Free Suddenly Sam (The October Trilogy) by Heather Killough-Walden Page A

fountain at the center of the town, and beyond that, the cobbled stones continued to stretch, dividing two rows of houses and cottages like Mabel’s and Henry’s.
    Logan made her way to ward the fountain, and as she did, she grew more and more excited. Finally, she stood before it and looked up. It was a massive alabaster structure carved in the shape of a very large, very old, ornately constructed tree. Hanging from each overhanging branch of this mighty oak was not an acorn – but a pumpkin. Sometimes there were several pumpkins per branch.
    “It’s the Halloween Tree,” Logan said aloud, smiling despite herself. Bradbury’s famous tale of Halloween through the ages had always been one of Logan’s most treasured books. She adored the prose and the eminently poetic stanzas the author used to tell his story. She loved the imagery, and often after reading a page or even a single paragraph, she would close her eyes and feel the words move through her like a wave in the ocean. They were a tide of creativity, ebbing and flowing, pushing the blood through her veins as surely as did her own beating heart.
    The story’s main aspect was that of an ageless tree from which hung the “pumpkin fire souls” of the dead. The visages they’d possessed in life were carved magically into pumpkins in the likeness of jack-o’-lanterns, their inner lights burning brightly as they grinned at the leaf-strewn world below.
    And now Logan stood before a flowing fountain carved from stone in the very image of that great and imposing masterpiece. The water traveling restlessly through its infinite crevices, cracks, and hollows made the most wonderful sound, peaceful and yet exciting.
    The jack-o’-lanterns hanging from its branches grinned or guffawed or oohed and ahhd , all of them gazing through sightless holes that somehow glowed candle light, despite the water that also ran through them.
    Logan moved closer, leaned in, and took a better look at the carved white pumpkin nearest to her. The light inside was shed by a single white floating candle, no doubt meticulously lit by some attentive caretaker just now for the masquerade. She looked further up. The next pumpkin on the branch, which sported carefully carved freckles and glasses and appeared to be the visage of a younger boy, was lit the same way.
    “Amazing,” she sighed . And it was. There were at least a hundred jack-o’-lanterns on that enormous tree, and every single one possessed a brightly lit soul.
    Log an straightened and took several steps back so she could take it all in. She couldn’t help but wonder just then whether Bradbury had known about this when he’d written his book, had possibly visited October Land before, as a bard, perhaps even in his dreams.
    Or, maybe, upon the great author’s death, t he Village had created this fountain in honor of the man who should have been born a Harvester.
    She would never know.
    Logan turned away from the fountain, and with a feeling of renewal, she re-gathered her skirts and continued around the fountain’s base and down the worn stone path.
    When she’d gone past two houses, the door to the third opened, and a couple stepped out onto their threshold. They weren’t looking at her; they wer e paying attention to each other. The woman busily adjusted the man’s coat collar, and the man temporarily held her fan for her. She was wearing a dress in somewhat the same fashion as Logan’s, though of different colors, and admittedly not nearly as beautiful. Her hair was bright Autumn red, and fell down her back in tight ringlets that gave Logan a twinge of jealousy.
    The man had short cut blonde hair and was dressed in coattails, crisp and proper. He was fairly tall, and dressed as he was, Logan could imagine he was quite handsome. This was what everyone loved about masquerades. When a person was hidden behind a mask, they not only felt uninhibited, everyone around them could imagine them to look like whatever they wanted. It was