“We’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.”
“Which level is this?”
I look over my shoulder at him and see a flicker of pride pass over his face. “This is your level. I made it just for you.”
“My level?” The soulmarks sway gently, silently, glinting white like a stand of silver birches in sunlight. “Why would I need my own level?”
The pride on Porter’s face fades, and for the first time he looks somber and a bit too serious. It makes me nervous.
“Because your soulmarks are in danger. I had to move them here to keep them safe.”
A chill sweeps up my spine like a cold, wet feather. Not because of the danger, but because he said soulmarks.
Plural.
I look around at the lights again, as though I should recognize them. “You said every soul who ever was has left a mark in Limbo. A mark. A single mark.”
Porter lets his gaze drop to his feet. He rubs circles around his pinky knuckle with his thumb again. When he finally speaks, his words come gradually. A slow drip. “Every soul passes through Limbo to Afterlife once, leaving one mark. That is the natural order of things. When I die, I will leave one mark. But you… You’ve already passed through. More than once.”
“More than once?” I say, the words catching on my throat. “There must be at least a hundred here.”
Porter swallows, looking sheepish. “There are fifty-six, to be exact.”
I look out at the soulmarks, a feeling of dread settling in the pit of my stomach. “You mean I’ve been to Limbo fifty-six times?”
“No, you’ve been to Limbo hundreds of times. You’ve passed through fifty-six times.”
“What do you mean ‘passed through’? I’ve passed through Limbo to Afterlife?”
Wouldn’t I have remembered that?
He really digs his thumb into his pinky knuckle now. “No, not exactly. ‘Passing through’ can refer to passing through to Afterlife, but it can also mean passing through to Newlife.”
The perception of my pulse starts to race. My translucent palms are slicked with sweat. I force myself to ask, “What’s Newlife?” even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
“Newlife is the answer to all your questions,” Porter says, stepping toward me. “Newlife is why you and I are standing here. It is the reason you have memories you can’t place. It is the reason you descend into the past involuntarily. It is the reason you exist. It’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you all along. If you have fifty-six soulmarks in Limbo, it means you’ve lived fifty-six past lives.”
I stare at Porter like he just slapped me in the face. I feel stunned and sick and like I need to wake up from this very long, very surreal dream. All those visions – the ship, the Ferris wheel, the cat, Jamestown, Chicago – were glimpses of my past lives? I had traveled back in time to my own pasts?
“You’re the only one of your kind,” Porter says, making it sound like an honor. “The only reincarnated Descender. A Transcender. When your very first life ended, Flemming intercepted your soulmark as it was being written in Polestar. He sent your soul back to Earth, and when your second life was over, he sent you back for a third. Like a needle and thread, he worked your soulmarks in and out of the black. He wove your lives throughout history.”
When I don’t say or do anything but gape back at him, Porter continues, the words spilling out of him like he can’t say them fast enough. “You have Level Five clearance, just like Flemming and Gesh. Lower level Descenders aren’t allowed to descend without permission, and it takes years and meticulous research to find a soulmark that matches the exact time period they need for their missions. Once a Descender uses a soulmark to descend, that soulmark burns up. It can never be used again. But you’re free to access Limbo and descend as much as you wish. Your soulmarks never burn up. And you have every time period laid out for you here. Each one organized, right at your fingertips.” He glances around at my soulmarks. That same flicker of pride is back in his eyes. The blue-white light shimmers against his age-spotted skin. “You can travel all the way back to the fifth millennium BC.”
I don’t know what that means, but it sounds really far back in time. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. All coherent thought has left, and I feel dizzy. My knees lock, then give out. Porter catches me up in his arms, then lowers me to the black ground. He holds me steady until I can sit up on my own. The stubble on his chin snags my hair like Velcro when he pulls away. I swear he smells like pipe tobacco.
Or is it the perception of pipe tobacco?
“I’m sorry, Alex. I went too fast again. I meant to take it slow. Once I realized you didn’t remember anything about Limbo at all, anything about me, about your past, I knew I had to go slow. I got ahead of myself. I wanted to show you your level, to show you that your soulmarks were safe, but you don’t even remember why they need saving.”
“It’s OK,” I say, not really listening. I’m too overwhelmed to make sense of anything he’s saying. And I’m too distracted by the grove of soulmarks. My soulmarks. Beauty and elegance softly swaying all around us. Alluring. Radiant. Each one representing a life.
A whole life lived.
And forgotten.
Were they beautiful lives? Was I alluring and radiant? Or was I a freak in each one just like I am now?
The soulmark next to Porter catches my eye. Which life did that one represent? Had I been rich? Poor? Had I lived in the rain forests of Brazil? In a medieval city in Morocco? On the streets of Brooklyn?
I try to look away from that particular soulmark, but I can’t. The way it sways is hypnotic. It bends in the middle like it has hips. I become lost in its dance, its captivating pull.
I reach out to touch it.
“No, don’t!” Porter shouts.
Like a child about to touch a hot stove, I try to yank my hand away, but it’s too late. The soulmark pulls my fingers in like a magnet. My hand fuses to the shaft of light. The soulmark swells and expands, then swallows me in brilliant white.
CHAPTER 8
BICEPS, PICKLED CUCUMBER SOUP, AND JOHN PHILIP SOUSA
It was a long time before I opened my eyes, fighting against the heavy resistance of deep sleep. Gravity felt so much stronger after being without it for so long in Limbo. It pinned me to a stiff, spring-coil mattress, my ear pressed to a firm pillow. A scratchy woolen blanket was draped over the top of me. Even that felt like it weighed fifty pounds. I winced when I tried to lift my head – that blasted knot had returned, only it was bigger now. My body ached like it had been pummeled in a boxing ring.
I knew right away I’d descended into one of my past lives, but which one, I didn’t know. I felt so far removed from Porter and Limbo, like it had been weeks since he showed me the forest of lights.
It took a while for my eyes to focus on my surroundings, but soon everything became clear, even though I wasn’t wearing my glasses. A dark-wood dresser stood across from me against a yellow floral wall. Midday sunlight glinted off its brass pull handles. An oval mirror hung above it, and a lace runner spanned the top with a dozen picture frames arranged purposefully upon it. Black and white faces stared out at me from within the various frames.
One face looked like Blue’s.
I peeled the blanket off me, padded across a bare wood floor to the dresser, and picked up the frame. It was Blue. He was leaning against a brick wall, wearing a white undershirt, his bare arms folded across his chest. He was smiling and looking at the camera. I couldn’t help but notice how the black and white photograph didn’t do his blue eyes justice.