Dream Guy

by Clarke, A. Z. A;

  “That’s the difficulty. Eidolon is not a person in the way that you and I are. His evil has unfolded for so long and has been so unchecked that he has become more and less than a human. He is more powerful and can wreak greater damage, and he is less because he has none of the compassion and love and pity that make us superior to rough beasts.”

  Joe considered this. “But you see, with her alive, I will be able to fight him more easily. She is nearly as wise as you are.” He suspected that Nell was wiser but he wanted to flatter Karabashi into helping. He looked a little affronted that a female might be anywhere near as wise as he, but assented.

  “I will have to read further to help you in this task. In the meantime, I want you to read this.” He had marked one of the books with a ribbon of emerald silk. He opened it and passed it to Joe. As Joe first looked, he saw only the squiggles and sweeps of Arabic script, unintelligible. Then the inked text took on shape and meaning and he was pulled into the prose.

  “Once, there was a man who was master of his dreams. When he dreamed, he could alter the world to fit his visions, and when he woke, the world would be made afresh, molded to the shape in which he had cast it…”

  An image of the Dream Master comic strip flashed into Joe’s mind. He read on. Karabashi was flicking through a second book, running a finger along the script and mumbling as he read. But soon, Joe forgot about everything, save what he was reading.

  “The Dream Master was a boy of humble origins when he discovered his abilities. At first, he committed errors. He did not understand the great gift that had come upon him. But soon, with the gift of dreaming came the gift of wisdom. Naturally, so great a gift could not remain a secret and soon, this man came to the attention of generals and viziers, of mighty merchants, princes and potentates. He was wooed with promises of wealth. He was threatened with dire punishments. He was menaced with torture and his loved ones were endangered as all those who wished to take advantage of his powers sought to bring him under their sway. But he escaped his tormentors and took his dreams to serve the poor, the sick, the needy, those with sorrows too great to bear and those who likewise wished to assist their fellow man, not to subjugate him.

  “When the time of his death approached—for though this man was gifted, he was like other men, mortal—the Dream Master sought a successor, but none could be found. He died and with him died his gift.

  “Some years after his death, pilgrimages were made to his place of rest, and on one such journey, a boy, little more than a child, came with his father to plead for the life of his mother at the shrine which had arisen around the master’s grave. When he came to the temple of the master, the boy was overtaken with strange sensations. He wished only to sleep, and for weeks afterward, when his father told him that it was time to rise and go about the business of the day, he would moan and roll in his bedding, giving up great lamentations. Then, one day after the father had left his son once again at their lodgings, he returned to find his son in so deep a sleep that he could not be awoken. Fearing that he was about to lose his son as well as his wife, the man beat his breast and cried out to his god for mercy. The boy rose, still deep in his sleep and spoke in a voice which was not his own, saying, ‘Leave this child and return to your home. All will be well with your wife and with your son. But your son must remain here at the master’s side to serve him and serve his ways.’ In this way was the second Dream Master found.

  “This boy served out his apprenticeship, also falling into errors and making grievous mistakes. Still, he reached manhood and when he was sere and worn, he knew more of how to choose his successor and what trials that successor must endure. He found a worthy follower who could undergo the necessary ordeals. And this third Dream Master was able to write down the rites by which one might attain mastery of the matters of the mind.

  “These are the forms of examination— For the first, the dreamer must bring into existence his most coveted desire then destroy it. For the second, the dreamer must encounter in his dreams a strange beast and overcome it. For the third, the dreamer must bid farewell to his fondest wish and turn his back upon it. Having performed these three tasks, a boy is ready to become a man and a master of his dreams.”

  Joe looked up.

  Karabashi’s eyes were on him, steady and patient. “What do you make of this tale? Is it simply a story?”

  Joe looked away. He had dreamed his greatest desire into existence. The Lamborghini was sitting in the garage, simply waiting for him. It would be painful to see it destroyed, but Joe knew that after today, the car meant almost nothing to him. It was no animate being who needed mourning, just a heap of steel and leather and rubber—a gorgeous, elegant, graceful heap, but ultimately, nothing more.

  “In one dream, I was staying in a house owned by Eidolon. I was a prisoner, but I escaped. I had to go hunting. I had to kill a wild boar. Do you think that would count as overcoming a strange beast?”

  “Is a wild pig a strange beast?” Karabashi sounded bemused.

  “Yeah. Where I come from, they’ve been extinct for four hundred years, pretty much. That makes a wild boar strange in my book.”

  “Perhaps it will do.”

  “The thing is, what will happen if I complete these three missions? Will there be trumpets and a heavenly chorus? A round of applause? Or nothing? How would I know if I’ve completed them anyway?” Joe couldn’t contain his sarcasm.

  “If you completed these tasks, you would gain more control over what you dreamed, and this would tell you that you had become a Dream Master.”

  “That sounds really shaky to me.”

  Karabashi said nothing, but the tentative look on his face suggested that he felt much the same as Joe. They sat in silence awhile. Joe was thinking about the third task. “The thing is, my greatest wish is to make Nell breathe again. Bring her back to life. And I can’t turn my back on that.”

  “Would you forgo the chance to become a Dream Master?” asked Karabashi.

  It would have been different if either he or Karabashi had had any idea what being a Dream Master involved. If it involved yachts and pretty girls and luxury hotels, Joe would be interested. But given what he’d read, it seemed to involve grief, aggro and responsibility, none of which particularly appealed to him. Giving them up hardly presented any difficulty. He had a feeling that saying this to Karabashi would not impress.

  “If I knew what a Dream Master was, maybe not. But I don’t. I won’t miss what I’ve never had.”

  Karabashi’s lips thinned as he suppressed the urge to argue. He simply handed over the second book to Joe. It was in Latin. It would certainly be a blow to give up this ability to read anything in any language, but Nell was more important.

  “And there came into the country a man with such might that all laid down their weapons before him, although he was without men or arms or money. This man was a Dream Master, one who might translate those visions that came to him in the night into truth by daylight. He and his forbears were men of peace and wisdom who sought to soothe the troubles that afflict humankind. But there came against him another dreamer. This dreamer was a man whose only intent was to raise incubi and succubi and all the terrors that might torment a man. This creature was called Eidolon. Of the three trials that must be surmounted to become a master of dreams, Eidolon had passed two, but his chief desire was to become a master of dreams and to become a master, he must turn his back upon this desire. Instead he sought to steal the mastery by usurping the corporeal form of the Dream Master. In this he was defeated, but ever after he has wandered through existences, seeking out those children who show signs of becoming dreamers in the hope of entering their souls and usurping their powers. Thus far, he has been thwarted.”

  The notion of being a lure for Eidolon sickened Joe, but he brightened. “If I bring Nell back, then I can never become a Dream Master and Eidolon will leave me alone.”

  “No. You will be defenseless against the one who will dispose of you before he seeks out the next dreame
r. You know more about him than any other in your world. He will not leave you alive, nor your family or your friends. He can follow you wherever you go, even here. You must, therefore, become the next master. If you decide to revive this dead girl, you will cast away your gift and will be unable to defend her against an enemy who has already brought one death to her.”

  Karabashi’s logic seemed so watertight Joe snapped. “Why should I trust what you say? How do I know you aren’t scheming to take over these powers?”

  Disappointment and frustration shadowed the scholar’s eyes.

  “You need not believe me. Here. Let me show you.” He handed over the third book. It was marked at a page that contained a simple instruction.

  “The apprentice must go to the desert.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “Exactly what it says. You must go to the desert.”

  Joe slammed the covers of the book together with a thud. He hurled the book at Karabashi and turned his back on the whole ridiculous business. But curiosity crept over him, and he addressed the older man once more. “How does this make you any more trustworthy?”

  “If I could not to be trusted, I should not have given you any of this information. I should have kept it for myself, gone into the desert and taken the mantle of master myself. I might have betrayed you to Eidolon or to the palace guards. But here we are in a peaceful courtyard as the sun sinks because all I seek to do is pass on the knowledge you need.”

  “It’s vague. What desert? How do I get there?”

  This exasperated Karabashi. Waspishly, irritated out of his customary helpfulness, he snapped at Joe. “How should I know? Why don’t you just dream yourself there? Go and harass some other poor fool into helping you when he has work of his own to do.”

  Joe made a contrite apology, but Karabashi remained offended.

  “I really am sorry, you know. I mean it.” It was hard to admit weakness. But a tense silence festered between them. Joe’s discomfort increased. “It’s hard. I don’t want to give up on Nell. I can’t. But I know you’re right about Eidolon. I don’t know what to do. Please help me.”

  Karabashi’s umbrage dissolved. “Go to the desert. Dream your way there, and see what happens. You may not have to make any choice until you are there. Then things will be clearer for you.”

  Joe nodded. Karabashi reached behind him and passed over a parcel wrapped in dark-blue silk tied with a golden cord.

  “Here. From what I have read in these books, this will help you.”

  Joe pulled at the cord and the parcel seemed to unfurl. Inside was a white cotton bundle, which he shook out. It was a shirt, simple in cut, quite vast and completely covered in geometric inscriptions, graphs and cryptograms. There were diamond patterns balanced in squares, heavily outlined in gilt paint, great trailing columns of Arabic script and, interlocking the whole, intricate trellises of tiny leaves and flowers. It was an extraordinary garment that must have taken months to decorate in precise, miniscule calligraphy.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s amazing.”

  “I hope that it lives up to its alleged powers. Astrologers, theologians and craftsmen have labored long hours to produce this shirt. It is said that it can withstand the deepest cut of the sharpest yatagan, ward off djinns and afreet and protect the wearer from his worst enemy. The sultan gave it to me as a token of respect. I am giving it to you. Put it on before you go to this desert. Use it wisely.”

  More than ever, Joe was mortified by his earlier petulance. He stammered his thanks. And when he said goodbye to Karabashi, tears filled his eyes, because this time he was convinced that he would never see the scholar again. There was no reason to suppose this would be true, but there was a different quality to their farewell, tinged perhaps by their disagreement. Joe returned to the carpet and dissolved back into his own room.

  Halfway through the process, he was tugged by a desire to return to that calm sanctuary where water ran and the only other sound was the rustle of paper as books were read. But he quelled the urge and found himself lying on the floor of his room in total darkness, confronting his next great journey.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tyche

  Not knowing what he might come up against next, Joe dressed in combat trousers, T-shirt and a heavy jumper. He laced up his Timberland boots and put in his pockets a pen, a pencil, a notebook, some money, his MP3 player and his Maglite torch. Then he lay down again on the bed. In some dreams, he’d gone from wearing pajamas to wearing whatever was appropriate to the world of the dream—school uniform, that ridiculous doublet and hose getup—but there had been dreams where he’d turned up in what he was wearing. Whether he could control it, he wasn’t sure, but it was worth trying. He didn’t think he had a very effective bag of tricks, but it wasn’t as if he had an arsenal of Gameboys that turned into GPS systems or CD players that turned into lasers. As he lay there, the list of things he might have taken lengthened—rope, matches, water, a mirror to signal for help, some energy bars, safety pins, a compass. Going to the desert with a Maglite torch and a notebook didn’t seem to make him particularly prepared. But he had no idea what sort of desert he was going to or what he would find there. In fact, he had no idea about anything at all.

  He waited. He tossed. He lay with his eyes open and with his eyes closed—on his side then on his front. He tried to name every country in Europe in alphabetical order. He listed his favorite bands in alphabetical order. He listed every teacher in school in alphabetical order. He listed superheroes and cartoon characters. He tried every conceivable way he could think of to bore himself to sleep. Then he thought of Nell and how she looked, but her features had become somehow blurred. With that realization, the tears came. With the tears came sleep.

  The first thing Joe was conscious of was the sound of the wind. It ripped around him. He was lying on rock in the clothes he had chosen. He sat up. Above him, a row of five immense but headless statues sat impassively, facing some distant horizon. He turned to see what was before them and the breath was knocked from him. He was in the midst of a mountain range with no sign of human life. The peaks undulated away, wave upon wave of rock, glowing orange, copper and silver as the sun rose and strengthened. The sky above was cloudless and so intense a blue that it seemed outer space had invaded the atmosphere. He was on the top of the world. The cold was so dry he could feel his skin turning to parchment, the moisture in his lips and fingers shrinking from its intensity.

  He walked to the edge of the plinth where he had been lying. Before him was a precipice of weathered limestone, cracked and slivered by wind and ice, as lined and worn as a man who has gazed for a lifetime into the sun. Behind the five statues was a smooth peak, an unnaturally even cone guarded by the seated figures and crisscrossed with several tracks.

  Standing on the dais, Joe looked again at the statues.

  Their heads had fallen and rolled from their shoulders and now lay between Joe and the statues like randomly tossed dice, their features smooth and unreadable with weathering, their eyes sightless. A stone lion sat on its haunches at one corner of the dais. And blending with the tearing, rending sound of the wind came the unmistakable rumble of a huge cat breathing. Joe walked toward the statues and climbed down the steps to the boulder-strewn ground. The lion was still, its eyes as blind as those of the gods it had guarded, but Joe was sure he still heard its purr.

  An ear-rending shriek slashed the air, and Joe looked up.

  An eagle was soaring high above, circling over the mountain, its shrill cry angry and mournful. He took a step and the parched shards of rock and pebble shifted beneath his feet with a rasping crunch.

  He watched the eagle as it surfed the air currents, expressing its displeasure at the arrival of an interloper in its world. Its wingspan was immense and for a moment, Joe feared that it would swoop down and lift him up by its talons, only to drop him off the side of the mountain. But it glided past him, its yellow eyes penetrating, the wind ruffling at its
dark feathers and pale head before gaining height once again and landing on the lap of one of the statues, where it seemed to have shrunk to the size of a baby. It glared down at Joe, frozen by its passage. Then it took flight again and he followed it. It led him around the mountain, which had been shaped long ago by human hands. On the southern face, he came to a terrace guarded by an immense pillar on which stood another eagle, this one carved from silvery stone, polished to a high sheen by the breeze. Joe found himself walking through a plantation of sculpted heads—a bearded man here, a young, clean-shaven king there. He stopped in front of a detached-looking woman with a garland of fruit and flowers wreathing her brow. The tilt of her head and her stern mouth reminded him of the way that girls would respond, “Whatever,” when being ticked off by a teacher who they knew had no real power over them. Her eyes were widely spaced, the bridge of her nose flat, although she had lost most of the rest of it. When Joe stood beside her, he reached the bottom of her eyes.

  Joe continued exploring. There was no sign of human habitation, no trace of human occupation of the mountains apart from this strange statuary. He had come to the desert, but what he was meant to do now, he had no idea. He traced relief carvings etched into solid rock and ran his fingers over the ridges and ripples of a maned lion surrounded by stars. There were four terraces carved out of the mountain’s sides, one at each point of the compass, and with nothing else to do, as the sun rose, Joe began to sketch each of the terraces, choosing first an overview then a specific detail.

  He ended up returning to draw the woman’s head. She was the only female he had found there, and perhaps because she looked so petulant, he was drawn to her. At least there was some sort of emotion, some sign that the carvings had come from the human imagination.