Knave of Dreams

by Andre Norton

  A long table with carved legs stood between him and the fireplace. On that was a medley of things, including bronzed candlesticks, goblets, a plate with what he thought were apples, though they were very large, and the like.

  Except for the long seats, there appeared to be no chairs. However, here and there were piles of large square cushions made of different materials in colors that blended subtly. The light came from four of the suspended globes in their filigree containers.

  The girl had gone to the nearest of the long seats. Now she lifted the veil that cloaked her so thickly from head to foot. She drew it up from her feet and shoulders and tossed it across the end of the divan before she turned to face Ramsay straightly.

  Her dress was akin to his own clothing, except that her overvest was near ankle length. It was split on either side, so that when she moved one could see, more than thigh high, those limbs covered by the lighter, clinging undergarment. The color she had chosen was a rich green-blue, near the shade of the gem in her thumb ring, in startling contrast to the cloak veil she had shed, which was an ashy gray.

  The embroidery on her breast was in silver, the design being far simpler than that which he himself wore. It showed only the head of a cat, the eyes of which were yellow gems, perhaps as large as his own thumbnail, having a bar of light across the surfaces, as if they were indeed the living eyes of the creature they represented.

  Her hair was thick and black, cut short and kept sleekly in place by a silver band that held another smaller cat’s head just above and between her eyes. It was an outré dress, but it became her. And there was about her an aura of presence, as if she had been used to giving orders all her life and having them unquestioningly obeyed.

  She was still watching him with that searching, measuring look, which was a reflection of the gaze she had turned upon him when he had first seen her, when there came a faint rapping sound. Without turning her head, the girl spoke. Her voice carrying, Ramsay was sure, the inflection of a question.

  She was answered by a voice which came more faintly. At that she spoke again and, to Ramsay’s right, a second door opened to admit another woman. Though she wore clothing not too different from the girl’s, it was plainer and of a dullish russet brown. The cat’s head was repeated on the tunic vest, only in a much smaller size and lacing the gemmed eyes. Her face was plump and broad of feature, her short hair coarse, having only a russet ribbon to control it.

  She halted just within the door which she had closed behind her—her attention on Ramsay. Her generous mouth fell open in the most exaggerated expression of surprise he had ever encountered. For a long moment she simply stared. Then the girl spoke, swiftly, her words sliding into one another, so that Ramsay could no longer separate one strange sound from the next.

  As she talked, the woman’s gaze shifted from Ramsay to the girl, then back again, her first complete astonishment fading as the girl continued. Then the girl looked once more at Ramsay.

  Slowly, as if determined to make him understand, she touched the cat’s head on her breast with a ringed forefinger.

  “Thecla,” she pronounced. That must be her name. She was waiting now for some response from him. Was he Ramsay Kimble in this dream? But, of course, who else could he be—no matter how he was dressed or how bizarre the circumstances surrounding this encounter.

  In turn, he pointed to himself. “Ramsay Kimble,” he replied.

  Again, the older woman displayed confusion. She shook her head violently and spoke that same word the girl had used earlier:

  “Kaskar!”

  It was if she were trying to deny the identity he had claimed, and force upon him another.

  “Ramsay Kimble!” he returned, more loudly, and with all the emphasis he could center on those two words.

  Thecla made a gesture that Ramsay read as urging the woman to understand him. Then she pointed at her companion and said: “Grishilda.”

  Though such manners were not of his own world and he was a little surprised himself at his instinctive response, Ramsay inclined his head in a slight bow and repeated: “Grishilda.”

  The one he addressed came closer. Her survey of him from head to toe and back again was both searching and slow. Then she shook her head, threw up both hands.

  “Kaskar!”

  Thecla smiled, the first time he had seen her expression lose all tenseness. It was as if the reaction of Grishilda were in some way amusing.

  However, Grishilda herself broke into rapid speech, her air that of one raining questions, without pausing for a breath to catch any answer. Again the girl gestured—this time raising her hand palm up as if to urge silence. She spoke a single sentence. Grishilda gave a quick nod and hurried toward the door where she had entered. There she tugged a small bar into place, effectively locking it.

  Thecla beckoned to Ramsay, bringing him to join her on the long seat by the fireplace. What followed was a language lesson. First, she pointed to the objects in the room, repeating words which he echoed as best he could, though she often corrected his pronunciation. There was about her an air of urgency, as if they must learn how to communicate as quickly as possible for some reason. And he caught her uneasiness.

  A long dream, he thought fleetingly. And the most consecutive as to action he had ever had. This very strangeness gripped his complete concentration, and he gave himself to following Thecla’s lead as best he might.

  Ramsay did not know how long they sat there, repeating words. He was more tired than he had realized when Grishilda broke in upon their study session, bearing a tray on which she had two brimming goblets, small squares of what looked like a yellowish bread, as well as one of the huge apples sliced into several portions.

  The drink was, Ramsay decided, some kind of unfermented fruit juice. The squares were slightly sweetened, more than the bread he knew, but less than the cake of his waking world. The firm-fleshed apples were the most refreshing of all.

  They ate and drank. Thecla stretched wide her arms and made a comment to Grishilda. Then she touched his own hand lightly.

  “Sleep—Sleep—” She repeated the word she had pantomimed some time before with closed eyes and her head resting on one palm.

  Ramsay almost laughed. Sleep, was it? He was asleep—and dreaming. Could you sleep within a dream? Apparently Thecla believed that you could. But, of course, she was a character in his dream, not in the least real.

  He nodded to show he understood. She motioned to Grishilda.

  “Grishilda—take—sleep—”

  The russet-clad woman nodded emphatically and beckoned. She did not lead him to the door she had so cautiously barred, but back to the passage through which they had come from the place where he had “awakened” (if one could awake into a dream). Ramsay wondered if he was now to be returned to the flower-encircled slab and the four unseeing watchers.

  However, Grishilda turned left, pressed open another panel, and so brought him into a small room in which there was a bed, not unlike a stripped-down cot, with only a single covering folded at its foot. Here was no window, but a slit high in the wall, through which, apparently, some air found its way, for the room was not too musty.

  Through the slit came now a sliver of daylight, enough so that, when Grishilda abruptly left him, Ramsay could see to slip out of the stiffly fashioned vest-coat. Then he lay down on the cot, dragging the cover up over him.

  Oddly enough, he did feel sleepy. But he did not yield to that. There was too much to think about. And since he no longer had the stimulation of Thecla’s language lessons, his self-erected barrier against doubt began to melt away.

  He knew enough of Greg’s research—had listened to tapes and seen dream telepathy in action—to realize that this adventure of his was certainly unique. But to believe, to accept it as real was a step he shrank from. There was too much that could not be explained in any logical fashion.

  Now Ramsay began to reconsider every small detail of what he had seen since he had first opened his eyes. That slab on which
he had lain, with the tall candles and the seemingly entranced guardsmen— the whole scene haunted him somehow. He had seen its likes before. Not in any dream, no— Had it been on TV, in a film? Not in real life, no.

  Ramsay began a methodical memory search for the answer. Perhaps if he could identify one small bit of this whole episode, he could unravel it all. Where had he seen such before?

  A picture— It must have been a picture. All right. What picture? When and where? He tried to visualize a book, turning the pages, looking for that all-important illustration. No use. That did not work.

  Maybe it had not been in a book, but a magazine.

  Now his memory picture produced larger pages, began to turn them as he searched. Yes!

  Ramsay sat up on the cot. He had remembered!

  That—that had been a bier, the kind a king or some royalty personage would lie on in state. Guardsmen at the four corners, the candles. A little different from the picture he could now recall, but enough like it to make him sure he had hit upon the truth.

  That meant—he was dead!

  But he wasn’t! He was sitting right here. Anyway, in his own waking world, Ramsay Kimble would never have been laid out in state with guardsmen and those candles, with a strange girl like Thecla coming to mourn him. He might have been in a funeral home—in a casket—yes. But not with all those trimmings.

  However, he could not rid himself of the idea that that had been the way that a dead man might be treated. And this Kaskar—he knew now from Thecla’s tutoring that Kaskar was a proper name. Kaskar was the man she had expected to find lying on that bier—a dead Kaskar.

  He was not Kaskar! He was Ramsay Kimble, a perfectly normal American who had gotten mixed up beyond his depth in a screwy research project of some sort and was now having hallucinations. Yet he had never been involved in the drug scene. If some dude wanted to blow his brains clear out of his skull, popping uppers, downers, all the rest was just the way to do it the quickest. No, he was not on drugs, and he had been all laid out for a funeral—

  Ramsay drew a deep breath and tried to control hands that were suddenly shaking. This was the time to wake up. And the sooner the better. Let go, dream, let go!

  THREE

  But the nightmare part was that Ramsay could not wake up!

  The small, dim room remained as clear as ever. He pinched his own arm viciously. That hurt—but he did not wake. Fear dried his mouth, made him gasp for breath. He was fast caught in his hallucination!

  “Don’t panic now!” He said the words aloud, as if the very sound of them in his ears could somehow calm him. He had to get hold of himself, rationalize in some way what was happening.

  But there was no way to rationalize all this!

  Ramsay looked about him, at those solid walls, at the slit through which a scrap of daylight reached him. He stood up and jerked at the cot bed, bringing it as close to the wall under that slit as it could be moved. Then he mounted on it, tried to see out. He could sight another wall some distance away that was bathed in sunlight. But there was nothing else to be seen, except an ordinary-looking strip of blue sky.

  A suspicion possessed him, and he went to try the door. But Grishilda had not locked it. He was able to peer out into the narrow corridor. There, at the end, were the steps leading down to where Thecla had found him. In the other direction, nearly within his arm’s reach now, was the door to the chamber where he had been with her. However, he had a strong feeling that to prowl about on his own would be dangerous.

  He had to do something! If he just sat and thought—he’d go completely crazy! He had to know where he was and how he got here. For somehow the reality of his surroundings had impressed themselves on his mind. If this was not a dream, then something completely beyond understanding had occurred. They had to tell him!

  Ramsay took a hasty step toward the door to Thecla’s chamber. But he did not raise his hand to the latch. Thecla had definitely dismissed him. Until he knew more, he would abide by the rules she had apparently set. And to know more he must be able to communicate.

  He returned to the cot and relaxed on it. Now he began to mumble the words she had impressed upon him, summoning with each a mental picture of explanation. He knew the names of each piece of furniture in that chamber, and the words for simple action, but he needed more vocabulary. And, against his will, he was growing tired now. Suppose he did sleep— would he then dream himself back into the normal world?

  That was the last thought of his waking, but his sleep was dreamless, or else he did not remember what dreams he had had when he awoke to a slight shaking and opened his eyes to see Grishilda bending over him.

  “Come—” She shaped the word with extravagant lip movements, as if to make her order perfectly clear.

  Still sleep-dazed, Ramsay sat up. The woman had looped over her arm the richly embroidered vest-coat he had discarded, and she was watching him impatiently.

  They went back once more into the chamber where the girl had taught him words, but there was no sign of Thecla. The older woman did not linger there, but beckoned him on into a second room.

  Here the walls were tiled with shining pale-green blocks through which was a drifting of silvery motes. And in the center of the chamber a tub, like a small pool, had been sunk. It was now filled with water, and he caught a pine-like scent.

  On a bench at one side lay a pile of what could be only towels. And the other appointments of a bathroom were enough akin to those of his real world that he was able to recognize them at once.

  “Wash—” Grishilda waved a hand toward the waiting bath. Then she pointed to a pile of fresh clothing at the other end of the bench from the towels. “Clothes—on.” She made gestures of dressing.

  But how did one get out of this skintight underclothing? Ramsay could see no form of opening at all. He pulled it a little away from his throat, and it snapped promptly back. Then he heard a sound that could only be laughter.

  Grishilda, her mouth stretched in a wide grin, advanced on him. Her hand reached to his right shoulder, pressed there for an instant, and there was an even splitting of the fabric, peeling open across his chest.

  “So—” she said, and guided his own fingers to a button-like spot embedded in the fabric. Then she turned briskly and left him to it.

  Ramsay had peeled off the undersuit before he was aware of the long mirror panel. But he caught a glimpse of his movements in it and, once stripped, went deliberately to stand before it. Even though he had somehow known that he would not look exactly like himself, what he saw there was a shock.

  His features were the same, but he missed the small scar along his cheekbone that had marked his encounter with a wooden splinter the summer he had worked with the logging crew. His hair was brushed back and fairly short in front, down to his neck in back. And he wore around it a broad band of what could only be gold, set with red stones. Also—his ears—he had on stud earrings of large red stones.

  There was no trace of beard on his face; in fact, he had very little hair anywhere on his body. And across his chest was a red pattern, a tattoo, his rubbing finger advised him, in the form of a fierce-looking bird, perhaps an eagle or hawk, its beak half open, its wings mantling.

  So—this was Kaskar! The dead Kaskar, except that he was Ramsay and he wasn’t dead in the least.

  He pulled off the headband, detached the earrings. But he couldn’t wipe away the bird which was a part of his very skin. For the rest, he thought he looked much as he always had.

  But he wanted to know—he had to know!

  Ramsay lowered his body into the water. There was a bowl of some solid green substance— reminding him of jade—and in this was a soft cream that gave off the pine scent. He scooped out a generous fingerful, and when the water touched it foam appeared. Soap! So equipped, he proceeded to luxuriate in the largest bath he had ever seen.

  As the water cooled, he came out and rubbed dry with the waiting towels. Then he investigated the pile of clothing. These pieces were different
in texture and embellishment from those he had discarded, being far less rich.

  The undersuit he fumbled his way into and sealed via shoulder button was the same dull russet shade as that of Grishilda’s over-robe. And the vest-coat that went over it was green, with no elaborate spread of thread and gem across the chest. Rather there was only a small patch of a silver cat’s head near the shoulder to the right. It was shorter, too, than his golden tunic had been, by at least three inches.

  He made no move to pick up either the headband or the earrings he had shed. And he was standing before the mirror, sleeking down his hair with his hands, since a brush was one appointment he had not found, when Grishilda came back. This time Thecla accompanied her.

  The girl was dressed much as he had seen her the night before, but her expression was less serene. She came directly to him, surveying him from head to foot, as if there were something very important in the appearance he made.

  “Trouble—” she said. “You—go—with Grishilda—go to Kilsyth. They hunt for Kaskar— find”—she shook her head vehemently—“find— kill!” She repeated that word, stabbing a pointed finger at his breast as if that were a knife. “Ochall — angry—hung—you must go.”

  Before Ramsay could either protest or question, her hands on his shoulders pushed him back and down on the bench. Grishilda rustled forward, a box open in her hands. She held it ready, and Thecla frowned at the contents, which appeared to be a selection of tubes and jars.

  The girl selected one of the tubes and uncapped it. Inside was a thick pencil-like projection. She took Ramsay’s chin in a firm hold, turning his face more to the light, and with swift strokes marked his brows with the pencil. With another tube she dabbed along the line of his hair, and finally smoothed his face with a cream. Then she gestured him toward the mirror.

  She had not made any great changes with her cosmetics, but the effect startled him for the second time. His skin was much darker in shade, his brows thicker, nearly meeting above his nose. His forehead was lower, and somehow his whole face was coarser, appeared older.