Mists of Everness (The War of the Dreaming)

by Wright, John C.

  “What about pictures? Documents?”

  “The phenomenon is psychological, not physical. Normal people simply cannot see any object that would remind them of the affected person.”

  “How is this possible?”

  “Unknown.”

  “What about touching? Hitting?”

  “If you try to attract too much attention, you start fading. You go blind, or maybe you turn transparent. You go numb, maybe insubstantial. I have limited data on this point. Maybe legends about incubi are based on this. The point is: once you are in the Mist World, if you start to steal from the normal world, or hit people, or wreck their belongings, the Mist gets thicker around you until you lose all contact with the real world altogether.”

  Now they were cutting across a field. They went over a split-rail fence and down through a copse of trees. The tangled branches were like a net overhead.

  Raven was shivering, and his breath came in clouds. The man in black handed Raven his cape. Beneath, the man wore a black jumpsuit with a harness to which dozens of tools, weapons, and pieces of equipment were attached.

  “Why do you dress in this way?” asked Raven.

  “Childhood hero of mine. Ever listen to old radio programs? ‘The weed of crime bears bitter fruit’? No? I thought it was particularly apt, considering how I’m turning this curse to my benefit.

  “Second reason: if the universe can explain any action as if there is no mist, then the mist doesn’t get any thicker. If I dress in black, and hide, then maybe the reason why a person doesn’t remember me is because he didn’t see me.

  “Third reason: did you notice how Azrael de Gray was dressed? Even when there was nothing but a bedsheet, he had to have a cape. Magic works by impressing an image on the racial subconsciousness of mankind. Simple images, old images, work best. Capes are impressive; sweatshirts are not. Swords are quaint and poetic; machine guns are not. Imagine a blindfolded statue of Justice with a balance in one hand and a machine gun in the other. Absurd image. It is the impressive, poetical things that have magic in them.”

  “You carry guns.”

  “Half the things in the Mist World are immune to gunfire. Guns, as a symbol, have not percolated down into the racial subconsciousness.”

  “But you carry guns!”

  “There’s always the other half.”

  “Other half?”

  “Evil men who use the Mist to hide their crimes. Police cannot see them. But I can. Some crimes are subtle, and it takes a while before the mists thicken around such criminals, thick enough to eject them from the universe. If I reach them, I eject them first.”

  “But how do you live? Without stealing?”

  The man in black answered, “In the old days, people left food out for fairies. Must have been easier then. Now there are several ways. If you take up a new identity, a new life, sometimes the universe will let you back in, if the new person is sufficiently different from the old. I have many such false identities: a wealthy playboy, a fighter pilot, a janitor, a newspaperman.

  “Some jobs you can keep without having to see people face to face. Stockbrokers, accountants, certain types of news writers. I have several of such men in my employ. Others can live on the fringes, seen, but not looked at: cab drivers, street bums.

  “I have set up a network of such men, to combat the network I found in place among the maniacs and madmen serving Azrael de Gray. By keeping these men away from crime, I can keep the mist from closing over them.

  “For example, my cabbie here; he still lives in his old house, and sometimes the mist gets thin enough that his wife, who thinks he is dead, can have a reunion, which, the next day, she thinks was an erotic dream.

  “And my broker, he just does his old job entirely by phone, making sure he never gets to know his clients personally; lonely, yes, but he is the only one in the mist who has been able to keep open a bank account that the tellers don’t forget about. He’s the only one of us who is overweight, since he can actually order food delivered and pay for it.”

  In the distance, Raven could see an automobile, sitting, lights off, by the shoulder of a dirt road.

  Raven asked, “Who is Azrael de Gray?”

  The man in black said, “I was hoping you could tell me. Back when I was in the real world, I was a rather important figure. You would not believe how important. There just aren’t that many inventors and engineers who are also attorneys, financiers, and who own their own newspapers. Without my consent, I had become sort of a political figure, a standard-bearer, a focal point for those who wanted to work hard, be free, and keep the money they earned for themselves. My editorials made quite a stir; but they also brought me to the attention of Azrael.

  “Let me tell you something of my past: My greatest joy in life was solving problems; I made quite a bit of money solving other people’s problems for them. Then the government regulators did their best to take away as much of that money as possible; people who did not know my business tried to tell me how to run my business, whom I could hire, when, where, how, and why. That was why I became a lawyer, you know; I wanted to be able to defend the wealth my inventions had brought me. But when the people vote in unfair laws, knowing those laws does not help; the only way to defend yourself then, is by molding public opinion. I bought a newspaper. I made it successful. I hired private detectives for some of my staff to help me track down a conspiracy I had noticed in the halls of power. Politicians, media bosses, criminals were showing a peculiar degree of cooperation. I tried to find why, tried to find how to solve the problem.

  “They found me first.

  “Azrael’s people approached me with an ultimatum: join them or else. They said they could strip away my family, my wealth, my position, all my accomplishments, my fame, everything—make it as if I had never existed. They showed me clear evidence of their supernatural power. Naturally, I defied them.”

  “And Azrael cursed you.”

  “Yes. This was four and a half years before he came to Earth.”

  “What?!”

  “Azrael’s scheme has been long in formulating. He has been communicating with his recruits here for years, in their sleep. His coming to this world was the culmination, not the first step, of long-laid plans.”

  “And the curse?”

  “I admit it was difficult, at first, to have all one’s accomplishments and life stripped away and forgotten. But my mind, my discipline and dedication, are what created those accomplishments, and nothing and no one can strip me of them. So I keep telling myself.”

  They approached the cab. The man in black continued. “At the outset, I estimated it would take five years to overthrow Azrael’s plans and, after that, about ten years to get back to the same wealth and status as I had had before. One advantage, of course, is I wouldn’t have to go back through law school if I sit for the bar in a state that allows open examinations. Also, certain applications of the magic I’ve learned might lead to new scientific developments that will be widely marketable. Just the use of hypnosis as a safe anesthetic has immense potential. I can’t wait to get this Azrael problem out of the way so I can get back to work!” He rubbed his hands together and smiled.

  VI

  Raven had eaten the two cans of soup in the little kitchenette and the box of crackers the librarian kept there.

  Miss MacCodam asked, “And what happened next? Did you become part of this vigilante hero’s secret organization?”

  “No. His first order, even before I got into cab, was to seek out the Gold Ring of the Niflungar, and stop the hurricane. Magic ring. But to use it, you must forswear love. I cannot forswear love. But, yet …”

  “People are dying in those storms, their homes destroyed, their lives destroyed. Some of them are losing loved ones, too.”

  “Is what he said. We argued. I left.”

  “How have you lived? You look so hungry …”

  Raven drew himself up. “I would not steal. Even when it is so easy. Invisible men can steal anything. So I m
ust starve, even with food in front of me. Sometimes I eat what restaurants throw away, or what people leave behind on their plates …”

  “And what now?” asked Miss MacCodam.

  “Now I am wrong. Now I must find magic ring. All I need to do is get hundred dollar bill, go to sleep, have dream about Franklin.”

  She said, “That’s impossible. No one can have a dream about something just by wishing they could.”

  “I think Galen could do this. I do not have his training. Maybe if I went to Everness; all dreams there are true. But how can man like me, without job, without life, find hundred dollar bill? If I steal, the mist will close over me, and no one see me ever again. Now I am willing to give up love, and I cannot.”

  He put his head down on the kitchenette counter, infinitely weary, sad, hopeless. Miss MacCodam reached forward and stroked his tousled hair.

  He jerked his head up, eyes staring blearily.

  She pulled her hand back. Her face felt warm; she was blushing. “Uh. Is it stealing if I get you a bus ticket? The bus driver might not see you, of course, but if the ticket has already been bought, you’ll have a perfect right to be there.”

  “Bus ticket? To where?”

  “Everplace. Whatever you called it. I assume there is a Gate of Ivory and a Gate of Horn; that’s the way Virgil describes it in the Aenead. It’s in the U.S., isn’t it? On this planet? Good. Because they’re having a supersaver special for anywhere in the United States … .”

  “Why?”

  Miss MacCodam leaned forward. “I don’t think forswearing love means what you think it means. The ring you’re talking about, it’s the same as the ring in Wagner’s opera cycle, isn’t it? Well, if you remember from the Götterdämmerung, Sigfried is married to Brünnhilde, and later to Gunther’s sister, I can’t remember her name. Obviously, he didn’t foreswear love.”

  “What? What do you talk about?”

  “If it’s like what Campbell describes in his Occidental Mythology, then the ring is a symbol of self-image, a Jungian archetype. Like a signet ring, it symbolizes self-identity, and the fact that it’s gold, which the ancient alchemists took to be the metal of refined virtue …”

  Raven held up his hand. “You are scholar. Learned woman. I see this now. I will follow your advice. What do you think I must forswear, if not love?”

  “Passion. Reckless love.”

  “You mean, the kind of love that makes man kill other man, a stranger, to save his wife?”

  “I really don’t know,” she said, suddenly uncertain. “I’m only guessing …”

  “No. You are scholar. I hear the wisdom in your words. Even if you are wrong, I have hope now. I am thinking, I can maybe use this ring without it destroys my life. I will take your bus to Everness. But why do you help me?”

  She smiled. “Haven’t you ever helped anyone before? A big, strong man like you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, maybe little mousy librarians like to feel big and strong too, you know. Besides, I saw the thing in the photograph.”

  Raven stood, and now he stood with his back straight. “Last question. How can I get a hundred dollars? You are not rich woman, no?”

  She smiled again. “I’m richer than you know.” She pointed out the door toward the stacks of books. “Rich in priceless treasure. There is a book on how to spot counterfeiting in the 300 section with plates showing all types of bills. If you don’t need a real bill, just a picture, you can photocopy the proper pages out of that book. I’ll call the bus company …”

  Raven stooped over the sink and washed the stains of dirt and tears from his face.

  6

  The Messenger of Darkness

  I

  “How long do we have to stay here, Hal? This is humiliating.”

  “Be quiet, Mr. President. I’m not going to ask you again.” In the steel and concrete bunker two levels beneath the Pentagon, the carpet had been taken up from the center of the room and a pentagram in gold wire had been inscribed into the floor.

  Surrounding this on three sides were computer banks on raised daises; on higher banks, behind them, stood radar screens, information terminals, telecommunications nexuses. The high ceiling was in shadow. Giant map screens hanging from overhead displayed, in green glowing lines and dots, weather patterns, troop positions, satellite telemetry, phone lines, highways, railheads.

  On the fourth side, where two computer banks had been moved, stood an empty throne. One arm was carved with a red dragon, the other with a white; a Roman eagle stood on a pole behind the throne; over the seat was flung a bear skin, with skull and claws still attached.

  On the fifth side, where the fire-control alert stations had been, was now an altar surrounded by candles. A dead lion cub lay on the altar stone, blood draining through channels in the stone into a silver chalice.

  The president, three members of his cabinet, the White House chief of staff, and twelve high-ranking members of various bureaus, whose budgets and activities appeared on no public record, were there. Nine law clerks who wrote opinions for the Supreme Court were here, dressed in black robes.

  In front of them, nearer the altar, was the man the president had called Hal. He was the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board, and over his blue pin-striped suit, he wore a cloak of white lamb’s wool.

  Behind them, and nearer to the center of the room, were men in the uniforms of generals and admirals of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Strangely, these men’s faces were young, and they had the tense, calm look of security officers and bodyguards.

  All these men were kneeling.

  Between two urns, one of lilies and one of red roses, Azrael de Gray was behind the altar, dressed in resplendent robes of pigeon blue, dark blue, and black, with silver trim. Seven necklaces of seven precious metals hung from his epaulettes, all connected to the huge diamond he wore in the midst of a pentagram of magnetized steel in the center of his chest. His shoulderboards and puffy sleeves exaggerated his size. His tall, pointed hat was sewn with diamond chips in the shape of constellations; around the brim floated moons of various phase.

  Azrael dipped an aspergillum into the chalice, and, with a flick of his wrist, sprinkled blood to the carpet, calling out in a great voice, “Phaleg! Bethor! Aratron! I call upon the Outer Gods, who are dimmer than great Morningstar, whom we call Hagith, Eophoros, and Phosphoros, though are allowed to mount the zenith, an honor denied to their master. By that master’s secret name, Bringer of Light, Teleos, come forth. I charge you; I compel you; I conjure you. Come forth from the mist, Aratron! Aratron! Aratron! Thrice called by your secret name, and I have brought the king’s blood for your sup!”

  A column of darkness began to form in the middle of the gold pentagram, shot through with black flickers of a darker hue, as if a dark counterpart to lightning were dancing around the column of a tornado.

  The president, still kneeling, palms clasped together, sneaked a glance over his shoulder at the manifestation, his eyes white with terror, his face beaded with sweat.

  Hal, the chairman of the Federal Reserve, reached back and jerked on the president’s tie. “Eyes front!” he hissed.

  The president jerked his eyes back toward the altar but shivered in the cold wind that began to blow through the chamber.

  Some people coughed. One or two of the men in back, pretending to be praying, bent their noses forward toward their clasped hands and tried to pinch their nostrils with their fingertips.

  Azrael raised the bloody chalice on high, head thrown back, garments whipped by cold and stinking winds, proud face illuminated by the strange lightnings radiating from the manifestation. With burning eyes he stared into the heart of the darkness.

  II

  In a darkened room not far away was a bank of television screens, each monitor showing the scene from different viewpoints and angles.

  The top left monitor showed the tornado of darkness forming into the image of an iron-faced goddess, draped in black and armed with a flail of ch
ains and shackles.

  Van Dam put down his cigarette and toyed with a control on his chair arm. “Depth seems funny on that camera. Woman looks bigger than the room she’s standing in.”

  Wentworth took a sip from his soda bottle. “Don’t worry about it. Must be supernatural. Are we getting a reading from microwave detectors?”

  “Like you said, sir, all four detectors report the woman manifestation is farther away than the opposite wall, even the detectors facing each other. It’s impossible, but there it is.” Van Dam pulled a banknote out of his wallet and handed it to Wentworth.

  “Impossible in three dimensions. Thanks.”

  Van Dam took a puff on his cigarette. “Heard anything lately about the Coldgrave problem?”

  “I tried to talk to Azrael about him. Coldgrave is useless at this point. Why do we need a handful of religious fanatics when we have practically the entire might of the U.S. military at our disposal? But Azrael wouldn’t hear of it. Maybe he still intends to make the man Pope, like he promised.” Wentworth shook his head in dismay. “We might have to eliminate Coldgrave. Blame his death on the missing Waylocks or the Russian fellow.”

  “Are you so good at telling lies in your sleep, sir?”

  Wentworth shrugged. “Well, it’s just an idea.”

  Van Dam suddenly straightened up in his chair, biting through his cigarette, so that the burning tip fell across his chin to the floor. “Holy Jesus God! Ah—Uh—”

  Wentworth nodded. “Azrael said she’d show up in a bad mood. That’s why we put the security men nearer to the pentagram, dressed up as top brass. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t kill Azrael at this point, but that she’d have to do something to someone to show she means business. Hm. Look at that. Azrael said she’d get two or three guys; and she took out two. He knows his business. Ah … you all right?”

  “I don’t know, sir. All that blood. We used to do something like that to frogs we caught when I was a kid … . I …”