Everlost: Chapters 7–8

The woods caused stiff-collared people to lose their inhibitions and dance among the leaves, wild with joy, even though they knew such dancing could have them condemned as witches.

A few kids wore the gaudy bright colors of the seventies, with big hair to match.

“Hi!” said an African-American girl in drab clothes and tight cornrowed hair.

“I wasn't being rude,” Allie insisted. “I was being facetious. There’s a difference.”

“I once had a coin,” Lief said, dejectedly, “but it got stolen.”

Allie was not a girl quickly given to tears, but she had found herself crying at least once a day since her arrival. Sometimes it was the revelation of just how drastically her existence had changed that would draw tears to her eyes.

Meadow scrunched up her lips, trying to think of how to explain. “Mary’s kind of like, a shaman, you know? A spiritual leader. Anyway, she knows lots of stuff, and so she pretty much runs things around here.”

Allie still wasn’t sure whether this was like some desecration of hallowed ground, or if having children here was somehow healing.

Allie still wasn’t sure whether this was like some desecration of hallowed ground, or if having children here was somehow healing.

"Okay then. Ciao.” Meadow waved a quick good-bye, and sauntered away.

Nick couldn’t look away from Mary. He was captivated from the moment he saw her.

“So what about Lief?” Allie asked. By now, Lief had gravitated to the window, more interested in the view than anything else. “He’s been alone for a hundred years, and he’s got plenty of energy.”

She was, of course, right. Lief's forest had been a sustaining place for him.

“Consider this a rest stop, if you like," Mary said cordially.

She leafed through the book. Three hundred pages at least, and each page handwritten, with painstakingly perfect penmanship.

Allie, however, was dangerously willful, and could spell disaster.

Their “apartment” was sparsely furnished with flotsam and jetsam furniture that had crossed over. A chair here, a desk there, a mattress, and a sofa that would have to suffice as a second bed.

Their “apartment” was sparsely furnished with flotsam and jetsam furniture that had crossed over. A chair here, a desk there, a mattress, and a sofa that would have to suffice as a second bed.

The more Mary looked, the deeper his blush. As Mary recalled, a blush was caused by blood rushing to the capillaries of one’s face. They no longer had blood or capillaries—but Greensouls were still close enough to the living world to mimic such physiological reactions.

The more Mary looked, the deeper his blush. As Mary recalled, a blush was caused by blood rushing to the capillaries of one’s face. They no longer had blood or capillaries—but Greensouls were still close enough to the living world to mimic such physiological reactions.

He may have been embarrassed, but for Mary, that crimson tinge in his face was a treat.

Mary went to a dresser, and opened the top drawer, getting her errant feelings under control.

When Mary came, she stood at the threshold until Allie invited her in.

She turned to Allie. "Only the things and places that are worthy of eternity cross into Everlost. We're blessed to be here—don't taint it by thoughts of going home. This will be your home far longer than the so-called 'living world.’"

Still, Mary lost none of her poise. In fact, she rose to the challenge better than Allie expected.

She was already sensing something profoundly wrong with Mary's little Queendom, although she couldn't put her finger on it yet.

Her way of thinking was such a welcome relief from his own propensity toward gloom and doom.

"We’ve yet to find a printing press that’s crossed over," she told him. "But that’s all right. They enjoy copying by hand." And sure enough, the kids in the publishing room seemed thrilled to do their work, like ancient scribes copying scriptures on parchment.

Nick was intrigued now. Keeping their distance, they followed the boy into the lobby of Tower Two, where several other kids had gathered with a deck of cards to play go-fish.

“We are not like the living," Mary writes in her book The First Hundred Years. “We are beyond life. We are better than life. We don’t need to complicate our existence with a thousand meaningless activities, when one will do fine. Just as the world's great artists learn the value of simplicity, so do we Afterlights learn to simplify. As time goes on, we fall into our perfect routine; our niche in space and time, as consistent as the rising and falling of the sun...."