Mists of Everness

by John C. Wright

  Also on the medical cart was the EEG machine that monitored his brain waves for REM sleep patterns. Peter sometimes entertained himself by banging against his pillow with violent yanks of his head, to see if he could dislodge the little metal tabs taped to his skull.

  The only other thing to look at was the drawing chalked on the wall. But the sketch was of a hideous beast, a shaggy, hunched shape with snarling fangs and dripping claws, biting at the chains that bound it. The Beast looked something like a bear, with the arms of a gorilla and the head of a saber-toothed tiger.

  Peter saw enough of the creature at night, in his nightmares, when the Beast stepped out from the wall, and prowled around the outside of whatever dungeon or oubliette he was in that night. He had seen more than enough of the beast and did not care to look at it.

  No, he’d rather look out the window. Once he had, after all, seen a bird fly by.

  The Beast had not always been there. On the first night there had been nine candles surrounding his bed, which, in his nightmare that night, became an encircling wall of fire imprisoning him.

  The next day Azrael de Gray had come, tall, imposing, with the cold, dispassionate eyes Peter remembered from the sitting room portrait he’d been afraid of as a child. Azrael wore a large cloak woven with cabalistic signs and zodiacal symbols. When he had drawn out and put on a conical wizard’s cap with stars on it and moons of different phase around the brim, Peter had laughed out loud. The get-up looked like Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice in Disney’s Fantasia.

  Azrael silenced Peter with a curt gesture. The voice in his throat had simply dried up immediately. It was a day before he could talk again.

  Then Azrael had drawn the picture of the Beast in chalk upon the wall. Around it he had inscribed circles and triangles, with phrases written in Latin and Arabic script along each border. Azrael had said nothing at the time, except a brief prayer to the angelic intelligence governing the planet Mars. And then he had left.

  Peter enjoyed staring out the window. Every now and then he saw a passing cloud. Once he saw a bird.

  On the fourth day Peter’s hunger pangs had diminished to a tolerable level, as if his body were forgetting how to crave food.

  It was on the seventh day Azrael de Gray came once again, this time to speak with him.

  III

  Azrael de Gray was perfectly dressed in a handsome blue pinstripe suit and a dark blue overcoat of the most expensive cut—but the effect was made absurd by the several necklaces of heavy gold chain he wore; the half a dozen diamond studs at his wrists and collar; and the bracelets, rings, and a woman’s belt of gold links.

  There were three men in business suits behind him, one carrying a chair. One man looked normal in his poise and expression; one walked with a swaggering, rolling gait, as if he were not used to human feet, and he said, “Stow ’er there, mate!” to the third, who put down the chair. This third man had the glassy stare of hypnosis or enchantment.

  Azrael waved them away out of earshot, down the corridor. He took a can of Morton’s salt from beneath his coat and traced a circle all the way around the room, squeezing to walk into the gap between the headboard and the wall. Then he faced the wall and made a gesture—middle and ring finger curled, forefinger and pinky straight—in four directions, murmuring, “Depart! Depart! Depart!” Then he hung his overcoat on a hook on the wall so as to cover the chalked face of the Beast.

  Evidently the Wizard wanted privacy. Peter noticed wryly that Azrael did not think to turn off the security camera, however.

  Azrael sat.

  “Hope you didn’t get all dolled up on my account,” grunted Peter.

  Azrael ran his beringed fingers through the many chains of jewels he wore. “These stones, grown in the womb of Earth to that perfection which mirrors Heaven, are possessed of double virtue, being, here, emblems of wealth; there, as amulets of infused power. Yet I see by your curled lip you disdain my finery as gaudy show; so, too, have my advisors condemned my appearance. You mock me for a peacock; yet I would not be a peahen. This generation of man is more strange and fabulous than any land of Orient or Hyperboria. Why would your people cherish drabness over splendor in garb, wearing denim and dark stuffs, they, whose wealth makes seem Solomon and Croesus unto paupers? Your bounty expands beyond the riches of the immortals who dance upon Mount Cytheron and cloud-dark Olympos, but your dress is soberer than monks at penance. Observe this sleeve seam, stitched with finer hand and more evenly than any fairy seamstress of the court of Finn Finbarra could do! La! Do I dress too much? I wore but rags and scabs in Tirion.”

  “You sure as hell talk too much,” said Peter.

  Azrael stiffened.

  Peter said, “It’s getting to you, ain’t it?”

  Tiny lines appeared around the edges of Azrael’s eyes.

  Peter said, “You’re just dying for someone to talk to. You come back to earth after all those years, and nothing’s the same as you remember. No one here even knows or cares who you are.” Now Peter laughed bitterly. “Yeah, I know what it must feel like. Welcome home, veteran.”

  A look of cold majesty darkened Azrael’s features. He stood abruptly, his hand lightly resting on the chair back, as if strongly urged to leave, strongly impelled to stay. He turned toward the door. Then, as if drawn against his will, he turned again toward Peter.

  “I have come to plead with you,” he said in a hushed tone, his eyes aglow with strange emotion.

  IV

  “I must have the Silver Key again, to bar the Gates of Everness; for dreams escape into the daylit world, now, before mankind has been made ready and equipped to conquer them.”

  “Ain’t working out the way you planned, is it?”

  Azrael said nothing. His face grew cold and haughty.

  Peter said, “The planetarium in the attic—if it still works and ain’t burnt—that’d tell you right where she was if she was on Earth. So she’s in the dream-land. But you—ain’t so easy to get around now, is it? How many gateways closed when so many paintings and tapestries went up in smoke? Or maybe the dream-colts don’t have to come anymore when you call? Well, well. Who the hell’s fault could that be?”

  Azrael gripped the chair back with his fist and his knuckles whitened, but his grim face showed no change of expression.

  Peter said, “Sure, I’ll help you, seeing as how you’re family and all. Mind if I call you ‘Dad’ while my dad is laid up?”

  Azrael pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.

  Peter said, “And you made me so comfy here. You know I’m hungry all the time and my muscles are rotting? You know how much having this tube up my ass hurts?”

  “Where were you, sir, when I was in Tirion?” answered Azrael, lowering.

  “Where were you when I was young and hated my father for being a liar, when the only thing I wanted to do was meet the wizards he was always talking about?”

  Azrael’s dark eyes took on a sardonic glitter. “Forgive me, I was detained.”

  “And why the hell should I forgive you anything?” uttered Peter, a note of anger trembling in his low voice.

  Azrael’s face grew stern again, like a stone door closing. “Everness can be healed with the Silver Key and this world defended from the hordes of dream. Defended and more.”

  Peter squinted. “Out with it. What more?”

  V

  Azrael leaned forward, his face, for once, not a mask, but showing deep and animated passion. “This world, and man, are mightiest things; yet they have not yet pulled down the stars to do them homage. The thousand worlds and far-flung golden realms beyond, with all their majesty and twilight-haunted splendor, are as nothing to this iron world and its dreadful, daylight strength. It shall all be ours.

  “The prophecy reports the next King lives, even now, somewhere upon the Earth; now, even now; the King destined to restore the Empire and knit up the sundered universe. His bloodline shall rule both gods and men; his sway shall reach unbound beyond Heaven, Earth, and H
ell, to compass all cosmos entire. No less than the cosmos shall the kingdom be; nations shall be subjects as much as constellations.

  “The last King, I lost to Oberon and Nimue, and the promised Empire was stillborn, slain by Cupid’s bow and fairy-scheming.

  “Now again he comes, the King; and the gods themselves tremble on their onyx thrones, and the plumes of their wide wings all tremble, for they know the conquests of High Heaven cannot be stopped, if my wit can unwind their spirit-snares; and this world shall be the throne and capital of all creation!”

  VI

  “New king, eh?” said Peter. “Forgive me if I don’t stand up and clap. I vote Republican.”

  Azrael leaned back, his face impassive once more, but his eyes still burning and glittering. “The promised King shall reign a thousand years, his scepter close the gulf between this world and the next; and peace and justice shall issue from his hand.”

  Peter said, “Oh? So that’s why you’re doing all this?”

  “Indeed.” Azrael spoke in a hushed whisper.

  “For peace and justice? Well, well, well. You got a funny way of showing it. I guess the ‘peace’ is attacking and burning your own house. And the ‘justice’ must be throwing your own family in jail without a trial for no reason. Right?”

  Peter laughed harshly and continued, “No, Azrael, old boy, I guess things are pretty rough for you right now. You would not even be here talking to me, trying to get me to help you find Wendy Varovitch, if her husband hadn’t already proved to be more trouble than you figured.”

  There was a slight glimmer of fear in Azrael’s eye.

  Peter said, “He’s escaped! Raven escaped.”

  Azrael let go of the chair and took a step backward toward the door. It was fear. Peter realized Azrael was superstitious. Maybe magicians had to be. And he was facing something he did not understand.

  Peter spoke in a quiet, calm, relentless tone: “You’re scared. You thought you had it all figured, but it’s coming apart in your hands. Falling apart right before your eyes. You thought you could betray your nightmare-friends the same way you betrayed your family. You thought you could use the Key to shut the Gates of Everness before Acheron came up from the bottom of the sea. You can’t. Silver Key is gone. You wonder what Morningstar is going to see in your soul when he looks you in the eye. You wonder if Morningstar has a special chamber in his black tower set aside just for you. How did you let that Silver Key just slip between your fingers like that? You don’t know what you’re up against, do you, pal? You don’t know who we’re working for.”

  Azrael’s face was immobile, but he had gone pale and he was backing up toward the door.

  “You are so pathetic, having to come beg your victims for help! But I guess you magician types can’t do anything if we don’t help you hurt us. If we don’t consent. But you! You don’t need to help the ones coming to hurt you. You’ve already consented. You signed a contract in blood.”

  Azrael whispered, “By what prophetic art can you know this? How can you know of my contract? Or that the ink was blood? I was warded …”

  Peter said, “What are you going to do if the trumpet blows and wakes all the sleeper guys to the Last Battle? Think your tricks and charms can stop the likes of them? On the other hand, what are you going to do if the trumpet doesn’t blow and Acheron comes up out of the sea? Maybe Morningstar will let you be his court jester. But how you going to juggle for him, if he doesn’t let you keep your eyeballs and hands?”

  Peter continued sarcastically: “But, no, wait! You got this brilliant plan. This King guy is going to stop all that, right? But if he’s so just and fair, what’s he going to think when he looks at the likes of you? You were hoping he’d admire you, right? But what’s he really going to do to you, once he runs the universe? Maybe he’ll just do to you what you did to my dad.”

  Peter paused to let that comment sink in.

  Then he said in a soft voice. “You’re going to Hell, pal. Down into stinking Hell. You’re already falling down the pit; you just don’t know it ’cause you ain’t splattered on the bottom yet. Going to get out of it somehow? Try flapping your arms. Need my help? Happy landings.”

  Azrael turned and fled from the room, holding one hand before his face, middle fingers curled, thumb and pinkie extended, as if warding off a curse.

  Peter’s laughter chased him out the door.

  VII

  Peter stared at the overcoat for what seemed a long time, thinking.

  When the orderly came in, as he did every day, to check on Peter, turn him over, and sponge him off, the orderly did not, of course, remove the overcoat. He checked to see that the security camera was still operating; but no one had told him, nor would he have believed, that a graffiti monster chalked on the wall was part of the security.

  When the orderly left, Peter was suddenly overcome by a sense of alarm and anger. “How could I miss it!” he asked himself. “How could I be so stupid! Got to go to sleep right now before Azrael realizes what he’s done! Morpheus, Somnus, ah, whatever the hell your name is, Hypnos, and you other guys, knock me out!”

  VIII

  Immediately he was asleep. In his dream he was once more in the barren dungeon of some grim tower, whose barred window slit looked out upon a lonely moor. Peter was on a narrow plank, and in the dream he was tied down hand and foot by many winding yards of cable.

  The Beast still prowled outside the tower, roaring in rage, growling, slavering, and rattling its massive chains. Every now and again, it scratched at the tower doors, or smote, and the tower trembled from the blows of its paw. In the far distance, across the windy moonlit moor, Peter could hear a lonely churchbell ringing. Six times it rang.

  But when the Beast prowled out to the far end of its chain, Peter could see through the window that the Beast wore an overcoat draped over its head. The Beast stumbled, batting at the coat hem with its massive claws, but it could not dislodge the fabric.

  Peter strained at the ropes that bound him, but this was one of those dreams where one is trapped and cannot escape.

  “Great,” grunted Peter. “Now what the hell do I do? Wish for a magic mouse to come by and nibble away these ropes?”

  And he sighed because he realized that Galen would know what to do. Moody, dreamy Galen, who couldn’t stand up to the kids who picked on him at school, and who couldn’t keep his job as a paperboy because he overslept; Galen knew all the magic words and mumbo jumbo that made this dream-stuff operate.

  “Maybe I was too hard on the kid,” Peter said.

  A large brown mouse, walking upright, wearing a vest with a pocketwatch and carrying a walking stick, hopped up on Peter’s chest. The mouse was puffing and brushed his little furry forehead with a hanky.

  “Good day, sir,” said the mouse. “It’ll take me a while to get through these ropes, but not to worry! I have strong teeth!” And he bent down and began gnawing at the knots on Peter’s wrist.

  It looked just like something out of a Beatrix Potter illustration. “Well, the God-damned cavalry comes riding over the hill, and it’s God-damned Mighty Mouse.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s ‘Meadow.’ The words were slightly mumbled, as if his mouth were full.”Sorry I took so long, but I could not get by the Hatred Beast until the Wizard blinkered it with his cloak.”

  “Who sent you? The good fairy?”

  The mouse scampered back up across Peter’s chest, and Peter could feel the little paws tapping on him. The mouse looked up with beady little black eyes as bright as buttons. “Fairies? Oh no, sir. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

  “The fairies work for Oberon and Titania, King and Queen of the Seelie Court in Mommur, the City Neverending. The Knights of Oberon sleep among the Autumn Stars. I am merely a humble mouse from Shining Valley, trying to do my part to help.”

  “Well, keep nibbling. Every little bit helps.”

  The mouse scampered away out of sigh
t down to the left wrist, commenting, “Exactly our philosophy, sir, except that we say every little bite counts. There! Pull up your arms!”

  “Can’t. They’re still stuck.”

  “Not if you don’t wish them to be, you big baby. It makes me sick to see a great hulking man like you turned coward. Turns my stomach!”

  “What! No stinking little rodent is going to …” And he pulled his right hand up. The ropes spun up into the air and fell away, disintegrating into dust and cobwebs.

  Peter pulled up his left hand and rubbed at his wrists. “What does this mean? My arms going to be working when I wake up?”

  “That, I cannot say, sir, seeing as how I am not a magician. But I hope that if you remember this dream, you may well be whole when you wake. That rope was woven out of your own hair, so it could bind you.”

  “Hair?” Peter rubbed his hand over his crew cut.

  “Perhaps you call it by another name in the waking world. When your hair stands on end? Fear. That rope was woven out of your own fear. Only magicians can do spider-work like that.”

  “But what if I can’t remember this when I wake up? Damn. My dad taught me this exercise I was supposed to do when I was a kid, but I never bothered …”

  “Come now, sir! Every mouse pup and nesting bird knows how to build the Keep to keep Forgetting away! It’s easy! Picture a circle inscribed within a square. The circle is the Tower of Ever, and the square is the four seasons of the High House of Time. Imagine the square now as a door, guarded by a man with two faces, forward and past, and in his hand, a wand that divides.”

  “That’s the front door of the house where I grew up.”

  “Then this should be child’s play for you, sir. Imagine the door opens, and you are in a tower with four doors. Each door has a guard. The lion carries the golden orb that shows his majesty; the angel has the sword of the four winds; the bull comes from the sea; the eagle carries the torch to reignite the rising Sun. Down each corridor is a season …”