The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (11 page)

For the first time in Limbo, I can see the shapes and shadows of an organic landscape. It reminds me of standing in one of Pops' farm fields in the middle of the night with only a full moon to light the way. There are jagged mountain peaks in the distance. Directly ahead, the faint silhouette of a ruined castle rests on a hill, surrounded by rolling plains.

Then, all around us, is the forest of lights.

Trees tower over us, the tallest I've ever seen, stretching on into the distance. And in between them, everywhere I look, there are shafts of faint, blue-white light, stretching from ground to sky, filling the valleys and plains. Some are as thin as wisps of smoke, others are as thick as the tree trunks. They move and sway as though rustled by a breeze. As though alive. They fade in and out, the light stronger one moment, then softer the next, rippling and winking amid the black and the trees. They are the color of white-hot fire. Of lightning. Above us, the sky is dotted with flickering blue-white stars. At our feet, tiny wisps of light curl around each blade of grass.

“What are they?” I hear myself say.

I find it impossible to look away from the forest of lights. It's the most beautiful, ethereal, and compelling sight I have ever beheld. Tears well in my eyes, but I dare not even move to blink or wipe them away.

“They're called soulmarks,” Porter says. “They are the marks left by souls as they pass through Limbo. Every soul who ever was has left a single mark here, its journey forever etched into the black.”

He takes my hand again, and we walk forward down a sloping path through the trees. I hear the sound of water before I see it. The trees open up at the bottom of the hill, and we come out beneath the silent, haunting silhouette of the ruined castle. It looms overhead, its walls crumbling from age. A river winds around the foot of the hill like a moat, cutting us off from the castle. When we reach the river, we step onto a bridge, crystal clear as though made of glass. I can see the water coursing beneath my feet, like I'm hovering over it. The river is lit from within – thousands of soulmarks swirl and swim gracefully through the current.

I kneel on the bridge and reach down to let the water flow between my fingers. It doesn't feel like water. It feels ancient. Magical. Like the memory of water.

The soulmarks glide up to my skin and sweep past it, glittering as they pass by. Their reflections dance upon my face.

“There are soulmarks everywhere in Limbo,” Porter says. “Cleave a mountain rock in two and there will be soulmarks inside, twinkling like diamonds. Take a spade to the soil and you'll find soulmarks reaching far into the depths like roots. They even inhabit the sky like stars. They are the lifeblood of Limbo. Without them, there would be only black.”

“Do I have a soulmark?”

Porter nods. “I was hoping you would ask me that.”

He takes my hand again and the pressure builds once more. This time I let myself give in to it, just like how I fell into the refuge of the black when I was seasick on the ship. The forest of lights, the river, the castle, the mountains – they all disappear. I feel the suction pulling at my skin, my hair, my scarf, but the sensations pass sooner than last time.

When it's all over, we're standing in a new region of Limbo. There are no stars; the sky is black. No valleys or grass or rolling hills. Just an endless expanse of night like Eremus. The only difference is the cluster of dazzling white soulmarks standing upright before us. They are spaced evenly apart, like rows of perfectly manicured fruit trees in a garden.

“Where are we now?” I ask. I step forward and move between the rows, letting myself get lost in the garden of lights. They surround me on all sides. The lights bewitch my senses.

“We've stepped below to a different level,” Porter says, following me. “There are millions of levels in Limbo. Billions, trillions. An infinite number, perhaps. And you can step between them if you know how.”

“Which level is this?”

I look over my shoulder at him and see a flicker of pride pass over his face. “This is your level. I made it just for you.”

“My level?” The soulmarks sway gently, silently, glinting white like a stand of silver birches in sunlight. “Why would I need my own level?”

The pride on Porter's face fades, and for the first time he looks somber and a bit too serious. It makes me nervous.

“Because your soulmarks are in danger. I had to move them here to keep them safe.”

A chill sweeps up my spine like a cold, wet feather. Not because of the danger, but because he said soulmarks.

Plural.

I look around at the lights again, as though I should recognize them. “You said every soul who ever was has left a mark in Limbo. A mark. A single mark.”

Porter lets his gaze drop to his feet. He rubs circles around his pinky knuckle with his thumb again. When he finally speaks, his words come gradually. A slow drip. “Every soul passes through Limbo to Afterlife once, leaving one mark. That is the natural order of things. When I die, I will leave one mark. But you… You've already passed through. More than once.”

“More than once?” I say, the words catching on my throat. “There must be at least a hundred here.”

Porter swallows, looking sheepish. “There are fifty-six, to be exact.”

I look out at the soulmarks, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of my stomach. “You mean I've been to Limbo fifty-six times?”

“No, you've been to Limbo hundreds of times. You've passed through fifty-six times.”

“What do you mean ‘passed through'? I've passed through Limbo to Afterlife?”

Wouldn't I have remembered that?

He really digs his thumb into his pinky knuckle now. “No, not exactly. ‘Passing through' can refer to passing through to Afterlife, but it can also mean passing through to Newlife.”

The perception of my pulse starts to race. My translucent palms are slicked with sweat. I force myself to ask, “What's Newlife?” even though I'm pretty sure I already know the answer.

“Newlife is the answer to all your questions,” Porter says, stepping toward me. “Newlife is why you and I are standing here. It is the reason you have memories you can't place. It is the reason you descend into the past involuntarily. It is the reason you exist. It's what I've been trying to explain to you all along. If you have fifty-six soulmarks in Limbo, it means you've lived fifty-six past lives.”

I stare at Porter like he just slapped me in the face. I feel stunned and sick and like I need to wake up from this very long, very surreal dream. All those visions – the ship, the Ferris wheel, the cat, Jamestown, Chicago – were glimpses of my past lives? I had traveled back in time to my own pasts?

“You're the only one of your kind,” Porter says, making it sound like an honor. “The only reincarnated Descender. A Transcender. When your very first life ended, Flemming intercepted your soulmark as it was being written in Polestar. He sent your soul back to Earth, and when your second life was over, he sent you back for a third. Like a needle and thread, he worked your soulmarks in and out of the black. He wove your lives throughout history.”

When I don't say or do anything but gape back at him, Porter continues, the words spilling out of him like he can't say them fast enough. “You have Level Five clearance, just like Flemming and Gesh. Lower level Descenders aren't allowed to descend without permission, and it takes years and meticulous research to find a soulmark that matches the exact time period they need for their missions. Once a Descender uses a soulmark to descend, that soulmark burns up. It can never be used again. But you're free to access Limbo and descend as much as you wish. Your soulmarks never burn up. And you have every time period laid out for you here. Each one organized, right at your fingertips.” He glances around at my soulmarks. That same flicker of pride is back in his eyes. The blue-white light shimmers against his age-spotted skin. “You can travel all the way back to the fifth millennium BC.”

I don't know what that means, but it sounds really far back in time. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. All coherent thought has left, and I feel dizzy. My knees lock, then give out. Porter catches me up in his arms, then lowers me to the black ground. He holds me steady until I can sit up on my own. The stubble on his chin snags my hair like Velcro when he pulls away. I swear he smells like pipe tobacco.

Or is it the perception of pipe tobacco?

“I'm sorry, Alex. I went too fast again. I meant to take it slow. Once I realized you didn't remember anything about Limbo at all, anything about me, about your past, I knew I had to go slow. I got ahead of myself. I wanted to show you your level, to show you that your soulmarks were safe, but you don't even remember why they need saving.”

“It's OK,” I say, not really listening. I'm too overwhelmed to make sense of anything he's saying. And I'm too distracted by the grove of soulmarks. My soulmarks. Beauty and elegance softly swaying all around us. Alluring. Radiant. Each one representing a life.

A whole life lived.

And forgotten.

Were they beautiful lives? Was I alluring and radiant? Or was I a freak in each one just like I am now?

The soulmark next to Porter catches my eye. Which life did that one represent? Had I been rich? Poor? Had I lived in the rain forests of Brazil? In a medieval city in Morocco? On the streets of Brooklyn?

I try to look away from that particular soulmark, but I can't. The way it sways is hypnotic. It bends in the middle like it has hips. I become lost in its dance, its captivating pull.

I reach out to touch it.

“No, don't!” Porter shouts.

Like a child about to touch a hot stove, I try to yank my hand away, but it's too late. The soulmark pulls my fingers in like a magnet. My hand fuses to the shaft of light. The soulmark swells and expands, then swallows me in brilliant white.

CHAPTER 8

 

 

It was a long time before I opened my eyes, fighting against the heavy resistance of deep sleep. Gravity felt so much stronger after being without it for so long in Limbo. It pinned me to a stiff, spring-coil mattress, my ear pressed to a firm pillow. A scratchy woolen blanket was draped over the top of me. Even that felt like it weighed fifty pounds. I winced when I tried to lift my head – that blasted knot had returned, only it was bigger now. My body ached like it had been pummeled in a boxing ring.

I knew right away I'd descended into one of my past lives, but which one, I didn't know. I felt so far removed from Porter and Limbo, like it had been weeks since he showed me the forest of lights.

It took a while for my eyes to focus on my surroundings, but soon everything became clear, even though I wasn't wearing my glasses. A dark-wood dresser stood across from me against a yellow floral wall. Midday sunlight glinted off its brass pull handles. An oval mirror hung above it, and a lace runner spanned the top with a dozen picture frames arranged purposefully upon it. Black and white faces stared out at me from within the various frames.

One face looked like Blue's.

I peeled the blanket off me, padded across a bare wood floor to the dresser, and picked up the frame. It was Blue. He was leaning against a brick wall, wearing a white undershirt, his bare arms folded across his chest. He was smiling and looking at the camera. I couldn't help but notice how the black and white photograph didn't do his blue eyes justice.

There was a man leaning against the wall beside Blue, same build, same dark hair, similar smile. He had his head tossed back in mid-laugh. I guessed it was Blue's older brother, Frank. As I scanned the rest of the photographs, catching Blue in various poses at different ages – as a boy riding a bike; opening presents on Christmas morning in pajamas; hugging a beautiful, smiling woman I could only guess was his mother – I realized something rather euphoric. My heart began to race.

I didn't know how I had gotten there, but I was in Blue's house.

I was back in Chicago.

Is that why I was drawn so strongly to that particular soulmark in my garden? Because that was the one that would lead me back to Blue? Had it known I wanted to get back to him more than anything? Or had it been just a coincidence? Was Porter still standing beside that soulmark waiting for me? Would he be furious with me when I got back?

I shoved all those thoughts aside. After all the stress and shock Porter had put me through, the least he could do was let me have a few hours to myself to process things. I needed time to digest everything he told me. I needed to slow down so I could grasp the concepts of time travel and reincarnation. It's not like time would pass while I was gone anyway. And I needed to know what happened after I heard the gunshot. I had to know how I ended up at Blue's house in my past life and if he was all right.

I set the picture frame down and caught a glimpse of myself in the oval mirror. A stiff, cream-colored nightgown hung from my bony shoulders. My long dark hair was rolled into rag curlers all over my head, some white, some red, some blue, like the colors of the American flag.

I made my way over to the bedroom door and eased it open. There was a small landing and a staircase leading down. I took the stairs gently, but they still managed to squeak and announce my presence. At the bottom, Blue peeked around the doorframe of a sunlit room. “You're up,” he said, flashing me a grin.

He was alive.

I couldn't help it. I threw my arms around his neck. He laughed in my ear, his breath a puff in my hair.

“What was that for?” He leaned back to see my face. His smile was like sunshine. Infectious. The only sign of the fight in the alley was a shiny silver bruise – a swipe of charcoal below his left eye – and a cut above his right temple. His bottom lip was pale purple, only a little swollen.