The Caravan of Broken Dreams

By C.L. Latham

At nightfall, windows are shuttered and children are locked away, but nothing can keep the music from entering. Two years ago, when the music began, sixteen-year-old Ekaterina Ivanov lost her only family. But when Ekaterina vowed to hunt down whoever was behind the disappearances, she never expected to be pu

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.L. Latham
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735436517

C.L. Latham

C.L. Latham is a chronically ill and disabled Native American writer, who grew up on fairy tales and missed opportunities in lieu of an average childhood, and now uses that knowledge to weave unheard of takes on classic fairy tales. When not writing, Latham can be found buried in a good book, watching Food Network, or trying to convince the cows next door to come up for a pet.

Book preview

Prologue

*Ekaterina*

It was a strangely quiet, stormy November night when the music began.

My little brother, Nikolai, and I sat before the cracked and soot-stained fireplace in our small home, tending to the fragile heat. The flames popped and sizzled, fighting for life against the frozen air blowing swiftly down the chimney.

I resisted the urge to shiver as an icy wind swept underneath our poorly insulated front door, wrapping both Nikolai and myself in a frigid embrace. Nikolai’s shoulders shook violently and I wrapped the wool blanket he was under more tightly around his shoulders.

The night was absurdly cold, well below the normal temperature for a late November night. Storm clouds hung low and heavy in the autumn sky, purple and mottled like a spoiled plum. The clouds seemed to be reaching for the earth, clawing their way out of the sky like demons escaping from the nether world.

Can’t we go out and play, Kat? Nikolai whined. His little fingers, turned blue at their tips, were clenched tightly around the edges of his blanket.

You know that we can’t, I replied as I poked tenderly at the fire, avoiding the pleading stare of his big, blue eyes. It’s awfully cold and you know it’s far too dangerous to be outside at night. You know how mean people can be when they’re cold and hungry.

Nikolai huffed sadly, but fell silent. He knew what I would say. We had this same conversation every night, and every night my response was the exact same.

It’s too cold, Nik.

You could get hurt, Nik.

Don’t you remember what happened last time? People are mean when they are scared, and hungry, and cold.

We’ll play when it’s warmer.

The music came suddenly, like a light flickering to life within a sea of mist. It was a gentle, serene melody. It was a symphony of delicate sound, laced with danger and mystery. A voice that was as tender and sweet as a mother’s touch murmured in a language my mind couldn’t even begin to understand. It was the language of nighttime, the kind of words spoken only between shadows and starlight. It was not the language of mortals.

Yet it was almost...familiar in a way.

The words wrapped around my mind like an asp, caressing my consciousness lovingly, invitingly. It was as if the music knew me, and knew how to enthrall me.

My eyes grew heavy, my limbs weak. Darkness was gently coaxing me into her silent embrace.

Ekaterina? Nikolai whispered, one frozen hand wrapping around my wrist. What’s happening?

It was the last thing I heard before darkness took me into her sweet embrace.

---

Nikolai was gone when I awoke.

1

Gone

*Ekaterina*

When I awoke from the music’s strange, dark spell, I was disoriented. The world around me spun wildly and was faintly blurred at the edges, like freshly mixed watercolors. I was unsure of where I was and the deep, inky black shade of fear overtook me, as dark as a starless night.

I rolled onto my side on the hard stone floor and looked around my small, cold house groggily. I knew something was terribly wrong. Something vital was missing. But for the life of me I could not place my finger on what it was.

My hot breath plumed before me in the icy air as I let out a hard sigh. With a groan I rolled onto my stomach and struggled onto my hands. I lifted myself from the floor with shaking arms. My elbows buckled hard, once, and sent me spiraling face first into the hard cement floor.

I barked out a curse, the blinding white shade of pain flashing across my vision and flooding throughout my veins. I wiped the blood from my nose with a shaking fist as I began to raise myself once more.

I slowly dragged myself to my feet, the world spinning precariously around me. I swayed unsteadily, my joints groaning with disuse. I staggered slowly to the uncomfortable sofa against the far wall and plopped down hard enough to rattle my bones.

My eyes flicked around my home once more, that feeling of something missing nagging at the back of my brain. It was too quiet. I felt as if there should be someone else here with me, but it was as if there was something in my mind preventing the thought from fully forming.

I propped my jaw in my hand and closed my eyes. After a few moments, a pair of bright, shining cerulean eyes flashed across my vision. My eyes flew open, sorrowful blue shades fluttering across the edges of my vision and leaking into my blood.

I didn’t know what those eyes meant, nor whose they were, but something dark was nagging at the back of my mind. Sorrow and pain were in the background of my thoughts, almost as if they were waiting for me to realize something so they could move to the forefront.

After several long moments stretched into oblivion, ticking their way into eternal nothingness, I stood and began to wander throughout the small house. It was cold and dark, the setting sun lighting little of the interior of the house. So as I walked, I flicked on lights. I searched room after room: a dirty, cold kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been used in weeks, two musty bedrooms, and between the two bedrooms, a small, tiled bathroom that housed a small standing shower stall with a rusted faucet and rotting tiles, a cramped, clawfoot tub and a small toilet with cracked porcelain.

I had found nothing strange in the house, nor had whatever was missing occurred to me.

With a sigh, I decided to shower. Maybe it would help me discover what was wrong, but it would assuredly help me feel better and remove the nagging feeling of grime from my skin.

I opened the shower door and struggled to turn the knobs. They were lightly rusted and dysfunctional.

The water that began to flow an agonizing while later was faintly tinged brown and smelled vaguely of iron. But I didn’t care enough. It would work well enough to bathe in.

I shed my many layers of clothing with cold, stiff hands as steam began to fill the small room. I climbed under the scalding water and tipped my head back, water pouring over my filthy, matted hair and washing away the remnants of blood from my face.

Suddenly, those eyes flashed across my vision once more, followed by a flare of silver light. And a sense of overwhelming wrongness hit me.

Something was off.

Something was very wrong.

Then, under that hot water, it hit me. The realization of what was wrong, what had been missing, hit me like a fist to the gut. Where not even the Stars could see me break, I dropped to my knees with a wail of pure anguish. Undiluted, unfiltered blue sorrow flooded my veins.

My scream echoed against the tiles, repeating back at me over, and over, merely worsening my pain.

When the realization that my little brother was gone hit me, it was as if a piece of my soul had been violently ripped from me. Nikolai was my only family. He was my everything.

I couldn’t imagine a world without him.

Yet, thanks to that mysterious music, I had been thrust into such a world.

And everything since had become a dark, endless nightmare.

I came to despise any kind of music. Even a child's song, hummed from a mother's lips to soothe merely deepened the wound left by Nikolai’s absence. It was as if I had lost a piece of my very being. My hands didn't know what to do without his to hold while crossing the street. My mind couldn't turn off to sleep when I didn't have the steady thrum of my little brother's breath through the paper-thin wall that separated our bedrooms.

But...it was as if I was the only one suffering from this phenomenon. It seemed as though no one in my little coastal town had any kind of emotions pertaining to the missing children. Merriment lived on every street corner. It seeped from every pore, from every person. It was evident in the stretched smiles and shining eyes.

It was as if I was the only one suffering the after effects of that mysterious music.

It had been a mere two years since that melody invaded the minds of everyone in the small seaside town of Alanzi, yet it felt as though a lifetime had passed. And none, not even the animals and insects, had managed to avoid the spell that strange song had cast. Everyone in Alanzi had merely fallen into a very, very deep sleep.

And when we had awoken...all of our children were gone.

2

Elsewhere

*Ekaterina*

The children were never younger than five, nor older than twelve. Those missing children spanned every race represented in Alanzi, from the pale skinned Oncalis, to the rich, dark skinned Treildes. They were from every gender, identity and orientation.

Not a single child was ignored or denied.

However, despite the ever growing list of missing children, the music had quickly become a myth, a living fairytale. It was as if all the people in my city would rather pretend their children hadn't existed than face what happened on that fateful night.

I spent months searching for the source of the music. But it was hard to do so when everyone in your town swore they never had a young child who mysteriously disappeared in the dark of the night.

And my inquisitions became my mantra.

My name is Ekaterina Ivanov, I would state in a pleading voice. My little brother was taken by the music. Please, do you have any information that may help me find him?

No, everyone would reply. I don’t know what music you’re talking about. You’ll have to look Elsewhere.

And Elsewhere I looked.

Elsewhere never held the answers I so desperately craved. But Elsewhere didn’t know me.

I am Ekaterina Ivanov.

My brother was taken by the music.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back.

3

A Haven for the Extraordinary

*Ekaterina*

Sunlight burned into the sidewalk, elongating my shadow into something terribly monstrous and chasing away the November chill.

I wore a path into the scalding cement before the storefront of a self-proclaimed psychic who had recently appeared in Alanzi in a large, covered wagon that had raised many excited whispers. I wasn’t sure where the covered wagon had gone, for the psychic now worked out of one of the many bland, simple stores lining Alanzi’s market district. The district spanned three cramped cement streets and stretched for five miles, with hundreds of small storefronts lining the streets like soldiers.

I cast an imploring look at the storefront, possibly for the thousandth time in the hour I had been awaiting its opening. The windows were dark behind their heavy drapery, with bits and bobbles of various kinds dangling from thick strands of twine in front of them. A hand drawn sign adorned the space directly above the doorway, declaring that the shop was:

Madame Yevgeni's House of Magic and

Mystery

in messy, yet somehow still elegant, cursive. As I watched, a murder of crows landed on the sign, seven in total, and caused it to sway back and forth precariously. They stared at me for an uncomfortably long time, none of them blinking, before letting out one huge, irritated screech in unison and flying off once more.

I blinked, confusion sweeping over me in hues of orange.

Strange...I mused internally, yet glad for the distraction the murder offered.

I fiddled with the end of my braid and turned back to the store. Stars and mystical symbols had been drawn along the door-frame in peeling golden paint by an obviously skilled hand. The symbols made me uneasy, for no matter how much I may need her help, Madame Yevgeni’s magical practices reminded me far too much of the music.

I turned away and watched as a young man crossed the street two doors down from the shop, only to cross back over and enter a bakery a few doors down from Madame Yevgeni’s store.

Superstitious fool. I muttered. In my few days of researching Madame Yevgeni and trying to catch her at her shop, I had seen many people do the most peculiar things just to avoid the mere proximity of the psychic’s store. I rolled my eyes skyward and sighed deeply.

A few moments later I was drawn from my frustration by the joyful cries of a small child. I looked over and my heart sank. A little boy of about three, with a wild mess of dark hair and big blue eyes was dragging his mother down the street to the window cluttered with hanging trinkets. He was beautiful, and so happy. It made the hole left by Nikolai throb at the edges.

Mommy! He cried, his face alight with wonder. Look!

He pulled his hand from his mother’s and pointed a chubby little finger toward a wooden carving of a big Star, painted a vibrant shade of silver.

Get back here, Alexei! She scolded, grabbing his arm and wrenching him away. Don’t go near that charlatan’s shop. It’s dangerous.

Why? Alexei inquired innocently.

Because that woman is a cheat and a fraud, the mother explained. I don’t want you near her.

The child's response was too faint to hear as he and his mother disappeared down the street.

I bit my lip as sorrowful blues flitted around me, threading through my very being.

My mind flashed to what the mother had called the psychic. I refused to believe Madame Yevgeni was fake without proof of my own. People were far too willing to push aside the paranormal in favor of their mundane existence. This realization had come to me after the music, when far too many within Alanzi's borders had chosen merely to deny their children's lives rather than acknowledge that something outside of our plane of consciousness may exist.

While my attention had been focused Elsewhere, the door to Madame Yevgeni's shop had creaked open. The woman herself stood framed in a vein of darkness, the sunlight illuminating her in mere patches.

Ekaterina? The Mystic inquired in a voice that seemed too light and airy for her appearance. As she stepped further into the sunlight, I was hit fully with the look of her. She was ancient. All collapsing skin and inch-deep ravines that coursed her face in fine lines of age. Despite her decrepit appearance, her hair fell to her hips in thick, ebony waves. Her eyes were encircled in dark lashes that only existed to enhance the deep gold of her irises. Intelligence and mirth shone in her eyes far more than I had ever seen in a youth.

Her fingers were tipped in long, broken yellow nails. And starting from her fingertips and disappearing into the sleeves of her tunic were a web of thick red tattooed lines. They were the width of my thumb and traced her aged skin like veins. I was sure they meant something to Madame Yevgeni, but they were meaningless to me.

I met the psychic’s eyes and a silver light flashed across my vision and my ears began to ring painfully. I gasped and flinched backwards.

Ekaterina? Madame Yevgeni repeated. Are you alright?

Y-yes. I stammered out. I’ve tried to contact you for days.

Yes, she sighed. Have you come to call me a fraud as well? Or maybe a witch? Or do you wish to pelt me with rotten foods?

Anger and hurt flooded her voice, and her eyes flashed.

No. I braced myself and took a deep breath. I came to see if you knew anything about a mysterious music that puts people to sleep and steals their children in the dead of the night.

The mystic’s eyes widened considerably. I think you better come inside.

She turned and disappeared into her darkened shop, a silent order to follow. After a moment's hesitation, I indeed followed.

The inside of her shop smelled like cloves and incense. A thick line of gray smoke flowed down the hallway, smelling of something sweet and the sharp tang of lemongrass. The smoke dissipated as I walked through it, merely to reform behind me again. It floated delicately down the passage, drifting ever so elegantly in the air.

So, Madame Yevgeni said softly, taking a seat in a deep, cushioned chair and motioned to its twin, sitting beside hers with a small tea table between. Why do you search after the music?

Because, I began, ducking under a low-hanging tapestry that depicted some bloody war, the warriors sewn from shining silver thread, with glittering black and gray halos above their heads. I studied it curiously as I walked to the chair. My little brother was taken by the music that night, and I need your help to get him back.

Madame Yevgeni’s shoulders slumped then. She looked defeated, as if there wasn’t much left to fight for.

Child, she said in a low voice. I think you really ought to sit down before I tell you this.

And with that, Madame Yevgeni poured me a sweet-smelling tea, and told me the information I needed. But not the information that I wanted.

---

When I was young, the misbegotten caravan where I lived was a beacon of hope. It was a place for remarkable people that had been cast adrift by their own. It was a home for the exiled. For, as I am sure you have come to realize, people refuse to believe in what they cannot themselves see. Madame Yevgeni's accent slowly thickened as she relived her past. It was as if her mind believed her to be back in such a far-away past, and the years away that had softened her accent no longer mattered. "But there was one girl in particular that had always stood out. Her name was Esme, a girl from islands too far for us to know of. She was a girl of unusual power, even within our caravan. She held dominion over music. Music was her plaything, her pet. It heeded her every command. Her music was a hypnotic melody that could persuade you to do most anything without your consent. It was both beautiful and terrifying. And many in the caravan were indeed terrified. You have to understand that people fear what they don’t understand. And no one understood Esme, or what she was. And this lack of understanding made Esme into a pariah of sorts. It made her distant from the rest of us. And Esme began to hate us for that distance. She began to see us as enemies who could never understand.

"It was not long before this hate morphed into something much darker. Esme had exiled herself within the caravan. She was always alone, wrapped in her music like a cloak. She had found a way to turn the music notes into weapons of steel and agony. Mere months after her arrival, Esme was lost to us forever. She turned on us, using her music as the weapon we all feared it would be. Esme cast us into an unwaking sleep, an impenetrable night. It was several weeks before we would awaken, like some twisted version of the Briar Rose fairytale. But for us, there was no Prince Charming to awake us. We were unconscious for months, Ekaterina. She stole months from our lives."

The old woman took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing. She wiped a single tear from her wrinkled face and looked off into the distance.

"And then, to make matters all that much more heartbreaking, every single one of our children had disappeared along with Esme. The only answer we received as to their whereabouts was a message written in berry-paint on the outside of one of our wagons. It was a messy scrawl, almost impossible to decipher, but understandable all the same. Written on our home, our safe haven, were the words none of us ever expected to see: 'I have taken the children with me to someplace better. They will now be protected from your hatred and darkness forever more'. Madame Yevgeni quoted the message perfectly, the memory seared into her mind forever more. And we never saw our children, or Esme, ever again." Madame Yevgeni closed her eyes tightly, and a few tears streamed down her age-lined cheek. It dripped down her skin, cutting through layers of cosmetics that had accentuated the deep tan of her aged skin.

Madame? I murmured after a few moments of tense silence. She began to speak again as if nothing had happened.

"But everywhere I've traveled, and all these years I've lived, I have come to realize two vital things, child.

Esme has not stopped her dark practice. The more exiled and hated she feels, the more children she has taken. And out of every child she has taken into her dark embrace, not a single one has ever come home.

Fear grasped my ribs, pulling me into an icy embrace. All heat bled from me in currents, cold taking over my body in completion. Goose-flesh plagued me and an ice-cold shiver flooded down my arms.

Never? I whispered in a small voice. Madame Yevgeni was silent for far too long, and that was the only answer I needed. I set my tea down with a clatter and buried my face in my hands.

Oh, Stars, I groaned into my palms miserably. Nikolai. My baby. Madame Yevgeni rose from her chair and knelt before me.

Child, she murmured, wrapping her plump fingers around my wrists. "You mustn't mourn