by Tom Turner
Rustam felt another razor-sharp pain. Moloch had sunk his dagger-like fingernails deep into the swell of Rustam’s back. When Rustam tried to escape, Moloch thrust deeper, reaching bone.
“You are only delaying the inevitable,” he growled.
“I will never give up!” cried Rustam.
“An unfortunate choice,” replied Moloch, as he injected dark venom into Rustam, casting him downward.
Rustam plunged like a jet trapped in an uncontrollable flat spin. He impacted the desert floor with such force he blew a massive crater into the sand.
Moloch’s evil coursed through Rustam’s body. Rustam thrashed violently, every muscle trying to reject the venom. His bones nearly snapped like twigs against its force. He clawed his way to the crater edge, but Moloch was waiting for him at the top.
“You have failed, Guardian,” Moloch scowled. “Now the boy is alone. Once I have infected the Archetypes and turned all dreams to nightmares, it will not take long to find him. His fears will expose his weakness.” Moloch knelt beside Rustam and whispered into his ear. “Then, I will kill him.”
Rustam struggled to speak, to fight, but all he could do was cough up black sand. Everything was going dark and turning to shadow.
“In this pit you shall remain,” said Moloch. “Never to rise again.”
He kicked Rustam back into the crater.
Rustam felt every crevice of his body convulse. He heaved up more black sand, and it filled the pit, pulling him down, until Moloch and the purple twilight sky were slowly swallowed by darkness.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PICTURE PERFECT
“We did it!” said Charlie as he and Remi helped a soaking wet Plug out of a lake and to his feet. “We actually moved through the dreams.”
Charlie’s senses were still buzzing from the trip. It had been a feeling of instantaneous movement, like falling through a cloud of colors, images, and sounds, all mixing to complete a picture, this time of a peaceful lake in the foothills of a magnificent mountain range. It seemed to be early autumn, because the trees popped with color, and the smell of cinnamon and cedar filled Charlie’s nose. There was a slight nip in the air, intensified by the fact that he was drenched to the bone. They had entered the dream by way of the lake, shooting up through its surface at least fifteen feet into the air. On the way back down, Charlie had watched the portal snap shut, gone as quickly as Maryanne DePalma’s daydream had ended.
“The dreams must all be connected,” he said.
“It’s how the Sandman moves across the Dreamscape,” replied Remi, excitedly. “He moves between dreams. Like you just did.”
“My boy got skills!” boasted Plug.
He went to wring out his shirt, but it was completely dry. So were his pants, shoes, and hair for that matter. Everything.
“That’s weird,” he said. “I’m not wet anymore.”
“Me either,” said Charlie. “I guess being in a dream has some advantages.”
Charlie gazed through the trees, spotting the sun for the first time in what felt like days. It hung high in a crisp blue sky, warming his face. Rolling hills of dense forest swayed in the distance, and the babble of a gentle brook whispered past his feet.
“Is this what your world is like?” Remi asked.
“Part of it,” replied Charlie.
“It’s so beautiful.”
So was she, he thought. The wind moved through her hair, and the bright sun seemed to intensify the gold in her eyes. Charlie even lost himself in the line of her upper lip, which curved to form a perfect Cupid’s bow.
“I think I just burped up some lake water,” said Plug, killing the moment. “And I keep waiting for the trees to disappear. You don’t think this is another daydream, do you?”
“I don’t think so,” answered Charlie. “This one feels different. It feels… safer.”
“Feels? You can feel it?” asked Plug, studying Charlie as if he had just grown a third eye.
Charlie nodded. “Doesn’t it feel different to you?”
“Dude, I just jumped through a mirror and belly-flopped into a lake. This all feels different to me.”
“It’s peaceful. Like a vacation spot.”
“Yeah,” snorted Plug, raising a skeptical brow. “Until the person wakes up to take a leak. Then it’s off to the races again.” Plug shouted into the heavens. “Hey! If you can hear me! Don’t wake up!” Then he put his arm around Charlie and pulled him close. “Now that we have a minute, I just want to clear up that whole me-not-kissing-a-girl thing.”
Charlie laughed.
“Seriously. I was kidding,” Plug continued. “You know I make stuff up when I’m hungry.” His stomach growled, and he checked his watch. “Come to think of it, we haven’t eaten since we got here. I’m starving! Billions of dreams, and we end up in the woods. Why couldn’t someone dream about a dang hamburger or even some—” Plug’s nose perked up. He sniffed, following a scent. “I smell strawberries!” He bolted down a dirt path.
Charlie and Remi followed Plug into a valley that opened up at the foot of a mountain. Flowers blanketed the meadow, and a charming little house sat beneath the sway of a dancing willow tree on the edge of a heart-shaped lake. The pristine shorelines formed two seamless arches. Charlie had never seen such a thing before, but he figured this was a dream and anything was possible. It was all so perfect. Almost… picture perfect.
“I think I know what this is!” said Charlie, as his lips curled up into a smile.
Just then, Plug ran up and handed him a strawberry.
“Squeeze it,” he said. “Go ‘head!”
Charlie obliged. He squeezed tight, expecting strawberry juice to run through his fingers, but the liquid was thick and tacky and coated the palm of his hand.
“Red paint?” said Charlie.
“Exactly,” said Plug. There was a hint of agitation in his voice. “Just wish I would have known that before I shoved one into my mouth!”
He stuck out his tongue. It was covered with red paint.
“I’m still starving! Why would the stupid strawberries be made of paint?”
“Because,” said Charlie. “It’s a painting.”
Plug’s forehead creased with confusion. Charlie walked over to a tree and pressed his finger to its trunk. His finger sunk into the bark as if it were a stick of warm butter. When he removed it, brown paint dripped over his knuckle.
“That’s wild!” said Plug. ”Let me try!”
He kicked a rock. It liquefied into a spurt of gray paint that sprayed across Remi’s face.
“Sorry,” said Plug. “Please don’t shoot me?”
Remi smiled, sort of. “We’ll see,” she said, before winging down to the edge of the heart-shaped lake to clean off.
“I hope the water’s not paint, too,” said Plug, “or she’s gonna be madder than Mr. Trip on an empty stomach.” He squeezed another strawberry between his fingers. “Man, that’s crazy!”
Charlie stared at the lake house. It is crazy, he thought, peeling back four years of memories. Crazy because—
“It’s my painting!” he said aloud. “One I did for my mom for her birthday. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah! The macaroni one in your kitchen — the one that’s always crooked.”
“It’s her dream house,” said Charlie.
His head was spinning. Could this be her dream? he wondered. Or was it someone else’s? Plenty of people had seen the painting over the years, up to and including his building’s superintendent who had fixed their leaky faucet a few days earlier. Maybe one of those people was dreaming about it. Or was this all just a coincidence? Charlie didn’t know the answer; he just knew being here made him feel closer to his mom. He missed her more than he had ever missed anyone in his life and wondered if he’d ever get to see her again. The thought made Charlie’s heart ache
so much it forced tears into his eyes.
“You okay?” asked Plug.
“I was just thinking about my mom,” said Charlie, “and how bad things are back home. Like it’s the end of the world or something. And there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”
Plug looked his friend squarely in the eye. “What if you’re wrong?” he asked. “What if you can do something?”
Charlie was puzzled, especially by the fact that Plug said ‘you’ and not ‘we’ can do something.
“There’s something different about you here in this dream world — or Dreamscape,” continued Plug. “In a weird way, you fit in. You make sense.”
“No I don’t,” said Charlie.
“Come on now. You’re running around, dropping in and out of dreams. Feeling things,” said Plug, motioning with his hands, indicating the current dream. “Not to mention you’re being chased around by everyone and their brother. People seem to think you’re pretty important, including her.” He pointed toward Remi, down by the lake.
“Now you’re the one talking crazy,” said Charlie.
“My nana always told me that we were part of a plan,” said Plug. “That everything happened for a reason. I’m just sayin’— Maybe we ended up here for a reason. I know you love Superman and all, but you don’t need a cape to be a hero.”
When it came to family and friends, Plug wasn’t afraid to speak from his heart. So Charlie knew Plug was serious, and that was both exciting and scary. Could he really do something? And if he could, what would that be, and where would he even start? Charlie had no idea, and he felt his thoughts begin to spin out of control. Then something snapped him back to his senses. Someone had walked across the porch of the house — someone Charlie recognized. Someone he loved and wanted to help.
“Mom? Mom!” he screamed, but she disappeared inside.
Charlie ran down a winding, flagstone path. He hopped a small picket fence, bolted up a series of paint-flecked stairs, and stormed the front door. But when he entered, everything changed. It was instant, like the turning page of a book. Plug, who had been huffing along behind, trying to catch up, ran smack into a wall. It had magically materialized from thin air.
“Ouch,” he said, rubbing his nose, as Remi arrived and helped him to his feet. “This place will really keep you on your toes. Being in a dream is a lot easier when you’re asleep.”
The country house was gone. Charlie was back in his apartment. Or so it seemed. The apartment was different than he remembered it. The layout was backward, like a mirror image, and the place was adorned with objects he didn’t recognize, personal effects from his mother’s past. Charlie’s painting of the dream house hung on every wall. Photos of him at various ages graced every end table and shelf, some of which seemed to be made out of macaroni noodles.
Charlie had just passed the kitchen when he heard the floor creak. It came from his mother’s room. He dashed down the hall, followed by Plug and Remi. When they flung open the door, a feeling of relief washed over Charlie. His mother rocked slowly in a wooden chair, facing the room’s only window.
“Mom!” he said, excitedly.
Her blond hair shifted across her shoulders with each sway, but she did not react to her son’s call. Even so, Charlie had never been happier to see her.
“It’s her!” squealed Plug, surprising Remi with a hug. “Charlie’s mom! Maybe she knows a way home!”
“She’s beautiful,” said Remi.
“I know,” said Plug. “Even though she’s old. Almost thirty-four.” He waved and shouted, “Hey, Mrs. G!” But Charlie’s mother still did not respond. “What’s wrong with her?” Plug asked. “She mad at us?”
“She’s dreaming,” said Charlie. “See the reddish color around her.” He had noticed a distinct red glow outlining her body. “I think it means she’s the dreamer.”
Plug shrugged. “I don’t see anything.”
But Charlie definitely did. It was a halo, like the one he saw in Joe Santiago’s dream.
“If she’s dreaming, she’s alive,” said Charlie. “Right? If she’s dreaming, she’s okay!”
Charlie was so relieved he wanted to grab Plug and dance across the room. He nearly did, too, and could have sworn his mother read his mind, because she began to sing. “Sleep, baby, sleep. Thy father guards the sheep. Thy mother shakes the dreamland tree, and from it fall sweet dreams for thee. Sleep, baby sleep…”
Charlie recognized the song. His mom had often sung it to him when he was a little boy. He hummed along as he approached the rocker. He crouched beside it and touched his mother’s arm. Even though this was a dream, he felt closer to her than he had in a long time. Charlie wanted to hug her, to have her love yank him and Plug out of the dream, back to the other side, to home. She turned toward him, cradling a baby in her arms.
“This is my son,” she said. “His name is Charlie.”
The baby cooed. Charlie almost stopped breathing.
“It’s me,” he whispered with an aching heart. “She’s singing to me.”
“Would you like to hold him?” she asked.
Charlie nodded, and she handed him the baby. His face flushed pink. A rush of emotion overwhelmed him. It was a sudden, intense feeling of love, a love that spanned ten years, back to the moment his mom first laid eyes on him. He was experiencing the dream’s true beauty, feeling it as she, the dreamer, felt it. It was as if their hearts had joined, and Charlie was able at once to feel every joyous moment the two of them had ever shared.
Plug and Remi watched, captivated, as Charlie cradled the infant version of himself.
“This is a good dream,” Plug said with a smile.
Charlie closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A tear ran down his cheek, and a profound calm came over him as he listened to the silence. His mom laid her hand upon the baby’s head, stroking his feather-thin hair.
“You are my dream come true,” she whispered to the infant Charlie. “My little miracle.”
She got up and walked to the window, where she traced the outline of a symbol onto the glass. It was a symbol Charlie had seen before — two rings, one inside the other, with a crescent moon in the center. It was the same image he had sketched onto the napkin, the same he had seen in his dream. As his mother traced the image, it cast a gold shadow at Charlie’s feet. The shadow rose off the floor, becoming three-dimensional. It hovered in front of Charlie, growing larger. Each ring rotated slowly around the moon, which glowed so bright he was forced to shield his eyes.
Remi reached out, trying to touch the rings. “It’s the sign,” she said with great reverence.
“What sign?” asked Plug.
“The sign of the Sandman.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WEB OF DARKNESS
Two steely-eyed furies glared up at Moloch and awaited his command. He stood atop their backs as they stomped the desert floor. Their powerful muscles swelled beneath his feet. The beasts were aching for release.
“Soon, my friends. Soon,” said Moloch, trying to ease them.
They raised their snouts and roared in reply, baring venom-coated fangs that curled outward the length of a guardian’s arm.
Moloch cast a sturdy, unblinking gaze across the desert and focused the boiling hatred that churned within him. The ground shuddered, as if caging a restless beast that craved its freedom, a freedom he was happy to provide.
“Rise, my web of darkness!” he cried out, raising his arms. “Rise! Our moment is at hand!”
Legions more of his vicious, snarling furies surfaced from beneath the sand. Ten thousand red eyes stared back at him, dotting the landscape like fresh puncture wounds. Moloch marveled at the sight, knowing they were but extensions of him, a web of darkness that fed off his power and obeyed his every command.
With a single hand gesture, he silenced his forces and then turned to face the opposite horiz
on. In the distance, the glow of the Sandman’s castle brightened the twilight sky. Moloch savored this moment, the moment he was finally strong enough to tear down the castle walls, seize the Archetypes, and snuff out that eternal glow, ushering in a reign of nightmares with him at the Dreamscape throne.
He turned back to address his army. They panted in unison, and the heat from their breath warmed Moloch’s scaly skin. They were ready.
“Ride with me!” screamed Moloch. “Ride with me into an age of endless night!”
The furies erupted into a mad frenzy. Moloch kicked the two beasts beneath his feet, and they charged forward across the desert. He rode them like a chariot, plowing his way toward the dense oasis that surrounded the castle. His web of darkness rushed behind him. They moved in packs. Venom dripped from their fangs, and their jaws snapped, hungry for battle.
Moloch knew the coming assault would test the limits of his might, for to make the castle yield to his command, he could not simply possess another, as he did with Unity. The only way to conquer it was by force. It would not be easy. The Sandman’s powers were great, and those powers, even now, fortified the castle against any threat. But this was a fight Moloch relished — a fight he had plotted for ages.
“Yaaaah!” he bellowed, as his army stormed the oasis.
The instant he entered, the Sandman’s defenses attacked with volcanic force. Guardians fired light arrows from the sky above. Their crystal horns trumpeted an urgent S.O.S, bracing for war. Every tree, branch, pebble and stone erupted with bursts of golden light that rained down around Moloch in a shower of sparks. The brilliant energy was so violent it nearly knocked him from the backs of his beasts. He raised the tattered edge of his cloak to shield his eyes and protect his shriveled gray skin from the welts that formed under the searing hot light. But the pain only fueled his rage. For this pain reminded him of the misery he had long endured at the cruel hands of the Dreamscape.
Is this the best you could do? thought Moloch, as he continued his advance. Maybe he had overestimated the Sandman’s power, that this would be easier than he had planned. He soon discovered how wrong he was.