by Kildare
Contents
Dreamwander
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Thank You
Acknowledgements
DREAMWANDER
BOOK ONE OF
IN THE RUINS OF EDEN
By Kildare
Copyright @ 2018 by Kildare Press LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
eISBN: 978-0-9963057-0-9
Prologue
The old man climbed down the steep slope with care, wary of the smooth, slick rocks—wet and covered in bright green moss—covering the hillside. The cedars were covered in moss, too, and moss hung from the branches and gave the appearance of great age. If the cedars were actually of great age he couldn’t tell.
A stream of white water skipped and twisted its way down through the green rocks and ferns nearby. The sky was overcast and gray and looked of rain. No rain fell. Fog shrouded the lower slope and hid the treetops below.
A path of bare red dirt began at the base of the hill. He followed it deeper into the woods. Here the cedars were covered in yellow moss, which distorted the shape of the trees. The man thought their appearance dreadful, and quickened his pace.
For the first time, he noticed the silence. No sound of birds, of wind, or even his own footsteps. He tried to yell, but no sound came out. Something was horribly wrong. He stopped and spun around, panic rising. He saw only the menacing trees in every direction.
Where was he?
He continued ahead. The path narrowed; the ferns hedged in. The cedars also leaned closer, and the moss shifted from yellow to dark green. He paused at a fork in the road, having no idea of his destination. The woods ahead in both directions seemed darker, more menacing, the fog thicker.
Someone appeared in the path to the right. The old man squinted to see more clearly in the gloom. The stranger was also old, with a long white beard, and though he had a wooden staff he stood tall and unbent by age. Little could be seen of his features for he held his head low and he wore a cloak with a hood pulled down to the side that hid one eye. The other eye shone like gold, so bright he had never before seen its likeness.
The old man blinked and the stranger was gone.
He rushed to the spot of the man’s disappearance, wading through waist-high ferns in search of the stranger, to no avail. He had simply vanished. The old man knew he hadn’t imagined the stranger, so where had he gone? Finding no prints or broken ferns, he abandoned his search, even more confused and unsettled.
Everything about this forest felt wrong. He considered backtracking to the fork, but decided to forge ahead on this path. There had to be some way out of these woods.
Less light reached through the trees and the hue of the moss shifted from yellow to green to near black and then to crimson. The sense of dread grew stronger. He felt the presence of something watching him. A scan of the woods revealed nothing. He sped up, now sure something pursued him. He wanted to run, but his old body wouldn’t cooperate.
He turned a bend and halted at the sight of a raven perched on a branch above the path. Its feathers were fuzzy in the gloom of the failing light, black melting into black. He wasn’t sure if the bird had seen him. If yes, it showed no sign of fear. He waited, expecting some motion. Nothing. Something felt wrong. Why didn’t the bird move? He crept forward, one slow step after another. The bird remained still, as if frozen. Was it real? The dim lines of the bird clarified as he neared. Now he noticed the eye, dark and glassy, in which his own image was reflected. The eye was moving. The eye was tracking him.
He slipped past the raven, desiring only to escape from this place. The path turned a bend and he saw the raven again—perched at the same height in the same posture, the eye intent only on him. Could it be the same bird? But how? He didn’t care and shuffled on, trying to avoid the bird’s gaze. Another bend and again the raven. Seven, eight, nine times he passed the raven and each time it made no movement, no sound, watching him with that eye that seemed to pierce right into his soul.
The raven croaked the tenth time. It cocked its head to the side and croaked again before spreading wings and hopping off the branch. The old man ducked as the bird swept overhead and disappeared into the shadows. He rose slowly, the blood pounding in his head. Sound had returned. He tried to yell. Nothing. What had happened to his voice?
The last light was failing, the darkness now near complete. He squinted to make out the way ahead. He needed to get out of this place. Wherever he was. The cedars thinned as the path descended into a narrow valley. Had it not been for the darkness, he thought he might be able to see the sky above. The night flickered with soft light and dark rumblings. As the storm neared, the sky lit up almost as soon as it had darkened. The trees lurched in the bursts of lightning, like dancing beneath a strobe light, everything a little off from the previous flash. Rain pattered on the canopy above. A few drops slipped through and landed warm upon his skin.
Tufts of grass grew on the valley floor among piles of pebbles and sand deposited from prior flooding. Water must flow strong through this glen at times. He noticed that he wore no shoes. Had he been barefoot the whole time? The signs of past flooding made him uneasy. He looked back up the valley and saw waters dirty and filled with branches and leaves rushing down. The flood swept past him, rising quickly to his knees before stalling. He stayed in the stream, following the water’s downward gush in the hope it would lead him to some sign of habitation.
A woman appeared in a flash of light, squatted among a jumble of boulders. She was washing something. She saw him and rose.
The old man froze in terror. He didn’t recognize her, but something about her chilled him to the core. She was tall, raven of hair, pale of skin, with green eyes, and dark red lips. A band of woven leather encircled her brow, centered with an emerald radiating a brilliant green light. A black tunic was cropped just above her knees; a dagger hung from her left hip. She held a light-blue denim shirt stained dark with what appeared to be blood.
Though he desired only to flee, the old man felt compelled against his will to approach her. He struggled to subdue the rising terror as he neared, one forced step after another.
“Hello, Cillian Rysgaard.”
With those words, the spell was broken and Cillian instantly remembered everything. He now recognized the woman as Mórríghan, the Irish goddess who appeared as an omen before one’s death.
“So you’ve come for me, then?” Cillian asked, finally finding his voice.
Mórríghan smiled as if she found this question amusing. Her irises weren’t solid but flickered and shifted like green flame. “Not yet, Cillian, but I shall come for you soon enough.”
I
-------
1
“The doctor is ready to see you, Mr. Rysgaard.”
Cillian Rysgaard looked up from his magazine. A short, pl
ump, red-headed woman he had never seen before peered down at him. He looked around. He had never seen this room before, either. He closed the magazine, laid it on the stand, and slowly stood. The years no longer allowed for quick movements. “What’s this about?”
“The results of your tests.”
“What tests?” He had no memory of any tests. What was she talking about?
“Follow me, Mr. Rysgaard. It’s important you speak to the doctor.” She spoke with a slight smirk, as if she knew something he didn’t. Like it was all a game.
Rather strange behavior. What was going on?
The woman led him down a long hallway. A red Ibizan hound with white ears ambled toward them. He paused to watch the animal walk past and disappear around a corner. Odd to have a dog in a doctor’s office. Something else about the hound nagged him, but he couldn’t quite trap the thought.
“Mr. Rysgaard.”
He turned back to the receptionist. She waved him into a windowless room lit too bright with artificial light. “The doctor will be with you in a minute. Make yourself comfortable on the examination table.”
The woman turned and went back down the hallway. Cillian settled onto the edge of the table. A strip of thin paper crinkled beneath his weight. Besides the table, there was a chair, a cupboard above a counter, and a second door. He considered opening it, just to see where it went, but turned his attention instead to a poster of the cardiovascular system of the human body, the room’s sole adornment.
The doctor walked into the room and he, too, was a stranger. Tall, well-built, in his late fifties, with black hair shifting gray. Cillian immediately sensed that something about the man was off. Everything seemed a little off. He thought of the dog again. It wasn’t the dog itself, but the colors. Something about the combination of red and white was important, but his mind couldn’t make the connection.
“Hello, Mr. Rysgaard. My name is Dr. Lewis.” He shook Cillian’s hand with a strong, firm grip. The years had destroyed Cillian’s own grip, but he mustered as much strength as he could.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Mr. Rysgaard.” The doctor paused as he removed his glasses and laid them down on a chart containing Cillian’s medical information. “You have dimentia.”
This wasn’t surprising news. What was surprising was his sense of relief. He had suspected for many months that his body was betraying him, though a little flicker of hope had existed that this was nothing more than a sign of old age. Now he had confirmation. The flicker snuffed out. Gave him comfort. The knowing, not the dying.
The doctor was saying something, but he wasn’t listening. He stared at the poster of the cardiovascular system, wondering how the human body was even possible. He had gutted and skinned enough deer, cattle, and hogs as a young man to understand the complexity of life. The network of blood vessels, tendons, ligaments, bones, nerves, and muscles, everything working independently and yet together. Tens of trillions of cells operating in a harmony that no matter how hard he tried, he could never truly grasp. He had always considered it to be a miracle, not in the religious sense—though he believed in God—but more a miracle of existence. The fact that there was anything at all, when there could just as easily be nothing. Perhaps should be nothing.
The mind reeled trying to consider the possibilities opened, but it was a closed loop, each door leading back to the original question mark. Just since his own childhood the breadth of knowledge about the universe had exploded. The veil that was once called heaven had been pushed back to the farthest fringes of the universe. And beyond? What lay outside the universe? No one knew. On a fundamental level everything was still a mystery. The mind of his younger self had often turned to these questions, puzzled over them, pondered the ramifications, but with age he had lost interest. Didn’t seem so important. He was content to leave the arguing to the scientists and philosophers. He didn’t need the answers to life. Living itself was enough. And not all questions had an answer. The mystery possessed its own beauty.
“Mr. Rysgaard, are you listening to me?”
Cillian turned his attention away from the poster. “Is there anything that can be done?”
“There’s no cure. But then you already knew that, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “How long do I have?”
“The time between onset and death varies from one individual to the next.” Dr. Lewis pulled up a chair and sat across from Cillian. “You have a few years, at least. Perhaps even a decade. Of course, the quality of those years will deteriorate as the progression of the disease accelerates. How long have you known, or suspected?”
“Six months, maybe a little longer.”
“Does your family know?”
“My wife, Evelyn, has suspected for some time. She’s the one who finally convinced me to see a doctor. I was quite content only suspecting, but not actually knowing, though it’s comforting to know for sure. Rather strange I’m relieved by the knowledge that I’m dying. Relieved and terrified all at once, if I’m being honest.”
Cillian looked down at his hands. Noted the loose skin sagging between the tendons, the splotchy, faded freckles, the blue ridges of veins crisscrossing the back of his hands. How had he gotten so old? Where had the time gone? The doctor was all but telling him to get a shovel and dig his grave. Omnia morte vincuntur—all by death is conquered.
“Well, I’m sorry for this news,” Dr. Lewis said. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, or answer any questions you might have, make sure to schedule another appointment.” Dr. Lewis pointed to the second door that Cillian had wondered about. “If you go out that door, you’ll find yourself in another hallway leading outside.”
Cillian rose, knees creaking from the effort. They shook hands.
Doctor Lewis squinted at the necklace around Cillian’s neck. “Do you mind if I look at your pendant?”
Though an odd question to ask, Cillian consented, and withdrew the black pendant from beneath his shirt. An untrained eye would have assumed it was a Celtic cross, and it looked similar, but it wasn’t. Cillian suspected it was much older than even the birth of Christ.
“Remarkable. What’s it made of?”
“I don’t know. It was given to me by a man long ago. I thought many times about having an expert look at it, but I never did. I don’t know why. It’s unlike any rock or metal I’ve ever seen before.”
“Absolutely fascinating. If I were you, I’d make sure not to lose it. Might be far more valuable than you imagine,” the doctor added with a wink. “Until we meet again, Mr. Rysgaard.” He opened the second door and motioned Cillian through. Brighter light poured through the opening.
“Thank you,” Cillian said, unsure of what to think about the wink. He stepped through the door and was suddenly standing in a dimly lit passageway. He spun to his left and was shocked to see a long tunnel where the door had been only moments before.
“Tugann grásta Dé slán thú, Cillian,” a female voice asked. “An bhfuil tú réidh?”
To his right stood a woman, her features indistinct in the dim light. She appeared to be of East Asian or American Indian ethnicity, and was tall for a woman. Slight smile, an expression that could be interpreted a few different ways. Seemed to have an attractive face, but that might have been a trick of the shadows. He didn’t recognize her, but she definitely acted like she knew him. Her smile seemed odd, a little too personal, her gaze too intense. Cillian looked away.
A great commotion drew his attention toward wooden doors inset with round iron handles. Trace of yellow light at the bottom. Muffled cheering behind.
“Cillian, an bhfuil tú réidh?” she repeated. It took a moment for Cillian to realize she was speaking Gaelic. She was asking if he was ready.
Cillian looked at her again, trying to hide his confusion. “I guess.” He didn’t want to reveal he had no idea what was happening. Who was this woman? Where was he? And what the hell had happened to the doctor?
“Céard?” the woman asked. She didn’t unde
rstand his English.
Was he in Ireland? He looked back down the hallway. Still saw no door to the doctor’s office. What had just happened? The woman awaited his response. Cillian searched his memory for the correct words in a language he hadn’t spoken in decades. With no words for yes and no in Irish, he had to repeat her question in the affirmative to answer.
“Tá mé réidh,” he answered. I’m ready.
She smiled again and resumed speaking in Gaelic. “This is the largest crowd Siderea has ever witnessed. People have traveled from all across the empire to witness your triumph.”
She stepped forward and with a powerful thrust of her shoulders pushed the heavy doors open, releasing a flood of sunlight. He raised a hand to shield his eyes against the brightness as he stepped outside, a flicker of white spots already popping in his vision. A roar swept through the crowd he couldn’t see. Cillian blinked rapidly to chase the spots away. The glare dimmed and shapes and colors took form again.
“What the hell is going on?” Cillian muttered in complete disbelief, slipping back into English.
He stood at the end of a rectangular square so massive the other end had to be a mile away. It was built on the slope of a gradual hill, and broken by many short flights of stairs joining together each successively higher level. To each side, brightly colored columns of marble held aloft roofs of bronze terra-cotta—the new tiles torched in sunlight, the old oxidized to tints of green. From what Cillian could see, the entire square was crammed with people. There had to be a million at least. He sure as hell wasn’t in Fargo, North Dakota anymore.
The woman grabbed his right hand and raised it into the air, rippling a clamor through the crowd that built into a crescendo as it climbed up the hill toward the far end of the square. Cillian stood numb, dumfounded, unable to move. He had never seen so many people in one place before, and certainly not cheering for him. Why were they cheering for him? He wanted to retreat back into the shadows of the tunnel, but the doors had already been closed, two stern-looking soldiers blocking his retreat.
The woman laughed at his response. “I wasn’t exaggerating the size of the crowd.” She was almost yelling to raise her voice above the tumult. “The people want to see the man behind the legends.”