I’m going across the River, Yaseema. And I’m going to save us all.
—Excerpt from a letter from Mahira Nazir to Yaseema Nazir
Yaseema
The current of the River seemed to pick up as soon as I had made it through the magical wall. I kicked hard through the water until I was clawing at the bank, ripping at the weeds to give myself leverage. But the current was stronger, pulling me farther along the River, tugging me under the rushing water. I cried out, and water filled my mouth, causing me to choke and sputter as I tried to regain my footing.
I managed to grab onto a broken tree branch and clung to it helplessly, desperately trying to catch my breath until warm fingers pressed into my shoulders, stealing it from me once more. I jerked in surprise, my gaze darting up.
An old woman reached down from the riverbank, a shawl pulled over her white hair, which spilled out in thick curls the color of moonlight. She held out her hand to me, her eyes filled with meaning, and I didn’t see any claws or fangs or blood dripping from her mouth like my mother’s stories had warned me about, so I grabbed her hand and she helped haul me out of the River.
I dragged myself up the rest of the way, my satchel soaking wet, my canvas skirt sticking to my legs in heavy folds. My spectacles were speckled with water and I removed them, shaking off the lenses so I could at least see properly. Once I was safely on solid ground, I flipped open the flap on my satchel, scrambling through it to search for my mother’s journal to examine the damage.
It was miraculously unharmed, protected by the wax paper I’d wrapped it in for safekeeping.
I released a sigh of relief and lay back on the grass, looking up at the trees, realizing with a start that the sky looked different. The sun was lower, as if it were later in the day, that ever changing light was somewhere between sunset and evening. It was as if I had landed on the other side of the world instead of the other side of a mile-wide river.
Soft, murmured words pulled me from the grass. The old woman who had helped me was speaking and gesturing across the River. But her words were difficult to follow. It was not that she spoke another language, but the sounds she strung together weren’t any language at all. No discernible words or meanings, just garbled whispers. Her hair was white and long, flowing past her shoulders in unkempt wildness. Her face was smudged with dirt and something red that looked like blood, her eyes hollow and dark. She wore a torn, faded frock, the pattern old and undiscernible, and as my gaze dipped to her feet I jerked back in shock.
They were twisted and backward.
I stared for what felt like an eternity. Her feet were somehow pointed behind her, distorted like a tree branch forced to bend the other direction.
There were tales of the backward-footed fae, but I struggled to remember what they were or if my mother had made any mention of them in her journal. I pushed myself to my feet trying to make sense of the words the old woman kept repeating, thse unintelligible sounds that I didn’t recognize.
“I don’t understand,” I whispered back, shaking my head and trying to follow her gestures.
But the low roar of an unknown beast cut through what she was trying to communicate, and I turned, my heart pounding so loud it competed with the rush of water beside me. The River was surrounded by forest, and not the dilapidated one in Astola, but lush trees that were green and vibrant. I didn’t see a beast or creature of any kind.
Which was all the more terrifying. Whatever had roared was waiting in those thick trees. Fear leapt to my throat as my eyes searched the trees.
Another roar sounded, this time closer.
“What was that?” I asked the woman. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and clung to me, ignoring the violent sound of an unknown beast that echoed around us. She shook me, as if she were trying to convey something to me as she kept looking over at the River.
She must’ve never seen anyone cross it before.
I certainly hadn’t.
Another roar and low growl and I wrenched away from the old woman, scanning the edge of the water. There, at the foot of the trees, I saw something that made my skin go even colder than swimming across the River.
A beast had appeared out of the woods. It looked like a wolf, except it was the size of a horse, with a fierce black mane and teeth larger than my hands. White foam dripped from its mouth, and its narrowed eyes were a violent red. It stared at me, stalking along the edge of the River, coming closer with every step.
A scream trapped itself in my chest.
Unlike the kind old woman who had helped me, this beast was the very depiction of what human folklore had warned us about the fae.
They’ll suck your flesh from your bones. They’ll curse you to forget all your loved ones.
The fae will tear you apart and laugh while you scream.
They delight in torturing humans and feeding them to their monsters.
The fae will enslave you, and you’ll never be able to die as long as you are in their thrall. But you’ll be theirs forever.
“We have to go,” I said with a panicked voice. The creature was walking steadily closer. I gestured to a path in the trees. “We can’t just stand here!”
The woman shook her head vehemently and tried to grab me again, but I stepped back. I wasn’t going to let that thing devour me. But I didn’t want this old woman to be attacked either.
