In answer, the schellenrock hopped off the log and headed up the bank of the creek, where the foliage was dense and the ground was a patchwork of gnarled roots and ferns and brambles.
Sighing, Serilda grabbed hold of a thick root sticking out of the clay and hauled herself up after it.
Yes, the forest was bleak, she thought, weaving and ducking around the branches that clawed at her as she passed. But there was a serenity to it, too. Like a sad concerto played in a minor key that made you weep just to hear it, though you could never quite tell why.
It was the smell of earth and fungi. Of that damp, sodden smell after a good rain. It was the tiny purple wildflowers unfurling near the ground, so easy to miss among the prickly weeds. It was the fallen tree trunks that were rotting away, giving life to new saplings, wrapped up in tender, spindly roots. It was thrumming insects and an entire menagerie of croaking frogs.
The path, if it could be called a path, curved along the edge of a swamp overrun with swamp grass and weeping willows. A pool speckled with algae and enormous lily pads was fed by a small brook. The schellenrock clambered over to the other side, its shells clinking merrily, but when Serilda went to follow, her foot slid ankle deep into the mud. She gasped and threw her arms wide, barely managing to catch her balance before she fell into the swamp.
On the other side of the pool, the schellenrock paused to look back at her, as if wondering what could be the problem.
Serilda scowled and pulled her boot from the mud with a gloopy, sucking noise. She backed up onto drier land. “Isn’t there another …” She trailed off, spotting, not much farther down the brook, a little footbridge made of birch twigs and mortared stones. “Ah! Like that.”
The schellenrock rattled its shells loudly.
“It’s not much farther,” Serilda called back, pausing to wipe her muddied boot on a patch of moss. “And this will be much easier for me.”
It rattled again, a bit panicky. Serilda frowned and glanced back at its wide eyes, now unblinking.
“What?” she said, taking a step onto the bridge.
Oh … hello … lovely thing.
Serilda stilled. The voice was a whisper and a melody. The rustle of leaves, the soothing burble of water.
Pulling her attention away from the schellenrock, Serilda looked ahead to see a woman standing on the other side of the little bridge.
She was crafted of silk and moonbeams, in a long white dress, with dark hair that hung nearly to her knees. Her face, though lovely, was not flawless like the dark ones’. She had thick, dark eyebrows over acorn-brown eyes, and impish dimples just above the corners of her mouth. Still, mortal as she might look, the ethereal light emanating from her made it clear that she was something unearthly.
And judging from the schellenrock’s reaction … dangerous.
But Serilda did not feel threatened. Instead, she felt drawn to this woman, this being.
The woman’s smile grew wider, her dimples more pronounced. She giggled, and it was parade bells and shooting stars. She stretched a hand toward Serilda.
An invitation.
Will you dance with me?
Serilda made no decision. Already her hand was reaching out, eager to accept the offer. She stepped forward.
Something crunched beneath her foot.
Startled, Serilda looked down.
Ah—nothing but a birch twig.
She went to kick it down into the brook, but paused.
A warning, deep in her mind, shouting at her.
This was no twig.
This was a bone.
The entire bridge was crafted of them, mixed in with the mortar and rocks.
Heart thrumming, she began to step back, meeting the woman’s eye again.