“You saw what that water did to your boot. I don’t think it can sustain life.”
I know what I saw but I drop it. A light rain starts to fall, which makes our walk more slippery.
Nova searches the horizon with a frustrated scowl. “The ferryman is supposed to be somewhere here.”
If the water burned a hole in my boot, how does it not burn a boat?
As the rain gets progressively harder, the rain forest to our left shudders as lightning strikes.
“There!” Nova points ahead.
I grab hold of him and together we run, trying not to slip as the earth softens under our boots. We take turns almost falling, but when the golden glint of something bobbing in the water becomes clearer, I’m the one pulling him.
Disappointment comes swiftly. “That isn’t a ferry. It’s an oversize rowboat.”
“It’s a small Viking ship,” he says. But even he has to admit it wasn’t what we were expecting. “This can’t be right.”
Nova takes a step onto the golden pier that goes out a few yards over the river. The gold boat has a curling bow and stern, and high sides that might prevent the passengers from getting splashed with the corrosive water. There are four oars resting across a bench, and it looks like it seats up to six passengers.
“Hello?” I shout. I realize I probably shouldn’t announce myself like I’m at the bodega.
Then a man appears from thin air.
“I’m right here, girl,” he says in a raspy voice. “No need to shout at the wind.”
I take several steps back until I collide with Nova’s chest. His hands fly protectively to my shoulders.
The man isn’t exactly a man. He’s got the face of an old man, yes. His moss-colored skin looks rough to the touch. His eyes are like swirls of gold, and when he smiles, two perfect rows of gold teeth flash back at us. His torso is hidden beneath a long, black cloak that’s caked in mud at the hem. He hobbles when he steps toward us.
“Fear won’t get you very far in these lands.” He extends a furry finger that ends in a sharp, black nail. He breathes deep, as if he smells a perfume he likes. “Though…perhaps your magic could.”
Nova steps in front of me, to block me from the creature’s golden gaze. Nova’s posture changes. He digs one hand in his pocket and relaxes his shoulders like he’s not afraid. He tilts his chin up.
“You the ferryman?”
The creature tilts his head from side to side, amused. He moves like molasses and speaks just as slowly. “I am Oros, the duende of the River Luxaria. I provide crossing to the other shore.”
“Shut up.” Nova’s sudden enthusiasm makes me panic. Where did my street-savvy brujo just go? Instead, he looks like he’s about to jump on the creature’s lap and list everything he wants for Christmas. “My grandma told me you guys were all extinct.”
The duende makes a sour face. He keeps that long, craggy finger pointed in my direction.
“Most of my kind was sent here by El Terroz, Lord of the Earth and its Treasures. He is our father and protector. I am charged with passage across the Luxaria, or as common witches call it—Lover’s Lament.”
“Lover’s Lament?” I look at the hole in my shoe. “Why do they call it that?”
Oros hobbles to my side. I follow his gaze to the silver water. “Watch.”
“For what?” Nova says, impatient.
I nudge him in the ribs.
“Impatience will get you killed almost as quickly as fear, boy.”
I wrap my hand around Nova’s wrist. His fingers ball into a fist. His magic pushes against mine. It’s a weird feeling to recognize it.
“Girl,” the duende says to me. “You saw it before.”
I step onto the pier. I get on one knee to look closer. Nova says my name in warning, but I’m not in any danger. Not from this distance at least. I was right. I did see a face in the water before. When I inhale the salty breeze, I’m overcome with a wave of yearning. I have the overwhelming sensation that I might break down and cry, so I take several steps back and blink against the sting in my eyes. I realize the salt in the air isn’t sea spray. They’re tears.
“It’s a river of souls,” I say.
“Takes some travelers ages to figure that out,” the duende says. “Your heart must be calling out for long-lost ones. These souls take the shape of water, tangled forever as one. With each splash and wave, they try to break free.”
One soul leaps from the mass, and a silver hand slaps the pier right at my feet. She pulls herself up with one arm. Her beautiful and ghastly face is covered by a wet tangle of matted hair. She tilts an open mouth to the sky and howls. She breaks a hand off of the undulating mass of souls around her. Her elbows are sharp like spikes, and she digs them into the pier to pull herself farther up, long, pale fingers reaching for me.
I kick, and the rubber of my sole melts when it touches her head. My power is on alert, sensing my despair. It swells in my chest, but something stops the magic from coming forward.
Not yet, a voice whispers.
Oros’s heavy feet run up behind me. With a swing of his golden staff, he knocks the soul back into the mass making its way downstream.
“Why are they like this?” I ask. “I thought souls pass on eventually.”
“You’d think that, girl,” Oros says. He pulls on a golden rope to bring the vessel closer to the pier. “These end up here because they’re unable to let go of their human lives. When they try to harm the living, Lady de la Muerte herself sends them here.”
“Are you trying to tell me that this entire giant river is made up of souls that can’t let go of their…loves?”
“Why is that so hard to believe?” The duende puts a foot on the boat to keep it steady. “You’re seeing it with your own eyes.”
“She’s a hard one to impress,” Nova says.
Oros’s smirk is a terrible, dark thing that makes me want to turn back and jump into the infinite portal that leads to nothing. “What brings you young travelers to the Selva of Ashes?”
Nova and I exchange looks. My whole mouth feels dry. Lie faster, I tell myself.
“We’re hunting for supplies in the Poison Garden,” he says with a smirk.
“All this way? I do hope your dealer is making it worth your while.”
“Listen, old man,” Nova says, “as long as those things don’t touch us and we can get across, I’m good.”
Oros ponders, tapping a black nail on his chin. “Used to be people paid me to cross the Luxaria with a promise of their firstborn or the tears of their first love. Even a little taste of magic. My services are costly, after all.”
Taste of magic?
“Well, we don’t have firstborn children,” Nova says irritably, “or the tears of our first loves.”
“Not yet you don’t,” Oros says, like a warning.
A silver wave rises high into the air. Arms and faces try to pull away from the imprisoned mass, but an invisible force pulls them back down.