Chapter Two: In Which Our Protagonist Meets a Woman of Questionable Judgement

Day 3. Approx. 10 o'clock in eve. Found charred meadow near base. Using charcoal as scribe tool. Forest fire from lightning storm? Am writing in pocket book on person of experiences. Only possession.

Location unknown. Must find adequate shelter. Agreeable weather: late spring. Exposure still a danger. Limited vision at night creates halluci

The charcoal snapped, crumbling between his fingers.

"Blast," he muttered.

There was a noise.

He spun.

His meagre campfire only allowed him a visual radius of three feet, but he strained to see through the darkness, nonetheless. "What was that? Show yourself!"

Shadows danced in the corners of his eyes. From far away, the hoot of an owl sounded. Underneath the chirps of crickets and the rustle of tree branches in the wind, a low rumble undulated, as if the growl of a great beast lurking beneath the earth, waiting for its chance to devour him whole.

He heard another crunch.

With a trembling hand, he took up his walking stick, which was a tall knobby branch he had found earlier that day, gripping it by the middle, holding it near to his chest. "I'm armed. I'll not be afraid to strike!"

A young woman stepped into view, a lit lighter in her hand.

Another person! Why, he did not think it possible. Could she be a demon? No, even in the scanty firelight, she appeared to have all the features of a fellow human. After a time he realized he was still holding the stick high, poised for attack. He lowered it. "Oh. My apologies, miss, I thought I saw…"

"If you made a bigger fire, you would be able to see more." She shut the lighter and gestured indifferently at his craftsmanship.

"True," he responded warily, "however, the conservation of resources in uncertain circumstances is imperative to assuring survival."

She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. "There's a whole forest full of trees just that way. I got some to share. Here—" She took off her pack and withdrew a splintered log from within, handing it to him. "Throw this on the fire."

Forgetting his manners, he accepted the log from her without a word and gently fed it to the flames. Soon the fire flared, consuming the log as would a beast that had not fed in days. The young woman, who was pallid and plain, lit up at the sight of it, eyes sparking and smile brightening as if waking on Godday morning. "Yes," she whispered.

Wilson watched her warily. "May I ask where you came from?"

She did not turn her attention away from the fire, but sat before it to stare lovingly into the blaze. "I'm not from around here," she said..

He sat with her. "No, I did not figure as much." She wore a red blouse and prim black skirt, and her hair, while tousled, was brushed and tied into two pigtails. He would have expected a native of the land to look exotic in some form or fashion, being that he had not seen evidence of industrialized urban centres. Though her voice was high and melodic, her dialect was harsh and had a hard landing, indicating that she was from somewhere in the Western world. "Forgive me, where are my manners? My name is Doct…er. Wilson Higgsbury."

"Willow von Brandt." She reached for her bag and produced yet another log.

"Are you sure about that?" Wilson inched farther away.

Willow lobbed the log at the fire like offering a large treat to a larger pet. Wilson yelped as cinders flew. He patted down his trousers and brushed his hands over his hair frantically, but luckily nothing on his person had caught flame.

"We have a lot of night to burn through," she informed him.

"Yes. Hm. Well." He rubbed his sweaty palms on his vest and scooted back next to her. "Miss Willow…how is it that you ended up here?"

"I saw your fire from the forest and thought it could use some more fuel."

"Yes, that is all well and good…and I thank you for that, but what I meant was: how did you end up here in this country?"

"Oh, this isn't a country," she said, aloof. "This is Limbo. It's run by demons."

"Run by…I see. Please, continue." Wilson placed a fist beneath his chin pensively. He wanted to see what she would say first about their predicament before telling her his version of events. Had Maxwell offered her forbidden knowledge as well? From the way she spoke and acted, he seriously doubted it. But she must have been connected to him somehow.

"It's not like I've been here before," Willow said with a shrug, "but there's nowhere else I could be."

"You do believe this is the afterlife?"

"Last thing I remember, the house was on fire. I mean, a big fire. Bigger than I normally se…see. Then I woke up in a field two days ago. I was surrounded by stupid smelly flowers in the middle of an empty field. At least I found this backpack full of burnable things."

Wilson weighed his questions at length before speaking again. "But why is it you believe this place is run by demons?" Naturally, one would assume dark beings reigned over such a place as Limbo, but he wished to know why she would draw that conclusion.

"Ugh. This place is lousy with 'em. You haven't seen any?" Willow briefly tore her attention away from the fire to make a face at Wilson. "Shadows, darting everywhere. The less sleep I get the more I see 'em, especially at night. Then there's the night monster. Trying to put out my fires. That's why you gotta keep it burning big, so the flames get rid of the shadows."

Wilson crossed his legs, crossed his arms, then uncrossed both, quite indecisive. "I see. Um, Miss Willow…does the name 'Maxwell' mean anything to you?"

"Maxwell? Uh. No. Why? Should it?"

"No, never mind. I only…I thought you looked familiar, through a mutual acquaintance," he lied.

Willow seemed to care little. The fire crackled and snapped, feasting on the logs greedily. She watched it as a mother doting over her child, like nothing could diminish her pride for her progeny.

Wilson cleared his throat. "Curious, that two seemingly unrelated people from such far parts of the world meet in an unfamiliar place."

"Why? Where are you from? New York?"

"I—no."

"Georgia."

"If I may—"

"Is this what Canada sounds like?"

"Would you please—" Wilson huffed and took some breaths. Her lack of worldliness was baffling. "Pardon me."

"I don't know much about accents. I only ever lived in San Francisco."

"I'm from Liverpool. That's in England. Across the Atlantic? Never mind. Though, I lived in London, near the college, for a time, until…"

"Until what?"

"It's not important. The fact remains we are no longer where we used to be. Tell me, what experiences have you had thus far in this place?"

And so, Willow began to list off a series of seemingly drab events stringing from her waking in the field to her meeting Wilson, with a few curious interludes ("I saw a field full of burning hairy beasts. It was odd. I have no idea how they got themselves on fire."). Chief details of her story included how she had managed to survive the darkness, especially when she believed demons plagued her from the shadows.

"I thought I was the only one here," she concluded, "'til I saw your fire. We should probably stick together."

After hearing her story of origin, his version of events made him seem sane. However…

"I suppose you are right. Survival in numbers." Being that he had made the door to this place, he did not think others would be able to make it in, or that he would see another face, friendly or…otherwise. "Perhaps there are others here as well," Wilson continued. "You've been able to find chopped wood for night fires. That means someone somewhere should have an axe."

"Or. You know. Had." Willow shrugged. "I got this backpack off a dead guy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He'd been dead for a while. Mostly bones, all chewed clean. Maybe the shadow demons eat you if you get crazy enough."

Wilson eyed her pack with abject horror. He then made the Sign to He Above, with a silent prayer. "May he rest in peace."

Willow made a derisive noise. "Yeah, okay, sure. I'll go looking for alive people with you tomorrow. But they'd better not put out my fires."

Wilson crossed his heart. "I'll be sure to dissuade them as such."