Read Online Christopher Golden - The Veil 01 - The Myth Hunters by The Myth Hunters - Free Book Online
Authors: The Myth Hunters
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shrugged. Strands of icicle hair hung across his eyes, but he did not push it away.
“We should go,” Oliver told him.
The winter man smiled. “As I have been saying to you since you first drew breath in this world. Perhaps you’ve learned something already. Do as I say and we might both live a little longer.”
Oliver knitted his brows. “Oh. That’s comforting. Thanks for that.”
“You are very welcome.”
* * *
Hours passed as they trekked first northeast to the foothills of the mountains and then on a straight easterly course that brought them to a forest Frost said was simply called The Oldwood. It was a peaceful place, with twigs and pine needles underfoot and the trees spread apart enough that the moonlight shone through the canopy of branches and leaves above. There were no paths to speak of, but the going was easy enough. As they walked they heard animals moving through the brush and in the branches, and once Oliver was certain he saw a pair of deer in a clearing. They bolted before he could get a good look at them, but he had the idea one of them might have been walking on two legs.
The lake was far behind, and the Truce Road somewhere up ahead. Morning was still hours away, but instead of feeling the exhaustion he knew ought to have overtaken him by now, Oliver felt exhilarated. Despite the horror that still fluttered in his heart when he thought of the Falconer, the strangeness of this world, and the knowledge that his life was in dire peril, every step away from the place where he had come through the Veil felt to him like another step into liberty. With no way to return to face his father or his fiancée or any of their expectations, Oliver Bascombe felt free for the first time in his adult life.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
For a time they walked in near silence. Now that they were out of imminent danger, Oliver had no idea how to talk to Frost. What did one say to a man made of ice and snow? It was almost funny, in the saddest possible way. All of his life he had wished that myths and legends were real, that he could meet a centaur or hear the song of the Sirens, like in the stories his mother had always read to him, the books he’d borrowed from her shelves. As a child he had imagined himself Odysseus embarking upon one great quest after another. His secret yearning to be an actor had been born of the same instincts and desires. Acting was a way to inhabit all of the things he wished he could believe about himself, but could never quite manage. On the stage he was heroic and noble, unique and courageous. Buckling beneath the pressure from his father to be responsible, to pursue his law career, had almost extinguished his creative spark. On the stage, he had hoped to keep that spark from snuffing out entirely.
Now he walked through a wild forest beside, and at times a few paces behind, Jack Frost himself, and he didn’t know what to say. With his fear subsiding and a kind of simmering wonder taking its place, he could not help but feel awed when he looked at Frost. The winter man was healed, though that line of darker blue ice where his wound had been remained. His jagged, icicle hair sprang and sometimes clinked as he walked and each step left a bit of rime upon the forest floor.
In time, though, as his muscles began to ache, Oliver’s focus began to drift. Even at night, with only the moonlight, he could see that this was not a forest like any other he had seen. There was a primeval quality to the trees. They were tall and ancient and of such variety that he felt sure some of the species were unknown to the world he’d come from.
The way was not always easy. There were hills in the forest, and twice they came to steep ravines that had to be circumnavigated. Oliver was sure that Frost could have found his own way across without much trouble . . . he wasn’t sure how it worked, if the winter man could
“We should go,” Oliver told him.
The winter man smiled. “As I have been saying to you since you first drew breath in this world. Perhaps you’ve learned something already. Do as I say and we might both live a little longer.”
Oliver knitted his brows. “Oh. That’s comforting. Thanks for that.”
“You are very welcome.”
* * *
Hours passed as they trekked first northeast to the foothills of the mountains and then on a straight easterly course that brought them to a forest Frost said was simply called The Oldwood. It was a peaceful place, with twigs and pine needles underfoot and the trees spread apart enough that the moonlight shone through the canopy of branches and leaves above. There were no paths to speak of, but the going was easy enough. As they walked they heard animals moving through the brush and in the branches, and once Oliver was certain he saw a pair of deer in a clearing. They bolted before he could get a good look at them, but he had the idea one of them might have been walking on two legs.
The lake was far behind, and the Truce Road somewhere up ahead. Morning was still hours away, but instead of feeling the exhaustion he knew ought to have overtaken him by now, Oliver felt exhilarated. Despite the horror that still fluttered in his heart when he thought of the Falconer, the strangeness of this world, and the knowledge that his life was in dire peril, every step away from the place where he had come through the Veil felt to him like another step into liberty. With no way to return to face his father or his fiancée or any of their expectations, Oliver Bascombe felt free for the first time in his adult life.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
For a time they walked in near silence. Now that they were out of imminent danger, Oliver had no idea how to talk to Frost. What did one say to a man made of ice and snow? It was almost funny, in the saddest possible way. All of his life he had wished that myths and legends were real, that he could meet a centaur or hear the song of the Sirens, like in the stories his mother had always read to him, the books he’d borrowed from her shelves. As a child he had imagined himself Odysseus embarking upon one great quest after another. His secret yearning to be an actor had been born of the same instincts and desires. Acting was a way to inhabit all of the things he wished he could believe about himself, but could never quite manage. On the stage he was heroic and noble, unique and courageous. Buckling beneath the pressure from his father to be responsible, to pursue his law career, had almost extinguished his creative spark. On the stage, he had hoped to keep that spark from snuffing out entirely.
Now he walked through a wild forest beside, and at times a few paces behind, Jack Frost himself, and he didn’t know what to say. With his fear subsiding and a kind of simmering wonder taking its place, he could not help but feel awed when he looked at Frost. The winter man was healed, though that line of darker blue ice where his wound had been remained. His jagged, icicle hair sprang and sometimes clinked as he walked and each step left a bit of rime upon the forest floor.
In time, though, as his muscles began to ache, Oliver’s focus began to drift. Even at night, with only the moonlight, he could see that this was not a forest like any other he had seen. There was a primeval quality to the trees. They were tall and ancient and of such variety that he felt sure some of the species were unknown to the world he’d come from.
The way was not always easy. There were hills in the forest, and twice they came to steep ravines that had to be circumnavigated. Oliver was sure that Frost could have found his own way across without much trouble . . . he wasn’t sure how it worked, if the winter man could
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