His spell, the spell he’d created that he’d been convinced would open a portal between the planes hadn’t worked. It didn’t even seem like it could ever have worked. His Ring was just a ring. It probably never had any powers at all, and was just some ring bought from one of those fantasy role-playing websites or something, years ago. Maybe the Cloak really was just some kind of Harry Potter merchandising. The spell of the Sinister Hand was all in his mind as well. He’d probably just stolen a report card from some teacher’s desk, and made up in his own mind all that stuff about sending off his left hand on its own, using soul power.
And because of his delusion, his madness, Sooz was going to be suspended and/or possibly expelled from school. Maybe even persecuted by “coppers.” Or was it “prosecuted”? He could never remember.
Anyway, he’d gotten her into a lot of trouble. And she was his … He wanted to say follower or servitor, but realized that was probably delusional too. She was his friend. One of only two or three real friends he had in the whole world. But then again, maybe somewhere in the world he actually had some real parents. Once, that thought would have filled him with horror. Now he wasn’t so sure. He began to tear up, as if he was about to cry. How could that be? Dark Lords don’t cry!
Pulling himself together, he choked back his tears and looked up. His face was empty of feeling, pale and wan.
“Maybe you’re right, Professor Randle,” said Dirk.
“Umm, I’m Dr. Wings—that’s Professor …”
Randle cut him off, “Let the boy speak, Wings, you idiot,” he said, irritated.
Wings glared back at him. Dirk half-expected him to make a face, or stick his tongue out at Randle, but he didn’t, though he looked like he really wanted to.
Dirk smiled weakly and went on. “But I can’t remember anything of my life before I came to earth. Or before I created the delusion that I came to earth. I can’t remember my parents, or any other life, except that of a Dark Lord, fallen to earth and trapped in the body of a human child. But the memories must be there, they must be—for all that Lord of Darkness stuff is just an illusion, isn’t it?”
“This is excellent progress, my boy, excellent!” said Professor Randle.
“Quite so—the first step on the road to recovery is recognizing that you have a problem!” said Wings, as he reached into his pocket and popped a piece of gum into his mouth. He began to chew laboriously. He offered one to Dirk.
Dirk stared at the package for a moment. The last time Wings had offered one of those, Dirk had been convinced it was some kind of trick, an attempt to drug him. This time he took the entire packet from him. Wings looked rather alarmed for a moment, but Dirk just took one and handed the package back. He chewed on the gum, savoring the minty flavor. Maybe he could create gum, if he ever made it back to his Inner Sanctum … but he caught himself. There was no Inner Sanctum, no Iron Tower of Despair, nestled in the lee of Mount Dread, no Gates of Doom. It was all in his mind.
“I’ve been having this recurring nightmare, as well,” said Dirk. He explained about the White Beast that pursued him nearly every night, chasing him through his mind like one of those inescapable dooms he used to send against his enemies (well, so-called, of course).
Randle narrowed his eyes, and Wings frowned. Then Wings’s face brightened as an idea came to him.
He spoke enthusiastically, “The White Beast is probably a subconscious manifestation of whatever trauma it is that has driven your mind into inventing this complex delusion. It is your mind trying to let it out, to express it. The trauma wants to come forth, to be recognized, but your conscious mind doesn’t want to see it, wants to keep it buried. It is as if your unconscious mind is hunting your conscious mind!”
He turned to Randle and grinned triumphantly, as if to say, “I got there before you did, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it!”
Randle screwed his face up and turned away, looking irritated. Then he sighed and said grudgingly, “I suppose you may be right.”
Dirk raised his eyes. These two were more interested in petty one-upmanship than actually helping him. Better get them back on track, he thought, so he said imperiously, as if commanding them to help him, “How can I get my real life back?”
“Ah, well, psychotherapy is probably the answer,” said Randle.
“Maybe even some hypnotherapy—see if we can bring those memories of your real life back to the surface,” said Wings.
“But we have to be careful with that,” said Randle, addressing Wings. “We mustn’t bring the trauma to the surface yet, just reestablish memories of his early childhood. He isn’t ready to deal with the trauma yet.”
“Of course,” said Wings testily. “What do you think I am, an idiot?!”
Randle nodded slightly, and made a gesture with his hands, as if to indicate that, yes, he did think Wings was an idiot, as a matter of fact. But then Randle caught himself, as he realized he’d overstepped the mark a bit, especially as Wings narrowed his eyes and gave Randle a murderous stare. Professor Randle looked sheepish and then brightened up, as he’d just thought of something to say that would appease Wings.
“You’re highly trained in hypnosis, Wings, aren’t you? One of the best! We could try a hypnotherapy session with Dirk right away, if he wants—and if his guardian, Mrs. Purejoie, gives permission,” said Randle.
Wings did seem pacified by the flattery. “Indeed, that’s true; I even teach hypnosis techniques. What do you think, Dirk. Shall we try it?” he said.
Dirk sighed. He knew all about hypnosis. Vampires used it to bewilder their prey. He’d used spells of hypnosis in the past to get information out of victims quickly, if there wasn’t time for torture. It was a powerful tool, but it was only when he came to earth that he learned it could be done without magic at all, just with the power of suggestion. And that would never work on a Dark Lord—his will was simply too strong. Then he realized he was fantasizing again. He was just a kid, and they were adults—of course it would work.
“Okay,” said Dirk. “I’ll try. Anything that might help me get my memories back. I just want to be a normal kid and get on with my life.”
“Very good, my boy, very good,” said Wings. “You really are doing so very well!”
“Yes,” said Randle. “I’m sure we’ll have you cured in no time at all! Well, a few months at least—these things do actually take a bit of time, you know.”
With that, they started to set things up. Randle went off to talk to Mrs. Purejoie, and returned a few minutes later with her written permission, which Dirk had to sign as well. Reflexively, he went for his Ring, meaning to use it to imprint his seal on the document, but then realized what he was doing, and simply signed it: “Dirk Lloyd.”
Then they got Dirk to sit comfortably in Dr. Jack’s large leather chair. Wings said he was going to use something called Progressive Relaxation Hypnotic Induction. He began to drone quietly to Dirk, telling him that he was falling asleep, that his eyelids were getting heavy, and so on—just like the stuff Dirk had seen on TV. But it didn’t work. Dirk couldn’t help saying things like: “No, they’re not, my eyelids aren’t heavy! They’re only tiny pieces of human skin, how can they be heavy?” He was reverting to type. After a while, Wings stopped.
“Listen, Dirk,” he said. “You’ve got to help me out here—it’s almost impossible to hypnotize someone who doesn’t want to be hypnotized. You have to relax. You have to want to go under. Trust us—we know what we’re doing!”
Trust them? thought Dirk to himself. That was the problem. He wasn’t a trusting kind of person—he always assumed people were self-serving, treacherous, and cunning, just like him … Except that he wasn’t, of course. It was all in his mind. He was just another human child. What a ghastly thought! He sighed resignedly.
“Okay, Dr. Wings, I’ll try,” he said.
“Good boy,” said Wings.
And this time Dirk did go under. Wings asked him to think back, to try and recall his first memories of his
father. Dirk twitched, and wrung his hands together, as if he was struggling to remember.
But then suddenly he said, “I remember now, I remember! It was so long ago, many millennia in the past. The First Age they called it. The White Wizard—Gamulus the Good! He was my father! But he rejected me—he said I would never be a Holy Priest-Wizard. I was too selfish, too self-absorbed. He threw me out of the academy, and cursed me, banished me from his sight. He said I had the taint of evil, and that he’d made a mistake in thinking he could bring me up in the Light. I was a thing of Darkness, and all this because I had dabbled in the black arts! Ha, what did the old fool know anyway? I didn’t need their fusty teachers, full of lectures about self-control, moderation, and love for all living things. I didn’t need their White Words of Power and their Books of Blessed Spells. I would create my own, build my own Academy, an Academy of the Moon, an Academy of the Night, and outstrip them all. I would show them, show him, my puffed-up father—I’d show him how truly great I was, and then one day, they would come to me and beg for knowledge, beg for forgiveness! I am the Great Dirk! I would crush him, and his Academy of Holy Knowledge. I would …”
“Umm, yes, well. That’s enough, Dirk, that’s enough,” said Wings.
Dirk fell silent, sinking back into his hypnotic sleep.
“Extraordinary,” whispered Wings to Randle, “I’ve never seen this kind of entrenched delusion before, it’s remarkable! So perfectly constructed.”
Randle whispered back, “Sounds like maybe his father was some kind of fire-and-brimstone evangelist preacher or something. He’s obviously got some serious issues with him. Why not ask him about his mother? Maybe that will dredge up something more normal.”
“Good idea,” said Wings, popping another piece of gum into his mouth. Randle’s eyes flickered with irritation. Wings’s constant gum chewing really got on his nerves.
“Now, Dirk, let us go back, right back. What can you remember about your mother? Who was she?” said Wings.
Dirk turned uncomfortably in the leather armchair. His face wrinkled up in distress.
“Mother … Mother,” he said. Then he smiled. “She loved me. She used to feed me. Sweet milk and … blood,” Dirk’s voice seemed to trail off, and he began to shift about in the chair as if he didn’t really want to talk about it.
Wings and Randle exchanged looks of fascinated surprise.
“This one could make our careers,” Randle whispered. “We could write a book about him!”
“I know, I know,” said Wings, shushing Randle into silence with his hands. “Go on, Dirk, tell us more about your mother.”
Dirk spoke dreamily, “She was beautiful. Pale and dark, her eyes were as black as night, but her lips were bright, like rubies. She was old, very old but young, so young. A queen, in fact, her blood was royal. Well, her original blood that is—she tended to, errr … borrow blood from others. She did that a lot, in fact.”
Wings and Randle seemed even more confused. Wings whispered, “Maybe she had leukemia or a kidney disease. Sounds like she had to have a lot of blood transfusions. Or dialysis, perhaps.”
“And died young because of it, possibly? Maybe that’s something he hasn’t really come to terms with, do you think?” said Randle.
“Could be. Wait, he’s about to say something,” said Wings.
“She was Queen of the Nightwalkers, an ancient people who had their city at Sunless Keep. She told me one day that my father came there once, and that she’d ensorcelled him, tricked him into loving her—though I couldn’t see why she needed to trick him. Who could not love that Dread Queen of the Night, the Dark Mistress of the Underworld, my mother, Oksana the Pale?”
Wings and Randle listened, fascinated by what they were hearing, Wings chewing gum, and Randle stroking his chin like the caricature of the professor he was.
Dirk continued. “So it was that I was born out of the union of a White Wizard and a Vampire Queen …”
“Oh, this is hopeless,” said Randle, throwing his hands up in despair. “It’s still all vampires and wizards—he’s making it all up again!”
“Wait a minute, he’s going to say something else,” said Wings.
“My father, Gamulus the Good, had fled Sunless Keep as soon as he’d had the chance, somehow breaking the bonds of the enchantment that held him. But when he learned that he’d fathered a son, he came for me. He came with Holy Fire and Blessed Steel, with Hawthorn Spears, hardened in the Sacred Flames of the Temple of Life, specifically made for the bursting of Vampire hearts. He came with an army of Paladins sworn to eradicate the Undead and all their works. They destroyed Sunless Keep, wrested me from the bosom of my loving mother, and slew her there in the Crypts. Then my father took me to the Academy of Holy Knowledge, to bring me up as one of their own.”
Dirk fell into silence. Tears ran from his eyes.
Randle whispered, “That’s it! It’s all made up nonsense, but that’s why. I bet you his father murdered his mother in real life!”
“Yes, it all makes sense,” said Wings.
Randle continued with the idea. “And then Dirk ran away from home, constructing this elaborate fantasy to soften the horror of it all.”
“It could even be that his father is in prison right now,” said Wings excitedly.
“We should check the records,” said Randle.
“Yes. It’s fascinating, fascinating. Did you record it all?”
“Oh yes, got it all on tape. I suppose we should wake him now, he’s looking upset,” said Randle.
“Yes, don’t want to make him suffer anymore! We have to take it gently, step by step,” said Wings.
“Wake up, Dirk!” he said loudly. He clicked his fingers.
Dirk woke with a start. He looked around, confused. “Did you find anything out? Professor Wandle? Dr. Rings?” asked Dirk.
“That’s Professor Randle,” said Randle tersely.
“Oh, let the boy speak,” snapped Wings, more than happy to pop one back at Randle.
Randle raised his eyes heavenward and ignored him. He said to Dirk, “Yes, we did, Dirk; it was very, very interesting.”
“So who were my parents?” said Dirk eagerly.
“It’s best we don’t talk about that yet,” said Wings as he pulled the pack of gum out of his pocket.
Randle gave Wings a look of pure irritation, snatched the gum out of his hand, and thrust it into his own pocket. Wings looked at him, quite astonished. Then Randle said, “Trust us, Dirk, it wasn’t really clear who they were. We must try a few more treatments, so we can get to the bottom of this.”
Wings stepped over next to Randle, as if he was maneuvering himself into a position where he could make a grab for the gum, and said to Dirk, “There are a few other angles we’d like to pursue as well, but we’ll let you know about them as soon as we can!”
Randle shoved Wings away with his elbow and said, “Oh yes, indeed. We’ll say good-bye for now, dear boy. You are really doing very well indeed, very well! We have to work on our strategy for your next course of treatment.”
They left the room. Dirk sat by the window, exhausted. He could hear Wings and Randle talking to Mrs. Purejoie in the hall for a few minutes. Once Dirk would have tried to eavesdrop on their conversation, but now he just couldn’t be bothered. Then he heard the front door opening and shutting. He watched Wings and Randle walk to their car. It looked like Wings was berating Randle quite angrily. Randle suddenly stopped, pulled the pack of gum from his pocket, and scattered the pieces all over the road. With that, he threw the empty pack into Wings’s face and stomped off to the car. Wings stood there incredulously for a moment and then made a face at Randle’s back. He picked a piece of gum off the ground. Randle was just opening the car door when Wings angrily hurled it at him. It struck him squarely on the back of the head, bounced off, and skittered into the bushes. Randle froze in shock for a moment, unsure as to how to respond. After a second or two, he just cleared his throat as if nothing had happened and got into t
he car. Wings grinned triumphantly. Then he bent down, picked up another piece of the gum, popped it into his mouth, and chewed ostentatiously before following Randle into the car.
Dirk shook his head despairingly. What a pair. And to think he was putting all his hopes and fears in their hands.
That evening, Chris came to see him. Dirk was slumped in his chair, listlessly gazing out the window.
“What’s going on, Your Dirkness?” he asked.
“Don’t call me that. I’m no longer the Dark Lord. I am just Dirk,” said Dirk miserably.
“What do you mean? What are you saying?” said Chris, shocked at what he heard.
“I am nothing. Just a boy. It was all a delusion, a kind of madness. A Dissociative Personality Disorder, as the psychologists called it,” said Dirk.
Chris couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But they’re idiots, those two. Wings and Randle. You said so! And what about ‘Them’?”
Dirk looked at him inquisitively.
“You know, ‘Them.’ ‘They.’ The do-gooders, the teachers, parents, social services and the rest, out there trying to control you, trying to control us! Aren’t we rebels anymore?” said Chris.
“No, we’re not, we’re just kids,” said Dirk glumly. “It’s over. It was all a dream. A game. A stupid delusion.”
Chris scowled. This was awful! He didn’t want to hear this. Without the Dark Lord, the Lloyd of Dirkness, they were all just kids again, powerless kids with no control over their lives. Hopeless teenagers. Just another bunch of school kids trying to make it to adulthood without too much damage. And without the Dark Lord, how were they going to save Sooz?
Dirk went on. “That fire proved it. It’s a good thing. It burned out the madness in my head. What a delusion! As if I could travel to another plane—it’s ridiculous!”
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