The White Oak (4 page)

“I am the real Cora Alexander,” I say defensively. This alternate self unnerves me.

The avatar smiles in a patronizing way. “Of course you are,” she says.

We stare at each other for a long time. The holographic version of me seems older. Her body is muscular and her features are sharper. Looking at her, I feel something like the opposite of déjà vu. It’s as if I’m seeing myself in a future that I’ve already experienced in some mysterious way.

“Where am I?” I ask, recovering my wits.

The figment looks at me quizzically. “I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out,” she says with an air of superiority that makes me seethe. “You are in the land of the dead. You came here, not by accident, as a still-living person.”

The moment she says it I know it’s true, but I have to repeat it to get the information to sink in. “I’m in the land of the dead, but I’m still alive,” I say. I always believed the legends that the White Oak was a gateway to another world, but I never imagined I would cross over into that world. “What do you mean—not by accident?” I ask.

“We choose our fate, Cora. Nothing is an accident.” She examines her fingernails, and the ruby ring glows deep red in the gray twilight. The jewel is mesmerizing, and we both admire it for a moment. “You came here looking for
him
,” she says, glancing up at me with a sly grin. “But they’ll never let you get to him,” she adds, as she begins to fade.

“Wait!” I call out. She is talking about either Lucas or the mysterious voice. “You have to tell me more.
Who
won’t let me get to him, and why?” I ask, but my doppelgänger is already gone and Minotaur has returned, this time with the image of a famous gangster. I take a deep breath and dig my toes into the sterile ground, determined not to be afraid of him. “What do you want from me?” I demand.

The gangster smiles. “You are alive,” he says. “That could be very useful to my father and me.”

“Why would I help you?” I say coldly.

Minotaur takes an egg out of his suit pocket. It’s pure white, smooth as marble. He holds it in his palm, then begins to toss it up and catch it. “You are like this egg,” he says, “fragile, full of potential.” He continues tossing and catching the egg as he speaks. “Just because you made it out of the river alive does not mean you’ll remain that way.” He deliberately lets the egg fall: the shell shatters, and the yolk and albumen ooze out, staining the ashy ground. “You can die here,” he says, “and because you are an intruder, wherever you die, that is where you will remain for eternity. There are rules in every region of the underworld that you don’t understand. For example, if you had put on that ratty old fur coat, you’d have taken the place of that blue flame. You’d be stuck in his little cell forever.”

I look at the cold flames flickering nervously over their litter. I shudder at the prospect of spending eternity trapped in a place like this, shackled to junk, condemned to repeat some meaningless task over and over.

“It’s
you
who needs
my
help,” Minotaur says. “I know everything about this world. I can get you out, and back aboveground where you belong.” As he talks, he shifts mercurially, one face and body melting into another. I know he’s lying, or not giving me the full story, but I have to go along with it. What else can I do? I can’t survive this place on my own.

“How do I get out?” I ask bluntly.

Minotaur smiles. He’s got my attention and my cooperation, which must be the first step in whatever plan he’s got. There is definitely something shifty about him.

“There is no easy way out of here,” he says. “We have to get you to the City, where my father can help you.”

“What city?” I ask.

“
The
City,” Minotaur says, pointing to a black sun rising in the east. The shadowy disk fills the horizon. I could swear it wasn’t there before. “We should get going,” he says, gliding off in the direction of the City. I follow him.

“What is this place?” I ask as we walk past row after row of white-lined spaces buzzing with jittery specters.

“This is Asphodel,” he replies. “A purgatory for weaker souls. They haven’t done much of anything and aren’t interesting enough for my father to let them into the City.”

As we walk, the flames avoid us, wary of Minotaur’s sting. “What do you mean, he doesn’t let them in? Is he some kind of king?

Minotaur turns and smiles at me. “Yes,” he says, swelling up with pride. “My father is a king, and he set the rules for admission to the City.” He looks at the sphere, the black sun in the distance. Then he frowns and his persona turns dark. “It was perfect until the Judges interfered, but we are going put it back the way it was meant to be,” he whispers.

I’m about to ask what he’s talking about when I catch the look on his face. He’s borrowed this persona from a heist movie. The scene he replays in the sterile air of Asphodel is the one in which the thief tells the interrogator more than he should. Watching him look around nervously, I realize that he believes he’s said more than he should, and it makes me wonder how much control he has over the personas he projects. It’s almost as if he has feelings, or some simulation of feelings.

We walk together silently until we reach the edge of Asphodel. The plain ends at the banks of another river. This one is black as tar and gives off an acrid stench that makes my eyes water. From the riverbank, I can see the City better. It is an enormous sphere half submerged in the oily water, turning slowly on its axis. Space and perspective behave strangely down here. When Minotaur first pointed out the City to me, it appeared no bigger than a rising sun; now I’m only a few miles closer, but it consumes the horizon. I can’t see its top or sides. It’s as large as the earth itself—made of iron and floating in thick ooze.

“This is the river Tartarus,” Minotaur says. “It’s deeper than an ocean and home to foul monsters, so many that we don’t bother to name them. My father deepened this river and changed its chemistry so that it could support the rotation of the sphere. Without Tartarus, the friction would melt the City. When you get inside you’ll see, it’s a glorious place, a sphere inside a sphere at the core of the world. My father cooled the red magma at the center of the earth and used its iron ores to build the City. The rest of it was pushed out to the red desert—a forbidden place.” Minotaur stops short and looks around warily. His image sputters and his face looks contrite, and something else—as though he was expecting some kind of punishment for letting his bragging go too far.

After a long pause I ask, “How do we get across? And how do I get inside?” Looking carefully at the sphere, I don’t see a single window or door—it’s smooth as polished stone.

“The ferry is the only way across,” Minotaur says, pointing downriver. I see them in the distance—a pier, a boat, and a long line of people waiting to board. “You won’t be allowed to cross without the proper fare,” Minotaur adds. “It’s a gold coin. You have to be dead to get one, but I know someone who can help us,” he says. “Follow me.”

“This way,” Minotaur says as he glides through the air. I do my best to keep up with him, running away from the ferry, along Tartarus’s mucky riverbank. If you can call it a river; it’s as stagnant as a swamp and as vast as an ocean. I can’t see the other side of it, but I don’t have time to stop and look. I have to sprint to keep up with Minotaur, which is difficult on feet covered with the cuts I got while running on the sharp gravel to escape the other river. The noxious tar stings my injured feet, and would be doing a lot worse if the sterile Asphodel dust weren’t protecting them a little. I’m hungry, thirsty, my feet are killing me, and I need to rest, but I force myself to keep going.

Ahead, a pale object rises tall and thin against the dusky sky. It creates a sliver of brightness that looks like a door cracked open. As we get closer, I realize that it’s a silver-gray tree. The largest tree I’ve ever seen. The base is wider than a city block, and the top disappears from view like the point of a skyscraper piercing the clouds. Its pale leafless branches form a net against the dark sky. A flock of large orange birds drift around them like autumn leaves animated by the wind.

“This is where she lives,” Minotaur says, stopping abruptly next to a large root that protrudes from the ground not far from the trunk of the tree. My feet are numb with pain and I’m sweating from the run. I lean against the root, which is as tall as I am, and lift up a foot to examine it. The cuts are packed with the toxic sludge from the riverbank. Infection is setting in; my feet are swollen and throbbing. I lean back and close my eyes for a moment. That’s when I realize there is something different about this tree. Through its woody skin, I can feel something flowing, a pulse. The tree is alive, like me.

Minotaur has been staring up at the canopy, watching the giant birds. He glances at me, and a look of concern appears in the form of a television mom from a show I used to watch. “Don’t touch the tree,” she says firmly and urgently.

“Why?” I ask.

“Just stay away from it,” she says, turning her attention back to the birds. “The tree is dangerous—trust me on this.”

The mother persona is gone and the knight returns. As Minotaur watches the movements of the birds, he shifts personas rapidly, trying on different characters to figure out his strategy.

“I’ve never seen birds like that,” I say, marveling at their size and speed.

“Those aren’t birds,” Minotaur says. “They’re called Simurgh; they’re among the fiercest creatures in the underworld, and they guard this tree.” Minotaur hovers near the ground, practicing the new personas. Some are monstrous, not human at all. He stays almost transparent so as not to draw attention to himself.

“That’s weird,” I say. “Why would a tree this huge need to be guarded?” But Minotaur doesn’t answer.

“You stay here,” he says finally. “Don’t let them see you. I’ll get Sybil and come back for you.” With that he swoops upward, dividing himself into a dozen personas that fly in all directions to distract the Simurgh. The flock pursues each one, captures it, and tears it to bits. A moment later the personas reassemble, to absorb another attack.

I crouch down near the root and try to be inconspicuous, but my white dress stands out against the black ground. To compensate, I try to stay completely still, hoping the lack of movement and my proximity to the pale root will serve as a kind of disguise. Frozen in place, I watch Minotaur battle the Simurgh, and I track the white light of his knight persona as it disappears into the tree.

Then one of the creatures spots me from hundreds of feet above the ground. Focusing on me like a predator who has marked his prey, he pulls in his wings and dives. There is nowhere else to hide, so I run to the tree and squeeze into one of the large crevices in the bark. A moment later the creature reaches me, landing with a ground-shaking thump. I try to squeeze further into the crevice as he peers at me. My whole body is wedged in, but not deep enough. I’m still within reach, but the Simurgh hesitates. I’ve never seen such a terrifying creature—as big as a grizzly bear, with the feet and sharp talons of an eagle. His bald head is silvery white, dominated by an ivory beak that looks as strong as a vice and as sharp as a sword. He folds his four giant wings and tilts his head to consider me.

He could reach in and grab me, but he doesn’t. It’s as though he’s afraid to touch the tree, which doesn’t make sense. A creature this ferocious shouldn’t be afraid of anything. I force myself to meet his gaze. In his silver eyes, I see my reflection. I’m trapped, terrified, and starting to feel desperate, but none of that shows on my face. My jaw is set firmly, my brow is creased in a frown, and my eyes are fierce. It’s my “don’t mess with me” face, the one I’ve used with great success for years. It’s powerful enough even to have made my father stand down once or twice. The Simurgh lets out a shrill screech and bolts upward.

Relieved, I exhale and nestle into the tree’s trunk. It’s as soft as velvet, with a deep pile that envelops me as I lean back. I dig my feet into the ashen ground and notice that it has a different quality here. The dirt next to the trunk isn’t sterile, like the rest of Asphodel. I press one foot against a root and feel the vitality circulating through it and leaching out from the capillaries into the earth. Aboveground, it’s the reverse: The plants pull life from the soil. Down here, the cycle flows backward: The living tree feeds the dead ground. I wonder how the tree has energy to spare with nothing but the ashen ground to feed off. How can it afford to let its life force leak into the soil like that?

Before I can sort it out, I feel something push against my arm. It isn’t part of the tree; it feels more like flesh, like a finger poking me. I burrow through the soft bark to find out what it is, and I uncover a young boy, about ten years old. His clothing is from another era. He wears a velvet jacket with a white ruff. The boy is immobile, but his eyes are wide open. When he opens his mouth, sawdust and carpenter ants spill out of his mouth. His hair is not hair but fine roots, and he is embedded in the tree, or perhaps the tree is digesting him. My blood goes cold; I see why the Simurgh left me alone. I push myself away from the boy and the tree closes around him. I turn around and try to get out, but the tree grabs my legs and pulls me back.