The Hollow Gods (The Chaos Cycle #1)

Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

Clustered around the main road of Black Hollow were boutique shops, pubs, indie cafés, and independent grocers. Thick-chimneyed Edwardian homes, a quaint Anglican church with white-rimmed windows and a pointed black roof, and a red-brick firehouse flaunting a giant brass bell framed the central square. More recent buildings peppered the sidewalks, but nothing past the 1970s, with painted wooden panels and large, colourful signs that exuded quintessential country flare. It was all quite charming, with large maple trees lining both sides of the tarmac and open patios accompanying the eateries.

Upon arriving at the farmer’s market, Mason was astonished to see how crowded it was. Lines of vendors selling fresh produce, antiques, artwork, and handmade crafts were spread across a large, open field bordered by endless forest. Mason resolved to take his time and examine every trinket, but something tugged at him. He wanted to know more about the mythology he’d read. This was his chance to ask about the infamous willow. He stopped by an empty stall and pulled out his map from the large pocket in his beige khakis.

“Excuse me,” he unfolded the glossy sheet, “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find your famous willow tree.”

“The what?” the vendor barked, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing Mason up and down.

“I...I heard this town is known for an ancient willow. I was wondering if you might know where it is?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, kid.” The vendor waved him off.

Mason withdrew from the table, the map still resting in his palm. Wasn’t this supposed to be the town’s selling point? The stuff that drew in tourists? But this pattern continued. No matter who he asked, the answer was always the same. No one knew where the tree was. Mason wondered if they were lying, which dispelled his earlier notion that the willow was a ploy. On the contrary, the townsfolk appeared rather protective of something.

“Shush,” he heard a woman whisper to her nagging teenage daughter. They exchanged a foreboding glance, and the girl quickly backed down. Their secrecy spurred his curiosity, and the rationalist in him burned for an explanation.

As he made his way across the market, he noticed a playground at the edge of the woods where a girl sat alone on the swing. She looked about twenty with warm, olive skin and dark, ash-brown hair flowing past her collar bone. She stretched her long, coltish legs and fixed her eyes on him, her expression mostly bored save for a spark of inquisitiveness that shone through even at a distance. He wondered if she recognized him but knew that wasn’t possible. He’d only been in Black Hollow for a day.

As Mason strained to get a closer look, he collided with another shopper. Several potatoes cascaded to the ground.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Mason stuttered as the shopper grunted, clearly annoyed. Scrambling to pick up the loose produce, he forgot all about the spectre on the swing, his heartache taking a back seat as embarrassment took the wheel.

He returned the potatoes and scuttled to the nearest vendor, drawn in by the sprawling white doily draped over a large oak table with filigreed corners and smooth curves carved into its aging legs. Mason poked around the stall, inspecting the wares: crystals, amulets made of bronze and amber, wooden carvings, and a large, purple, iridescent rock shaped like a fang. Speckles of gold and meadow-green bled into the purply hues as tiny black veins streaked across the stone’s surface. Never having seen anything like it, he lingered on the shimmering gem, holding it up to the sunlight and tilting it left and right, admiring the deep violet and emerald lustre.

“That’s a labradorite,” the vendor said, watching Mason play with the stone. “Beautiful piece, ain’t she?”

“She?” Mason lowered the rock and looked at the seller, a tubby, middle-aged man with a hand-carved pipe and a Russian ushanka on his head.

“That’s right, she,” he nodded, chewing on the end of the pipe. “All labradorites are women—sorceresses and shamans.”

Mason’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth twisting. “It’s a rock,” he tried to suppress a laugh, but the vendor burst into a pirate-like cackle in his stead.

“It’s also a metaphor,” he shot back. “They call it the dream stone. Separates the waking world from…hidden realms.”

Mason believed in only one realm: the one called reality. It was an objective, physical fact. Only people’s personal perceptions made things murky. He turned the rock over in his hand. When it didn’t catch the light, it looked pale and grey. “Any relation to the Dreamwalker?”

The vendor’s face darkened, his teeth clamping around the edge of his pipe as he regarded Mason. “Tell you what. I’ll give it to you for a special price. Fifteen bucks. And if you’re lucky, you may just find out yourself.”

In other words, the answer was yes. Mason frowned, but this was more than he’d pulled out of anyone else. Nodding, he dug through his back pocket and paid the man.

“She liked labradorites,” the vendor remarked just as Mason turned to leave with his rock. “Helped her find her way.” His lips pulled back and revealed a wide, toothy smile. Sliding the pipe from his mouth, he tapped it against a stone ashtray on the table—once, twice, and finally a third time. The chimes hung in the air, stark against the noise of the bustling market.

Helped her find her way? The heck was that supposed to mean? Mason smiled in acknowledgement and turned away, eyeing the rock in his palm and angling it so he could admire the fiery gleam.

“Ah, a detective.”

The raspy whisper came from behind, so close Mason could feel the breath against his neck. He spun around, only to find a man who looked to be in his seventies with slicked, silvery-black hair and pallid skin. Oddly, he was nowhere close enough to have breathed down Mason’s neck. Standing several feet away, he held a rigid posture, yet his shoulders hunched forward. He canted his head to one side, and it appeared to list as though he was jointed only at the neck.

“A detective,” the man repeated in a flat voice. His eyes were eerily pale, set so deep in his skull they almost appeared to glow. Short in stature, he was lanky with long, slender fingers.

“Excuse me?”

The man didn’t respond, his lips drawing back.

“Sir?” Unnerved, Mason stepped to the right, checking to see if the old man’s eyes would follow.

His pupils flared. “I see you,” he intoned in a raucous voice.

“T-that’s good, sir,” Mason stammered, thumbing the labradorite in his fist.

“I know what you seek, detective.”

“You know what I’m looking for?” asked Mason.

“That which finds but cannot be found,” the man rasped under his breath, a faint gurgling accompanying the words like there was something stuck in his throat. “I can take you to it.”

Although his response was arcane, Mason was certain he was referring to the willow. He was tempted to take the bait, but his rational mind screamed that this man was mentally ill and would only lead him in circles. Mason smiled politely and shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

The old man’s grin didn’t falter. He pointed a bony finger at Mason’s hand closed around the dream stone. “Come when you have the courage to seek the way.”

The stone hummed to life against Mason’s palm. Clenching his fist tighter, he watched as the old man walked towards the forest.

Only when the trees swallowed him up did the stone go still in Mason’s grip.