The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (10 best books of all time TXT) 📗

Her sigh moves the hair off my shoulders. “I told you, it’s not on purpose. It doesn’t sound like anything to me.”

“What doesn’t?” I ask.

I can feel her considering me. It raises the hair on my arms. “We’re not all the same, you know,” she says. “We don’t always speak the same language. That was my friend and me—your flood. Their words were not words. More like little wrinkles in the fabric of time. Our existences are long ones, theirs even longer than mine. I thought learning the language of my friend would be a fun way to pass the time.”

“So your premium package,” I say, “is you speaking in the language of the Flood?”

She laughs, a short, dismissive sound. “It’s a fascinating thing, human perception. When I speak in the language of my friend, I hear my own words. But it’s the language of memory, after all. And that’s what you hear: your own memories. And to each listener, even the words are different.”

There’s a stirring at my shoulders, the pressure of someone drawing closer. The Flood, listening. I wonder if they recognize her.

“I always thought they were very sweet,” she hummed. “I’m not a dreamer. But I like the way dreamers think.”

“A dreamer,” I echo. “I wouldn’t have thought that.”

“No.” There’s an edge to her voice now. “Not for a long time now.”

“Do you know what changed?” Cassie asks. She’s speaking to the Mockingbird, but her eyes are on me.

She pauses. “If we are born from humanity’s actions,” she says slowly, “then we are tied to humanity forever. I was born when the first lie was told—and whether I’m feeding on your fear, or confusion, or rage, one way or another I seem to need you to survive. That wasn’t my friend. They were born of nature, of water and energy, creation and destruction. They shouldn’t have needed you. But they wanted to be with you nonetheless. They decided, when their life as the ocean ended, that they wanted to be something different. Something gentler. They saw you, this different kind of life than the water they once held, and they wanted to become something that could live alongside you. They wanted to fill their currents with your short, turbulent lives. Your pain and joy. Your stories.

“But they never considered that all of you are as capable of destruction as they once were,” she says.

“You think watching us changed them,” I say.

“Why wouldn’t it? You do such terrible things.” Her voice shivers in my bones. “A hunter has to hunt. That’s its nature. But you don’t have to cause pain. You choose to. They wanted to become an ocean of memory. But what happens when those memories are as chaotic and ruinous as a storm? What does that ocean become?”

I flinch. Her voice has gradually shifted from Mom’s. The last word is unmistakably Nick Lansbury’s voice.

I wonder if you really hear what you want to hear, listening to her. I can’t think of any scenario where I’d want to hear Nick.

“Prophet,” she says. “This end you’ve foretold—you’re certain it’s my friend?”

At Cassie’s nod, she sighs. “They never intended to return here. They always believed that if they did, they’d become what they once were. If they’ve come back to Lotus Valley now knowing what could come to pass, then they truly have changed.”

“They didn’t choose to come back,” I say. “They were drawn here—I was drawn here by the message you recorded. Someone made sure that this would happen. That’s why we have to find them.”

“And I wish I could help,” the Mockingbird says. “But they were a drop-in. Stole someone else’s confirmation number. If you don’t respect the rules, you don’t respect me, that’s what I always say. But they were an excellent tipper, and so few spring for the premium package. No good deed, I suppose.”

“What did this person look like?” Alex asks.

“Don’t remember,” the Mockingbird singsongs.

“I find that hard to believe,” Alex says.

“I’m afraid you all look the same to me,” she says. “I prefer to know what’s in the soul before I look to silly things like appearance.”

“Ah,” Felix says. “Yeah. We humans like to . . . take things slower.”

“But,” the Mockingbird says, “they said there was a person they had to meet again, no matter what—that this recording of my voice would help. They thought we had that in common. We don’t, of course. Desperation doesn’t become anyone.”

“You think they were desperate?” Alex asks.

“To send that message out into the world?” the Mockingbird says. “Can you imagine how many times they would have had to listen to it? They planned to draw you in with the voice of your memory, clever one, but to them, it sounded like a memory of their own. I’ve been told that’s a rather . . . painful experience for you.”

Her attention shifts to me again, like an icy breeze. “All that money, all that time, just to reach you. I wonder why that is.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” It’s sharper than I intend. Or maybe I do intend it.

“I simply recorded a tape,” she says. “You should have seen to your own unpleasantness, if you didn’t want to be drawn in.”

“Meaning what?” I say.

“I can’t presume to know.” There’s a rhythmic tap, like a clicking tongue. “But I’ve always thought the memory you hear is one that haunts you. If you had nothing to regret, I’d have no power over you.”

Now that sounds like Nick. Like harm just happens, and she’s got nothing to do with it. Maybe that’s why it slips out.

“Must be nice,” I say, “to be totally blameless.”

Something in the air turns, like that warm, heavy shift before a storm. “It’s hard to understand, I suppose,” she says. “Perhaps this will make it clear.”

The next words that come out of her mouth aren’t Nick anymore.

“Rose. Tell me what he did.”

It’s not just Gaby’s voice. It’s Gaby. Sincere. Direct.

It’s not like talking to the Flood. I don’t see Gaby. But I’m there all the same, back in