The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare by MG Buehrlen Page B

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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œThey’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.
    â€œThere 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.”
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œWhere 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.
    â€œWe’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.”
    â€œWhich level is this?”
    I look over my shoulder at him and see a flicker of pride pass over his face.