Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(50)

“They’re like conduits,” said Finstern from directly behind us, his Welsh accent colored with unmasked awe. “A battery of living cables. The earth as a single power cell. Genius, really. The principal is so simple. Can you not feel the energy field, Detective?”

Finstern climbed forward, stroking the bulging red-brown roots like a stable master might pet a prize stallion. Jackaby did not respond right away, but I had to admit there was an intangible energy about the place that sent prickling goose pimples up my arms like static electricity.

“There.” Jackaby pointed toward the base of the impossible tree. A hundred meters off, nearly enveloped by the roots, two of the mighty red stones we had seen along the way stood like roman columns on either side of a deep knothole in the trunk. “That’s where we’re headed.”

We clambered over the curling, weaving landscape. Jackaby was struggling over a root nearly as tall as he was when I caught sight of a patch of milk-white fur near the edge of the surrounding forest. It vanished again the instant I locked eyes on it, but I was certain I had seen it this time, a solitary shock of pure white in an oversaturated canvas of colors.

It occurred to me that spotting wildlife in a forest was not so peculiar. What was peculiar was not spotting any. The clamorous buzz of animal life had gradually died away as we neared the tree. Aside from that skittish beast, the fauna seemed to have given this tree a wide berth.

I was peering into the shadows in the underbrush and not watching my footing when my next step abruptly landed on nothing at all. I half dropped, half slid almost straight down, landing on my backside in a deep valley in the roots. The gap appeared to be natural, the coils of the yew simply having grown around the space, rather than showing any signs of having been cut or trampled. It formed a clear, straight path of dry earth, leading directly toward the crimson pillars.

Jackaby and Finstern joined me with slightly more finesse, and together we walked the last few yards toward the red pillars at the base of the tree. It was difficult to tell just how deep the knothole between them went. The wood formed a slit about three feet across at its widest and nearly as tall as myself. If it weren’t for the red rocks on either side, my eyes might have dismissed the opening entirely as just another dark shadow in the unfathomable mess of intertwining roots.

“Watch your step,” said a deep, dry voice.

I froze. Jackaby and Finstern drew up on either side of me. A little trickle of water snaked along the path, disappearing into the shadows at the base of the tree. I squinted.

There, amid the sprawling roots, sat a man. He wore ragged, red-brown robes and was leaning on his elbow; his back was hunched over the little flowing stream. We stepped forward cautiously, careful to skirt the trickle as we neared. The man was gaunt and almost as pale as Pavel. He held a bright green leaf in his slender fingers, lifting it over and across the water. His fingertips never quite reached past the edge of the shadow, but the sun shone bright on the very tip of the leaf. He touched it to the earth for a moment, and then brought it back, lowering it to the ground again on the shady side. He repeated the motion rhythmically.

As we closed the gap, I could finally make out a long line of ants leading up to the rivulet. With each pass, the thin man scooped up one or two ants and helped them over the trickle to the shaded side of the water, where an identical line was already marching steadily into the darkness of the tree.

“Why are you doing that?” Finstern asked.

“Because,” said the man, his voice deep and rough, like the grating of heavy stones, “it gives me purpose.” He pushed himself up with great effort and stood. He was bone thin, with eyes shrouded in black shadows that only added to his skeletal countenance.

“Charon, I presume?” Jackaby stepped forward. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Not especially,” replied the man. “Everyone does. Eventually.”

“Yes, well,” Jackaby said. “Expected or not, it’s still a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for most of us, isn’t it?”

“The end of it,” the man agreed.

“With just a few exceptions, of course. I imagine it’s been a long time since anyone chartered a round trip, though. Who was the last mortal you met who hadn’t shuffled off the old mortal coil? Herakles, Orpheus, Persephone?”

“Jack.”

“Ah. Also good. I expect you’ve met a few of those, haven’t you?”

“There are rules.”

“Rules?”

“The four of you seek passage. There are rules.”

“Three of us, Mr. Charon, sir,” I said, instantly wishing I hadn’t spoken. “Sorry—Charlie stayed behind.”

“Four,” repeated Charon. He looked at Jackaby meaningfully. “The bag.”

“What?” Jackaby stumbled for a moment, but then caught on. “Oh!” He retrieved Jenny’s brick. “Oh, this? I’m afraid we had a bit of a rough situation earlier. I don’t think Miss Cavanaugh will be joining—”

“She is here.”

As he said it, the roots around the gap seemed to quiver in the same way the pipes on Jackaby’s boiler rumbled when it was bubbling to life on a cold morning. In a blink, Jenny was suddenly standing beside Jackaby. She gasped, looking as surprised as the rest of us.

“Jenny!” I said. “Are you all right?”