed the wineskin Hoyt and Churn had been passing between them and took a gulp.

‘All right Hoyt,’ he said, wiping his mouth, ‘straight north, all day, all night – however long it takes, do not stop.’

‘Right.’ Hoyt rubbed his palms on his leggings.

‘Do you remember the words?’ Alen had taught him a minor spell, something simple to dull his mind slightly and to keep his own memories from swirling about in his head like targets in an enchanted carnival shooting gallery.

‘Yes.’

‘Right then, lead on.’ Alen looped his hand through the knot in his horse’s reins and twisted it several times until it was tight about his wrist.

Hannah had expected the enchantment to overcome her the moment she stepped beneath the trees, so she was surprised that they were able to climb the slow-rising hill and descend into the shallow valley between it and the next before anything strange seemed to happen. Hoyt and Alen spent some of the time singing a Pragan song about friendship and courtship; Hannah had picked up most of the refrain before – in typical Hoyt fashion – the lyrics spiralled into a less appropriate libretto. Behind her, Churn grunted and giggled along, bursting out with an unnatural guttural sound every time his friend mentioned loose women, free beer or the incontinence of his eminence, Prince Malagon.

The melody and rhythm lulled Hannah into a false sense of security. This isn’t so bad – maybe nothing will happen. It can’t be far – we’ve come a long way already. She sang along until the song began to echo back at her from the forest, blurry, bent notes and odd angles that seemed to be creating lapses in time. Weird jazz. The boisterously loud refrain woke her from a daze – a quick nap, she told herself. Her eyes widened in her effort to stay awake.

*

The television was on – the boisterously loud refrain of a commercial awakened Hannah and her eyes widened in an effort to stay awake. The couch again, rats. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and waited for the commercial to end. It was something about soap and dress shirts; a bald fellow with a deadpan look was washing one white shirt at a time. I’d hate to wait around while he does his laundry. Hannah reached for the TV Guide. What time is it?

Before she could turn to check the hallway clock, the late news came on. Two men, one the anchor and the other a sports commentator – Hannah couldn’t remember their names – were discussing football.