Dreamwalker

by Oswald, J. D.

  ‘How?’ He asked himself and his voice rang out loud and clear. But it was like listening to a memory of his speech, the words forming directly in his mind.

  ‘I brought you here, Errol Ramsbottom,’ came a reply that he had not been expecting. It was not a man’s voice, although it was undoubtedly masculine. It was larger somehow, more measured and authoritative. A voice used to being taken seriously.

  ‘Who?’ Errol asked, unsure as to whether he spoke the words or merely thought them, unsure as to where he really was.

  ‘You know who I am, Errol,’ the voice said, and Errol realised that he did.

  ‘Dragon?’ he said. He had seen pictures in one of old Father Drebble’s bestiaries showing forest dragons. They were sad looking things with drab hides and pathetic, vestigial wings.

  ‘My descendents are a pale shadow of their true selves,’ the voice said. ‘That has been their choice. But once, when I walked this earth, we were great, the masters of all. Since I died I have watched them shrink into obscurity.’

  ‘Died?’ Errol said and his voice rang out the question in his head.

  ‘Yes, Errol. I died. Many thousands of years ago. And my jewels were laid to rest at this nexus in the Llinellau Grym. Since then I have watched countless generations come and go, both dragon and men, never amounting to very much. But we are reaching a critical point, your kind and mine and you will have a key part to play in that change.’

  ‘Me,’ Errol said. ‘But I’m no one. I mean, I’m not special.’

  ‘If that is what you truly believe, that is how it will be,’ the dragon-voice said. ‘But I think you are made of greater stuff than you realise. You have already taken the first step on the path to becoming a mage. I’ve watched you these past few years, growing up, learning far faster than your peers, trying so hard to understand the world around you. It will come in time, but have you the patience to learn? And are you prepared to accept help from wherever it is offered?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Errol asked. He had a creeping feeling of unease. Like he had walked into a room and couldn’t remember why.

  ‘Your destiny is your own, Errol Ramsbottom. You can be as much or as little as you want. All you need to do is make the right decisions. But remember this, you can have power or you can have happiness. Sometimes it may seem that you can have both at the same time, but that can never last. In the end it is either one or the other.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Errol said, but there was water in his mouth and the warm protective darkness had turned to a cold, wet, clinging fear. Gasping and choking, he lunged upwards, his head breaking free of the surface of the pool in a short-lived ecstasy of relief. The night was almost total now, the looming shape of the rock a darker shade of black against the cloud. Thrashing this way and that, Errol tried to see where Martha had got to, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Panic gripped him and he thrust his head under the surface in a useless attempt to see where she might have sunk. Even in the daylight he wouldn’t have been able to see more than a couple of inches in that dark stuff. With no moon or stars to light his way he stood no chance. She would drown, dragged down by that deceptive, lazy current. And it would be his fault.

  No. It would be Trell’s fault. Hot rage flushed through Errol at the memory of that leering face coming out of the darkness. Then the fall and the oddly fascinating beauty of the grym encompassing all living things, grasses, trees and shrubs set within their grid, insects and other animals bright sparks against the background glow.

  Martha would be a glow too, Errol realised. And there had been so much life in her. There was so much life in her still, surely, that she would stand out like a beacon atop a dark hill. Treading water, Errol tried to recapture the frame of mind that had allowed him to see so much of the grym before. A sense of terrible urgency and dread spread through him as he realised that time was slipping away from him. Martha could be underwater or merely trapped against rocks with her head immersed. Either way she would soon be dead.

  Trying to suppress the panic, he fixed his attention on the major lines. He knew they were there. He had seen them. He was sure of them. He believed in them. Even so, all he could conjure up was the faintest of trails. Frustrated and shivering, he swam swiftly towards the beach, standing up out of the water to get a better look. His clothes hung soaking from him and the wind did its best to get into his bones. Still he wouldn’t give up. She had to be here somewhere.

  ‘Dammit Martha! Where are you?’ He shouted at the night, but no reply came. Hurrying, Errol sprinted to the top of the rock. There was no sign of Trell anywhere; so like him to run off when he could have been useful. From his earlier vantage point, Errol could see down into the pool below, but it was as black as pitch, just the faintest of glimmerings showing where the lines deflected through the water to meet under his feet.

  ‘Dragon, help, please,’ Benfro said quietly, desperately. Almost instantly he could feel the presence in his mind like a blast of fire. He forgot the chill and the wet, forgot his panic. The grym appeared to him in all its multi-hued magnificence, the lines pulsing their slow cycle of plant life and the myriad small specks an uncountable mass of insects and small, nocturnal animals. He could see the solid life-glow of the old fish as they poked around at the base of the rock and there, unmoving amongst their slow spiral, pale and weakening, a shape at once utterly alien and deeply familiar.

  He didn’t wait to think about it, didn’t consider his own safety. Errol just jumped. This time he hit the water in no time, plunging beneath the surface with his lungs full. Swift strokes took him to the bottom of the pool and the cold, still form of Martha. He took her in his arms and pushed off, swimming as strongly as he could for the shallows and the beach.

  By the time he had dragged Martha’s motionless body up onto the dry sand, Errol’s anger-fuelled energy was beginning to wane. He could feel his arms and legs stiffening up with the cold and knew that he would collapse soon. But Martha was unmoving, pale in the darkness. Bending close, he tried to hear her breathing. There was something he should be doing; his mother had schooled him in how to deal with emergencies, but faced with the real thing, he could only stare stupidly at the cold, still form.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ the dragon voice said to him, shocking his mind from the stupor it was falling into. ‘Her lungs are full of water. You’ve got to get that out. Roll her over and pump her arms up and down.’

  Bemused, Errol did as he was told, marvelling at the pints of water that spewed from Martha’s mouth.

  ‘Now you’ve got to get some air into her,’ the voice said and as it did, so Errol remembered what he was meant to do. Working as quickly as his cold muscles would let him, he bent over Martha’s head, lifting it back slightly. Then he pinched her nose closed, opened her mouth and breathed deep into her. Like ice, her lips burnt his and she lay so still he was convinced that she was dead. He was too late.

  ‘Don’t stop now,’ the dragon voice said to him. ‘Check if she has a pulse.’

  Errol had seen his mother take pulses before; that much he could do without instruction. Martha’s was weak and fluttering, but it was there. Now all he had to do was make her breathe. Taking her head in his hands once more, he put his mouth to hers and blew. Her chest rose then fell again, staying down. He was about to try once more when with a great wracking cough, Martha spewed up even more water, rolled onto her side and started taking in ragged, gasping breaths.

  ‘Thank the Shepherd,’ Errol said quietly, pulling Martha up to him and hugging her tight, trying to give her some of the warmth he could ill afford to spare.

  ‘I don’t think he had anything to do with it, actually,’ the dragon voice spoke in his head. ‘But I’ll allow you such platitudes, given the circumstances.’

  Martha opened her eyes at the words.

  ‘You met Sir Radnor then,’ she said, her voice hoarse and deep, almost adult. And then a bizarre smile spread across her face. ‘Hey, you kissed me Errol Ramsbottom.
Does that mean you’re my boyfriend?’

  Errol was going to protest, but instead he just laughed as they shivered there on the damp sandy beach. Then a shout from the trees behind them broke the moment. Turning, Errol could see torches coming up the path at speed, the flames flickering with promised warmth. Tom Tydfil the smith was at the head of the line, his face creased with anguish. Godric Defaid and his son Clun were not far behind, with Trell reluctantly following his father bringing up the rear.

  ‘Where is she?’ Tom shouted at the top of his voice, then spotted Errol on the beach. ‘What have you done to my daughter, Witch Boy? By the Shepherd, I’ll flay you alive if she’s hurt!’

  Errol tried to protest, but he was too tired and Tom too strong. The smith pushed him roughly aside and pulled Martha up into his arms. She seemed to be fighting him off, but she too was weak and cold, collapsing into his arms eventually with a sob and a sorry glance in Errol’s direction.

  ‘He was darin’ her to stand on the edge, I saw ‘em both,’ Trell shouted in a high-pitched, weedy voice of desperation.

  ‘Is this true?’ The smith demanded, and evil malice in his voice.

  Errol looked at the three men who made up the village council. Only Godric had some glimmer of sympathy in his eyes.

  ‘We were near the edge, yes,’ Errol said, a shiver quavering his voice. ‘But we wouldn’t have fallen in if Trell hadn’t clouted me with that great stick.’ He pointed up at the flat base of the rock where a stout branch, cudgel-shaped and cleaned of twigs lay discarded.

  ‘That’s preposterous, Alderman Clusster said, bristling at the accusation to his good name. ‘How dare you accuse my son after he tried to save you!’

  ‘Save me,’ Errol laughed. ‘He wanted to kill me. He only got scared when he realised Martha was here as well.’

  ‘And just what were ye doin’ wit’ my daughter, Witch Boy? How dare ye bring her here, of all places?’

  Errol frowned at the smith. He hadn’t brought Martha to the Jagged Leap, she had come of her own accord. And the accusation that he had been doing anything with the smith’s daughter was laughable too. He was innocent in that regard. Or at least he had been until they had fallen in the pool, Now it felt oddly wrong protesting that innocence. To Errol’s eternal gratitude, Clun’s father stepped into stop the interrogation.

  ‘Now’s not the time, Tom,’ Godric said. ‘Look, they’re both soaked through and the night’s only going to get colder. I’ll take Errol back to his ma and we can sort this all out in the morning.’

  ‘Any excuse to go and visit the old witch eh, Godric,’ Alderman Clusster said with barely concealed distaste. Ignoring him, the councillor helped Errol to his feet.

  ‘Give him yer coat, eh Clun. The poor boy’s freezin’,’ he said. Clun quickly pulled the garment off and handed it over without a word. Errol wrapped it around his shoulders. It was several sizes too big for him but he didn’t care. The warmth enveloped him like an oven.

  ‘Can ye make it back to the cottage, Errol, or shall we go down to the village?’ Godric asked him, ignoring the other two councillors.

  ‘I can make it home, thankyou,’ Errol said. Once he got moving he was sure he would warm up enough, and his mother would have plenty of potions to restore him back to normal. She would also have endless questions and would no doubt berate him for his foolishness but he would far rather get that over and done with than spend an evening in some stranger’s house.

  ‘Tomorrow then, Tom, Ned,’ Godric said and holding up his flaming torch beckoned Errol and Clun ahead of him up the path.

  ‘Well, ye’re a bit of a dark horse, Errol,’ Clun said after they had been walking for several minutes at a fast pace. ‘Who’d ‘a thought it, Tom Tidfil’s daughter an’ the Witch Boy.’ He sniggered quietly to himself.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ Errol protested half heartedly. He knew it was pointless trying to change Clun’s mind, and besides, a part of him wanted it to be like that.

  ‘Sure, I understand,’ Clun said, the chuckle still in his voice. ‘You an’ her jes’ up there on Jagged Leap watchin’ the grass grow.’

  ‘Her name’s Martha,’ Errol said, realising as he did that it was not the right thing to say.

  ‘Martha is it,’ Clun guffawed. ‘When’s the weddin’ then?’

  Errol kept his mouth shut and endured a long tirade of jokes from Clun as they made their way along the wide track into the forest. Godric said nothing, simply holding his torch aloft for them to see the way. Soon they were passing along familiar paths, and before too long they had entered the small clearing where his mother’s cottage stood.

  The door was open, spilling light over the grass and the silhouetted shadow of Hennas. Errol could tell by the way that she was standing that he was in trouble. It was hours after he should have been home. He should have been tending to the animals, digging over the vegetable patch and any number of other mindless tasks his mother found to fill his time. Yet looking at her standing there, awaiting their arrival, he couldn’t help thinking that she knew exactly what had happened already.

  ‘Good evening, Mistress Hennas,’ Godric said, having swept past the two boys. ‘There’s been an incident with yer boy, Errol. I thought it best to bring him straight home.’

  ‘I know full well what my son has been up to Godric,’ Hennas said, her smile for the councillor turning to an all too familiar stern grimace of disapproval as she swept her gaze across to Errol. ‘You’d think that Ben Coulter’s death at the Jagged Leap would be enough to keep him away from that place.’ Her face softened then and Errol let out a sigh of relief. ‘But he’s headstrong and wilful, like all boys of his age, I’ve no doubt. He thinks he can do anything. Hopefully this experience will prove to him that he can’t.’ She stepped out of the doorway and motioned for them to step into the house.

  Inside it was warm, a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. Errol went straight to it, peeling off Clun’s now moist coat and holding his hands out to the flames. Now he was home and safe the cold and exhaustion swept over him as if sheer force of will had been holding it back.

  ‘Go change, Errol,’ Hennas said, not unkindly. You’ll catch a chill standing there in those wet clothes. ‘Clun, you go with him. I’ll hang your coat up to dry awhile before you leave.’

  Reluctantly Errol took a candle from the mantel and trudged out of the room into the back of the cottage. Clun hesitated for a moment, then followed, leaving the adults alone.

  ‘So this is where ye live,’ Clun said, stepping into the small room. Errol felt uneasy, waiting for the snide comment to come. Instead, Clun just looked around at the small bed in the corner, the wooden chest full of clothes and the big table, set under the window and covered in scraps of parchment, books and quill pens. ‘It’s not bad, really,’ he said. ‘Better than I was expectin’.’

  ‘Where’d you think I lived, a pigsty?’ Errol asked, slightly more bitterly than he felt. He peeled off his clothes, still soaked but no longer dripping wet, and rubbed his cold skin with a rough towel before pulling on clean trousers and a heavy cotton shirt. He was still cold and wanted to get back to the warm living room at the front of the house, but Clun stopped him.

  ‘Give ‘em a bit longer,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Errol asked, then the realisation hit him. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Clun smiled. ‘It’s kind’ve weird really. We could be step-brothers soon.’

  ‘Is that why you started being nice to me?’ Errol asked.

  ‘Partly, I guess,’ Clun replied. ‘Mostly ‘cause ye stood up for yersel'. I was getting that sick’ve Trell, goin’ on like his dad was King or summat when he’s really jes’ a self-righteous little shit. He goes on about yer mam bein’ a witch and all but ye know what happened when he got his own daughter up the duff. Came running up here like a scalded cat, beggin’ fer help.’

  Errol remembered the visit well. He had kept to his room but the cottage wasn’t so big that he couldn’t hear every word of the hea
ted conversation, even over the hysterical sobbing of Trell’s sister, Maggs. Hennas had refused to even countenance what the Alderman had asked, insisting it was Maggs’ choice to make and not something she could be browbeaten into by her father. Errol had feared for his mother’s safety, such was the Alderman’s rage at her. He had learned a few words that weren’t in the big dictionary in the school library that evening, but finally Maggs had pulled herself together enough to order her father out of the room. After that things had gone very quiet, but nine months later there were no new Clussters. On her sixteenth birthday, not half a year ago, Maggs had left the village and gone to stay with her aunt in Candlehall. Or at least that was what the gossip said.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Errol said, Clun’s words finally sinking in. ‘Alderman Clusster was the father? His own daughter? That’s...that’s..!’

  ‘T’aint as uncommon as ye might think,’ Clun said. ‘Ye never wondered why half a’ the villagers look the same?’

  Errol had, on many occasions. He nodded.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s why most of them don’t like ye. Ye’re diff’rent.’

  ‘Martha said I looked like a Llanwennog,’ Errol said, recalling the incident with a clarity that surprised him.

  ‘Couldn’t say,’ Clun said. ‘Never met one. But it’s not just yer looks, Errol. Ye’re smart, ye can read an’ write, ye speak proper like. And yer mam’s got a power over everyone. It’s weird. She helps ‘em, heals ‘em, gets rid ‘a their little problems, and they hate her fer it. Well, some ‘a them, anyway.’

  Errol wondered what Clun was going on about. Was this just a delaying tactic to give his father more time to press his suit? He’d never had such a long conversation with anyone other than his mother before. Except with Martha, of course. But that was different, somehow.

  ‘I can’t wait to get out ‘a this place,’ Clun said after a while. ‘This whole village. It’s too small. Everyone’s in each other’s business the whole time. What d’ye reckon my chances are inna choosin’ this year?’