Insidious. Dawn Metcalf
and the floor. A wild darkness shot with colored light pulsed beyond the rift.
Joy hesitated. “I thought we were going to the reception.”
“That is for humans,” he said mysteriously. “Not for us.”
Joy didn’t know what to say to that, so she took his hand, warm and smooth, and stepped through the void, stumbling into the sudden dark. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She stepped onto the lip of rough stone and looked all the way down.
Then Joy understood.
Below the rocky ledge was a cavern full of bonfires. Shadows of wild, frenetic dancers moved to tribal music throbbing with heavy percussion and rattles and horns. Folk were laughing, drinking, spinning, eating, dancing. They gathered in groups of threes and fives tucked into natural nooks and along the edges of the crowd. Knotted roots covered the sloping walls like tapestries in reverse, the veins of different minerals shimmering in the light of many fires; pinks and grays and greens and blues with flecks of mica winking in the bedrock like stars. Things resembling balloon-animal, crystal chandeliers hung suspended in the air, made up of individual twists and tubes of glowing glass. There were whispers of melodies and rhythms that seemed familiar mixed with earthy, primal songs and high-pitched undulating cries. There was no smoke, but the smell of roasting meat, rich and bubbling and basted in wine, filled the subterranean fête. There were tables of food absolutely everywhere, and the noise fizzed like champagne bubbles, effervescent and overflowing.
Joy looked down at the carnival in the stone basin. “Where are we?”
“Under the Hill near the Wild,” Ink said. “That is where Enrique said he wanted his ashes buried.”
“As well as the North Pole, Sri Lanka, Maui, Budapest, Mount Everest, Taiwan, Rio, Portugal and the dark side of the moon,” Inq said, sidling up to the pair in distinctly less than her funeral attire—in fact, it didn’t look like she was wearing much more than body paint. “I’ve just gotten back from honoring his wishes, with a short delay on that last one because there isn’t another space flight scheduled at present, but I’ve got time.” She looked over the two of them, frowning with a pout of her lower lip. She smelled of wine and dusty roses. “Why haven’t you changed?”
“We just got here,” Ink explained.
“No excuses!” Inq said and yanked off Ink’s coat. “This is Enrique’s celebration, so start celebrating!” She threw the suit jacket away. It hit the wall. “Less clothes, more music! Honor the spirit! Enrique loved to dance!” She spun and ran down the incline, jumping off the jagged ledge. Joy’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched Inq fall, but the hands of many strangers rose up to meet her; a hearty cheer of triumph erupted as they caught her body in its trust-fall landing. Together, they lowered her to the ground. Inq broke away, laughing, and ran to join a circle of dancers stomping and clapping and throwing handfuls of powder into the air. When the dust hit the bonfires, the flames changed color and spat out twirling, whistling sparks.
Ink stepped closer. Joy felt him on her skin.
“Is she okay?” Joy asked.
“Do not worry about Inq,” Ink said, undoing the top buttons of his shirt. “Everyone grieves differently.”
“Uh, yeah.” Joy gaped at the spectacle. “This is...?”
“Enrique’s funeral,” Ink said. “The way the Folk celebrate it.”
Joy shook her head in wonder. “Wow. It’s...”
“Bacchanalian?” Ink said.
“No. It’s beautiful,” Joy said. There wasn’t a sad face in the crowd. It was bold and boisterous, lively and wild—just like Enrique. “It’s perfect.”
“The Folk do not ritualize death as humans do,” he said, leading her down the incline at a much safer stroll. Joy removed her heels, and Ink carried her shoes. “Being immortal means that death is possible but not inevitable. So we celebrate a life well lived. Enrique certainly did.” Ink gestured to the revel. “Now those who knew him gather together to honor that and remember. We grieve the body, but honor the spirit.”
Joy smiled. It felt a lot better than tears. “So, what do we do now?”
Ink lifted two glasses from a table and handed one to her. “We eat, we drink, we dance, we talk, we tell stories, we reminisce.” He stepped toward her and looked up at the swirls of crystal colors and light. The spots of brilliance reflected bright sparkles in his eyes. “We remember.” He smiled at her. “We celebrate life.”
“To Enrique!” someone shouted from deep in the hall.
“To Enrique!” the gathered crowds screamed as many whooped and drank.
“To Enrique!” Inq shouted giddily. “And the Imminent Return!”
“To the Imminent Return!”
Joy lifted her glass along with the rest. “What’s the Imminent Return?” she asked.
“It is an old toast,” Ink said. “To friends long forgotten but still in our hearts.”
Joy clinked her glass against Ink’s. The liquid inside swirled. She paused.
“Can I drink this?” she asked.
Ink considered the wine. “Why not?”
She twirled the stem, watching the liquid hug the sides of the glass. “I’ve read stories where if a human eats or drinks something from Fairyland, then they can never go back.” The deep purple liquid smelled of cherries, oak and fire. “Or maybe it was the underworld? Something with pomegranates? I forget.”
Ink cocked his head. “This isn’t Faeland,” he said. “And you are not human.”
“Good point,” Joy said and sipped her drink. It barely had a taste, more like a vapor of old forests and honey that filled her head and slid down her spine. She hadn’t realized she’d swallowed, it was so smooth. It burned, slow and sensuous, inside her. Joy put the glass down carefully. “Aaaaaand that’s enough for me.”
Ink placed his glass next to hers and curled his arms around her middle, his chest pressed against her back, his chin resting on her shoulder.
“What would you like to do?” he asked. “Dance? Sing? Sculpt?”
“Sculpt?” Joy asked, and Ink pointed. Like a weird reception line, there were Folk picking soft, translucent balls out of a tall basket, which glowed like a kiln. Each person molded whatever was in their hands, fashioning the clay with fingers and claws, small tools or stones spread out on the floor, crafting shapes lovingly, delicately, or banging them hard against the wall. As the Folk worked, the stuff began to glow from within, growing brighter the more they tinkered with it until the shapes became too bright to see, illuminating faces like miniature suns, hardening into crystal.
“What are they?” she asked.
“Memories,” Ink said. “Emotions. Wishes. Watch.”
Joy hushed as a thin man with dragonfly wings lifted the glowing crystal over his head and opened his hand slowly, letting it go. Joy followed his gaze as his creation floated gently upward while a small, shaggy thing with flaring nostrils snuffled around his ankles and whipped its finished crystal angrily at the sky. Both lights eventually slowed as they rose the great distance to the high ceiling and slid into place among the other luminous shapes that hovered in midair. That was when Joy realized that the chandelier was actually a mass of memories—the collective thoughts about Enrique by those who knew him best. It made her heart swell.
“The memory crystal holds on to those thoughts, those memories, like dreams under glass,” Ink said. “We can visit them anytime to free our thoughts and remember so that our loved ones will never be forgotten.”
“That’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“That is immortality.”
She