Wiping his hands on his overalls, Karl raises his goggles. ‘What’s up?’
‘I need a favour.’
I come alongside March, and the oily man glances at me.
‘How can I help?’
‘We need to get up to the skydocks.’
‘This urgent?’ Judging by his accent, Karl is Nordic.
‘Really damn urgent, Karl.’
Pausing only for a moment’s thought, Karl heads over to a black telephone on a dented pole. He speaks into it. Then he hangs up and turns back to us, pulling on his gloves. ‘Hop in the back,’ he says, and as the two of us rush over to the helicopter beetle’s empty belly, Karl draws his goggles back over his eyes and hauls himself up the side of the machine, to where there is a small open cockpit. I hear the four rotors around us starting up as March slides the enormous metal doors closed.
I feel my stomach lurch as the helicopter takes flight.
‘So you know what Solomon’s Eye is, then?’ I ask, over the sound of the vibrating hull.
For a brief moment, I wonder if March has heard me at all. Then he says, ‘It’s a prison.’
Shouldering his rifle and searching around in his pockets, the young soldier locates a very beaten-looking packet of cigarettes. He attempts to straighten one out. ‘And June is a gods-damned hippy moron who’s gonna end up putting us back into the dark ages,’ he says, and he places the limp-looking stick in his mouth, lights the end, and takes a deep drag.
‘I thought you were giving up.’
‘So did I.’
The helicopter transport shudders slightly against a breeze, and both of us make to grab something in order to steady ourselves. We are definitely rising. I catch glimpses of the blue sky and the edge of the tower through the slats above.
‘A long, long time ago,’ says March, ‘before the Sleepwalkers, dreams were ruled over by nightmare kings. The Nightmare Monarchies, they were called. It was a bloody dark time, and people were scared of going to sleep. And it went on for years and decades and centuries, until a guy called Solomon came along and changed everything.
‘You’ve probably heard of Solomon, right? The wise old king. Well, I don’t know too much about who he was when he was awake, but in dreaming, he was a great dreamer. Probably the greatest. He single-handedly ended the Nightmare Monarchies by banishing every last nightmare king he could find, and he went on to found the Sleepwalkers: twelve dreamers meant to guard the doors between dreams, and stop nightmare kings from happening. Solomon was the first of us, and the best, and every one of us is taught to do what he did.
‘But he was also this great explorer. Solomon went out and explored the far reaches of the wild dreams. One story goes that he went all the way to the very edge of the wild dreams, where he found a vast, nightmarish storm. The kind of storm that makes normal storms look pathetic. And Solomon being Solomon, he braved the storm and passed through it, all the way to the middle, where he found an island in a placid sea. And the story says that on that island, in the middle of that great storm at the edge of dreaming, Solomon built a prison.
‘So that’s where June’s going. To that massive, ancient, perpetual storm, which we call Solomon’s Storm, and to the middle of it, where the prison is. The eye of the storm. Or, if you like, Solomon’s Eye.’ March hisses through his teeth. ‘Because she’s an idiot.’
‘But why?’ I ask.
‘Hell if I know. To free whatever it is that’s locked up there, probably.’
‘She told me that she was going to see God.’
March raises an eyebrow. ‘Maybe she worships nightmares now? Look. The story I know deliberately doesn’t go into detail when it comes to whatever it is Solomon imprisoned there, but it’s probably a nightmare king. Do you know how nightmares work?’
‘I’m very new to all of this…’
‘Okay. So. Nightmares feed on fear. Simple enough, right? The more you fear your nightmare, the stronger it gets. Now, nightmare kings aren’t really kings in the usual sense. Not your benevolent, crown-wearing ruler of a kingdom king. They’re kings more in the sense of – you know when a bunch of rats get their tails knotted up? But they’re still alive. That’s called a rat king. And it’s big and nasty, and it can still bite and chew and screech like hell on earth. That sort of king. Nightmare kings are what happens when a nightmare finds the door to its own dream, and starts scaring a lot of people. Hundreds, or thousands. Accumulating so much power that it can do some crazy things, and influence countless waking lives for the worse.
‘Think of the tower of Babel. Thousands of people build it in dreaming, and it’s pretty inspirational. You might wake up after visiting the Capital and feel invigorated, or closer to God, or like you might do something creative – paint a picture, write a book, change the world for the better. Nightmare kings are the opposite of that. When they turn up, thousands of people wake up feeling anxious, or faithless, or like they might just go out and murder someone, because why the hell not, it’s all meaningless anyway. You know how you can wake up after a bad dream, and your whole day gets worse? Imagine those bad dreams going on for weeks, or months. When nightmare kings turn up, the worst in people starts to come out. Your friends become your enemies. Wars happen, and people die.’
March takes a long drag of his cigarette and squints at me.
‘I’ve never seen one,’ he says. ‘But back when I was an apprentice to the last March, the Sleepwalkers went to war against one.’ March stares at the glowing end of his cigarette before he continues. ‘There used to be a town out in the mountains,’ he tells me, ‘called Vale. I loved that place. It was like a winter paradise. There were hot springs, slopes you could ski down and this great big permanently frozen lake that was always clear, no matter how much you skated across it, so you could see the fish swimming underneath.
‘And then, one night, it just… started to get colder. Or so I’m told. I was away at the time, learning the ropes, how to hunt in dreams. But apparently, the temperature started dropping and dropping and people didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.
‘People began to see a strange animal in the woods. I guess they didn’t think it was a nightmare because it was so pretty. It looked like a glass stag. You know those ornaments old people – sorry – put on their mantelpieces? Sort of like that. Except, instead of glass, it was made out of ice. Antlers like enormous icicles, frozen solid, as sharp as knives. I dunno. Maybe the dreamers out in Vale thought it was a good omen or something.
‘But it sure as hell wasn’t. Because when people saw it, they found their dreams freezing over. They would wake up numb. And in Vale, the hot springs were freezing, the fires wouldn’t light any more and the lake frosted over so thickly and sharply that nobody could go out there and skate without getting stuck to the surface. Then, a name started getting passed around. And when you heard that name, you’d feel cold. And maybe you’d wake up with feet like blocks of ice, no matter how warm it was.’
All at once, the helicopter shudders into the shadow of the tower and the cabin is plunged into darkness. ‘Thawn,’ says March. A chill runs down my back.
‘They couldn’t kill it,’ he continues. ‘Night after night the old March went out there in his winter coat, trying to hunt the ice stag. And some of the others went, too. November, January, even February. But the more they tried, the stronger it got, and the harder it became to even get close to Vale. By now, nobody even went there any more. Doors had stopped showing up. It was just a haven for cold nightmares. And worst of all, the cold was spreading. It was coming down from the mountains, and frost was appearing all over the valley. Even here, in Babel, you could see your own breath. Those were scary nights. And that’s what a young nightmare king can do. It can haunt the dreams of thousands and make them wake up feeling dread night after night. People start to lose hope. Suicide rates go up. The world starts its slow slide into self-destruction.’
March’s cigarette is no more than a glowing stump in the dark.
‘Then suddenly there was this great bright light, and for a few moments there were two suns visible in the sky. I almost went blind trying to work out what was happening. It might have been a nuke, if it hadn’t been so perfect and round and yellow. There was no blast either. Just waves of heat. And then the light faded, the mountains stayed black and the air stayed warm, and I knew that the nightmare king was dead.’
The helicopter leaves the shadow of the tower at last, and the light through the slats is sudden and warm. I am glad that it has returned. March stamps his cigarette out, a great frown across his face.
‘August razed Vale. They’re always the strongest, the August line. The others couldn’t do much. From what I heard, they were each woken up one by one, while they tried to hunt the ice stag through the forests. And when he was the last one left, August did the only thing he could think of. He summoned the sun from his dream. The whole damn sun.’ March shakes his head. ‘He burned the forests, blackened the slopes and turned the lake to mist. All that’s left there now is this great big black crater. But the nightmare king was banished. And that’s what matters.’
I speak up, at last. ‘And that’s what’s imprisoned at Solomon’s Eye? A nightmare king?’
Slowly, March nods. ‘Solomon built a black road to the eye of his great storm, where he’d made his prison. Then, he imprisoned whatever it was that he imprisoned, and he locked that prison up, and threw away the keys, and demolished the road, and made damn sure that everybody forgot what was locked up inside. So by my reckoning, June’s heading there now – racing all the way to Solomon’s Eye – to open it up and be chummy and friendly with whatever the hell is in there. And if I were a betting man, which I am, then I’d say that whatever it is that Solomon put in there must have been insanely powerful. A nightmare king so strong he couldn’t kill it, so he locked it away.’
March pinches the bridge of his nose. His story seems to be finished.
‘March,’ I say. ‘This might be a silly question, but what you do need me for?’
He looks up at me.
‘Because you’ve got another copy of the map, right? So we can go stop her?’
A pause. ‘Well—’
‘Jesus, Will. Tell me you’ve got another copy of the map.’
‘I do,’ I tell him. ‘But only while I’m awake.’
March rubs at his temple. ‘Oh, hell. Hell hell hell.’
‘What about the ruins of the black road? Couldn’t you just find a way to follow them?’
The boy soldier chuckles humourlessly. Then, he moves across to the door in the side of the helicopter, and rolls it partially open. The cabin is immediately filled with rushing air, and he has to shout across at me, pointing at a section of the tower. ‘Damn vultures will use anything!’ And with my arms wrapped tightly around a railing, I peer out, and see a whole section of the tower which seems to be made of a kind of black stone. The rock of the black road, scavenged and used to heighten the tower.
With his hands clenched almost rigid, March fumbles to light another cigarette but accidentally drops it out of the side of the helicopter. The two of us watch it tumble away. ‘What in hell’s name are we gonna do?’ yells March.
Before I can make any attempt at a reply, an incredible sight comes into view.
There are shapes hanging from the tower ahead of us: a tapestry of wooden walkways and scaffolding which make for a kind of peculiar set of docks. I can see the distant silhouettes of dock workers, high in the air, as if we are standing beneath crystal-clear depths of water and looking up at them. And moored at those docks is a singular ship, or mechanism, that defies easy understanding.
It looks as if someone has attempted to build a clock but did not know when to stop. It is a cataclysm of clockwork parts in synchronised motion arranged in the shape of a frigate. The ship has no sails, barely any hull beyond a few lengths of wood along its flanks, and between brass and copper lengths of girders, I can see endless cogs and cables, whirring and winding and ticking in gentle motion. The whole thing just hangs there, impossibly, in the sky.
I realise that I have forgotten to breathe.
Most remarkable of all is the bizarre clockwork ship’s figurehead. Its sharp beak is at the very forefront, and behind that beak is a long wave of golden feathers. I recognise that bird; I would read tales of it to Samantha when she was still small enough to sit on my lap. It is the mighty phoenix.
I find some words, at last. ‘What kind of ship is that?’
‘That's a skyship!’ calls March, over the winds. ‘She's called the Metronome. And she just so happens to have a captain with a vested interest in Solomon’s Eye. Normally, I wouldn’t bother with the skydocks – it’s quicker to get around through the doors. But if June’s going to Solomon’s Eye then that means she’s going to places where there are no doors, and if we’re going to catch up to her and stop her, then we’re going to need to use a skyship. Will. Look at me.’ I tear my eyes from the awesome sight of the clockwork skyship. ‘Are you sure there’s no other copies of your map? I mean, can’t you even remember any of it? This is important.’
A desperation grips me. I hate the idea of being responsible for something as terrible as relentless dark dreams for thousands of people – and the consequences of those countless horrible nights – just because I was foolish enough to give away my notepad. I bow my head and try to think, but all that comes to mind is a memory of years ago.
The first month after Lily passed away, Sammy suffered a terrible nightmare. Every night she dreamed that there was somebody waiting in the upstairs laundry cupboard to hurt her. It got so bad that she could no longer walk past the cupboard, and because her room was at the far end of the hallway, she ended up just sleeping in my room. And though it was something of a great comfort to me in those dark days to not wake up alone – suffering through my own dark dreams – poor Sammy became withdrawn and quiet, and would use any excuse to be out of the house. I was not capable of helping her. I did not know how.
An idea strikes me.
‘It’s possible,’ I call to March, ‘that I could remember the songs. Using muscle memory. Using my violin. It would be tough, with my hands the way they are. And we’d need to find a new string, because I broke one. But it’s possible that I could remember the songs of Solomon’s Eye by just trying to play them again. If it’s the songs that you need?’
March sighs a long sigh of relief. ‘Yeah,’ he calls, as our transport begins to approach the skydocks. Then, he grins at me. ‘I knew you’d come through. You’re a bright spark, Will.’ Maybe it is something in his cheerful expression, but then I remember the second month after Lily passed away. That one day, Sammy woke up and all seemed well with her again. She regained her flighty fearlessness, and there was no more need for her to sleep in my bed, because she was no longer frightened of the upstairs cupboard. I remember that I asked her, a few weeks afterwards, what had become of the horrible thing in the cupboard. And that she told me, cheerily, that a woman came with a silver gun and chased the monster away.
We land at the skydocks with a thump.
March yells a thanks up at Karl, and rushes across, towards the Metronome.
I stop for a moment, my view taken up by a second skyship further up the tower at a second set of docks. This one is far bigger than the Metronome, and it looks a lot closer to a traditional galleon, except that all of its sails are a brilliant gold and flow as if they are made of liquid. The name across the side of this ship reads Sunshine. I find my thoughts drifti
ng away from the urgency of the situation and back to awe; it would be so easy to lose myself in the sights and sounds of Babel.
‘Come on, Will,’ calls March. I tear myself away and follow him onto the Metronome.
*
I am led through the low corridors of the clockwork skyship by her Bosun.
She has a steady tick, like a clock, or indeed a metronome, and her tick is all around us, but it is not unpleasant. It feels like a sign of life – as if, without it, the Metronome would be without her heart. The crew – a motley bunch of dreamers – rush to and fro. We pass signs of industry – a shower of sparks where a cog is being welded into place, and a team of engineers attempting to free a knotted coil of cables.
‘Captain Reid will want to see you soon,’ says the Bosun. ‘Once she’s done with March.’
The Bosun is a large man, his belly almost protruding from his shirt, and I wonder if the pipe given a jaunty position at the corner of his mouth is a permanent fixture.
‘She’s a wonderful ship,’ I tell him, and he grunts.
Near the stern of the ship, we emerge into a larger room, and it is there that the Bosun stops. ‘This is yours,’ he says, ‘if you’re telling the truth about your map.’
The room is in shadow, but I am still able to make out the great many shapes along the walls and shelves. In contrast to the rest of the ship, these walls are completely covered in thick wood, and upon entering, the Metronome’s tick is muffled. ‘I am telling the truth,’ I say.
He grunts at me, and his pipe wobbles. ‘Just wait here,’ he says, and he leaves.
I take the time to explore.
On one wall there is a rack of tuning forks, and inside a glass case there are rows of what look to be panpipes. Nearby, there is a set of mystifying and almost unrecognisable brass instruments. A large collection of wind chimes hang from the ceiling.
I step tentatively across to one of the many bookcases and squint through the low light at titles. They appear to be place names, or kinds of atlases. Collections of maps, I think.
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