“Barbaric,” Fynn whispers, shaking his head.
We all start to move, leaving the town and its inhabitants behind, all destined to die themselves eventually. Perhaps as a sacrifice, she got the better deal in leaving this cruel world.
DIARY ENTRY:
I'm unsure if it’s how I truly feel, but I think I might love him. I love him with all my heart. I hope. My belly is so big now that I can barely walk. Keir helps me with everything. I need him. I can’t do this alone. I hate you for doing this to me.
A Veil of Valley
HARLOT
Chapter 2
“Mother, how long until we leave this cursed forest and reach that forsaken city?” I whine.
I have lost count of the many days we have traveled, and my legs are hurting.
Initially, when I was young and naive, I had tried to keep track, but I eventually stopped doing so over time. Mother's directions are never right. Despite the experience we, and thus she, have now with traveling, she never gives a proper time indication of how long the travel will take. I have never figured out if it was on purpose or not.
This time, it feels different. My mother waves away my questions about how much longer it will take, whereas she usually tries to address them by giving imprecise answers. She seems less stressed, too, which is strange in itself. I do not think we have ever traveled such a long distance to reach a new place. Most human towns are built close to one another, making it easier to call for aid if needed.
She has always been hesitant to stay in the woods and spend the night there, despite the fact that we have never reallyencountered anything dangerous. She usually urges us to reach the next town as quickly as possible. But this time, Mother seems determined; this will be a place we can stay for a longer time, and if that means going straight through and sleeping in The Wailing Forest until we reach this utopia, she is willing to do so.
She has refused to hire a boatsman to avoid the forest altogether. And we haven’t gone off-track to stay over in any towns; she demands that we stay together and not let the forest get to our heads. It’s what the forest is known for: taking root in your mind and tapping into your feelings.
So, even though I know better, I feel a slight excitement when she mentions it: a place of our own, a place to stay longer, finally. I blame my excitement on the forest, although my mother has warned us that it applies to all positive and negative emotions, all feelings already present, all of which are magnified.
When we arrive at the edge of the forest, with the large trees looming ahead of us and the foliage dense, I can detect the scent of the pine trees that grow here specifically. I smell the forest and the river that courses through it. The aroma is earthy with a faint metallic odor weaving through. Our surroundings change as we make our way into the forest, stepping over an invisible barrier that separates reality from imagination. The grove behind us weaves its branches into a wall, preventing us from returning the way we have come, forcing us forward. Mother does not seem to notice or care as she marches deeper into the forest.
She yells at us to stay close, waving us over as we both stand there, stupefied. The scent intensifies, and the trees begin to change color. As we venture deeper into the woods, each of them turns different shades of deep orange and dark red as if it were autumn. A dark, viscous substance, like tar, coats the bark andstems, making them appear as if they are bleeding. It doesn’t matter what sort of tree I look at—oak, pine, maple, or birch—all of them blend into one when it comes to color and the thick, syrupy coating.
Fynn slaps my hand hard, too hard, as I unconsciously reach for it. I withdraw my hand, hissing in response to the stinging pain. I want to feel it, touch it. I grit my teeth as Mother issues a stern warning to both of us to stay on the path and not to touch anything. My brother stares at me as if he is pondering whether he shouldn’t have interfered with my intrusive thoughts to touch the damn trees. I’m sure he regrets his actions.
“What’s the matter, Fynn? Wished you had let me touch the damn tree? Let it poison me?” I whisper in a sneer.
Not awaiting his response, I join Mother in silence as his face turns into a grimace.
The Wailing Forest is renowned for heightening emotions, predominantly negative ones. These woods are home to haunted souls. It lures former lovers to the forest with the illusion that they can rekindle their love, poisoning their minds. More often than not, this turns into a blood bath, especially with demonic creatures such as vampires who already suffer from heightened emotions. Wailing sounds come from every direction during the day and night. Souls wail for their lost loves and their own lives as the leaves rustle, transferring their cries. It is a blood-curdling sound that I find hard to ignore, even though I know they cannot hurt or possess me.
Their strangled cries seem to feed my murderous thoughts. I hear Mother release a deep sigh as she concludes that our magic indeed protects us from any mirages or heightened emotions, at least for her. I doubt our magic protects against what Fynn and I are experiencing.
The forest is ancient, and none of us has a former lover to lure. How many centuries have these trees been here, capturingthose who come near them? How old are these ghouls that are feeding and amplifying emotions? I feel my neck hair rise as I understand our magic will not protect me here, at least not to its full capabilities. I keep close to my mother as if she can keep me safe: a child’s thought.
My mind is plagued with disturbing thoughts about obtaining the books and how to get rid of my brother in the nastiest and bloodiest ways possible. It is sick, but I cannot help myself. The wailing amplifies my stream of unsettling thoughts. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, and then the tears come. I hysterically cry because it is my own sweat and not my brother's blood. I double-check my wet clothes as tears stream down my cheeks to verify that they are not covered in his gore, and more tears come of disappointment. Bloodthirst alternates with shame during those nights.
During the day, I catch myself sharpening twigs and practicing throwing my knife. I build little towers from fallen branches and try to knock them over. It’s good I am not an assassin, as I suck at it. Fynn notices it, too, and he smirks at my fumbling. I hate the vulnerable feeling that transpires in me during those moments. It makes me want to plant the knife I use for the wood straight into his stomach and gut him like a fish, ripping out all his organs with my bare hands. A vicious smile creeps across my face at the idea and the image I conjure. My brother squeals, in my mind, as I plunge my hands into his open belly, crushing his ribs and his sternum, tearing out his lungs and his bowels, all while he is still alive.
The dreams are the most vivid when we camp close to the river, which has water flowing steadily through it, as bright red as blood. The banks on either side are lined with a mix of dark red and lush greenery. Seeing the river stretching out before me with its rippling surface is a sight to behold. The red trail cleavesthe forest in two, with harsh curves and bends, like an open gash, a bleeding wound; it even smells like fresh blood mingled with decay. It is the same earthy, coppery scent that I smelled before we entered the forest. Fynn has told me it is because the earth in The Wailing Forest absorbs the blood from the dead through the ground, draining them and releasing it into the river. It is also why the foliage is red or a shade of red.
Mother’s frown of displeasure when she hears him speak the words tells me he is telling the truth. When I ask him how he knows this, he shrugs and says he had heard someone mention it while he was out hunting. It makes me wonder what else he knows that he has never spoken about. It also explains why the fish Fynn catches taste peculiar, as if they are infused with iron. It is hard to swallow down, but it is the only food we have at our disposal as we travel through these never-ending woods.
I cannot wait to leave this forsaken forest. The smell of the river begins to make me feel nauseous and dizzy, and the lack of sleep makes my brain feel even hazier. Catching Fynn’s stare starts to send shivers down my spine while my knuckles turn white from the firm grasp I hold on the knife, ready to stab him if need be. I want to widen that smirk on his face, slice open his cheeks from ear to ear, and give him a proper smile. Angrily, I glare at him, my brother, my blood, the blood I want to see spilled on the ground.
Mother finally tells us where we are headed, and I try to focus on the goal of this trip, Valorya, the city of Vampires. Staying somewhere longer will hopefully translate into a more normal life. I no longer care that it is vampire-infested; anything is better than these damn woods.
My eyes are burning from sleep deprivation and the tears I shed. My body is aching, as I can’t get the rest I so badly need. Not only will it be nice to stay somewhere for a bit longer and get a proper sleep, but I also hope to get my hands on one ofthe books. The books are becoming an obsession for me, the desire for them plagues me, amplified by the damned forest. Staying somewhere means that Mother will eventually leave the premises, and I can live out at least one of my fantasies.
Of course, I have said nothing of the kind; instead, I smile when my mother finally speaks the words I’ve been dying to hear.
