Vagabond Circus Series Boxed Set

by Sarah Noffke

  A sincere part of me wants to return to my family and shake them until they’re released from their hallucinations. Then we can go on living our lives where the most interesting things that happen are football, church, and barbeques. It’s not a great life for an agnostic vegetarian, but is it better than death? I may be a product of the East Texas soil, but the winds here have never agreed with me. I’ve been looking for a way out of this town, but not like this.

  “I cannot grant you any more time,” Shuman says. “I need your answer.”

  I scan the surface of the water, looking for nothing in particular. She can wait for my answer. She will.

  I push my fingers into my eyes and inhale deeply. This duel is inevitable. Zhuang and his challenger’s futures are intertwined. Any attempt to evade the other person will only bring the two together. And somehow I was elected by people I don’t know, for a danger I only recently knew existed. Still none of this makes sense, which is why I know I have to rely on instinct. It’s all I have left. “Fine,” I say a bit pathetically. “I’ll do it.”

  A smile would be nice, or maybe a “good for you.” Instead Shuman, who appears to be all business, all the time, begins spouting instructions. “Your next step is to find the Lucidite Institute. Since you are relatively new to dream traveling there are many risks you face.”

  No big surprises there.

  Shuman continues, “You must dream travel to the Institute while fully submerged in water.”

  Um, what? “Are you serious? I’ll drown.”

  “There is that risk, yes, but the only way to enter the Institute is through water. To travel there you must return to your body and then immerse yourself in water. I advise you to know you are one with it. It is through this knowledge that you overcome the fear of drowning and focus on the higher task of dream traveling. If you remain calm and focus properly then you will travel and arrive at the Institute. If you are unsuccessful, then yes, you will drown.”

  “Oh, is that all? Sounds like a piece of cake.” I’m wondering now if I made the right decision.

  Shuman narrows her eyes, but doesn’t respond otherwise.

  I rub my temples as an overwhelming pressure erupts behind my eyes. “This is all so strange, it sounds like a recurring dream I’ve been…” My words fall away as the inevitable truth dawns on me. “You put those dreams in my head, didn’t you?” I accuse, staring at her rigid persona.

  “The Lucidites are responsible, yes,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact.

  “What! That’s insane! That’s awful. Night after night I dreamed I was drowning myself. Do you know how horrifying that is?”

  “You should be grateful. We have prepared you for the journey you are about to take. Your subconscious mind has already practiced much of what you are going to do.”

  “Grateful!?” I shake my head in disbelief. “I thought I was losing my mind. I didn’t sleep well for weeks. No. I’m not the least bit grateful. You invaded my subconscious,” I spew, more frustrated now than frightened.

  Shuman takes a long inhale and says, “Everything that has been done was to protect you and the future.”

  How do I argue with that statement? How do I argue with any of this? I want to run, to abandon this farce which has become my life. However, my instinct is concrete around my legs, pinning me in place, assuring me this is where I belong.

  “Roya, we are running out of time,” Shuman says, breaking the silence. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Why does it have to be so complicated to dream travel to the Institute? Isn’t there an alternative?” Like a spaceship or a drug?

  “No, there is not,” Shuman says. “The Institute is heavily protected by water. The difficulty it takes to travel there is what makes it the safest place on earth.”

  The idea settles over me like a down comforter. Safety. What would that feel like? Every moment has been cloaked with a hidden threat for so long. When the recurring dreams weren’t plaguing me, the paranoia lurked in the shadows and was all but incapacitating. It was almost enough to make me take the pills the therapist kept pushing. Almost.

  “If I do all this”—the words drip out of my mouth— “if I don’t drown, then I’ll be at the Institute? I’ll be safe? At least for a little while, right?”

  Her eyes jerk away from their focal point. There’s a twitch at her mouth. “Yes.”

  I sigh. It’s the first one of relief in a while. “All right then, I’ll do it,” I say halfheartedly.

  She turns and faces me, resting her arms across her chest. Around one of her forearms is a tattoo of a rattlesnake. The serpent’s tail lies on her elbow and its head on the back of her hand.

  “There is one last thing,” she says, a warning in her voice. “Only Lucidites can enter the Institute. You must want to be one of us, or you will be forbidden from entering.”

  I blink in surprise. My mouth opens to voice hesitation, but she disappears, leaving me alone and feeling as though I’m standing on the edge of the earth.

  Continue reading:

  Awoken.

  Sneak Peek of Ren: The Man Behind the Monster:

  Prologue

  When I was born the doctor said I wouldn’t live the night through. I had a problem with a valve in my heart. My pops called a secret healer who lived a few towns away. And now I write this to you as a grown man. I’m not spoiling anything for you from the tale you’re about to read. It isn’t a spoiler that all these years I’ve survived. The true secret is that I lived at all. Actually I lived on an edge, one so dangerous most don’t even know it’s there. I didn’t sell my soul to the devil or dance with her on a clear night. I ran up to the devil and I stole the mask she wore and I wore it comfortably for quite some time. But then I met an angel and she made me want to die. I didn’t though. My secret isn’t even that I lived. It’s that I lived pretending to be the devil, wishing God would save my soul. I knew this was a wasted wish. I have no soul left to save. It’s why I could steal the devil’s persona. It’s why I lived when I should have died too many times.

  I don’t hold babies or pause for the elderly. It’s not because I’m unkind. I’m kind. I’m kind enough to never put myself close to anyone vulnerable. I’m afraid I might break them. I’m afraid of myself. I live alone or with the strong and arrogant. But I don’t live close to those who are vulnerable. I don’t live close to those who might dare to love me. I don’t trust myself otherwise.

  When I was born God made an awful error. He allowed a healer to save me. He allowed me to live. I’m a mistake. Not because my parents didn’t intend to have me and God failed to kill me. I’m a mistake because of what I can do. I’m a mistake because people like me aren’t destined for happiness. We are the miserable. The lonely. The people you warn your children not to become. The ones you warn your children to stay away from.

  I’m Ren Lewis and I was born with too much power.

  Chapter One

  April 1985

  The antique clock on the wall had the most irritating tick. It seemed extraordinarily loud. Probably because the old grandfather was a knockoff. It most likely was manufactured the year before in some backyard by a wanker who failed clock-making school and decided to go into forgery. I instantly liked the clock a lot more.

  Snap. Snap.

  The middle-aged Middling therapist dared to snap his dried fingertips in front of my face. Sure, I wasn’t paying attention to him. Sure, he’d asked his question to me repeatedly, and without answering I continued to stare at the clock which had too much lacquer and the detail work was a bit rough in places. How much did this shrink shell out for such a phony piece of furniture?

  Unhurried, I pulled my gaze around to face the irritated therapist. I had to give him credit. He almost appeared in control of this situation. Bravo. This is the only thing I think he had control of, since I was guessing his overweight wife probably bossed his skinny ass around all day and his three kids owned the parts of him that she didn’t. But this guy had a mock sense of
authority over me; at least he had been trying to make a show of it.

  I blinked at him blankly. “What was the question?” I said.

  “Ren, are you paying the least bit of attention during this session?” Dr. Simon said, pushing his wiry glasses up the thin bridge of his nose.

  I took a deliberate moment to actually think about the question. Should I answer honestly or should I save his ego and make him as the poor therapist feel better about himself? Yeah, saving egos is someone else’s job, for sure.

  “Not really,” I said, stretching out my arms with a long yawn. “But if it will make this whole mess go along a tad faster then I’ll give it a bit more of my attention. How’s that, doc?”

  He bristled, pulling his yellow pad of notes closer to him as he crossed a skinny ankle over his bony knee. “What do you have to say for your actions? Are you the least bit remorseful about what you did to poor Widow Johnson?”

  I felt my eyebrows rise with surprise. Yeah, I was remorseful, but not about what I did to the old bag. I was remorseful that I’d been so foolish. Still new to my gifts, I had a lot to learn about limitations. Using my mind control, I convinced the old lady to give me her husband’s old Bentley. Give it to me. No questions asked.

  “Here you are,” she said, her Scottish accent much fainter than I remembered in years past. “It’s all yours.” Old Mrs. Johnson handed me the keys to the Bentley Continental, which had only been driven on Sundays. Then she gave me one little bit of advice. “Be careful around the corners. Henry didn’t like the tires to get dirty.”

  I’m sure he didn’t. But this car had only one destiny in my hands. It was going to get dirty. Inside and out. I was going to drive it to London. Park it in front of the finest clubs and tempt the finest of women to join me inside it. And my plan would have worked and I would have been laid by a model at the early age of fifteen years old. However, it didn’t work because I didn’t have a license to drive or the know-how to do so.

  Instead of driving that sleek ride to London, I crashed it into old man Miller’s stack of hay bundles on the other side of Mrs. Johnson’s farm. I knew then I’d never see a pretty lady undressing herself in that backseat. I had the know-how without all the actual “know-how.” I could control minds, but didn’t know how to do things…simple little things like driving. I needed to learn how to do these small tasks. But being fifteen provided all sorts of disadvantages. And namely, the first disadvantage was sitting squarely in front of me, fidgeting with his note pad.

  “The last time you were in here was because you let all of Mr. Gretchen’s sheep loose,” Dr. Simon said, reading from his file on the side table. He needed to have his orderly notes. Needed to be able to refer back to them. He didn’t have the advantage of a flawless, photographic memory, like me. Poor soul with his weaknesses and many shortcomings. How he made it through graduate school is ever a wonder to me.

  My green eyes narrowed at the accusation. It was all wrong. As usual. Just like with the Bentley. They thought I stole it, when it was actually given to me. And I didn’t let the sheep loose. I made Mr. Gretchen do it using a bit of hypnosis, partnered with mind control. However, I made silly errors in the process. Firstly, I’d hung around to watch the mayhem of sheep patrolling through our muddy streets. I’d also done a sloppy job of mind control on the dumb farmer. He remembered me. Didn’t know what I did to him, but there was enough suspicion that the whole thing was pinned on me. They thought I just let the sheep out, which is a lot more innocent a crime than what I really did.

  “Tell me, Ren, why is it that you keep acting out?” Dr. Simon said, almost looking a little afraid of me, but bent on acting his part as the parish therapist. The church wasn’t just paying him to sign off on the health and well-being of most of its members. They also expected him to fix the lot of us who were intent on the devil’s rule.

  I sized the guy up. We’d had at least half a dozen sessions. None of my usual lies had worked, so I decided he was ready for the truth. The truth I always saved until I was in the most amount of trouble. The truth invariably set me free, but not because people believed me. Rather because they thought I was crazy, which I probably am.

  “I keep acting out because,” I began in a rehearsed voice, “well, it’s complicated, and it’s actually a secret. I’m not sure if I should tell you. You may get mad at my parents since it was their insistence that I keep this private.”

  “Ren, I won’t get mad at your parents,” Dr. Simon said in his soothing therapist tone. “You can tell me anything and we will work through it together. Your parents will suffer no harm by your truths.”

  I nodded. Inside I smiled with glee. “The truth is that I was born half Dream Traveler, and not only can I travel through space and time using my dreams, but as this special race of humans I’m also gifted with a skill. Some Dream Travelers have one or maybe even two gifts. I can control people using my mind, hypnotize people with movements, and if I touch someone I can hear their thoughts.” I scuffed some imaginary dirt off my shoe. “That’s the truth. The big secret. Don’t be mad at me or my parents for it.”

  The therapist took in a long annoyed breath. “Until you, Ren, are ready to actually talk about your crimes in a real manner then these sessions are futile.”

  A slow smile formed on my face. The truth was always the better option in these situations. No one believed it and therefore just assumed I was a no-good teen. A troublemaker. A pathological liar. The truth was I kept telling the truth over and over again and no one believed me. My father, who had spent his life hiding the fact that he carried Dream Traveler blood in him, hadn’t especially liked that I did this. But he was smart enough to realize no one was ever going to believe me. I was Ren. The boy who had been there when my teacher pulled her knickers down during my solo detention last year. The boy who had been the one to call authorities when my entire church group, including our teacher, fell into inexplicable comas. I was the strange boy. The one who things happened around. But people thought it was because I was a troublemaker branded with the word “cursed” across my head. They had no idea it was because since I was ten years old I’d come into my gifts and could control most using my mind and hypnotize anyone I dared. I told them to hold my hand so I could read their thoughts, but they’d totally shrugged me off most of the time. Even though I kept telling the truth, I was dismissed. And that’s what made the whole thing even more fun. What fools they all were. Utter, stupid fools.

  But my mum saw through it and knew I was manipulating the lot of them. And her look of heartbreak did cause me a bit of stress. She kept professing her faith in me though. She thought that a heavy hand would never make me see my awful ways, but rather the hand of our Lord and Savior. That’s why she kept convincing the church to take me in after each of my crimes. Counsel me. Absolve my sins. Steer me in the right direction.

  However, my mother was as short-sighted as the rest. As a Middling, those who are without gifts or the power to dream travel, she’d never see how much fun it was to manipulate. My mother didn’t see a lot. Mostly because her life was so limited. And I wasted too many years of her life with my antics when I could have been with her, learning the lessons only she could teach me. The ones I only now realize Middlings can teach. Those of the heart. Dream Travelers are too distracted by our minds, by our gifts, to fully understand how love works. However, Middlings aren’t complicated in that way.

  “Ren, we’ve been doing this regularly,” Dr. Simon said to me that evening. He was thoroughly done with my shenanigans, and soon the poor chap would sod off to his meager dwelling on the outskirts of Peavey, where his family would abuse him with neglect and pesky remarks about his feeble appearance. He sighed deeply. “Ren, when you get caught, your mother makes her case to the vicar and somehow you end up seeing me instead of the constable. These opportunities for you to have rehabilitation instead of punishment are running out. I suggest you be real with me. I want you to tell me why you act out. Many of your teachers describe you as
having a chip on your shoulder. Of being hostile. Do you want to tell me why? This is your last chance.”

  More than once throughout my life I’ve been asked what it is that made me so hard, so hostile. Why would something have to make me the way I am? I’ve known dozens of happy people who have nothing to be happy about and still they plaster stupid grins on their faces every bloody day. There are those who are all scared and tortured and they’ve got no good reason for the self-pity. Nothing more than a few trivial things have ever happened to them. Forgetting their lunch. Missing an exam. Not getting the girl. And yet these lowlifes go through life like they were given a curse at birth.

  It’s mostly just a choice. Life doesn’t make most of us any certain way. We wake up, and usually without knowing it, act in a way that fits our personality. Nothing made me the way I am. Not really. Things colored me. Persuaded me. But no experience is responsible for making me hostile. It’s just the way I prefer to be. Also, who I am is a result of something inside my bones. Probably a monster who feeds off my unhealthy behavior. I’m not a victim of circumstance. I’m a man who believes that the best strategy involves being extremely cynical and even more conniving. And if there’s one thing I’m more excellent at than all the other things, it’s strategy. I’m a bloody master at it. Hell, I’m fairly certain God takes notes out of my book. He should. If he knows what’s good for him.

  I brought my eyes up to meet the therapist’s gaze. I’d made a great show of putting real emotions on my face. My bottom lip quivered a bit. My eyes were filled to the brim with fake tears. And when I opened my mouth an actual croak happened out. “It’s my sister, Lyza,” I wailed. “She abuses me. She abuses me badly,” I sang.

  “Your older sister, Lyza?” Dr. Simon said, sitting forward, almost knocking the pad off his thin lap.

  “That’s right,” I said, furiously nodding my head. “The one due to graduate early this year and with an acceptance to Oxford. That one. But what you don’t know is she does things to me,” I said, putting a look of shameful hurt on my face.