The Dreamthief's Daughter: A Tale of the Albino

by Michael Moorcock

  As we walked I asked Fromental if he knew Bastable. Fromental had met him once at this very university. He understood that Bastable regularly visited the main city of Mu Ooria.

  “So it is possible to come and go?”

  Fromental was amused. “Certainly, my friend. If you’re Bastable. That Englishman belongs to a somewhat exclusive group of people who are able to travel what some call the moonbeam roads. It’s a talent denied me. He can move from one sphere to another at will. I understand he believes you to be a very important fellow.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “From Ma’m’selle Oona. Who else?”

  “I think he values my sword more than he values me.”

  “Scholar Gou knows him. I’ve heard him speak about it. I think Bastable values both.”

  And then we had stepped through another archway and entered a house that seemed made of flesh and blood internal organs yet was cold marble to the touch.

  We were in a very high chamber lit by a chandelier containing dozens and dozens of the same long, slender light bottles I had seen earlier. Around the walls of the chamber were charts, diagrams, pictures in many languages. The dominant script reminded me of the most beautiful Arabic in its flowing, elaborate purity. Clearly the written speech of the Off-Moo. All in what to my eye was monochrome, as if I had entered a film set and was trapped in a wild adventure serial.

  Fromental’s voice seemed even deeper and more resonant. “Count von Bek, may I present my good friend and mentor Scholar Fi, who directed the team which healed you.”

  My voice sounded coarse and heavy in my own ears. I could scarcely open my mouth and not gape. At first I thought I had come upon my doppelgänger, but this figure was far taller and thinner, even though his long, thin triangular features were an exaggerated version of my own. He too was an albino. But his skull must have been at least twice the length of mine and about half the width and was framed by a conical headdress that went to a point, exactly mirroring the length and shape of the scholar’s face. The hat fanned over his shoulders across a garment identical to my own, with long “mandarin” sleeves and a hem that trailed the floor. I could not make out the size or shape of his feet. His robe, however, was woven from the same fine silk as the one I wore. His slanting ruby eyes, his long ears and strangely shaped brows all made his face a parody of my own. Were people like this my ancestors? Was it Off-Moo genes which made me an earthly outcast? Had I found my own people? The sudden sense of belonging was overwhelming and I almost wept. I recovered myself and thanked him gravely for his hospitality. And for bringing me back to life.

  “You are most welcome.” As soon as the creature spoke in the beautiful, liquid formality of Greek, I knew that my preconceptions had been nonsense. “It’s only rarely I have the privilege of serving one of your particular physiology, which has much in common with our own.” His voice was gentle, precise, lilting—almost a song. His skin was if anything paler than my own and much thinner. His eyes were a kind of rosy amber, and his ears slanted back from his head, ending in points. My own ears, though not as exaggerated, were similar to his. They were called “devil’s ears” in my part of the world.

  Scholar Fi seemed an enthusiastic host. He asked after my well-being and said if I had any questions he would answer them as best his poor powers allowed. I had a feeling Fi spoke with the modesty of genius. First he took me to an alcove and showed me my sword resting there. Fromental, perhaps discreetly, said he had some business on the outskirts of the city and would rejoin us later.

  Scholar Fi suggested we stroll in the shade-flower forest, which was restful and aromatic, he said. Gently he led me from his house through serpentine streets where orderly natural rows of gigantic pagoda stalagmites marched into the distance, all illuminated by the glow from the river. As I looked closer I realized the vast pillars were thoroughly occupied. Such glorious architecture would touch a chord in any romantic, finding that authentic frisson the poets entreated us to seek. What would Goethe, for instance, make of all this extraordinary, pale beauty? Would he be as overwhelmed, both aesthetically and intellectually, as I?

  Scholar Fi led me through a series of twitterns to a wall and a gateway. We passed into an organic world of pale grey and silver—an astonishing spectacle of huge plants which grew from a single massive stem and opened like umbrellas to form a canopy displaying delicately shaded membranes. The giant plants also resembled living organs, like a cross section in a medical book. They gave off a heavy, narcotic scent which did not so much sedate as excite. My vision seemed to improve. I noticed more detail, more shades. Fi told me that in Mu Ooria there were gardens like this as large as earthly countries. The flowers and their stalks were important sources of nutrients and remedies, as well as materials from which to make their furniture and so on. They grew in rich silt which the river brought from the surface. “The river brings us everything we need. Food, heat, light. Originally we lived in towers and galleries already hollowed by the water’s action but gradually, as our numbers expanded—we occasionally give birth to twins—we learned to fashion houses from within, using chiefly elemental methods.”

  Although not entirely understanding some of his answers, I asked him how old their civilization was. I could not believe a human traveler had never visited this place and returned with his story. Scholar Fi was regretful. He was not an expert in time, he said. But he would find someone who could probably translate for me. He thought his people had probably existed for about as long as our own. The journey between one world and the other was a matter of luck, since it involved crossing the Lands Beyond the Light, and the methods we used on the surface to measure space were less than helpful there. That is why they never felt curious enough to visit what Scholar Fi called “the Chaos side,” presumably the surface. Their notions of the natural universe were as alien as their ideas of medicine. I could only respect them. I was getting a glimmering of their logic, beginning to understand the way the Off-Moo perceived reality. I could understand Fromental’s fascination. As I walked in that narcotic mist, the huge veins and sinews of the plate plants vibrating overhead, I casually considered the idea of forgetting Hitler and staying here, where life was everything it should be.

  “Fromental and a party of others leave for Mu Ooria when the current turns to the fourth harmony. You will be wanting to go with them? Can you hear the harmonies, Count Ulric? Are you familiar with”—a glint of dry humor—“our aural weather?”

  “I fear not,” I said.

  He produced a small piece of metal from his sleeve, holding it in those incredibly long fingers that seemed too delicate to grasp a bird feather. He then blew on the metal, producing a sweet vibration.

  “That is the sound,” he said.

  I think he expected me to remember it after hearing it only once. I decided that my best chance was to stay with Fromental at all times and depend upon his experience and wisdom.

  “I am hoping to get help in Mu Ooria,” I said. “I need to return to my own world. I have a duty to perform.”

  “There you will find our wisest people who will help you if they can.”

  I remembered to ask him more about the creature who had met us on the bridge. Lord Renyard was an explorer and a philosopher, said Scholar Fi. His old home had been destroyed in a supernatural battle and his current home was under threat, but he was a regular visitor. “He has never known others of his own kind. You are probably lucky that he wasn’t able to pump you on your knowledge of the thinkers and scholars he admires. He has a great enthusiasm for one of your philosophers. Do you know Voltaire?”

  “Only as well as the average educated man.”

  “Then you are probably fortunate.”

  I had not expected sarcastic humor from such a being as Scholar Fi and again I was charmed. There were more and more reasons why I should stay here.

  “He wanted to greet you so badly.” Scholar Fi led me around a great piece of bulbous root that seemed to rise and fall like a creature
breathing. “He was acquainted apparently with one of your ancestors, a namesake, whom he had known before his fiefdom was destroyed by warfare. He had considerable praise for this Count Manfred.”

  “Manfred!” The family had always considered him an embarrassment. A liar on the scale of Munchausen. A scapegrace and turncoat. A spy. A Jacobin. A servant of foreign kings. An adventurer with women. “His name is never mentioned.”

  “Well, Lord Renyard seemed to think he was a fair scholar of the French Enlightenment, by which he sets great store.”

  “My ancestor Manfred was a scholar only of the street song, the beer stein and the good-natured strumpet.” He had brought such shame to the family that a later ancestor of mine destroyed many of his accounts and suppressed others. Manfred had been the hero of a famous burlesque opera: Manfred; or, The Gentleman Houri. There had been some attempt by his contemporaries to have him declared insane but after escaping the French Assembly, of which he had briefly been a member, he kept his head and disappeared into Switzerland. The last anyone heard, he had appeared in Mirenburg in the company of a Scottish aerial engineer by the name of St. Odhran. They had made claims for an airship which they could not substantiate. Eventually they escaped from angry investors in their vessel. Apparently they turned up again later in Paris selling a similar scheme. By that time, to our family’s intense relief, the name von Bek was no longer used. He was also known as the Count of Crete, and rumor had it that he was hanged as a horse thief in the English town of York. Other stories claimed he had lived near Bristol as a woman for the rest of his life, broken by love. And another story told how he had tracked a piper out of Hameln, never to be seen again. I became disturbed. Was I following in the footsteps of legendary ancestors whose lives had been so secret even their nearest and dearest did not know who they really were? And was it my destiny to be destroyed by the knowledge which had almost certainly destroyed them?

  Scholar Fi was baffled by my opinion of Manfred. “But I am learning more and more about your perceptions.”

  I tried to explain how we no longer believed the old myths and folktales of our ancestors and he continued to be mystified. Why, he wondered, would one idea have to be rejected in favor of another? Did we only have room in our heads for one idea at a time?

  Scholar Fi trembled all over with laughter. He trilled appreciatively at his own wit. This was completely charming and I found myself joining in. Even in motion there was a quality about the Mu Oorian which made it seem a delicate stone figure had become animated.

  Suddenly my host cocked his head to one side. His hearing was far more acute than mine. He began to turn.

  In time to see Fromental walking rapidly towards us.

  “Scholar Fi, Count Ulric. Citizens reported their approach. I went to verify it. I can now tell you that a party of about a hundred armed men, equipped with the latest technical help, have crossed the bridge and now wait at the outskirts. They’re demanding to speak to our ‘leader.’”

  I had no time to explain the notion to the bewildered scholar. Fromental turned to me. “I think it’s your particular nemesis, my friend. His name is Major von Minct and he seems to believe you are a criminal of some kind. You stole a national treasure, is that it?”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “He seems a man used to power. And used to lies, eh?”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “His language was relatively diplomatic. But the threats were implicit. He’s used to getting his way with them. He wants to speak to you. To persuade you to do your duty and turn yourself over to the forces of law and order. He says he has not much time and will only use enough violence to demonstrate his power.” Clearly Fromental had not believed a word of Cousin Gaynor’s story. But a hundred swaggering storm troopers could do considerable damage to creatures with no understanding of war or any other form of aggression. I feared for Scholar Fi’s people more than I feared for myself.

  “Do you wish to speak to this man?” asked Scholar Fi.

  I did my best to explain what had happened and in the end he raised one long-fingered palm. Did I mind, he asked, if he came with me to meet Gaynor? Uncertainly, I agreed.

  Gaynor and his army of uniformed ruffians were lounging about near the bottom of the bridge. The sound of the water was louder here, but Scholar Fi’s voice carried through it. He made a small speech of welcome and asked Gaynor their business. Gaynor uttered the same nonsensical claims. And Scholar Fi laughed in his face.

  Klosterheim, beside Gaynor, instantly drew his Werther PPK from its holster and pointed it at Scholar Fi. “Your creature had best show more respect for an officer of the Third Reich. Tell him to be careful or I’ll make an example of him. To quote the Führer—‘Nothing is so persuasive as the sudden overwhelming fear of extinction.’”

  “I am serious about the sword.” Gaynor’s terrible eyes looked straight into mine. The little sanity he had when he entered the caverns had been driven out of him by what he had experienced here. “I will kill anyone who stops me from holding her. Where have you hidden her, cousin? My love. My desire. Where’s my Ravenbrand?”

  “She’s hidden herself,” I said. “You’ll never find her here and I’ll never tell you where she is.”

  “Then you are responsible for this monster’s death,” said Klosterheim. He leveled his pistol straight at the gentle scholar’s domed forehead and pulled the trigger.

  B OOK T WO

  Gone to the world beyond the world,

  Gone to the sea beyond the sea.

  Orpheus and his brothers

  Seek wives amongst the dead.

  —L OBKOWITZ , “Orpheus in Auschwitz,” 1949

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Arms of Morpheus

  A t that moment, as Klosterheim squeezed his automatic’s trigger, I understood profoundly how I’d left my familiar world far behind and was now in the realm of the supernatural.

  Klosterheim’s gun barked for the briefest moment and there was no echo. The sound was somehow absorbed into the surrounding atmosphere. Then I watched as the bullet stopped a few inches from the barrel, and was swallowed in the air.

  Klosterheim, an oddly fatalistic expression on his face, lowered his arm and holstered his useless weapon. He glanced meaningfully at his master.

  Gaynor swore. “God be damned—we’re in the Middlemarch!”

  Klosterheim understood him. And so did I. A memory as ancient and mysterious as my family’s blood.

  The surrounding landscape, alien as it was, felt far too solid for me to believe myself dreaming. The only other conclusion had been edging at the corners of my mind for some time. It was as logical as it was absurd.

  As Gaynor had guessed, we had entered the mythical Mittelmärch, the borderlands between the human world and Faery. According to old tales, my own ancestors had occasionally visited this place. I’d always assumed that realm to be as real as the storybook world of Grimm, but now I was beginning to wonder if Grimm was no more than a recollection of my present reality. Hades, too, and all the other tales of underworlds and other worlds? Was Mu Ooria the original of Alfheim? Or Trollheim? Or the caverns where the dwarfs forged their magic swords?

  As the strange scene unfolded before me, all these images and thoughts passed through my mind. Time really did seem to have an indescribably different quality in this twilight realm. A foreign texture, a sense of richness, even a slight instability. I was sensing a way of living simultaneously at different speeds, some of which I could actually manipulate. I’d already experienced a hint of this quality in my recent dreams, but now I was certain that I was more awake than I had ever been. I was beginning to sense the multiverse in all her rich complexity.

  Now that he had an idea of his geography, Klosterheim seemed more at ease than any of us. “I have always preferred the night,” he murmured. “It is my natural element. When I am at my predatory best.” A long, dry tongue licked thin lips.

  Scholar Fi offered Klosterheim a shadowed smile. “
You could try to kill me by some other means, but I can defend myself. It would be unwise to pursue your present aggression. We have countered violence before in our history. We have learned to respect all who respect life. We do not show the same respect for those who would destroy life and take all with them into the oblivion they crave. Their craving we are able to satisfy. Though it is a journey that can only be made alone.”

  I cast my eye over the Nazi ranks to see if any of them but their leaders understood the scholar’s Greek, but it was clear all they heard were threatening foreign sounds. My attention was caught by a figure at the back of the party and to the right, standing beside a tall stalagmite, like a set of giant dishes stacked one on top of the other. The figure’s face was obscured by an elaborate helmet and its body was clad in what appeared to be armor of coppery silver, gleaming like dull gold in the semidarkness. The baroque armor was almost theatrical, like something designed by Bakst for a fantastic Diaghilevian extravaganza. I felt I had glimpsed Oberon in Elfland. I turned to ask Fromental if he had seen the figure, but the Frenchman’s attention was on Gaynor again.

  My cousin had scarcely been listening to Scholar Fi. He drew the ornamental Nazi dagger from its scabbard at his belt. Pale steel and polished ebony, the hilt reflected the dancing, misty light. The blade’s gleam seemed to pierce the atmosphere, challenging the whole organic world around us.

  Balancing the dagger on the flat of his hand, Gaynor thrust it out to his side. His eyes challenged mine. Without turning his head he called behind him in German. “Lieutenant Lukenbach, if you please.”

  Proud of his master’s recognition, a tall brute in SS black stepped forward and closed his fingers almost voluptuously around the dagger. He waited like an eager hound for his orders.