Page 102 of Wild Reverence

He tried to take a step closer to her. He was about to fall to his knees and I yanked him away, keeping him close to me.

Quickly, I thought, before his own nightmare fooled him.

Both of us could lose our sense of what was real and what was false.

I dragged him out of the tent and through another.

She was there again, and again. Mortal and beautiful and full of fire.

Each time she looked upon him, it was with disgust and disapproval, as if he was the worst thing she had ever crossed paths with.

“I never want to see you again,” she said to him through her teeth. “ Leave. ”

Was this a memory, or was it distorted by his sense of remorse and dread? I was not certain, but it was brutal to witness.

I trembled with relief when we cleared the last tent. My steps were light, Bade’s heavy and trudging, as if he wanted to lie down and die again. But up ahead, in the distance, was an archway of light. The way out, I realized, and my determination surged.

“We are almost there,” I said to him. Thirst pounded through me; what I would have given for a sip of nectar, a swallow of rainwater. To dive into the river at Wyndrift. “Look, Bade. See the light ahead? We are—”

“Bade!”

The cry went through me like a clap of thunder. It was my own voice, interrupting me. A younger mold of myself, and I saw her—twelve winters to my name, knees bleeding gold, hair caught in a long braid. I looked so young and afraid. Soft and uncertain of who I was.

Even I wavered, gazing at her.

I wanted to protect her, wrap her within my arms.

“Bade!” my younger self shouted at him again, and he responded like he had been slapped.

“Matilda,” he said, hauling me after her. “ Wait. Wait for me.”

Young Matilda turned and darted away, into the darkness. I dug my heels into the loam of the dream like I was an anchor, resisting the pull she created. I gritted my teeth and defied Bade’s strength, desperate to keep him on the path forward.

“Bade!” I hissed. “ Bade, I am here. This is just a dream. I am holding your hand, and we are—”

He ran after the memory of me, his fear like the blue heart of a flame, blazing through his eyes.

“Where are you?” he shouted.

“I am here!” I cried, but Young Matilda said the exact same words in the darkness, drowning out my voice.

I held on to his hand with an iron grip, afraid he would tear loose from me.

He dragged me after my own phantom, and I could do nothing to break his pace.

We were plunging headlong into utter blackness.

If my heart had been able to beat, it would have been racing.

Soon, hounds began to bay in the distance. I felt Bade shudder.

“ Matilda! ” he bellowed.

Once more, I tried to reply, but Young Matilda stole the words from my mouth. Her voice was pitched high, ringing like a chime.

“Over here, Bade! Help me.”

He yanked us to the right, chasing the sound.

His fear of something terrible happening to me was suffocating.

I felt the ground begin to shift. There were loose pebbles beneath us.

I slipped, but Bade did not seem to notice.

He continued to drag me, desperate to reach Young Matilda as the howls grew louder.

I could only think of one way to break his focus. To bring his eyes back to mine. To call him by a name Young Matilda never had.

“Father,” I said, my voice hitching. “ Father! ”

That brought Bade to a sliding halt. At once, the howls vanished. The darkness did not feel so heavy. Young Matilda vanished into mist.

He turned and looked at me, still clinging to his hand, my eyes wide and desperate.

I had never called him that, but it was what he was to me. No blood tethered us, but without him, I would not have been who I was.

I was the daughter he would never have. The child he had secretly wanted.

“Matilda?” he whispered.

“ Yes. ” Relief brought me to my knees, a sour tang in my mouth. Still, I did not let go of his hand, and his fingers tightened on mine. “Yes, we were almost to the gate. To the light.”

He helped me stand.

This time we walked together, in stride. If there were hounds in the distance, we did not run from them. We did not fear them. We left behind the phantoms, the guilt, the ache of remorse.

The light became brighter, filling my eyes until it was all I could see.

I breathed, although I did not need the air. Still, I drew it in deep, remembering what it felt like to be alive.

And I pulled Bade through the dream’s gate.

Souls grow just as weary as flesh and bone and blood. They become thin, like old veils and parchment. Light shines through them until it feels like they will become nothing more than a vapor.

That is how I felt as Bade and I found the road again. My weariness stung my skin; it seemed like we had been wandering through his nightmare for decades. We were both battered and thirsty and sad. We both trembled with relief. He still held my hand, as I held his.

“Do not let go,” I said. “Not yet. There, up ahead, is the wasted door.”

I could see it and felt warmed by the familiarity—an arched plank of cedar wood with a cast-iron handle and a stone lintel. A door that seemed to sprout from the wasteland, leading to nowhere.

“Wasted door?” Bade echoed. “Where does it open to?”

“Come and see,” I said.

We approached the threshold, and I willed my sorrow to melt. I tamped it down, like embers. And still my hope roused itself, defiantly, sending heat through my cold, dead veins.

I wondered if I could bear my own soul and return to the living realm.

“This door leads to the mortal world,” I said as we paused before it. “I will open it for you, and you must step through it without looking back.”

Bade frowned. “And what of you? You are coming with me.”

“I… am not certain if I can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Souls are like words,” I said. “I carry them for everyone but myself. I have never tried to bear my own.”

“Then you must try this time,” Bade said gently, squeezing my fingers. “For me, and Adria. For Vincent.”

I glanced over the wasteland, eager to dull the pain that welled in my soul. My wound had ceased bleeding, as had Bade’s. Our ichor was golden dust on our clothes, our skin. But there was still a hole in my chest. A place that could not be mended.

“Of course I will,” I said, attempting a smile. “Now, let me open the door for you. I will let go of your hand so you may pass over the threshold, but remember, you must not look behind. Do you hear me, Bade?”

He grunted. But it was only to hide the concern that I saw, glimmering in his eyes, as he continued to gaze down at me.

“I hear you,” he said at last. “Daughter.”

The threshold came to life when I touched the iron handle. With my sinister hand, I opened the door, and with my right, I let Bade go.

He stepped forward as I hoped he would, limned in sunlight, but then he paused.

Do not look behind, I thought, but I held my voice captive. If I spoke, I knew it would only tempt him to glance at me. Keep moving toward Adria.

I think he was waiting to feel my soul, close behind his. To ensure that I was following him. And so I stepped onto the threshold, the air stirring around me.

Bade’s shoulders relaxed. He continued forward. He vanished into the light, returning to the world of the living. When I tried to follow, I found that I could not. I was captive to the wastes. This threshold, while brilliant with magic, was barred to me.

I had no choice but to stumble backward into the vast sprawl of the wasteland.

I did not think I would weep; I did not think I could.

But I sank to my knees and pressed my face into my palms, and I wept.

There were no tears, only the salt of them, the sound of them.

I wanted to curl into stone, to lie down and forget what I had lost until I was numb, but then came a voice, rolling over the hills to find me.

Matilda.

It was the Gatekeeper, calling to me.

I fell silent, breathing into my palms.

Matilda, your seven years have now begun.