Tracks

We were halfway to the railroad when my cell phone went off. I didn’t have to check to know the person on the other end was Leila. With a glance at Tracks, I picked up.

“Yeah?”

“Where are ye? Mum said you haven’t come home yet.”

“Nope.”

“Where’d you go?”

“For a walk.”

“Leslie, that’s not a very good idea right now,” Leila said seriously. “Go back home; I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“No.”

“Wh—”

“I’m a bit occupied right now,” I told her calmly. “I’m not ready yet.”

“Leslie, this isn’t the time to be—”

“This isn’t the time to what? Hmm?” I stopped walking and turned away from Tracks. “To be wandering around a three and a half mile town? To be all alone in a village my ma grew up in? Why not, Leila?”

She was silent on the other end. I nodded, though she couldn’t see. “I heard what happened at the church,” I said under my breath. “I heard all of it. When you feel like talking, give me another call.” I shut the phone before she could answer.

“You could’ve handled that better.”

“I could’ve done a lot of things better.”

“You aren’t making this any easier on yourself, love.”

“Oh no? How so?” I threw back.

Tracks shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’re upset because of what Leila’s keeping from you, but you’re not telling her what you know. All you know. Try; maybe she’ll open up.”

I pressed my lips together. That was a logical line of thought. But for some reason, just the thought of talking to Leila about Faeries unnerved me. “Maybe,” I agreed at last. “But right now, you’ve got something to show me.”

But when we came to the railroad, Tracks stopped and turned to me. “Leslie, I think you should listen to your cousin. Go home.”

I gaped at him, stunned. Here was the one person who was at least being semi-honest with me, and now he was telling me to hoof it? I shook my head.

“You don’t even like her, Tracks. Why are you taking her side?”

He laughed then, one loud, sardonic howl. “Believe me, love, this has nothing to do with taking sides. But tell me this: if your brother was here, and he was in your position, who do you think he’d turn to for answers? His family or a complete stranger?”

Well that stung. Whether Tracks had meant it to or not, it did—painfully. Because that was one of the biggest questions I was wrestling with—what had Aaron done while he was here? To warrant Fitz’s anger, to cope with Leila’s…activities?

Whoever Aaron had turned to would’ve been the person he trusted most. I knew who that was.

And he hadn’t said a thing.

“Me,” I said quietly, swallowing hard and looking back at Tracks. The fact that I responded seemed to surprise him. “You asked who Aaron would’ve turned to. He would’ve turned to me. But he kept it from me, Tracks. Everything about Ireland. He showed me pictures and postcards; brought me presents and souvenirs. But he didn’t tell me anything about the Faeries. And I’m the one he would’ve talked to.”

“But if you weren’t, then…”

“Then he didn’t talk to anyone else either. Whatever happened here, whatever his part, Aaron did it alone.” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly picturing Aaron squaring off with Fitz, without me at his back.

Then again, what good had I been against an armed human?

I took a deep breath. “I don’t have him anymore, Tracks,” I murmured. “I don’t have him here to help me out. Why am I turning to you? Because in the forty-eight hours that I’ve been in town, you’ve been more honest with me than Leila. And that’s all I want. Honesty. You…” I broke off, trying to find the right words; it all came out in a flood instead.

“You have no idea how hard it is not knowing, Tracks. You have no idea what happened back home. There’s so much about Aaron’s death that doesn’t make sense to me—things that, for some reason, don’t add up.” I shook my head again.

“Every day, I see it all in my head. The whole rerun, right down to sitting in the hospital, covered in his blood.” My voice broke. “I know that Aaron knew his killer, Tracks. Whoever he was, whatever he was doing there, Aaron knew him. And Aaron wasn’t surprised when the guy pulled out a gun. He’d been waiting for it.

“Do you know how long I’ve wrestled with that?” I demanded, my voice thick, my head burning with the hours I’d harped on this—the weeks. “Do you know how awful it is to know your brother was waiting to die? If there’d been something I could’ve done, I don’t think he would’ve let me help him.” I dragged the back of my hand across my eyes, my nose, knowing how pitiful I looked, how broken.

“And now, I did what he wanted. I came to fucking Ireland because he’d made all the arrangements. Because Ma and Dad still wanted me to. And what for, Tracks? To see what else Aaron had kept from me? To see that the danger in our backyard had only been a fraction of the danger he’d been in while here?”

I swallowed. “Aaron never had a chance to tell me the truth and I have to believe that he wanted to. That he might’ve, if given more time. Leila knows how much that hurts me, and she’s still choosing to keep it all hidden.”

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket, blew my nose into the tissue Tracks dug out of his pocket. When I finally caught my breath, I was calm again. Resolved.

“You’re my last hope, Tracks,” I finally said to him. “It’s a lot to ask, but you’re the last one I can count on. I’ve given Leila every opportunity in the world to come clean and she’s ignored them all. You came to me on your own. I don’t know where you stand in all this, but that’s something I can’t forget.”

Tracks didn’t answer right away. I don’t think he knew what to say. I’d just dumped my entire life and all its problems on him in one fell swoop, and raised the stakes of his generosity. I think Tracks realized that and wasn’t sure how to react.

I took a deep breath and turned away to give him privacy. I gave him everything I knew, everything I felt. It was up to him if he wanted to continue down this rabbit hole. All the wonder of the Faeries was gone now; only the madness of the lies and mysteries remained behind. It was up to him if he wanted to sift through it all with me.

I heard footsteps behind me, felt a hand on my arm. “You’re going to be the death of me, love,” Tracks murmured, turning me gently.

I shrugged. “What else is new?”

“Come on,” he said and held out his hand. “I’ll show you.”

I knew where we were going the moment we passed into the trees. The castle. What else was there in these woods?

We walked slowly, which gave me plenty of time to take a good look around. Last time, it had been night, and Tracks had taken me by surprise with his wings. This time, we were on the ground in broad daylight, and I was determined to see how the forest and castle came into being.

It was quiet here. There were no birds, no insects. Not a single squirrel, chipmunk, or woodpecker in sight. It was the middle of summer and there were no animals of any kind, asleep or otherwise. There was nothing but the breeze, hardly more than a whisper.

How eerie. Tracks had said before that the Faeries were in hiding but…it didn’t seem like there was anywhere to hide. I glanced around—up ahead, back over my shoulder, behind every trunk that we passed. I could clearly see the place where we’d come in and the path out of the woods on the other side. Where could a whole civilization go before the woods turned into the forest?

I thought back to Mom’s old stories.

“The Faeries live in the trees, right, Mommy?”

She smiled down at me as she tucked me into bed. Aaron came over and plopped down by my head, his red Power Ranger pajamas the perfect complement to my yellow ones.

“Aye, and they do.” There was always Ireland in her voice when she spoke of them. “In the trees and the mounds, in the places in between.”

“Between what?” Aaron wanted to know.

Ma sat on the edge of the bed and shrugged. “Here and there. Wherever there are choices to be made. Inside or out, light or dark, field or forest. They live on the threshold of everything.”

“What’s a threshold?” I asked, hugging my piglet pillow to my chest.

Ma’s eyes twinkled. “The place where our world and the world of the Faeries meet.”

“Why can’t everyone see it? Does their world disappear?”

“It never disappears,” Ma assured me. “Even though we’re done seeing, it doesn’t mean we’re done believing.”

So…if Ma’s logic was correct, then the Faeries were here right now. The Otherworld was. They were in hiding and so their world was hidden, but… Well how could I make it come back?

Was it a choice? I realized suddenly. Did I have a choice to either see Faeryland or walk away from it? To go straight through the woods and come out the other side, no worse for wear, no less human, or continue on in the forest to the castle and the waterfall and the Faery mounds?

Was it waiting for me?

And then I saw it. The smallest of wavers. A slight shimmering of the earth as the exit—the shafts of light that bled through the trees a mile away—disappeared. In its place came the trees—thick, old, and tall—expanding out of the shadows as if they’d been there all along. Then came the mounds and a river I’d never seen before.

I stopped short, accidentally pulling Tracks to a halt as I watched the stream wander and vanish between two twined elms.

I could see the castle now too. Or rather, the waterfall. Not even half a mile ahead of us, there it was, the tendrils of it bleeding between the trees. I couldn’t hear it, but then I hadn’t heard it the other night either. And there was the lake still, unmoving, like a mirror of silver.

“Impossible,” I whispered.

I heard Tracks chuckle. “Impossible or illogical?”

“I-both.”

“Obviously not.”

“But how?”

He smiled. “Magic.”

This time, I was vehement as I shook my head. “No—no way. Magic is taking it a step too far, Tracks.”

“What? You can believe in Faeries—people with bloody wings—but you can’t believe in magic?” Tracks laughed aloud. “You can’t have one without the other, love. There is no halfway when it comes to my world.”

My brows rose. “Your world?”

“Mine, Fitz’s, your cousin’s…whomever’s.”

I ignored the reference to my cousin, not wanting to think about her just yet. “What is your world then, Tracks?” I wanted to know, pulling my hand out of his and crossing my arms. I felt safer this way, when I was tucked up in a ball. Like no one could break me if I didn’t want to be broken. “Faeries, guys with wings, castles that randomly appear. That’s not all of it, is it?”

Tracks sobered. “No,” he said gently. “It’s not.”

“What else?”

Tracks held out his hand again. “Come on. We’re almost there.”

I let him lead me to the castle, then lift me into his arms so we could reach it faster than climbing. I wasn’t as terrified as his wings whipped around us this time, but I wasn’t as exhilarated either. I was too confused and worked up to be dazzled by them now.

I expected him to take me up to the ramparts again, or the battlements, whatever that part of the building was called. But he didn’t. Instead, he took me around to the front door.

I looked at him curiously when we landed on the long white wooden porch. He nodded to the entrance.

“Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

I lifted a brow, unimpressed. Weren’t the front doors of castles usually super extravagant? Sixteen feet high, made of either expensively polished wood or marble laced with gold? With silver double knockers and diamonds studding the door knobs?

This one was wood. Badly sanded wood. Not even painted to match the exterior. A few drawings were the only decorations, etched in the center with something no better than a knife. A single crack shot diagonally across the door, through the drawings, as if lightning had splintered it.

“Not very wealthy owners, were they?” I muttered half to myself.

“Wealthy? Very. Modest? Extremely.”

I glanced over my shoulder at him. “And who were they?”

“The King and Queen of the Faeries, of course.”

A shiver ran down my spine at his words. He was so…easy about it. And very certain. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that a king and queen had once lived here and that they’d once been the king and queen of the Faery race. Where did they fall in the story, then? Where did they fall in the war?

And if they were so real, why the hell weren’t they dealing with the little problem of Fitz and Leila?

I didn’t pay attention to the drawings—they were just random images of the weather or elements or something. I pushed open the door and walked inside.

And stopped short.

Magic. That was truly the only thing that could describe it. Not illusion, not science. Not a blow to the back of the head. Nothing else but magic could explain it.

The castle was a thousand times bigger on the inside.

My heart slammed into my chest and all the breath went out of me.

Based entirely on the exterior design, the entire first level was taken up by a huge, magnificent foyer. Forged from pure white crystal, it shone with an intensity akin to the sun. The floor was studded with gems of all shades—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals—rimming the room like stars in the sky. In the center, below the golden chandelier, they formed a Faery, classic as it rested on a tree branch, a tiara perched on silver curls. The walls were lined with tapestries, hanging from hidden hooks, their deep sea green fabric reminiscent of the waterfall outside.

At the break between each tapestry, there were doors, all the same—nine in total. Made of a rich mahogany and speckled with individual stones, each embodying one of the elements carved into the front door.

I moved forward, hardly noticing when Tracks fell back, and turned my face up to the high ceilings overhead. The chandelier was lit with fire—true flames that wavered and flickered where candles should’ve been. Beyond it, there were paintings, perhaps hundreds, all knit so close together, they could’ve been one large image, like the Sistine Chapel in Rome.

But this was so different than Rome. The images that decorated it were like the memories of a dream. A Faery court of men and women in royal garb dancing in a great hall designed as a grove; the image of a nymph or a wood elf chased through the trees by the wind; a woman in a simple, black gown—not unlike the one Mary was making for me—standing alone at the window of one of the now withering turrets, gazing out over the lake below, solemn and slightly afraid.

For a time, I was lost in the paintings, lost in the beauty of them as well as the familiarity. They reminded me of the works of the Pre-Raphaelites, artists who dreamt of myth and magic in a time of invention and technology. How often had I tried my hand at their style when I was younger? At twelve or thirteen… Hadn’t I painted the Lady of Shallot over and over?

The last one, of the young woman in black, reminded me of that lady, the woman from Arthurian legend who fell in love with Lancelot and let herself die when she realized she’d never have him.

How many times had I drawn her in the past? There’d been a phase in my life when I’d been obsessed with her—when almost everything I drew had her or a reference to her somewhere within it. Aaron had teased me back then—joked that I was becoming a girl, a sentimental romantic. But it hadn’t been that. It had been his music that had driven those pieces. The songs he’d played when we were in our garage late at night, the door wide open, the story he’d had Ma tell us over dinner still fresh on his mind. I’d painted the Lady because I liked her story; but I painted the romance because of him.

The ceiling reminded me of that time in my life. Before I’d given way to more realistic ventures. But the woman in black, the haunting grief in her eyes, reminded me too much of my own grief to let her easily go.

I looked away when I realized I’d come to a set of doors. The only double set in the whole room, they stood directly across from the front and right over the head of the Faery on the floor. I put my hands on the knobs and pushed them wide.

"Oh, my God."

Vaguely, I heard Tracks come up behind me, stopping at my side.

“This is where they used to hold court,” he told me.

But he didn’t have to. I recognized it from the first painting on the ceiling of the foyer. It was exactly the same.

Well, it was dusty, and dimmer than a queen would have allowed. The torches had long since been snuffed out and the walls, which in the painting had the most beautiful emerald trees etched like waves across the chamber, were now faded and gray, the paint chipped away. The wooden tables that lined the dance floor, where the courtiers and royals and knights had once sat were empty, dusty, wrapped in cobwebs. At the front of the room, a smaller table sat on a stage, two large backed chairs of crystal on the far side. And beyond it, strung on the wall, were two tapestries undoubtedly depicting the last king and queen who had sat in those chairs.

The silence was loud as I realized that. A thick blanket enveloping the room. Those tapestries were visions of the last rulers to sit here and be merry—to live and laugh. Visions of the last people, the last Faeries, to be at home in this realm. The awareness made my heart ache.

The image on the right was of a beautiful young woman with jet black hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, and a silver crown studded with emeralds upon her head. Her dress was like the forest, a long swath of fabric cut low, designed in shades of green and brown and black. She wore a gem at the base of her throat, a green jewel encased in onyx hanging on a string of silver. Beside her was the image of a man, the last king, with a head of equally dark hair and piercing black eyes. His crown was bejeweled with stones the color of blood, enclosed in the same silver as that of his queen.

The sight of him sent shivers down my spine. He wasn’t intimidating in the same way most kings were; his face wasn’t of the same gentle regality of his wife’s. His expression, his appearance… It was dark.

I reached out, because I wanted the reassurance that Tracks was still there, and slipped my hand into his. “Were they…” I began, and he nodded.

“The last rulers of Faeryland. King Stephan and Queen Isibéal.”

Another shiver ran. “How long ago?”

“Three hundred years.”

I turned to him then. “There hasn’t been a ruler in three hundred years?”

Tracks shook his head.

“Why not?”

He smiled a little. “That’s a bit of a story, love.”

“Then tell it.”

He shook it again. “It’s not the story I came here to tell. Nor the one you came to hear. Another time.”

“Tracks—”

“Go with me on this one, Leslie. I’m asking you.”

I hesitated. I wanted to know. Now that I was here, inside the castle, in the middle of a forest that shouldn’t exist but had watched come to life, I wanted to know its story. It’s history. I was dying to, actually, and that surprised me. But Tracks was right. It could wait. Wait until after I knew the secrets everyone seemed to think necessary to keep from me.

“Then what am I here for?”

“Come with me.”

He led me back into the foyer, closing the double doors behind him, and taking me back across the hall to a door closer to the entrance. He opened it before I could see the element engraved on the face and gestured me inside. An onyx staircase greeted me.

He shrugged when I lifted a skeptical brow. I trusted him, but I wasn’t about to go first.

“After you,” I said, eliciting a small chuckle from him. The sound relaxed me. For some reason, Tracks’ laughs and smiles had become an indicator as to whether or not everything was gonna be okay.

I followed him up, curving with the staircase as if we were walking up a tower or one of the turrets outside. Which didn’t make sense on this side of the structure, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if there magically hidden additions. Honestly, at this point, nothing was really “impossible” anymore.

It was pitch black inside the stairwell, not a torch in sight, but Tracks seemed to know where he was going and that was enough to keep me from becoming claustrophobic. That and years of visiting haunted houses with my brother for Halloween.

“Tracks, where are we going?” I asked, wincing when my voice echoed.

“The piano room.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s something I think you’ll want to see.”

He opened the door at the top of the staircase and I found we were in another wide, circular foyer that split off in various directions, like the branches of a tree. Clearly, the geography of this castle made no sense to the mortal eye; everything about it was deceiving to someone who didn’t understand the physics of magic.

At the center of the foyer, there was a golden banister, dull from years of disuse, forming a perimeter around a crystal floor with a mimosa tree planted in its center. I walked to it, placing my hands on the railing, and stared at the roots visibly stretched without the crystal.

“How can that be there?” I murmured, awed by the sight.

Tracks leaned his arms on the railing. “Faeries are spirits of nature, no?”

I nodded, knowing that only from Ma’s stories.

“You saw the chandelier below; the pure fire that lit it?”

Another nod.

“Well, the floor is made of crystal, an element of the earth. The seed of the tree was planted when the floor was created, as the crystal was laid down. The fire heats it, warms it like the sun. It stays alive as much from its environment as the forest does.”

I lifted a brow. “What, no mystical magic involved?”

He laughed. “Oh, plenty of that. But I figured you’d prefer the sciencey way of saying it. After all, love, where do you think the fire and crystal came from?”

His answer was unspoken. The Faeries.

“Who designed this place?” I went on, as he led the way down the corridor on my left.

“No one knows now. It’s been here for ages. Clever for its time, it was. Designed so that those who resided here could enjoy the beauty of one room without the hindrance of another. Those doors downstairs, the others? They lead to all sorts of places—other wings housing the queen’s tea room, a sitting room, a study for the king. Two of them hold libraries—just levels of books. But the queen’s primary library is down there.” He pointed over his shoulder, back toward the way we’d come. “But how could you have enjoyed what you’d seen in the entryway alone if you’d been staring at the Great Hall the entire time?”

I shrugged. “Point taken. Have you been here before, Tracks?”

“A time or two. The silence is nice. The night we met, when you first came to the railroad, I’d just left here. I was taking pictures in the library.”

“Pictures?”

He walked backwards as he explained. “You see, Leslie, there’s this little black device that, when you hold it up to your eye and press a button, makes a clicking noise that actually becomes an exact replica of whatever you were pointing at. Now, I know—”

“Shut up.” But I was laughing now. “I know very well what a camera is, thank you very much. Though I’ll stick to my paints if I have a choice.”

“You paint?”

I shrugged modestly. “You could say that. Why were you taking pictures?” I asked, before he could wonder about what I meant.

Tracks turned back around and walked at my side. “Fun fact: I’m a Photography student at university.”

I pulled up short. “Hold on. Wait just a second. Are you actually telling me that you’re a regular person?” I threw my arms up, feigning exasperation. “Well that just killed your entire reputation.”

“Oi! Faeries have lives too.”

“Yeah, sorry, but if you’ve got wings and spend your time in the shadows of Faeryland, you’re just not supposed to.”

I think he rolled his eyes then. “Good to see you’ve got a sense of humor,” he deadpanned.

I snorted. What could I say? I was only half kidding.

We walked on a little longer in silence, my eyes drifting to the paintings that lined crystal the corridor. Most of them I could date—a random skill I’d picked up from museum trips. The majority were from the late sixteenth, early seventeenth centuries, before the Pre-Raphaelites. But there were a couple handfuls that I couldn’t figure out. They were the ones that depicted the magical images: creatures from Irish and Norse myth; Faeries with wings of various colors; and—the ones that caught my attention the most—Faeries in the act of spell casting—potions, rituals, spells, healing, guarding, summoning… Reminiscent of, but stylistically different from Pre-Raphaelites such as Edward Burne-Jones and Evelyn de Morgan.

“Leslie?”

I started abruptly when Tracks said my name. Turning, I realized we’d come to our destination.

“This…might be a little shocking,” he warned carefully.

What isn’t? I wanted to say.

Tracks laid his hand on the doorknob and pushed it open. I stepped inside just as it bumped against the other wall, then came up short at the image staring at me across the room.

The Lady of Shallot.

She gazed at me, her green eyes bright with tears and filled with longing. One hand extended toward me, as if she was reaching for me rather than trying to loosen her boat from the safety of the shore. Her face was smooth, her lips parted; words waited on them, demanding to be said though they would never be heard. Her hair was loose, falling in fiery waves around her face, illuminating the ghostly hue of her skin and countering the tower shrouded with black ivy behind her.

It all struck me, right in the heart. I knew the Lady so well—her story, her pain. I knew it from literature and from art, from Aaron’s songs and my paintings. But this time, I was effected not by her tale, but by the hand who’d painted her, by the simple LL etched in gold paint under the inscription in the upper right hand corner of the piece.

This work had always been my favorite.

“Aaron…” I murmured, staring at it as though I was seeing my brother again. “He…he was here.”