“These two didn’t happen upon you by accident. They were chosen to speak to you. They no doubt discussed exactly what to say before they ever showed up. These aren’t just schemers, Colby. They are the greatest schemers. Seventy-two of the most cunning, underhanded backstabbers the world has ever known. They’d already thought well past this conversation and on to tomorrow before they ever stepped foot in that field. Of the sixty-seven they had, they chose Orobas and Amy. Why?”
“The Horse and the Holocaust Man. Please.”
“Fine. The Horse and the Holocaust Man. One can’t lie. The other is still bitter he was tricked into thinking he might one day return to Heaven. Why these two? Why send them to do the talking? There are more powerful spirits. More persuasive spirits.”
“Because these are the two I might trust.”
Yashar nodded. “Which means?”
“I can’t trust them at all.”
“Exactly.”
Colby finished his whiskey, but it did nothing to soothe the knot in his stomach. He held his glass to the light, rolling it around in his fingers, watching as the glare warped and twisted as it moved. “They’re not going to let me out of this, are they? I’m already in it.”
Yashar’s expression held hopeful aspirations of confidence, only to fall short, the confidence draining with the hope. “I suppose you are.”
“This time I’ve really done it. I’ve damned myself.”
Yashar shook his head. “Don’t kid yourself, Colby. You damned yourself a long time ago.”
“Yashar, what the hell has she become that it’s come to this?”
The two exchanged pained looks, the silence between them pregnant and brooding.
“Guys?” asked Gossamer. “What the hell happened in Australia?”
CHAPTER 19
DREAMTIME AND THE LAND OF DREAMS
AN EXCERPT BY DR. THADDEUS RAY, PH.D., FROM HIS BOOK DREAMSPEAKING, DREAMWALKING, AND DREAMTIME: THE WORLD ON THE OTHER SIDE OF DOWN UNDER
Western arrogance puts the cradle of civilization squarely in Mesopotamia, the root of our writing, storytelling, and technological achievements stemming from thousands of years of culture emerging from that region. And yet while our core beliefs stem from the original tales passed down around the campfires of that region, our history covers only a surprisingly short amount of time.
The Aboriginal tribes of Australia, on the other hand, constructed no great monuments, contributed no technological achievements, and offered no contribution to our emergence into history. Instead, in place of that, they possess an oral tradition stretching back tens of thousands of years. While thousands of years of man rose and fell before telling their story in clay, the Aborigines share tales of 25,000-year-old volcanic eruptions and the flooding that took place after the melting of the Ice Age. In fact, they share entire tales that take place on land that now rests at the bottom of the sea.
This is a culture that did not push forward on the cutting edge of technology because it focused instead upon mastering the power of creation. No other culture in the history of man has so understood the nature of its own surroundings, a fact mostly due to their entire culture evolving around respecting, protecting, and mastering what they live upon.
To listen to the tales of the Aborigines is to hear histories older than any text, to hear of heroes who walked the earth before it last froze over. And their tales of creation seem closer to the truth that remains today than any other I’ve found. To the Aborigines, the world was not simply created, it was dreamed into being. Things became conscious and then consciously began altering their surroundings.
They call it Dreamtime.
Dreamtime is the idea that in the beginning there was a substance of raw creation that beings, or consciousness, evolved from. Every tribe tells a different tale of the creatures that emerged, but the mechanism that follows is always the same. Those beings then walked the earth, imagining, or in some cases singing, things into being. Plants, animals, monsters, places, rivers, people. All came from the Dreamtime. Then, after most of the raw creation was spent forging the world, the beings that made it passed on and left behind a world full of wonder. Thus ended Dreamtime.
To the Aborigines, all land is sacred, for it is a place not only dreamed into being by the ancients, but it is also where the heroes of old walked. They do not merely revere their heroes, they revere the places where those heroes performed their greatest deeds. They revere the places where those heroes were born. They believe the land itself is the most important part of creation, because the land is, itself, the record of all stories.
There are three principal ideas one must grasp in order to understand the basic tenets of Aboriginal mythology: their relationship with the land, their relationship with time, and their relationship with death. Once you have those down, the rest you can pick up fairly easily.
The land. Many Aboriginal men are given custody of a parcel of land, much in the same way boys in regions of Thailand are given baby elephants. They have one job: to watch over it. Now, these men do not own the land, as they believe no one can truly own land. They merely protect it. They memorize every contour, learn the location of every rock and tree. They know which trees and bushes bear fruit and which bear poison. They learn the way the rain falls, where the water collects, and what animals come to drink. They learn the holes where all the snakes live, the caves where animals take shelter. More important, they learn, in song, the history of every important thing to ever happen on that spot of land. These men learn which hero defeated which animal with what weapon on which spot. They learn where villages rose and fell. They learn where people fell in love. They learn all of this and they protect it because it will one day be their job to pass that knowledge on to someone else.
During their time as custodian, these men will be asked to teach the songs of their land to others passing through. They lend them to others, and they borrow others’ songs when traveling. But just as no one truly owns the land, no one truly owns the songs either. We do not live long enough to own anything. We merely borrow it.
Time. There was once a psychological study that looked into the way people process information chronologically. Each was given a series of photographs of a person, ranging from their birth to their death, and asked to put them in order. Westerners from countries that read from left to right placed the photos in that order. Middle Easterners from countries reading right to left also ordered the pictures as such. Those from Asian countries reading from top to bottom placed their photos in order from top to bottom. But Aborigines all put theirs differently. Some were right to left, some left to right, top to bottom, bottom to top, diagonally. The researchers were baffled. So they began to ask the participants why they ordered their pictures the way they did.
The answer? The Aborigines were placing the photos east to west. To them, lives are lived with the rising and the setting of the sun. Their story is ordered by the land’s relation to the sun and that is how all time is measured.
Death. Aborigines do not, as a culture, fear death. While every tribe tells different stories of what becomes of you after death, each one believes the same basic notion. We are gifted with this life and this body, we borrow our time and sustenance from the land itself, and then, when the time comes, we go back to it. The concepts are similar to those of Native American tribes but with a much more pronounced belief in the story and history of what that life borrowed and gave back to the land.
In short, to them, all life is land, and all land is life. Their duty is to carry the burden of that land’s story and gift it to the next generation. In that way the story continues. And as quaint or cute as your Western mind may imagine that is, they have successfully carried stories that predate anything resembling the first Western civilizations. What we know of our history, we learn from archaeologists making educated guesses. What they know of theirs they learn from their fathers, with a trail that leads all the way back to the people who were there.
And knowing what we
do of dreamstuff, it is very hard to write off the more creative bits as being mere mythology. On the contrary, their tales of giant rainbow-colored dragons dreaming the world into being might be the closest approximation to the true dawn of man we have on record. The question is, did man evolve and dream those creatures into being, or did they dream us awake?
CHAPTER 20
THE CLEVEREST MAN IN ARNHEM LAND
ELEVEN YEARS AND NINE THOUSAND MILES AWAY
Colby was all of eleven years old and the Australian sun beat squarely down upon him in a way that would sap dry and kill most children his age. But not Colby. Not only had this little boy weathered the blistering drought of central Texas summers most of his life, but he had also spent the last three years of it walking the earth with Yashar through all manner of extremes. After the first year he’d stopped bothering to complain; by the end of the second he learned to enjoy the variety.
He’d been through blizzards in the Alps, monsoons in southern Asia, the skin-peeling sandstorms of scorching Persian deserts. This was just a little sun. He wore a wispy linen head wrap, sunscreen on his face, and a light robe to keep the sweat from pooling. He’d be fine.
Yashar, on the other hand, didn’t fare so well, shuffling more than he walked, his eyelids heavy, his expression one of fevered exhaustion. It looked as if he could pass out on his feet at any moment. But it wasn’t the heat weighing him down.
“Come on, Yashar. Pick up the pace,” said Colby.
Yashar bristled, his young companion dancing obnoxiously on his last, frayed nerve. “It’s not too late to sell you into white slavery. You’ve still got a few good years left in you.”
Colby laughed, knowing enough to understand Yashar was joking, but not quite enough to know what exactly he meant. “Are we almost there?”
“We’re almost there.”
“We should have hired a car.”
“Rented. You’re not British.”
“Australia. We’re in Australia. They say hired here. Hired sounds cooler. Rented means borrowed. Hired means employed.”
Yashar grumbled, his voice gravelly and dripping with irritation. “I know what they mean, Colby. I’m not an idiot.”
Colby looked up at Yashar, worried. “Yashar, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“You look tired. We should stop for a while and let you get some rest.”
“If I stop I’m going to fall asleep. I can’t fall asleep.”
“Why not? You never sleep anyway. You could use some.”
Yashar stopped, gritted his teeth, and took a deep breath. Then he looked down at Colby, swallowing his welling anger, letting it simmer in his gut rather than erupt. “Colby, djinn need to sleep. We don’t do it often, only every few years, but when we do, we sleep for ages. Weeks, months, sometimes years. The next time I close my eyes, I will fall deep asleep and I have no idea how long it will be before I wake back up. I need to make sure someone will take care of you before that happens.”
“And djinn are cranky when they’re sleepy?”
“Yes. Yes we are.”
“Wait, are you leaving me?”
Yashar nodded. “Yes, I am. But in good hands, I promise.”
“Where are you leaving me?”
“With a friend. Someone who has a lot to teach you. He’s the cleverest man in Arnhem Land. And he is walking just a few miles ahead of us.”
“How long will I have to stay with him?”
Shaking his head, Yashar’s expression fell from one of exhaustion to one of complete uncertainty. “I have no idea. That all depends on what the sleep demands of me.”
“Oh,” said Colby, not entirely sure what Yashar meant. “Will you dream? When you’re asleep, I mean.”
Yashar smiled big and broad, his eyes brightening for the first time in days. “Oh yes. We djinn have the most vivid, wonderful dreams. Beautiful women and magical lands, a mixture of all the things we’ve ever experienced combined with all the things we’ve ever hoped for. Some think it’s where we get our power; others say it is where we go to find ourselves after serving so long the dreams of our masters. All I know is that it feels so real that you are afraid to pull away, afraid to wake up, because you don’t really believe you’re dreaming. You think it’s real, and you’re afraid waking up means dying. That’s why I think we sleep so long.”
“So you’ll forget I’m out here waiting for you?”
“I might.”
“But you’ll come back, right?”
“Of course. I can’t sleep forever.”
Colby nodded, his smile weak and unconvincing. He was afraid, but trying to be strong for his friend. “Okay. I believe you.”
Yashar laughed. “Good thing too.”
The two continued walking, the heat getting worse as the sun rose higher. “Are you going to be able to make it much farther?”
“I think so. I have to.”
“We should have hired a car,” said Colby.
Yashar nodded. “We should have hired a car.”
MANDU MERIJEDI BASKED cross-legged in the sun atop an oblong seven-foot-high, red granite boulder, his eyes closed, hands extended palms up, elbows resting on his knees. The sun sat in the sky both perfectly above and behind him, as if placed there deliberately. This was not only Colby’s first impression of the man, but also how he would remember Mandu forever. There was something infinitely wise about him waiting there silently for his destiny. So calm. So peaceful. Mandu waited, knowing full well that his life, at any moment, was about to change. And the fact that this did not scare him made quite an impression.
Yashar looked down at Colby, his eyes weary and bloodshot. “Wait here,” he said. “No matter what happens, don’t leave this spot.”
Colby swallowed hard. He didn’t like it when Yashar said that.
Yashar stepped forward, took a deep breath, and exploded.
His flesh burned yellow, then gold. He swelled in size and smoked. His head went bald, his muscles rippling, eyes glowing a hellish red. Then his voice boomed like a vocal earthquake, rumbling like thunder, drifting into the desert, scaring bandicoots into their holes.
“MANDU MERIJEDI!” he shouted, the rock beneath Mandu shaking with the sound. “I DEMAND AN AUDIENCE!”
But while the earth trembled, Mandu did not. “You have found him, spirit,” said Mandu, quietly. “I am he.” He did not open his eyes; he merely breathed calmly, not moving a muscle.
“I HAVE A TASK FOR YOU!”
“What spirit calls me?” he asked as if he did not know.
“YASHAR, THE CURSED ONE, SPIRIT OF THE . . .”
“So much smoke and noise for such a simple spirit. I know who you are. This”—he said, waving his hand around at Yashar as if he could see him—“is not who you are.”
Yashar swore beneath his breath. “I HAVE A—”
Mandu opened a single eye, peering mischievously, patting the spot on the boulder beside him. “Yashar, come sit. Come sit.”
Yashar sighed, his powerful form deflating. His muscles withered, the glint of his skin fading back into a dark olive, smoke dissipating weakly into a mist before vaporizing into nothing at all. He was once again Yashar the man. Slowly he crawled up the boulder and took a seat next to Mandu. “That . . . that actually is my natural form,” he said softly.
Mandu closed his eye, shaking his head, and continued to seemingly meditate. “But that is not who you are. You prefer this form. You prefer this voice. The rest of that was all for show.”
“It was.”
“I don’t need a show. I respect your power, spirit.”
“I need a favor.”
Mandu smiled. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. What brings you so far from home?”
“I bring you a young dreamwalker who needs to learn the old ways.”
Mandu opened his eyes, eyeing Colby up and down. Colby’s clothes were ratty, beaten and torn by the Australian bush, his face dirty, freckled, and tanned, his re
d hair wrapped in linen. “But he’s a white fella,” said Mandu. “And he’s not dreaming. He’s awake.”
“I know,” said Yashar.
“You can’t teach the white fellas the old ways. They don’t understand them.”
“This one can.”
“No, it can’t be done.”
“Mandu, I’m tired. I need to sleep. Colby here is in my charge. I need him looked after and I need him to learn the old ways.”
“Why the old ways? Why not his own ways?”
“It was his wish.”
Mandu looked at Yashar, his eyes confused, incredulous. “What’s this?”
“He wants to learn the old ways. He’s a good pupil. Fascinated by it all. His wish was to learn about . . . the way things really are. This is where it all began. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Mandu nodded slowly, now more curious than indifferent. “What are you offering?”
“Mandu—”
“You know the rules. I do the spirit a favor and the spirit does a favor for me.”
“What you ask is dangerous, my wishes, they—”
“I know your curse, so my demand is this: you must never, ever, no matter how long from now it is, grant the wish of a single fella of Arnhem Land. It will stay free of your curse and none shall know the sorrow of your broken gifts.”
“And for that you will train the boy? Look after him until I get back?”
“Yes.”
“Then I promise,” said Yashar.
“Say the words.”
Yashar fought through his weariness, clearing his throat, adding a bit of proper, rehearsed seriousness to his tone. “I promise never to grant the wish of a single person of Arnhem Land, no matter what the circumstances, in exchange for your tutelage of, and promise to care for, the boy Colby Stevens.”
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