My thoughts were racing, trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together. When he was a child Jason read almost constantly; he loved the mythology stories the most. I remembered his dreams of Valhalla, where Viking warriors who died in battle would feast during the night and battle during the day, all in preparation for Ragnarök, the final battle. It was the Norse version of heaven and considered an honor to achieve. Jason had been raised as a follower of the Christian faith, and he still attended church with his wife and daughter; why the Viking reference? Then it struck me all at once. Jason had spent over a decade as a soldier; the wounds afflicting him had meant he was unable to continue, and he had retired. The scars on his shoulder and back, the tattoo, the words; he was toasting fallen friends. Were those his nightmares? Was that what haunted him?
I watched in silent agony as drink after drink filled the glass and was thrown down Jason’s throat. The bottle went from full to empty and another seal was broken; more drinks were poured and swallowed. I had lost count of how many drinks Jason had before he started to sway, his eyes drooping heavily. As he sluggishly reached for the near-empty glass, I used magic on Jason for the first time in nearly two decades. The Sandman had instilled all of the Ronin with a sliver of his power, enough to quiet a crying child or to reassure them back to sleep after a night terror jerked them awake. I hoped it would be enough to work on Jason in the state he was in. His hand trembled, and in the space of a breath I feared it would not be enough. Then his arm dropped and he fell sideways. I rolled away to avoid being trapped, and his head landed on the pillow I had been leaning against. I watched him for a few moments. His breathing was even, though his body would twitch every few minutes, and a single tear escaped from the corner of his right eye. With everyone sleeping, my magic became stronger and I pushed myself to stand, the immobility of my camouflage removed. I walked over and settled myself against his chest. I needed the feel of his heartbeat against me to enter his Dream. I closed my eyes and felt the slow, steady beating of Jason’s heart. The rhythmic thumping was the deep bass of war drums, and I felt myself fall backward into a cold chill that bit through even my fur and stuffing.
IV.
It isn’t the cold that snaps my eyes open, it’s the heat. Oppressive and heavy, it feels like a weight bearing down on my entire body, a weight that is only added to by the sight that meets my eyes. Gone are the castles with dragons soaring around them and the oceans teeming with pirate armadas that I remember filling Jason’s dreamscape decades ago. The seas have dried, the mountains worn down to daunting sand dunes, and the prairies and woodlands replaced by a desert village that seems without end. The village expands past the borders into the Dark. If the nightmares have broken through, then that may explain Jason’s distress; I need to know more.
A soft wind wafts through the village, ruffling my fur, and on it I hear Emily’s laughter and smell Jason’s wife’s perfume. The wind and the happiness it carries are ripped away by a rippling wave of noise unlike anything I have heard before. Discordant tones chatter back and forth, setting my teeth on edge, and I sprint toward the disturbance. Dreamer is in my hand as I round the next corner, ready for anything except the sight that awaits me. Jason, bloodied and covered in sand and grit foreign to the dreamscape, huddles behind the smoldering wreckage of a car while cradling a rifle against his chest. The ring of metal on metal sings out from the other side of the vehicle. I watch as he raises the rifle to his shoulder and braces his elbows on the hood of the car. His movements and actions indicate that he sees something I cannot, as he begins firing. Controlled and collected, he does not fire randomly or let the chaos overwhelm him; he’s choosing his targets.
A shout from behind me has us both turning at the same time. Another soldier has been struck and stumbles out of the house he has been sheltering himself in. I look over to Jason and see the horror in his eyes as the soldier is shot twice more. Jason pushes up from his own position and runs toward the fallen soldier; I can only watch in mute horror as I see him stumble and then fall to the ground, inches from his comrade. The clench of his teeth and the set in his jaw show the pain he is fighting against as he pushes himself up and crawls forward to grab the back of the vest the soldier is wearing. Jason heaves and pulls, trying to get the soldier into the house. The body doesn’t move. I see it now, a shifting formless mass clinging to Jason’s back and shoulders, like a cancer. Jason makes no indication that he can see or feel the sickly brown tendrils running from the soldier’s body to the form clinging to him, but I can, and now I see that there are more of them clinging to Jason’s arms, legs, and body, weighing him down.
The shapes and forms flow like shadows, and the tendrils begin to move, the fallen bodies they are attached to twitching when they should be locked in the rigor of death. The eyes of the corpses are the first to move. Opening, they all turn to stare at Jason, each gaze heavy with the weight of accusation and judgment. Arms and legs begin to shift, pulling and dragging shredded bodies through the doorway and open window toward where Jason curls against the back wall of the small structure. Mouths drop open and the words begin to spill out.
“Where were you?”
“You led us here.”
“You killed me.”
“Where were you?”
“Why did you let them kill me?”
“Where were you?”
Over and over the words tumble out, becoming a tidal wave as the bodies shamble and drag closer in a macabre parody of life, hands curling into talons that claw at Jason’s body. He may have fought them off at one point; I remember from the dreams of the boy before the man that it would have been his go-to reaction. It is obvious that time has worn him down, and there is no way for me to know how long he has been facing these things. Now he cowers, attempting to protect the core of his body, and sobs, a soundless scream of grief and sorrow.
I leap; I have no other choice. Jason had been my charge years ago, and his daughter has placed him back in my care. Dreamer gleams in the darkness of the building’s interior as it lashes out, an extension of my arm and my rage. I feel no resistance as Dreamer’s edge passes through the shadowed body of the nearest lamprey form. The shadow breaks apart and then re-forms, unwounded, and continues its puppetry of the bodies attacking Jason. I strike again, slicing through the ethereal form of a different target. Again, the creature is unharmed. I have gotten its attention, though. A single eyestalk erupts from the top of the form and turns the creature’s baleful gaze toward me.
Hissing laughter whispers in my ears. “You’ve no place here, Ronin. No place and no power.” The final words are snapped, as if bitten through teeth. Before I can respond, the heavy weight of a free tendril thuds into my chest and sends me sailing backward through an open window. I bounce twice, then skid through the rough grit of the sand. Muttering to myself, I turn Dreamer’s point down into the dirt and use my grip to steady my balance as I stand. Brushing myself off, I feel a pain in my chest and look down to see a tear across my fur, strands of stuffing sticking out. I swear under my breath.
“If Emily heard language like that from you, Mr. Bear, she would be incensed,” chastises a voice I have not heard in generations. Not since he had woken me.
I spin around, searching for the source of the voice. Only once I have completed a full turn do I catch sight of the speaker. His outer coat shifts along the spectrum from red to blue as he walks closer, while his shirt and trousers appear to be made of a silken material colored black as moonless night; the belt holding his coat closed still holds the numerous drawstring pouches that I remember carry the dust he blows into children’s eyes to send them to sleep. The pale skin of his face and neck are completely at odds with the desert we stand in, but it is obvious he is apart from it, as his dark hair refuses to be moved by the errant winds. In spite of my anger at being injured by a nightmare, I smile. “You are a welcome surprise, Sandman. With your help, I can vanquish these horrors and set Jason’s dreamsc
ape to rights.”
V.
I feel the smile on my own face fade as the Sandman’s usually ready smile turns to one of sadness, and my eyes finally take in the apology within his own eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bear. You could fight the nightmares with all your strength and eventually they would destroy you. These nightmares are beyond even what my magic can overcome.”
“What are they, that not even your magic is strong enough to conquer them?” I ask. To find enemies beyond the power of the being that had created me and given me the magic to defend children’s dreams sends a chill through my stuffing.
“They are nightmares of his own creation. Guilt, grief, and his mind’s coping with the horrors he has seen and done. Jason is not alone in what he faces. Countless others, some soldiers like him, some victims of crime, and some victims of tragedy, face these horrors all within their own minds and dreamscapes. My magic is not strong enough to challenge the real world.” His voice is weary. How many dreams has he seen turned to chaos like this? I once envied his ability to travel through the dreams and see the stories children created in their sleep. Now I do not envy the burden it must become as he watches those same children grow up and the stories come to such crashing ends.
“There has to be something! I cannot do nothing! His father laid me in his crib to guard, and Emily handed me back to him to heal him,” I rage, refusing to give up. I will never quit my given duty.
Sandman smiles again, still sad, but there is pride in his eyes as he watches me. “This is why I started with teddy bears; no velveteen aspirations for you, only pure devotion to the families that choose you.” He pauses, thinking before he continues. “Faith, family, and a willingness to ask for help are the only solutions that work. Even then, there is no true cure. These nightmares are a constant struggle, and a heavy burden to bear.”
I meet his eyes, and I understand that he’s trying to tell me not to hold out hope, to simply be ready to comfort Emily when the time comes. Suddenly I realize the truth; if that time comes, then new nightmares will manifest in Emily. Nightmares beyond my power and magic to combat would continue the cycle of pain and grief, and I will have already lost. I set my jaw and meet Sandman’s gaze. “Jason’s grandfather taught his father a phrase he learned across the seas. ‘Those who dare, win.’” I lift Dreamer in a salute to my mentor and close my eyes. I feel myself fall backward, and the cold returns for a shocking instant.
I opened my eyes to find myself once more immobile and lying back against the cushions of the couch. Jason had already awoken, and again he was hunched forward, though now he clutched a pistol in his right hand, his eyes closed. My time was running out.
A loaded magazine was on the table, near two empty bottles. Sandman’s words rang in my ears: “Faith, family, and a willingness to ask for help.” Jason’s eyes were still closed, so now was the chance to use my magic. I had to use it now, I had to dare. The sound of the pistol slide locking back almost broke my concentration, almost.
Jason reached for the magazine, and his fingers brushed against the picture of his wife and daughter, smiling and waving at him. Beneath the picture was the Bible his wife had laid on the table. It was the same Bible that his father had given him before he went to basic training. He was sure that it had been at the corner of the table a moment ago. He saw the pistol magazine across the table and reached for the picture. Holding it in his left hand and the pistol loosely in his right, the tears started to flow. He set the pistol on the table and picked up the Bible. A business card marked a passage, and I could hear him open and then read the passage in a low voice: “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.” His gaze fell to the business card and he set the Bible down, the picture still held in his left hand as he pushed himself up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.
Stretching out my hearing, I could faintly make out a series of audible clicks, the sound Jason’s phone made when Emily was playing with it. I heard him begin to speak. “It’s Jason. Yeah, I know it’s late.” He paused and I was afraid he would say nothing, but then he continued. “I need someone to talk to, right now. You got some time?”
I pulled my magic back; I had done what I could. Now it was up to him.
SKJÖLDMÓÐIR
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON AND JESSICA SCHLENKER
My son was called a monster.
Perhaps he was even born a monster through no fault of his own, merely a victim of the gods’ whims.
I did not regard him so. I knew him best as my sweet boy, bringing me bunches of newly opened spring flowers, or asking I tell him the stories my mother told me as a child.
Perhaps I brought it down on him, through my own actions, in the years before his birth. But I had taken up a sword to defend my family; surely the gods would not punish us for that?
Not all noble families are wreathed in wealth untold. Most, in fact, are more like my own: farmers, herders, stewards of the earth. There may be some wealth earned in battle, exchanged for blood, limbs, or lives. Mostly, though, a little is earned through barter and trade, exchanging toil and sweat for enough to live on.
After a hard year, with every nearby family stretched thin, invaders came, bringing battle to our homes. Perhaps they thought we hid the wealth expected of us, but it mattered little. We fought for our lives, and I did my best to inflict as much damage as I could to save our home. But we were overwhelmed, and we fled to save the youngest. The invaders destroyed whatever they found. I still hope they kept some of it, rather than burned everything not gilt in gold or silver. But they did not desire the land itself, and we found the still smoking ruins of our home unoccupied. The cattle but one were missing. We found the remains of the one left on a smoldering spit.
We rebuilt, as my father’s family had done before and no doubt will have to again. A modest bride-price was offered for me, the eldest girl, by friends of my father. Unspoken was the knowledge the offer was made to assist in the rebuilding, as his friends had been spared the devastation. Thankfully, I knew the son, and even liked him. We played together often enough as children.
My new husband assisted in rebuilding my family’s homestead before we moved on to our own future. My lord’s father gifted him a small amount of land from their lands, for us to build a home and to tend. Being just the two of us, we both practiced with the sword daily, and one of our first goals was to acquire sturdy armor for us both. I did not wish to be caught unarmed and unprotected by invaders if I could help it.
I quickly became pregnant with our first child, a beautiful little girl who did not last through her first year.
When I bore our son, Grendel, we saw at once his head was slightly misshapen. But he had powerful lungs, and he was healthy. To me, that was enough. I could not bear to lose another. His birth was difficult, and although we tried for another, he remained our only surviving child.
It became apparent, over the years, that my Grendel was different, besides a misshapen skull that worsened as he grew. Large, and less coordinated than he should have been, he did not know his own strength. He hurt several of his playmates by accident, and I still remember his frightened, bewildered expression as I explained that he had done that.
“But, Momma, I didn’t mean to.”
I would assure him I knew, I understood, and would caution him to be more careful. My lord spent time working with Grendel, trying to teach him how to control his strength more consistently.
Then the day came when, amid terrible thunder and rain, Grendel abruptly howled in torment and collapsed to the ground, writhing and clawing at his face. It took both my lord and me to pin his arms before he did severe damage to himself. After a while, his body relaxed and he simply sobbed quietly. “Grendel, my love? What’s wrong?”
“Monsters are eating my head,” he replied, voice shaky through the tears.
My lord moved him to his bed, and I made a tincture for pain. It took both of us t
o steady Grendel’s hands enough so he could grip the cup himself.
The second time it happened he wasn’t home, although it was another terrible storm. He knocked a playmate unconscious when they tried to help, and he had to be subdued by several adult men. My boy, barely nine, could no longer be trusted to play with children his age. I kept him home, and close even then. Closer still when the skies looked ominous.
By the time Grendel reached the age of eleven, we had little choice but to bind him to his bed when the weather would start to turn. He did not like it, but he understood. I sat with him, trying to keep him calm during the worst, singing old songs and telling stories. A tincture at the first tremors helped keep him calmer, but at the worst, he still writhed and howled as if possessed.
The rages started soon after that, rages he could not explain afterward.
I spoke with everyone—my parents, my lord’s parents, the wisewoman Edda, everyone. No one had suggestions to help soothe my beloved son’s pain or fits.
But in between the bad days, Grendel acted ever much the young boy he truly was, by turns sweet and caring, rambunctious, helpful, and even sometimes surly. He soon nearly matched his father in height, and outmatched him in strength. The day the tavern caught fire, it was Grendel who braved the billowing flames to hold open the collapsed doors so that people could escape. Had he not done so, more would have been lost. His burns healed, but the pain never quite faded, particularly the ones on his face.
The next season, invaders came again, and my lord fell defending the village.
We buried him next to the sister Grendel never knew, and grieved.
It would usually be expected that a situation worsens when one’s husband dies, but I did not expect the rapidity with which the village turned on me—us. Disgusted by the damage caused to his face by his own heroic actions, combined with the fear of a fit that none had witnessed in several years, only heard, our neighbors and other villagers took to actively avoiding Grendel, and I overheard much vicious, untrue gossip. Had they truly forgotten the scars on his face were from saving their sons and daughters when they could not? The wild tales they made of ridiculous exploits with my Grendel painted as the villain beggared belief.
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