Dreams and Shadows: A Novel

by C. Robert Cargill

  THE LAST MINUTES OF CHILDHOOD

  It was after dark and the only light was a nearby flickering streetlamp that buzzed like a bug zapper every time it went out. Yashar, Colby, and Ewan stood on the steps of the children’s shelter, Ewan dressed like a Dickensian urchin, a note from an imaginary mother pinned to his clothes. The details were cruel, involving all manner of drugs and abuse, but the story was necessary in case Ewan ever slipped up and mentioned monsters or fairies or his time in the woods; child psychiatrists were fond of metaphor and archetypes.

  “Why can’t I come with you?” asked Ewan.

  Yashar looked coldly at Colby and nodded. Colby nodded back. “Yashar says where we’re going, you won’t be welcome.”

  “Because I’m a fairy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about you?”

  “They’re not so picky about wizards.”

  “Oh.” Ewan frowned. “I’ve never been alone before.”

  “I know, but I’ll come back and visit you every chance I get.”

  Ewan looked down at the ground, scuffing his feet. Colby looked at Yashar, neither knowing what to say. Then Colby smiled. “You won’t be alone.” He stripped off his backpack, unzipping the flap, and pulled out Mr. Bearston. The bear was even more of a mess now than when it had first gone on the journey—dirty, frayed, and a bit worn down. But there was a look in his remaining eye, as if he’d seen something. Something wonderful. Something frightening. Something to believe in. At least, that’s how Mr. Bearston looked to Colby. He didn’t need him anymore; Ewan did.

  Colby looked down at the bear in his arms, speaking plainly to it. “You have a very important job to do, Mr. Bearston. Our friend Ewan needs you to watch out for him. Can you do that for me?” With a single hand he made the bear nod. “Very good, sir. Go to work.” He handed the bear to Ewan, who took it in both arms with an immediate hug. “He’ll look after you now.”

  “Thank you.” Ewan stepped forward, throwing his arms around Colby’s neck, Mr. Bearston still dangling from one hand.

  “You’ll come back for me?”

  “I always do.”

  “Bye, Colby.”

  “Good-bye, Ewan.”

  With that, Colby pulled away, nodded to Yashar, and gave a quick wave before walking off. Ewan stood sadly on the steps, watching his friend disappear around the building. Then he turned and made his own way into the shelter, ready to tell the lie that Yashar had prepared for him.

  “SO WILL HE remember anything?” asked Colby.

  “Only music,” said Yashar.

  “Why music?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Will he remember me?”

  “If you keep your promise to visit him, though he probably won’t remember where you met.”

  “Oh,” said Colby, letting out a deep sigh.

  “You will keep your promise, won’t you?” asked Yashar.

  “Of course I will!” he said excitedly. “Ewan and I will be best friends forever.”

  “I know you will. You’re a good friend.”

  The two walked in silence for a moment. Then Colby spoke up again. “Yashar?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are we going home now?”

  “Why would we go home, Colby? You haven’t seen everything yet.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Do I have to?”

  Yashar nodded as if there was no debate. “It was your wish,” he said, “and you made me promise. So yes.”

  “Would you hold my hand?”

  “The whole way,” said Yashar. “The whole way.”

  Yashar took Colby’s hand in his, and the two walked into the night, away from the first of their many adventures together. And while they did, in fact, go on many more adventures—taking them to many other great and terrible places—this was not where this adventure truly ended for Colby Stevens; for just as all little boys must grow bigger, so too must their problems.

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  UNDERSTANDING THE NATURE OF THE SUPERNATURAL

  An essay by Dr. Thaddeus Ray, Ph.D., from his book The Everything You Cannot See

  All matter is energy. To fully understand the supernatural creature, you must first fully grasp this simple, scientific principle. Every component of the universe is composed of the same basic building blocks. Take apart a person, a tree, a drop of water, and a ray of sunlight and you will find many of the same parts. The differences between them are derived from how they are assembled and how fast they vibrate. Simple concept, complex execution. The same is true with the world of preternatural beings and events.

  When scientists sit down to calculate the mass of the universe, their math always comes up with giant holes, empty voids where other numbers should be. So there become required elements that must exist to match their theories. They conjure concepts like dark matter, dark energy, and a dozen other names and phrases yet uncoined. While some might ascribe the error to the theory itself, there is another possibility: that there is a form of currently immeasurable mass or energy out there—a particle or particles that obey their own laws and react in their own, distinct ways to every other particle in the universe. Particles we have no way of detecting or measuring. I call one such particle, and the energy it creates, dreamstuff.

  Dreamstuff is the essence of consciousness, the particle of soul. Everything self-aware contains some amount of it. Like any form of energy or mass, it obeys its own rules and can be found in varying degrees throughout the universe. Here on earth it collects and flows in concentrated amounts through what are most commonly referred to as ley lines. Like any free-flowing substance, it often collects in small pools, tributaries, and even lake-size offshoots where it may swirl about indefinitely before it is either absorbed by other elements or returned to the flow. That is not to say that there isn’t dreamstuff all around you even as you read this, but that the concentrations are nowhere near that of ley line intersection points or a pooled collection.

  It is thought that the unborn absorb this energy throughout their mother’s pregnancy and on through early childhood until they’ve collected enough to achieve self-awareness, assembling a soul of their own. At some undetermined point before their birth, they accumulate enough to be able to exist free of the womb, but not quite enough to retain memories. Most theories point to a person’s first memory as the moment they achieved true awareness and completed their soul. Those who study this process refer to this variant energy as soulstuff. Thus we mortal creatures are a combination of standard matter and dreamstuff. Just as there are manifestations of matter that contain no consciousness, like rocks, trees, and the lower forms, could it not also be that there are manifestations that are none but consciousness?

  So what is a supernatural being? It is a being comprised almost entirely of dreamstuff. Simply put, it is what happens when dreamstuff collects into a form, much like humans are comprised almost entirely of water. Each creature is created by the governing principles under which this form of energy and matter operates.

  As dreamstuff collects in an area, that area begins to take on properties governed by the sentient inhabitants of the region. If they are a peaceful, nature-loving population, the odds are good that the dreamstuff will enhance the natural beauty of the area and produce creatures that are as playful, helpful, and as delightful as the locals, ultimately enhancing those emotions in the population and thus feeding off that particular brand of dreamstuff. If, however, they are fearful, warlike, or particularly bloodthirsty, the odds are they will find themselves surrounded by monsters that prey upon those very emotions.

  The stronger the concentration of dreamstuff, the more readily creatures can be pulled from it. Particularly rich regions can bring into being a creature from a single nightmare, its traits the product of a single man’s imagination, while starved or blighted areas might require the belief of an entire population to produce a single, weak being. Either way, the powers, abilities, and weaknesses of any such creature lie who
lly within the belief in those traits. For example, stories of inside-out clothing warding off certain fairies aren’t so much that fairy’s aversion to the practice as much as a specific population’s aversion, which is then acquired by the spirit in question. However, sometimes only those who believe that wearing their clothing in such a fashion would ward them off actually do so. Things get exponentially trickier when taking into account that these beings possess psyches of their own (one might argue that they are actually nothing but psyche) and their own belief of such things might be able to affect their own form and traits, thus explaining the differing levels of potential manifestation among the more intelligent species.

  Just as all flesh must consume flesh, food to live, all beings of dreamstuff must similarly feed upon dreamstuff. Helpful fairies such as brownies or the Heinzelmännchen of Germany appear to feed upon the goodwill and joy of those they help, consuming the positive energy and converting it into the dreamstuff they need. Some feed in a passive way, while others, like the Leanan Sidhe, act more directly to siphon the energy they need to live. Likewise, those creatures that prey upon fear and agony must work in some way to generate those emotions if they cannot find a place populated by those already experiencing them. Particularly clever or lucky creatures often make homes in places where the suffering they feed upon is readily generated, like hospitals, prisons, or (history permitting) death camps.

  Primitive creatures, like vampires or the Black Annis, must consume the energy directly from flesh or blood. Lacking the ability to simply feed off ambient energy, they often have to take every drop of blood or consume a body down to the bones to get enough nourishment to last them until their next meal, which tends to be far more often than those creatures operating at higher levels, thus putting them at far greater risk of discovery. These beasts often find themselves destroyed by careful mortals or, sometimes, other supernatural creatures looking to draw as little attention to themselves as possible.

  All supernatural creatures are formed in belief. They are shaped by it, they are compelled by it, and they will be forever bound to it. Without belief they would not exist. Once a man not only understands this immutable fact, but embraces it, he will find that all supernatural creatures are but an extension of his own will. The biggest danger to a creature living beyond the veil isn’t being forgotten, rather, it is being discovered by the man who has somehow stumbled upon this rather unfortunate natural law. This makes man a very dangerous species to tangle with, and history is filled with encounters between such witchcraft or wizardry against local supernatural populations, to the detriment of both parties.

  Magic and miracles are but the psyche’s manipulation of ambient dreamstuff and the exertion of will upon it to change one thing into another. When a thousand people traipse up a hill that they consider to be a holy place (in fact a dreamstuff-rich environment), and their holy symbols become transmuted from one substance into another (like plastic into gold), just as they believed it would, is it the will of some greater being? Or does their combined sense of will projected upon the surrounding energies cause the transmutation, just as applying fire in just the right manner to a substance can change it from one thing into another?

  Men who fully understand these principles, armed with both belief and understanding and backed up by a sufficient amount of ambient dreamstuff, we call magicians, wizards, warlocks, witches, or holy men. The practices of these people, as varied in their rituals and results as are supernatural creatures themselves, are simple concepts with complex execution. Once you grasp that, there is no manner of manipulation that will ever be truly foreign to you and no creature you cannot understand on a basic level.

  Of course, this knowledge makes these things no less dangerous, any more than understanding the inner workings of a lion will protect you from the grip of its jaws. Rather, you have endangered yourself just for daring to understand them. There are things that go bump in the night, and many of them prefer to be known as no more than that.

  Be wary, be vigilant. For few of us practitioners die of natural causes, and most of us die young.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE YOUNG MAN COLBY STEVENS

  There was no such thing as destiny, and no such thing as prophecy; there was only matter slamming into other matter like two toy trucks in the hands of a child. There was no rhyme or reason, no grand scheme to it all—just shiny new things rapidly becoming broken, battered, and old by comparison. Since childhood, Colby Stevens had convinced himself that Yashar had chosen him for a reason. That he had made his wishes for a reason. That he had saved Ewan from the clutches of Hell for a reason. But it was now apparent to him that nothing actually happens for a reason. Shit just happens, and there wasn’t a reason for any of it.

  By the age of twenty-two most people think they’ve seen the world, convinced they’ve lived a lifetime already, having been gifted some arcane knowledge to impart. But by twenty-two Colby had seen the world. He did have knowledge to impart. But there was no one to tell, no one who would believe him.

  Colby Stevens was a broken man, a shiny toy battered beyond recognition, whose spark had long since faded and whose new-toy smell had given way to the dank sweat of fear. He was no longer the wide-eyed child keen to see it all. Rather, he was particularly eager to crawl into the hole he had found for himself to hide, hoping never to see anything new again. Nothing would have felt luckier than the doldrums of normalcy—a quiet hobby, a wife, a street without angels perched upon ledges or fading ghosts wandering in and out of his sight.

  But Colby Stevens was not a lucky man. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

  It’s not that there wasn’t any light in the world; Colby had seen plenty of light, plenty of goodness. But that was just one side of the coin. The dark of the world was so black that it was blinding, the crushing, lingering weight of everything that was wrong coalesced into creatures he dared not name aloud. They were what drove Colby into hiding; they were what made life so unbearable. And the creatures, the memory, the knowledge could not be gotten rid of, no matter how hard he wished. Some sins even a djinn could not wipe clean. Such was the lesson of his first wish.

  Even the dark things seem shiny and new the first time around.

  Once again, Colby had few friends and no prospects to speak of. He was a carrot-topped, scrawny excuse for a young man—a tangled mop of greasy red hair atop a gangly, frail, freckled frame that drooped and bowed when he walked. Puberty had been cruel. His eyes were sunken—deep, dark circles pooling beneath them—and his nose seemed a tad too cartoonish to be real. Had he often smiled, he might be laughable, but smiling was something he did rarely these days. Despite his comical appearance, his dour expression and grim countenance kept him from looking either goofy or creepy—leaving him merely awkward and gawky.

  He was twitchy. Nervous. He looked around constantly, staring long and hard at the empty spaces in the room. There was an off-putting way about how he would stare over people’s shoulders when he talked to them, as if there was something looming behind them that they could not see. When he walked down the street, he muttered and mumbled to himself. This strangeness was not lost on those around him, and thus he rarely found himself with company.

  At the age of twenty-two, Colby Stevens was a man who knew too much; who had seen too much; who understood too much. But no one would think that to look at him. Especially not when serving as the stock boy and acquisitions clerk for one Harold Puckett.

  Puckett’s Stacks was not the sort of bookshop one happened upon; it was the sort of bookshop for which one looked deliberately. One of the few walk-down shops in all of the Austin metropolitan area, no sign announced its presence or map marked its location. You had to know it existed and know someone who knew how to find it, for once you were there it was likely to have exactly the sort of book you were looking for. First editions, rare editions, self-published masterpieces, scribbled notebooks of famed madmen, books of math, books of magic; this was where you found such things. And
Colby Stevens had become Mr. Puckett’s prime acquisitions man.

  How Colby came about applying was still something of a mystery to Harold Puckett. He’d simply turned up one day, announcing that he was there to fill the position. “I hear you need some help,” he’d said, a smile on his face and his hair neatly combed—the one occasion on which Harold would see him looking so professional.

  Harold nodded, only moments before having muttered to himself how much he needed some help around the shop. He’d never placed an ad or mentioned to a single soul his need or desire for an apprentice, but there Colby was, fully aware of it, ready to start that very afternoon. Such was his relationship with Colby Stevens: he wanted something, and Colby anticipated his request. It was the sort of relationship one never questioned openly for fear it might one day vanish, so Puckett went along with it, and paid Colby a healthy wage—a wage Colby earned several times over with his nose for rare finds and his ability to sell the most unknown work to a customer who’d never known how badly he or she had always wanted it.

  That was Colby’s real gift. While one could spend all day discussing the distinctive way in which he carried himself or how uncomfortable one felt around him, his strengths were unmistakable. He possessed an uncanny insight into human nature that bordered on mind reading. Of course, Colby couldn’t read minds, but sometimes he acted as though he could, which unsettled even those who knew him well. There were few things that surprised him and he always knew when someone was behind him, even when they were creeping up to catch him unawares. Colby Stevens was a strange, mysterious man. And Harold Puckett felt that this made him right at home in his bookshop.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a patron to Harold Puckett. “I’m looking for something a bit . . . exotic.”

  “You mean like erotic?” asked Harold. He wasn’t kidding. The man was shifty, squirrely, speaking a few hairs under the volume you would normally ask such a question. That was the sort of man looking for antique porn.