18

Silence fell suddenly, as if a door had slammed shut on the sounds of the world. Caw opened his eyes and found himself standing in swaying meadow grass that reached his knees. Wisps of gossamer clouds stretched across a blue sky. Ahead the ground rose slightly to a woodland of astonishing green, its leaves rustling lightly.

Caw glanced around, narrowing his eyes into hazy sunshine. More fields lay in that direction, stretching all the way to the horizon. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. The clean air swelled his lungs and made him sigh with contentment.

All the crows had vanished, except one.

We have arrived, said Milky.

The pale old crow was sitting on his shoulder, but something had changed.

“Your eyes!” said Caw.

The cloudy film of blindness from the real world had lifted. Milky’s eyes were black orbs, reflecting Caw’s face back at him.

In the Land of the Dead, my vision returns, said the crow.

“Where to now?” asked Caw.

Milky rose and flew toward the forest. Caw followed, trampling down the grass in long strides. All the way, the sun warmed his back. He hadn’t imagined the Land of the Dead would be like this. He felt like lying down and letting it wash over him. The soft grass would be a perfect place to rest, cushioning his body. He could think about other things later. . . .

Lydia. An urgent voice broke through from deep within his mind.

Caw shook his head to clear it. That’s why he was here—to find his friend.

Milky was waiting on a low branch at the forest’s edge. As Caw entered the shadowy world beneath the emerald canopy, more crows swooped between the twisting branches, curving past gnarled trunks toward him. They were all white like Milky—they came like snowflakes sucked on a powerful current of air and alighted on the branches above until they formed a semicircle with Caw at the center.

Welcome, Milky, they said as one, their voice a deep murmur that seemed to come from the air and the ground at the same time. And welcome, Milky’s friend.

“Hello,” said Caw, giving them a wave. “I’m Caw.”

We know who you are, crow talker, said the crows. You are not the first to cross the borders. The question is why you have come.

Caw looked to Milky, then spoke. “I’ve come to save my friend from the Spinning Man,” he said.

The crows began to bob and cock their heads, warbling softly to one another, then fell silent.

They have agreed to be your guides, Caw, said Milky.

Follow us, said the crows. We will take you where you need to go.

The white flock took off and flew ahead, each landing a few feet beyond the next, forming a pale path through the forest. Caw followed their trail beneath the rustling foliage. The ground was soft with moss and grass and tiny flowers—a paradise.

“What is this place?” he asked.

This is the land in its truest form, said Milky, before the city of Blackstone was founded.

“But where is everyone?” asked Caw. “If this is the Land of the Dead, where are they?”

The dead are all around you, said Milky. After a time, their souls become part of the forest, just as in your world a body degrades into its elements.

“But not everyone,” said Caw. “Not the Spinning Man.”

In the end, everyone fades, said Milky. But there are some who take longer than others—those who retain a powerful emotional link with your world. Hatred. Love. Longing. Some even grow stronger for a time, if their desire is great enough. Look closer, and you can see them.

Caw glanced around, into the gloom where the darkness swallowed the receding trees. Sure enough, in the corners of his eyes he saw shapes drifting and flitting between the trunks. But each one appeared only for a moment before it was gone. He felt a shiver of unease, and an ache of sadness pressed on his heart.

The path of crows ceased at the base of a huge tree, with several birds perched on its exposed roots. There was something familiar about the shapes in the bark. . . .

“It’s my tree!” said Caw. “From the park. What’s it doing here?”

The Land of the Dead mirrors our own, said Milky, sometimes in unexpected ways.

Caw’s eyes followed the trunk upward and saw his nest built into the branches above. His heart felt a sudden pang, then a heaviness.

He reached up for the familiar handholds, but Milky’s squawk made him look around.

We should go on, he said. Remember why we’re here.

Caw frowned, his mind foggy, as he struggled to understand the crow’s words. He remembered dimly that it had been hard to get here, but he wasn’t sure why. “I’ve got to look,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

It’s easy to become lost in the Land of the Dead, said Milky.

“Just a couple of minutes,” said Caw. “The crows led me here, remember.”

Milky said nothing.

Caw climbed quickly, feeling stronger than ever. He sensed the nest drawing him upward, reeling him closer. He longed to reach it like never before. The crows became smaller and smaller on the ground below, like scattered snowdrops among the lush grass. As he reached the bottom hatch, he paused with his hand on the plastic. Something was waiting inside for him, he realized. Something important.

He wasn’t scared as he pushed his head through.

His breath locked up in his throat and time seemed to stop. A low table held three steaming cups and a cake on a chipped plate, already missing a few slices. But it was the two people sitting at either side who held Caw’s rapt gaze.

“Hello, son,” said his father, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Jack!” said his mother, her lips stretching into a huge smile. “You’re here at last! We missed you so much.”

Caw’s eyes flooded with sudden hot tears. “Mom? Dad?”

“Please, come in,” said his father. “Join us.”

They were really here, close enough to touch, looking relaxed and dressed in the same clothes as in his dream—his mother’s black dress, his father’s casual trousers and open shirt. Their smell, so comforting and familiar, filled the nest.

But Caw hesitated. The old anger, stewing for so long, bubbled to the surface. How dare they act just like nothing had happened, as if they’d been waiting for him all this time? “You left me,” he said. “You left me. I was five years old, and you just sent me away!”

His parents shared a pained glance, as if they’d been expecting this reaction. His mother took a deep breath and then looked at him with her round, dark eyes, holding his tearful gaze with her own. “Believe me, it was the most painful moment of our lives,” she said. “The agony of losing our son was worse than all that followed.”

“We had no choice, Jack,” said his father.

“Yes, you did,” said Caw. “You let me think you didn’t care. You could have told me.”

“Told you that we were about to be killed?” said his mother, her strong voice reminding Caw of Velma Strickham’s. “When you were five? Think hard, Jack—would you have wanted to know that while you were growing up? Would it have helped?”

Caw looked down, lost in thought. “It would have been better than knowing nothing at all,” he said, but as the words left his mouth, he realized they probably weren’t true.

“I knew the crows would look after you,” said his mother. “The last thing I asked of them was that they should never tell you what had happened. I worried that you would try to find the Spinning Man.”

“We just wanted you to be safe,” said his father. “We hoped—prayed—you might forget.”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Caw. How could anyone forget being carried away by crows from their bedroom window? “I dreamed about it every night.”

“We’re so sorry, Jack,” said his mother. “You didn’t deserve this.”

As a single tear dropped from his mother’s eye, Caw’s heart softened. He saw it now: their decision to send him away hadn’t haunted only his life—it had haunted theirs, even in death.

His anger drained, leaving him empty. The past was done, and now he had a chance to speak to the parents he thought he’d lost. He climbed slowly into the nest. “We can be together now,” he said. “A family again.”

Milky landed on the corner of the nest. We came here for a reason, remember?

Caw shot the old white bird an irritated glance. What was he talking about?

“Just leave me with my family,” he said. He reached for one of the china cups, but his mother intercepted his hand. Hers passed through his like the touch of the softest silk.

“Milky’s right, Jack,” she said, wiping the tears from her face. “The Land of the Dead is not your home.”

“Why not?” said Caw. “I like it here.”

“You still have more to do with your life,” said his father. “Your friend—Lydia—she needs you.”

“Lydia?” said Caw. The name meant something, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.

“The Spinning Man has her,” said Caw’s mother. “You are the only chance she has.” She reached up and laid a hand against his cheek. “Remember?”

At her delicate touch, Caw’s brain shook loose the clouds that filled it. “Lydia!” he said. “Of course!” How had he forgotten her?

He let his cheek rest against his mother’s palm, but he couldn’t feel anything. And now that he looked harder at her, he saw she wasn’t truly there at all. Neither was his father. Their bodies were like a mist, insubstantial and fleeting. A sharp wind and they’d be blown away. What was it that Milky had said? That those with a powerful emotional link to the living world took longer to vanish. Was that what was keeping his parents here—their connection with him? Their guilt at leaving him behind?

His parents were both smiling at him, a little sadly. “We’re so proud of you, Jack,” whispered his father.

“We might not always have been there for you,” murmured his mother, “but you’ll always be our son.”

Caw knew what he had to say. He had to release them.

“I love you both,” he said. “And . . . and I forgive you.”

His parents’ smiles lost their sadness completely, and in the space of a breath, they vanished.

Caw swallowed back his tears. “Good-bye,” he whispered to the empty nest.

As he climbed down the tree, he noticed that the air was cooler than before and the sky was darkening into twilight. But that wasn’t all that had changed. Gone was the verdant green of the forest, replaced with the hues of autumn—oranges, burnt scarlet, browns. The first of the leaves were falling by the time he reached the base of the tree. The seasons had turned in the space of just a few minutes.

And all the crows had gone. All except Milky. The forest felt desolate without them.

“Where are they?” said Caw.

You cannot command the crows here, said Milky. Unless they wish to be commanded. The old crow looked up at Caw, a little meekly.

“What’s the matter?”

Milky shuffled as if he was embarrassed and looked away. These other crows—the ones touched by death—they are my friends, crow talker. I alone stood by your parents when the Spinning Man came for them. The Land of the Dead almost claimed me. And perhaps it should have.

Caw remembered the crow he’d seen in the dream of his parents—the one that tried to protect them and was overwhelmed by the spiders. He hadn’t recognized that Milky from long ago—a Milky with black feathers. “You’ve been a loyal companion ever since I can remember,” he said. “When all this is over—no matter how it ends—you must stay here.”

Thank you, said Milky, with a tilt of his beak. Now, are you prepared?

Caw laid his hand against the rough bark of his tree and felt through his fingertips the spirits of his parents, now part of the Forest of the Dead. At peace.

We’re proud of you, they’d said.

He wasn’t going to let them down.

“I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s find the Spinning Man.”