The Door of Dreams

by Greg James

  “Because she would not see you suffer needlessly, my dear. And neither would I.” He leered.

  “If ... if I accept this gift, will you let me go?”

  Scaethe’s face faltered for a second, the he recovered, “Of course, I will. You may go free as long as you promise to say thank you. That is all I ask.”

  She wasn’t sure about this but what did she have to lose? She’d only got six months left to live. Perhaps this was the hour of decision the Lamia had spoken of? Then again, was she even thinking clearly – could Scaethe still be controlling her actions? But, if he was speaking the truth, she’d be cured, she could go home to Dad, and she could have a real life again.

  “Okay, I promise,” Willow said, slowly, “ do it.”

  Scaethe’s fingers fastened on either side of her head. Willow felt a fire spread through her skin and bones. It pierced her brain like a burning blade and she felt it beginning to cut and sever. Her vision went white. The sounds in her ears were black and fierce. She could taste blood. Her bones were breaking, one by one. Her skin, her flesh, and her muscles were stretching out – trying to escape the speed of pain. There was no escape. It was all consuming. She was screaming a single, shrill note of agony to match the sound ringing deep inside her head. Then, it was over as suddenly as it had begun. Scaethe was standing on his feet, flexing and cracking his fingers.

  “What did you do to me?” Willow cried.

  “I took your death away as I was bidden to do. It is gone now.”

  “My voice? It’s different! What did you do?”

  “It had to go somewhere.”

  “What did? Those aren’t my legs! My hands! What’s happened to me?”

  “The growth behind your eyes. It had to go somewhere so I put it back into you.”

  “You said you took it away.”

  “I did. I took it away, remade it, and your body has absorbed it. The process has aged you. Your mind is as it was but your body is older. I would say by about five summers.”

  “Five years?”

  Willow looked down at herself. Her arms and legs were longer. Her torso, more shaped and defined. It all looked so strange; not like her at all, yet it was. Her shirt and jeans were torn at the seams; far too small for her now.

  “I’m twenty-one. I was sixteen, and now I’m twenty-one. This is ... impossible.”

  Scaethe harrumphed and tossed her a bundle of cloth, “You should change.”

  Willow unfolded the bundle and found it to be a cloth tunic and pants of woodland colours. As she was changing into the new clothes, she felt Scaethe’s body pressing against her from behind. The smell of him was repugnant. “Now, are you not going to thank me as you promised?”

  *

  Willow was running. She could hear the raging voice of Scaethe behind her. It shook the trees to their roots. It made their bows and branches writhe in the air. Her heart was racing. Her skin was prickling. Everything around her seemed too close and too far from how it should be.

  Scaethe had tried to forced himself on her. His lips whispering into her ear about what he wanted to do to her. He hadn’t whispered for long – not after she brought her knee up hard between his legs.

  Her breathing came in short, panicked gasps as she crashed through the bushes and overgrown, tangled roots. He’d cast a spell on her and changed her for good. Every inch of her was shaking from the revelation. She wasn’t going to die – but she’d aged five years. Not that dying was good, but the loss of time somehow hurt. She had been wounded and something outside of herself had been wounded too. Scaethe had changed everything – and it had been a gift from the Lamia.

  Willow knew she should be feeling joy at having her life saved, but the knowledge only filled her with fear. She was being bound to the Lamia by increments. She didn’t want the spell to be undone – but it tore at her heart and soul that it was the Lamia’s doing.

  Fairytales were stories. Magic wasn’t real. There were no cures for what she had – what she’d had. This was all impossible and insane. Hope warred with despair inside her breast as she struggled on through the grasping dark of Ravensholt. Scaethe’s cries had died away behind her, but she knew he would never forgive her. He’d wanted her in the most disgusting way; a way that only the most lonely and loveless of men could want a woman, or a girl.

  Colour slowly returned to her senses as she came to the edge of the forest. The sun was rising in the sky. It was like watching an old photograph sharpen and brighten as she pushed through the last of the bracken and tumbled out into the open.

  The unspoiled land unfolded before her; rolling plains of summergrass which grew into low hills strewn with amber flowers, and beyond stood greater heights shrouded in cloud and effervescent mist. The sun shone with newborn ferocity though its warmth was gentle and soothing. She saw Henu not so far away. He was hunched over the remains of a small fire.

  “Henu!” she called out.

  His shoulders rose as he got to his feet and turned, “Friend Willow! You are safe,” he cried. The Wealdsman ran to her and embraced her, “I searched for you. I hunted high and low. I could not find you in the Holt. Scaethe had hidden you well and I despaired. I thought you were lost!” He looked Willow up and down, “What has he done? He has changed you.”

  “Yeah,” Willow said, “I’m not sure how, but yeah.”

  “Let me see,” he said, closing his eyes and muttering to himself.

  After a moment had passed, he opened his eyes again. “I can feel that the sickness is gone from you. I can see you have aged. No, it is more than that.”

  “More? What d’you mean more?”

  “I don’t know exactly but I can feel it. There is something else as a part of this magick – a price you will have to pay.”

  ... you will kneel before me with bloodstained hands ...

  Willow’s train of thought was cut off by a piercing howl which came from the depths of Ravensholt.

  Chapter Twelve

  Willow had hoped to walk through the shimmering grass and enjoy the sight of so much beauty, but for now it was lost to her as she raced through it.

  She cast a glance back across her shoulder. Dark shapes were gaining on them. They made barely a sound as their bodies whispered over the grass. Her legs hurt, her lungs burned, and her head was pounding. Her body felt clumsy and too long in the wrong places. She began to slow down, fearing she’d trip over her own feet and fall. What happens if I die here, she wondered, what happens if I escaped the cancer only to have my throat torn out by a wolf? Does my body go back home, somehow? Or will I rot here in the grass, forgotten under this cloud-marbled sky?

  Except these were not mere wolves – they were No-men in another form. They cast no shadow for they were shadows. No eyes shone above their muzzles and they barely made a sound – no breath at all – as they pursued the two companions.

  At first, Willow thought she saw the shadow of a cloud in the sky cast on the ground ahead of them. It was coming their way and her heart ached as she guessed another pack of these creatures had cut across the plain to trap the companions between themselves and their pursuers. However, as the charging shapes came closer, Willow saw they were not wolves. Their legs were much longer. Their flanks were rippling fields of fawn, chestnut, and umber – rather than necks, sleek human torsos rose above their galloping lower bodies. Rich bronze curls trailed in the whistling wind and hazel eyes flecked with gold met her own. They were centaurs – a drove of centaurs armed with spears and two-handed swords – and they cut into the transformed No-men with a mighty roar.

  Willow stumbled to a halt, and so did Henu. His weathered face was bright red and his breathing was heavy. They both turned to watch the skirmish. The wolves leapt, growled, and snapped as the centaurs reared, shouted, thrust, and parried. Blood stained the grass, and Willow thought on how it seemed like a violation. She almost expected the grass to smoulder, wither and die from being so despoiled. The centaurs’ bodies gleamed with sweat and their weapons shone as th
ey flashed down. Many of the wolves were felled and dissolved into shadows which fled across the ground. A few made it beyond the reach of the centaurs’ spears and swords, returning to Ravensholt; casting dark, eyeless looks back at their foes as they went.

  “It is worse than I feared,” Henu said, “Scaethe has become as dark and bitter as his trees. I thought he might trick us and lie to us. I had not thought him an ally of the Lamia, or able to call on the No-men.”

  Willow didn’t tell him about the spell Scaethe had cast being a gift from the Lamia. Some things were best left unspoken – for now.

  “They’re coming. Look, they’re coming over.” she said.

  The centaurs gently cantered towards them. They slung their spears and swords across the backs of their upper bodies. The lower body of one was almost the colour of gold, and he stood ahead of the others. He bowed his head to Henu and Willow, and spoke with a voice as soft as it was strong, light and deep. “We trust you were not wounded by the No-men.”

  “No,” Willow said, “but you are. You’re all wounded. You could’ve died for us.”

  “We could have but we did not,” said the lead centaur, “when the sun is high, they are at their weakest. My name is Nualan and this is my drove. You are bound for Harrowclave, are you not?”

  “Yes, we are.” Willow said.

  “This is well. You travel with a Wealdsman and he has set your feet on the path. This is as it was written. You are the Greychild; the one who has come to mend the balance of the world.”

  “My name’s Willow Grey. I don’t know what Greychild means.”

  But she did – the Lamia’s words haunted her.

  “It is a prophecy; one so old it is almost forgotten, friend Willow.” Henu replied.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No, it is true.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Henu?”

  “I hoped it wasn’t true. I meant only to show you the way home.”

  Was he lying?

  “The prophecy is truth,” said Nualan, “the Jenns of our droves have heard the song of the Wisps upon the Summerdowns.”

  If the Lamia was telling the truth then what does this mean? I should trust her? I shouldn’t?

  Willow’s mind was in a whirl as Nualan’s voice continued, “You have come far, Greychild, and we have much to talk about but this can wait until we reach Harrowclave. You are both in need of food and rest. Your needs will be seen to before we do more.”

  Nualan bowed his head to Willow. She could feel her face burning red. Her fingers fidgeting and her toes curling. She couldn’t take her eyes away from him. Nualan’s body was a thing of sculpted beauty, his eyes were bronze pools – and this was no glamour as Scaethe had cast to bewitch her.

  “Um, thank you, I guess,” she said, “I can’t believe I’m talking to a centaur.”

  Nualan raised his head, tossed his mane and burst into laughter. The rest of the drove joined in with him. It was a warm and welcoming sound. “Yes, Greychild,” he said, “I am a centaur but you are still the most wondrous creature standing here today.”

  His words were greeted with cheers from the others, and only made Willow’s face burn even redder than before.

  *

  Willow and Henu rode across the plains towards Harrowclave on the backs of the centaurs. She rode on Nualan and Henu on the back of a silver-maned female centaur named Nithoe whose hide was as grey as wisdom. As Willow felt Nualan’s muscles move and flex underneath her, she couldn’t help her breath from catching in her throat. The closeness of his strength sent a raw electricity through her. She talked to him so as to take her mind off the thoughts it kept wandering to.

  “How far is it to Harrowclave?”

  “The rest of the day and a night. We should come in sight of it at dawn, Greychild.”

  “Willow. Please, call me Willow.”

  “I will do as you ask ... Willow.”

  “Tell me about yourself and your people, Nualan.”

  It wasn’t much of a chat-up line but it would have to do.

  “There are nine droves in all the land of Tirlane and we count the southern hills to the east of the Summerdowns as our home, as well as the plains at the heart of the land. Each drove has its Stallion and its Jenn; for wisdom and knowledge is needed as much as strength. We do what we can to keep the land safe from the Lamia but we lack the arts of the Wardens. Our Jenns see and know much but their talents are natural-born and they have no tutors save one another to master the power which resides in their souls.”

  “The droves have kept some peace in Tirlane since the fall of Covenheart and Silfrenheart was abandoned. It is not enough though. The shadow of the Lamia retreats but it is ever there in the north. She broods in her nest beneath Mount Norn and festers in the dreams of every living thing. We would strike the death-blow against her but Barrowdwell is impregnable to us.

  “And you said you think I’m part of some prophecy?”

  “Yes, we are all taught it from our youngest years. We do not write or record as others do. Our history is spoken and the tales retold to the firstborn of each siring. The prophecy is the one tale which is not our own, for none recall who first told it. It says there will be a girl who becomes a woman before her time. She has known great sorrow and pain. She bears the power which is no power, and she will break or mend the balance of the world. Tirlane will be remade at her coming and the darkness shall retreat in fear before her.”

  Nualan went on and much of what he said went right over Willow’s head, but she could’ve listened to his voice all day. When they stopped to eat and drink, she wished that she could’ve looked into his eyes until it grew dark enough that they became twin stars in the night – and she noticed he didn’t look away from her gaze. A softness came into his hard features when their eyes met and knowing this made her feel warm inside.

  It was mid-afternoon when the centaurs halted their ride to Harrowclave. They were on the banks of a river which flowed lustily across the landscape, giving rise to occasional roars and whispers as the water rushed over and around rocks.

  “The Fenriver,” Nualand said, “sire to the Seaforth Wane and Downswash which flow into the lower lands.”

  Along the river bank, Willow could see what looked like a small cluster of hillocks from which thin trails of smoke rose into the sky. “There’s a fire over there. Could it be No-men?”

  “Ah, yes, a fire, true, but not the kind you mean. It seems she is awake,” said Nualan.

  “Who is?”

  “Starababa, lady of the Fenriver lodge and mother of morgens and nymphs.” Henu answered, having dismounted from Nithoe. He was standing beside Nualan’s flank and helped Willow get down onto the grass. “Tonight, friend Willow, there will be merry-making. You will see the folk of Tirlane at their brightest.”

  The drove trotted closer to the hills. Willow saw the central hillock was, in fact, a chimney and there were openings in the the hills around it from which more smoke and the glow of fires came.

  “It would appear Starababa and her nymphs are preparing a grand feast, indeed.” Henu said.

  “But how did they know we were coming?” Willow asked.

  “I sent one of the colts to ride on ahead and let Starababa know we were on our way and bound for Harrowclave.” Nualan said.

  They came to the foot of the nearest hillock and the door which was set into it; ornately decorated with carved woodland scenes of morgens, nymphs, and centaurs at rest, feast, and play. Henu rapped on the door. There was a moment of shuffling and rustling inside – then the door was flung open and a small, old woman stood before them. Her hair was coloured red and woven with wildflowers. Her dress was red and black cloth with an apron fastened over it which was embroidered with floral patterns in red, yellow, and black. Bracelets of painted wood and ivory clashed and clattered on her thin wrists as she clapped her hands and gave them a smile like the sun rising, “Welcome, my children, welcome to my humble home. The feast will be soon. There is bread
, bread stuffed with cheese, bread stuffed with olives, cheese stuffed with olives and tomatoes, roasted, spiced amethi and my vegetable stew – very hearty, very good for you. Milk, cider, wine, and stardraught, friend Henu. I know you would not be without a drop.”

  Starababa and Henu embraced, “It has been too long, lady of the Lodge, too long.”

  “It has so, but I had to sleep. The Lamia made things so dreadful and drove away so many of my nymphs and morgens. She killed some too, the evil creature. Still, things are different now. Things are changing. Where is she? Show me the Greychild.”

  Henu took Willow by the hand and presented her to Starababa, “This is Willow Grey.”

  “Ah, Greychild. You are welcome, so welcome. Be at ease, be happy, and be as one of us tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Willow said, not sure what else to say.

  “Such a sweet thing,” Starababa smiled, “Go on, go and rest. It has been a long journey for you. There will be no more travelling today. It is a beautiful thing at times to do nothing and then rest. Go on now.”

  Starababa turned and shuffled away into the glowing depths of her unusual house.

  Nualan trotted away to tend to the folk of his drove while Willow wandered down to the river side with Henu. They sat and relaxed in the sun. Willow took off her boots and kicked her feet in the water of the river. The water felt good, cold, and very refreshing on her skin. As the water settled, she found herself staring into it.

  “What are you looking at, friend Willow?”

  “Just small things, Henu. The little lives that reside in the hollows and burrows of the river. When I was little and on vacation, I liked to think they were my friends but I thought how they must be scared of me as well because I’m so big and they’re so small. Still, I like watching them live their lives down there in the water, soil and sand. I wonder what it must be like to live out of sight, so quietly, and always hidden away. I think sometimes I’d like to be one of the small, unseen things in the world.”

  “I think we all feel this way at times, my friend. Life is too big for us and we are so small. I think we live in fear that it might tread on us when it is not looking.”