THE FIRST THING ABRA NOTICED as she pulled herself out was that there wasn’t a single tree in sight. The Tree of Life definitely was not here, so why had Beatrice come to this place? Had she lured Abra in the wrong direction? Should Abra run back toward the city? Or was this the moment she was supposed to face Beatrice, the same way she had stood up to Jinn?
But these questions fled from her mind as she saw what else was spread out on the stone plain.
The rock itself was uneven and generally flat, without any large outcroppings or formations. There didn’t seem to be any other deep crevices like the one she had climbed up. But what she did see were giant pockmarks spread out all the way to the horizon, like the dimples on a golf ball, except they were about ten feet apart, and they were deep. And they were filled with crystal-clear water.
Abra meandered slowly among the deep pools, walking in the general direction of Beatrice. She kept her hand on the hilt of the sword—it seemed to grow heavier as she approached Beatrice. This in itself heightened her senses.
She glanced into one of the pools she was walking around. She stopped. She fell to her knees. She stared harder into the water, forgetting all about the sword, all about Beatrice, all about the red light that bathed them.
Inside the pool, she saw a scene. It was like she was watching television, only more tangible. She saw the image of her mother washing dishes. A deep sense of homesickness rose inside of Abra, and a tear formed in the corner of her eye. What was this strange magic? Her mother was there at the sink, the way she always was after dinner. She wore the same apron she always wore when working in the kitchen. Abra could see the dishes on the counter, the hot pads under the pots.
“Such a sweet, sweet image,” Beatrice said, and Abra looked up, startled. Beatrice was across the pool from her, only seven or eight feet away. Abra hadn’t even seen her move.
She got up off her knees. Her hand hovered close to the sword. “What is this?” she said in a low voice.
Beatrice smiled. She laughed, and it was a joyful sound that went on seemingly forever. “This place? These pools? Oh, Abra. This place is full of incredible wonders.”
“This place?” Abra asked.
“Yes! This is the Edge of Over There. We had no idea what would happen if we brought living, breathing humans into the Passageway. But isn’t this remarkable? An entire city grew up around them, finished houses and buildings and infrastructure no one had to build. Food and water appeared, the kind of simple food that is completely nourishing, water that fills the stomach with anything it needs. It’s all rather incredible. We simply brought the people and it appeared. Something out of nothing.”
Beatrice sat down at the edge of the pool Abra had been staring into. She wore no shoes, and she lowered her feet into the pool until the water reached nearly to her knees. She sat there, swirling her feet through the clear water, disturbing the image of Abra’s mother.
“Did you make my mother forget me?” Abra asked.
Beatrice pretended not to hear. “Whoever looks into these pools”—she raised her arms, beckoning toward the entire rock plain—“will find every scene on earth, having to do with their lives, waiting to be watched. Past, present, and . . .”
She paused, squinted a bit, and stared hard at Abra.
“Future.”
Abra’s heart raced. She looked down into the silent pool again to try to see if this one was past or present or future, and she saw herself enter the kitchen, a little girl, crying. She walked up to her mother, held up a finger. Her mother bent down with concern etched on her face, and the two of them walked out of the scene together.
“Simply beautiful,” Beatrice said, sighing, swirling her foot through Abra’s mother’s head as she reappeared at the beginning of the sequence, once again washing dishes.
Abra started circling the area. If what Beatrice said was true, if some of these pools showed the future, she wanted to see if she could find a future scene where her mother remembered her. She wanted to be sure of what was to come.
“How can they show the future?” Abra asked. She thought if she could keep Beatrice talking, it might buy her some time, but Beatrice didn’t seem to be in any rush.
“Well, that can be a little tricky,” Beatrice said. “You know, they show your future based on where you are right now. But as the decisions you make shift your future, the pools change.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Abra said.
“Your future pools would look very different, empty even, if I killed you right now.”
Abra’s head jerked up and she stared at Beatrice.
“Just an example, you know, a hypothetical,” Beatrice said slowly with a slight smile on her face. “Don’t look so alarmed.”
Abra worked her way out from Beatrice in a kind of expanding search of the deep pools, and she had to tear herself away from each one. There she was, riding her bike to Sam’s house along Kincade Road. There she was, reading a book in the haymow. There she was, at the fair during who knows which year, wandering the grounds with cotton candy obscuring her face.
A baby in a bassinet.
Sitting in middle school taking a test.
Just last spring, walking out to get the mail.
But in the next pool, something strange.
First of all, it was hazier than the others, as if someone had spilled a bit of milk into a cup of water. Inside the pool, she watched as an old woman with silver hair sat in a bed, her back against the headboard, her eyes closed. The woman’s breathing was labored. There was a picture on the wall behind the woman, but it was unclear in the dim light of the room where she was resting. Abra looked closer. The woman looked like she was dying. She seemed to take one final, rattling breath. Her breath stopped.
Was that her? Was that Abra?
She backed away on all fours, scrambling to try to unsee what she had seen. She even rubbed her eyes, as if that would cleanse the images from her retinas. It seemed improper, almost indecent, peering into her own future, watching her final moments. Had that been her, dying on a bed, entering her final sleep under a white quilt embroidered with red flowers?
Were those poppies on the quilt?
Had she been alone?
She moved backward so fast that she almost fell into the pool behind her. She turned and looked, and again the pool was hazy. She saw an old man walking down the streets of Deen, an older man. Deen seemed different, and she didn’t recognize some of the objects. Everything she could see of the town in that small snapshot seemed to be crumbling. The man stopped. Bent over. He collapsed onto the ground. Someone ran over to help him.
Was that Sam in his old age?
“Why did you bring me here?” Abra asked, her question floating out into the air, her voice suddenly full of deep pain. She turned away from those two pools, now facing a third. She looked up. She looked around the eerie landscape.
Where was Beatrice?
But Beatrice was right behind her. She pushed Abra to her knees, then pushed her again so that her upper body dipped into one of the deep pools. And Beatrice held her there.
For a minute, Abra didn’t feel like she was sinking—she felt like she was floating. Down she went, the heaviness of Beatrice’s hand on the back of her head, pushing, pushing. Deeper. Deeper than she thought the clear pool of water could possibly be. Farther down than Beatrice’s arm could reach. And then she stopped.
She couldn’t breathe, but that didn’t seem to be a problem. She didn’t feel like she was running out of air. Stranger yet, she had arrived at the scene of her life portrayed in that particular pool—she was hovering above her very own kitchen. The same old linoleum covered the floor, the same old cabinets lined the walls. But everything looked newer, cleaner. She was right about at ceiling height, looking down.
There were three adults in the kitchen, and as the scene moved along she realized there were two babies crawling on the floor. She didn’t recognize the babies at first, but she knew the adults. The first one, the one sitting on the floor so that one of the babies could pull itself up on her knees, was her mother. She looked younger, much younger, with fewer lines on her face. Her skin was smooth. Her hair was longer than Abra was used to seeing.
There was another adult, this one sitting in one of the chairs over by the refrigerator: Sam’s mom. She, too, looked much younger, and she reached down to where the second baby was crawling, picked him up high in the air, and kissed his cheek. It brought tears to Abra’s eyes, this memory of what a kind woman Sam’s mom had been.
Of course, by now Abra knew exactly who the two babies were—Sam was the baby Mrs. Chambers had picked up and kissed, and Abra was the baby crawling all over her mother.
A third adult entered the room, and because of Abra’s view from the ceiling, at first she wasn’t exactly sure who the man was. He was dressed in a black suit with shiny black shoes. His hair was the color of deep space, and his skin was tan.
“It’s important that you both hear the information I have gathered,” he said in a low voice. Abra immediately knew who he was, even though he was speaking quietly.
It was Mr. Tennin.
She couldn’t believe it. This was a scene from her life that took place fifteen years ago! That meant Sam’s mom and her mom both knew Mr. Tennin long before the Tree appeared in Deen! Why hadn’t her mother said anything? But her thinking was distracting her from their conversation—she tried to simply listen.
“There has been a vision of Samuel”—Mr. Tennin looked down at the baby boy with a sad expression on his face—“dying in a lightning tree.”
“You mean . . . ” Lucy Chambers began.
“Yes,” Mr. Tennin interrupted her. “Yes. The death of your son could very well coincide with the next arrival of the Tree.”
“What if I take his place?” she asked, tears in her voice. “What then?”
Mr. Tennin tried to sound convincing when he spoke. “Lucy, you and I both know visions of the future are far from reliable. There are too many variables, too many . . . chances to change even those things that seem inevitable.”
“But if it’s true,” she insisted, “can I take his place?”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Tennin said, nodding slowly, staring at the floor. “Perhaps.”
Abra was flabbergasted. Sam’s mother had known. Sam’s mother had known all along. But why was her mom there in that room, and why were the three of them talking as if they were working together?
As if they were equals?
“My contact also said the girl will have ‘significant influence’ in the events of the Tree. Crucial.”
“How is that even possible?” Abra’s mother asked in a whisper. “She’s not like us.”
Mr. Tennin shrugged. “Another puzzle, I’m afraid. Another unclear thing. Which, if you’ll recall I’ve already said, is to be expected when gazing into the haze of the future. No one knows. No one on this side.”
He paused.
“And, of course, they do not have . . . it . . . in their blood. You are both second generation. They are third generation. These things do not pass to the third. So maybe it was all a mistake.”
Tennin stopped talking abruptly and looked up toward the ceiling with a strange expression on his face. Fear? Understanding? Abra felt like he was looking at her. But that wasn’t possible.
Was it?
“Abra,” he said firmly, and the two women looked at him, puzzled. Baby Abra, on the floor, smiled. “The sword. Use the sword.”
Abra suddenly realized she was drowning, running out of air. She also realized Mr. Tennin was talking to her. She reached for the sword at her hip, twisted in the water, pushed it up toward Beatrice’s image rippling above the water. There was a loud scream as the sword eased into something solid. Abra felt herself erupt out of the water and land hard on the rock. She lay there, dripping, holding the sword, gasping for air.
Beatrice. Where was Beatrice?
Abra looked toward the city and saw Beatrice limping among the pools, moving quickly now, hunched over. She walked and walked for quite some time, and Abra was too spent to follow. She watched as Beatrice disappeared where the gentle downward slope of the rock plain met the forest.
Abra rolled over, lying on her back. It was day, and all of the pools, even the one she had so recently emerged from, were calm, glassy reflections of the bright red sky.