Sign of the Sandman

by Tom Turner

  The dream link between man and creator, Rustam thought as he stared at the names carved into the statue pedestals: Wisdom, Ecstasy, Misery, Virtue, Humor, and Iniquity.

  Rustam walked past the Archetypes and steered his way through the darkness with keen precision.

  “Unity?” he called out. His words echoed across the room.

  “I am here, Rustam,” a controlled, deep voice answered in reply.

  Unity stepped from the shadows. He was of considerable size, towering at least a foot over Rustam, yet he still possessed a calming, mystic quality. His paper-like skin glowed bright as the moon, and a long silver mane of hair sung out against piercing eyes of gold. His expression was sturdy and assuring but, like Rustam’s, now mingled with a touch of fear.

  Rustam acknowledged Unity with a slight bow of his head. Unity returned the greeting.

  “It is good to see you, old friend,” he said. “Even in these dark days.”

  Unity turned toward a large, triple-arched window and looked out over the sand-swept vista.

  “Rumor of the Sandman’s disappearance is spreading fast across the Dreamscape and, with it, great unrest. I hope you bring word of his return?”

  “He was attacked at Dorian,” replied Rustam, taking a step closer. “Attacked by Moloch. He was trying to stop a nightmare and did not return.” Rustam paused, sickened by the message he conveyed. He understood the overwhelming danger it implied. “I searched the Dreamscape far and wide but found no trace of him.”

  Unity spun from the window. “Without the Sandman’s protection, Moloch will infect every dream with unspeakable evil,” he said. His face tensed and his eyes narrowed. “He will twist their power and beauty to that of darkness and fear, until his nightmares control them all.”

  “Some dreams are strong and will fight it!” countered Rustam. He had the heart of a warrior and, more importantly, was a true believer in the power of the human dream.

  “But not enough to stop Moloch,” his friend replied. “It’s already happening. The Dreamscape grows darker each day.”

  “Moloch has not yet defeated us!” said Rustam. He crossed the room and laid his hand upon one of the six sleeping figures. “So long as the Archetypes sleep, dreams can form. And so long as there is one human dream, there is still hope.”

  “But without the Sandman, that hope will soon run out,” said Unity. He pointed to the dimming torches held by the statues that loomed over the six sleeping Archetypes. “The darker the waking world grows, the darker this room becomes. Moloch will not stop until he has consumed every dream and the lights of these torches are extinguished forever.”

  Rustam took a step forward.

  “There is another who can stop him.”

  Unity seemed stunned, but Rustam understood why. He knew his words sounded improbable. To suggest there was someone powerful enough to stop Moloch, someone other than the Sandman, challenged everything Unity believed. So Rustam proceeded carefully, measuring each word.

  “For many years now, I, along with three other guardians, have protected a secret — one so sacred the Sandman kept it even from you.”

  “What secret?”

  “His son.”

  “A son?” said Unity as he circled Rustam and paced the room. His robes of garnet and gold curled around him, almost as if floating. “It’s not possible. How could this be? How could I not have known?”

  “The boy has been living among the humans.”

  “For how long?”

  “Ten years.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Unity. He seemed astonished that a secret of this magnitude could have been kept from him, from all of them, for so long. “You are certain he is the Heir? The son of the Sandman?”

  “I am certain,” replied Rustam.

  “Surely, the Sandman would have told me, the Keeper of the Archetypes.”

  “He had his reasons for secrecy.”

  “So why now? Why expose this secret?”

  Rustam gripped the fractured medallion that hung from his neck — the medallion the Sandman entrusted to him a decade before. “Because the boy is here,” he answered. “Sent through to the Dreamscape. His guardians were instructed to send him back if his protection could no longer be guaranteed. If Moloch’s evil has truly taken hold in the waking world, the boy must have been in danger.”

  Unity took a seat. His brow creased.

  “If the boy is who you say, then—”

  “He is capable of destroying Moloch,” said Rustam, finishing the thought.

  Unity rose. “A child? A human child? With that kind of power? It is not possible.”

  Rustam held Unity’s steady gaze, suggesting otherwise.

  “The boy is unique,” he explained, “in that he is of both worlds. If his powers are realized, he could be stronger than even the Sandman. He is most definitely a threat to Moloch.”

  “Then we must find him,” shouted Unity, his robes whipping with every sweeping gesture he made. “Do you know where he is?”

  Rustam stepped to the window and stared out over the Dreamscape. Listening to a voice only he could hear, he called upon a power that was bestowed upon him and only him on the day Charlie was born — a power that connected him to Charlie like no other.

  “He is near,” said Rustam.

  “Then go to him,” replied Unity. “Bring him to the castle. Bring him to me.”

  Rustam nodded and hurried from the room.

  Unity left the Hall of Archetypes, shutting the doors behind him. He hurried along a winding corridor, pondering the weight of what Rustam had just told him — a truth so big that it would shake the Dreamscape to its core and affect every human dream from that day forward. He descended a stairwell into the bowels of the castle — a place he knew he needed to fortify, a place that had always been vulnerable to Moloch’s evil, more so now than ever before. He took a deep breath and was about to descend another staircase when he stopped.

  What was that?

  A wave of concern washed over him. He reached into his garment, pulling out a handful of sand. He tossed it into the stairwell, igniting the steps in a fiery glow. At the base of the stairs he spotted a dark cloud buzzing toward him. Before he could react, a swarm of fanged black beetles attacked, snaring his body in a buggy mesh. Their jagged wings tore into his milky flesh. He tried to fight back, but the beetles forced him down, trapping him beneath a blanket of wings and teeth. It was as if they were taunting him, just waiting for something bigger to come and finish the job. As the thought spooled in Unity’s mind, he felt a searing waft of breath scorch the back of his neck. He tried to scream, but the beetles entered his mouth, choking back his words. Then everything went black.

  When Unity opened his eyes, the kindness that once graced them was gone. All that remained was evil.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE OTHER SIDE

  Charlie and Plug had slogged their way across the desert, through the lush oasis, and to the foot of the giant sandcastle’s doors. Charlie tilted his head back as far as it could go, viewing them bottom to top.

  “Those things are huge!” he said. “You could fit a train through there.”

  “Or an army,” said Plug, gulping.

  He seemed a little shaken by their size, and Charlie couldn’t blame him. They made him a bit jumpy, too. Charlie had always loved castles — so much so, in fact, that he had spent an entire week at the library one summer, reading up on them. But in all his studies, he had never seen any like this. Its massive doors were set beneath an archway that could swallow a house whole. Rounded turrets and colossal towers rose to dizzying heights on either side, and a series of flying buttresses jutted out from the castle’s side, like giant arms supporting the weight of its mighty walls.

  “Check out this door,” said Charlie.

  He ran his hand over it. The door was s
olid but rough, formed by millions of twinkling grains of sand. Carved into its surface was the image of a winged figure that reminded Charlie of an archangel. The figure gripped two large swords, each crossed over its chest plate in the form of an X, and its gigantic wings were tucked in tight behind its powerful frame.

  “Great. But how do we get in?” asked Plug.

  “I don’t know. It’s not like there’s a doorbell.”

  Plug felt around. “Bell? There’s not even a knob.”

  He was right. There was not a knob, handle, or bell in sight. In fact, there was nothing that gave any clue how to enter.

  “Know what’s funny,” Plug laughed, “if this was The Wizard of Oz, a little midget dude with a furry hat would just pop his head out and say— Ouch!”

  Plug jumped back, grabbing hold of his backside.

  “He would pop out and say, ‘Ouch’?” asked Charlie.

  “No, you meathead! Something whacked me!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know when I get whacked.” Plug pointed to his rear end. “Felt like a belt across my rump.”

  “I don’t see anything,” said Charlie, glancing around. They were alone atop a sweeping set of stairs. The stairs rose from a glistening white sand beach, which skirted the inner edge of the oasis and surrounded the castle.

  “I could swear, Charlie. I felt a— Whack!” Plug shouted, jumping again. “Who’s doing that?”

  Charlie noticed a flash of green streak past Plug’s feet.

  “Uh… Not who…” he said. “But what.”

  He pointed to a vine that crept down the castle wall and rose behind them. They both jumped back out of the way.

  “I was attacked by a weed?” said Plug.

  The vine snapped to attention.

  “I think it heard you,” said Charlie.

  It followed them, bobbing up and down like a charmed snake.

  “I’m sorry,” Plug said to the vine. “I didn’t mean to call you a weed. It’s just— I don’t like being smacked in the—” Plug stopped. “What am I doing? I’m talking to a plant.”

  “Well, it worked,” said Charlie. “It’s going away.”

  The vine slunk back into the oasis, as if it had sensed they posed no threat to the castle.

  “This place is weird,” said Plug. “Really weird.”

  “No kidding,” replied Charlie, pointing at the doorway again. “Is it just me, or was that door a different color a second ago?”

  Charlie was sure it had been solid gold. And now it was silver and gold, with a little bit of red. And that’s not all.

  “Actually, I think the whole castle changed! Color and shape,” he said as his eyes rose past the door and followed the outline of the castle wall. Where two towers once stood, he could swear a third had appeared, taller than the first two.

  “Now who’s imagining things?” said Plug.

  Charlie looked up, down, and then back at the etching of the archangel-like warrior on the door. The warrior’s swords were no longer crossed, but raised high. And its wings were no longer tucked tight behind it, but outstretched, spanning the length of the door.

  “This is definitely different,” he said. “This place is amazing.”

  “I still say it’s weird,” said Plug.

  He felt another tap.

  “Okay, that’s it! I’ve had it with this darn weed!”

  He turned to face it, but froze. His mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. Unable to speak, he tapped Charlie’s shoulder.

  “What?” asked Charlie without turning, still fascinated by the castle doors.

  Plug tapped him again. Hard.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked, annoyed, until he turned and froze, as well.

  A dozen warriors — real-life versions of the ones carved into the door — were lined up behind them. Even though they stood a few steps down, they still towered over Charlie and Plug. The warriors glared down with fierce and determined eyes, but not just any eyes.

  “Gold eyes,” whispered Charlie. “You can see them this time, right?”

  Plug nodded, still unable to speak.

  “I told you I wasn’t seeing things.”

  The warriors wore jet-black, fatigue-like tunics with a long, gold sash that wound up their torsos and around their heads.

  Like the warrior in my dream, thought Charlie. Part ninja, archangel, and Arabian knight. The similarity made him uneasy.

  “What are they?” whispered Plug.

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie, “but they sure are big. And I don’t think they’re human.”

  Enormous holographic wings shot out from the warriors’ backs.

  “Duh,” deadpanned Plug.

  The wings were huge and emitted a dazzling glow that reminded Charlie of a thousand lightning bugs in a pitch-black field. Dozens of tiny, diamond-like crystals dotted the length of the warriors’ powerful arms, spiraling up like a chain of starry freckles.

  “Do you guys live here?” asked Plug, almost whimpering.

  “Yeah,” added Charlie. “We just need a map or a phone or maybe a—”

  One of the warriors grabbed them.

  “Hey! What are you doing? Let us go!”

  The castle doors swung open, revealing a majestic entrance hall that stretched ahead for what seemed a mile. Before Charlie could make a move to escape, he and Plug were lifted into flight and whisked inside. The doors slammed shut behind them. The resounding boom echoed in the cathedral-like ceiling above.

  Charlie and Plug kicked like mice caught in a falcon’s talons as the warrior soared along the grand corridor. He moved with such speed that the torch-lined walls and gleaming floor blurred like an airport runway beneath a departing jet.

  Not far ahead, the corridor dead-ended. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, expecting impact. But the warrior rolled his wings and shot skyward into the belly of an immense tower. It was circular and hollow. Two staircases spiraled up the inner wall, interweaving like the stripes of a candy cane.

  “Slow down!” screamed Charlie. His face was green with nausea.

  Plug looked no better. “I’m gonna hurl!” he yelled.

  At the tower’s peak, the warrior banked hard left and raced through a mazelike series of passageways and corridors. At the end of a seemingly endless hallway, he placed Charlie and Plug in an empty room. It was simple: nothing but four walls and a balcony that overlooked the castle grounds and desert beyond.

  The warrior left, closing the door behind him. A gold mist traveled across the door like a winter’s breath. When the mist evaporated, the door disappeared with it.

  “What are you doing?” screamed Charlie. “We weren’t trespassing! We’re lost! We need your help!”

  He slammed his fist on the wall where the door had been, and another gold shimmer moved across the room. Energy from it climbed up his arm. Charlie felt the energy roll across his shoulder and over his eyes, coating them like a set of gold contacts. He blinked, and the room changed in that instant, taking the shape of something recognizable: his bedroom! Everything was there, exactly as he had left it, right down to the model airplane with a broken wing and the autographed baseball on his dresser.

  “How’d you do that?” asked Plug, spinning in place.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.” Charlie reached for the door. “I just—”

  “Stop. Don’t do it again! Maybe something happened. Maybe we’re home!” He ran to the window. “Maybe it was a dream! And we woke up!”

  “Both of us?” asked Charlie, skeptically. “The same dream?”

  “It’s possible.” Plug ripped open the window blinds. “Or not,” he growled. The world on the other side was still foreign. New York City, home, was nowhere in sight. “This stinks!” he said, forcing open the window. “Hey! Help us! Anyone!” But his
words were swallowed by the endless twilight sky.

  Charlie tried the bedroom door, nearly yanking it from its hinges. But nothing was on the other side — just an empty wall. He went over and sat on the edge of his bed, resting his head in his hands, fighting off his own growing frustration.

  “I’m sorry, Plug,” he said. “I’m not sure how we ended up in this mess.”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it,” replied Plug. “It’s kinda like that time we got lost in Chinatown.”

  Charlie smiled as he remembered Plug trying to get directions out of a tiny, hundred-year-old Chinese man who spoke no English.

  “This is a little different,” Charlie chuckled. “We can’t exactly pull out a subway map.”

  “True,” said Plug. “But still, we found our way home. No thanks to that crazy old dude with big ears and one tooth.”

  Just then, the door reappeared and opened. Charlie and Plug leapt to their feet and backed up against the wall. They locked arms. If they were going down, it would be as a team.

  Two large men entered the room. They were as strange and mysterious as any two beings Charlie had ever encountered. He had to crane his neck just to make eye contact.

  “I am Rustam,” said one of the men. He was dressed like the other angelic warriors Charlie had seen outside the castle. Same black fatigues. Same gold sash. Same glow-in-the-dark wings — although they were tucked away at the moment.

  “And this is Unity,” Rustam continued, pointing to the other who was even taller and scarier, like a high priest on stilts. He was dressed in red and gold and towered over Charlie and Plug like an oak over saplings.

  “Do not be frightened,” he told them.

  “We’re not,” said Charlie as he and Plug backed up further.

  “Yeah!” added Plug, rather unconvincingly.

  “We just took a wrong turn or something,” said Charlie.

  “A big wrong turn,” said Plug.