Dream
He is standing in the center of a wooden room (on a ship, he is aware in the back of his mind), dimly lit by a fire contained in a small metal pot at his feet. The room is full of people; the firelight flickers across their faces, smoke making them indistinct. He can feel them more clearly than he sees them, feel their gazes, feel their hopes and fears focused on him and the outcome of what he is about to do. Despite this, he is not afraid. He understands the weight of what is about to happen, but it fills him with determination rather than fear. There is no room for doubt.
He looks around at the faces in front of him. Only one of them is clear in his vision; the face of the person closest to him, a young man, younger than himself. He knows that this young man is of great importance to him, that they are very close, that they trust each other. Right now this person, for whom he cares so deeply, looks pale and nervous. He gives the young man what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and then begins the invocation.
“Thou art the heaven’s earth, the night of day…"
“Enough.”
The one he is calling to has answered. He has succeeded, at least in the first step. Before he can make his request, the watching people and even the face of the nervous young man, are washed away by bright light. He is alone with the one he has summoned. The voice addresses him again.
“I already know what you want. But are you sure you want it?” The voice is leisurely, amused, almost taunting him. “Once you do this, it can’t be undone. What happens next will go on happening forever.”
Forever. Well, isn’t that what he wanted all along? He takes a breath, wills his voice to remain steady.
“Yes. I want it.”
And immediately he is returned to the room and the tense, eager faces of the people who are waiting for him, and there is a golden chalice in his hands. He can see his face reflected in the pale liquid inside. He feels a surge of triumph. This is what he has worked towards all his life. The people in the room press forward, holding out cups into which he pours the liquid. He pours for himself last. As he raises his cup to drink, his young companion glances at him, still fearful, and says something, a couple of syllables, that he can’t make out over the excited chatter. He wants to reassure him completely, assuage every shadow of a doubt, but now is not the time. He raises his cup and speaks, loudly to be heard over the noise of talk and cheers and clinking cups.
“To your health.”
And with that he drains his cup, feeling the power flow into his veins. The young man hesitates, then follows suit, doubt not quite gone from his face, but he is willing to trust his older companion for now. He scans the room to see how the others are reacting. Most of them are celebrating, in twos and threes. His eye is caught by one man who stands surrounded by the crowd but somehow separate from them. For some reason he can see this man clearly; he is short of stature and very old, his hair gray and his face creased. His feeling of success gives way to unease. Why is this man staring at him with anger in his eyes? As he watches, the anger hardens into malice, glittering in the man’s eyes along with the firelight. This man is dangerous, he realizes, and steps forward to do something about it, whatever needs to be done. As he moves forward, the old man grins at him, not at all the kind of smile you want to see, and raises his right hand.
There is an instant in which nothing is happening yet, but he understands what is about to happen, and rushes toward the old man, determined to do something, anything to prevent it-
And then the floor begins to shake under their feet, and people begin to cry out in alarm and confusion, and the old man laughs like a madman, and the floor begins to weaken and crack and give way. Water is surging up through the cracks, and people are screaming now, and before his eyes the people, his comrades, are swept into the cracks in the floor and swallowed up by the icy, surging water. He thinks in terror of his young companion, and turns and reaches out to him, just in time to see him dragged, struggling, into the black depths. For a moment he is frozen with horror, uncomprehending; and then he comprehends, and turns around again, to find the old man and destroy him before another life can be lost. There is no time for grief now. He sees the old man, standing in the middle of the chaos, laughing raucously, his hand held high in the air, water lapping at his legs but not consuming the one who has brought it forth. He moves forward, intending to throw the madman into the water, but the old man sees him and smiles coldly. His words are barely audible over the rush of water.
“Too late.”
And before he can respond, the old man turns to smoke and vanishes. The water continues to pour in, tearing the ship apart; the bedraggled, terrified people cling to the walls, the floors, the fragments of the ship, and the world is torn asunder, and everything is rushing and swirling.
He does not know how long it is before they wash up on shore. Far too many of them were lost to the old man’s madness. They lie for a moment on the cold, hard rocks, recovering, before they pick themselves up and scatter. The madman, the monster, is still out there, and if they stay here he will find them and finish them off. They exchange only sorrowful parting glances before scattering off in all directions and fading out of view. And then he is alone. He feels the tremendous weight of guilt on his shoulders. If he hadn’t performed the ritual, the old man would never have had the power to do such a thing. He might not even have had the will to do it. That man might be the one guilty of the murders, but he knows that he is also to blame. For a few moments he is so filled with grief that he cannot move. He knows, however, that he cannot stand there and wallow in regret forever. He has to move. What happens next will go on forever. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and begins to walk.
He walks for hours, days, years. He loses track of the time soon enough. The world changes around him, and sometimes he marvels at it, and other times he barely notices. He walks through warm, bright, joyful places and through sad, cold, empty regions. He meets people, walks and talks with them for short times, moves on. Sometimes he sees them leave the road, but he cannot. Through it all, he carries the weight of regret, but he is not always in pain and manages to find moments of happiness along the way. There are times when he is so exhausted from walking that he wants to lie down by the side of the road and never stand up again, but the power that he drank will never let him rest. Walk on, he tells himself, and don’t look back. It’s the only thing to do.
At one point, a young man’s voice calls out to him.
“Hey, you!”
He looks up and sees the speaker standing on the path a little ways ahead him. He is indeed a young man, young and full of energy and life, and there is something in his face that reminds him of his long-dead companion, and his heart twists.
“Yeah, you! Wanna walk with me?”
He hesitates for a moment. Does he want to walk with this youth? He can already feel himself drawn to him, but walking with someone who reminds him so much of the other, lost youth will be painful. And when the time comes for this one to depart the path…
He cannot refuse. The young man is so eager, smiling hopefully at him, his eyes bright. It will do him good to be with someone who is so alive. And how would it be fair to deny the youth his company, if he wants it so much, for his own sake? He smiles back at the young man.
“Certainly.”
The young man grins as he catches up to him, and they walk together for many days, conversing happily. The pain he predicted is there, but it is more than worth it. The places they walk in are dark and cold, but they do not care; the youth’s enthusiasm makes every place seem bright.
A shadow falls on the path before them. The air grows cold. Smoke rises from the ground and forms into a horribly familiar shape. He jerks back in horror as the old man from the ship solidifies and grins his madman’s grin.
“It’s been a long time.”
He is frozen for an instant, but only for that long. His mind begins to race. The old man has come to end him, after all this time. The first priority is to get the youth out of danger; then he himself must flee. Part of him wants to confront the old man head-on and avenge his comrades, but he knows that he cannot risk a confrontation. He must not be consumed. It is not out of fear for himself that he thinks this; he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that something terrible will happen, something that goes far beyond him, if the old man succeeds in killing him. He turns and runs, pulling the youth along with him.
The old man calls after them. “Do you think you can run away?”
Maybe not, but trying is better than the alternative. He runs on into the dark, and then he loses his grip on the youth's hand, and hears glass shatter, and he is falling down, not into death but simply down and away, into whatever lies below him...
He looks around at the faces in front of him. Only one of them is clear in his vision; the face of the person closest to him, a young man, younger than himself. He knows that this young man is of great importance to him, that they are very close, that they trust each other. Right now this person, for whom he cares so deeply, looks pale and nervous. He gives the young man what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and then begins the invocation.
“Thou art the heaven’s earth, the night of day…"
“Enough.”
The one he is calling to has answered. He has succeeded, at least in the first step. Before he can make his request, the watching people and even the face of the nervous young man, are washed away by bright light. He is alone with the one he has summoned. The voice addresses him again.
“I already know what you want. But are you sure you want it?” The voice is leisurely, amused, almost taunting him. “Once you do this, it can’t be undone. What happens next will go on happening forever.”
Forever. Well, isn’t that what he wanted all along? He takes a breath, wills his voice to remain steady.
“Yes. I want it.”
And immediately he is returned to the room and the tense, eager faces of the people who are waiting for him, and there is a golden chalice in his hands. He can see his face reflected in the pale liquid inside. He feels a surge of triumph. This is what he has worked towards all his life. The people in the room press forward, holding out cups into which he pours the liquid. He pours for himself last. As he raises his cup to drink, his young companion glances at him, still fearful, and says something, a couple of syllables, that he can’t make out over the excited chatter. He wants to reassure him completely, assuage every shadow of a doubt, but now is not the time. He raises his cup and speaks, loudly to be heard over the noise of talk and cheers and clinking cups.
“To your health.”
And with that he drains his cup, feeling the power flow into his veins. The young man hesitates, then follows suit, doubt not quite gone from his face, but he is willing to trust his older companion for now. He scans the room to see how the others are reacting. Most of them are celebrating, in twos and threes. His eye is caught by one man who stands surrounded by the crowd but somehow separate from them. For some reason he can see this man clearly; he is short of stature and very old, his hair gray and his face creased. His feeling of success gives way to unease. Why is this man staring at him with anger in his eyes? As he watches, the anger hardens into malice, glittering in the man’s eyes along with the firelight. This man is dangerous, he realizes, and steps forward to do something about it, whatever needs to be done. As he moves forward, the old man grins at him, not at all the kind of smile you want to see, and raises his right hand.
There is an instant in which nothing is happening yet, but he understands what is about to happen, and rushes toward the old man, determined to do something, anything to prevent it-
And then the floor begins to shake under their feet, and people begin to cry out in alarm and confusion, and the old man laughs like a madman, and the floor begins to weaken and crack and give way. Water is surging up through the cracks, and people are screaming now, and before his eyes the people, his comrades, are swept into the cracks in the floor and swallowed up by the icy, surging water. He thinks in terror of his young companion, and turns and reaches out to him, just in time to see him dragged, struggling, into the black depths. For a moment he is frozen with horror, uncomprehending; and then he comprehends, and turns around again, to find the old man and destroy him before another life can be lost. There is no time for grief now. He sees the old man, standing in the middle of the chaos, laughing raucously, his hand held high in the air, water lapping at his legs but not consuming the one who has brought it forth. He moves forward, intending to throw the madman into the water, but the old man sees him and smiles coldly. His words are barely audible over the rush of water.
“Too late.”
And before he can respond, the old man turns to smoke and vanishes. The water continues to pour in, tearing the ship apart; the bedraggled, terrified people cling to the walls, the floors, the fragments of the ship, and the world is torn asunder, and everything is rushing and swirling.
He does not know how long it is before they wash up on shore. Far too many of them were lost to the old man’s madness. They lie for a moment on the cold, hard rocks, recovering, before they pick themselves up and scatter. The madman, the monster, is still out there, and if they stay here he will find them and finish them off. They exchange only sorrowful parting glances before scattering off in all directions and fading out of view. And then he is alone. He feels the tremendous weight of guilt on his shoulders. If he hadn’t performed the ritual, the old man would never have had the power to do such a thing. He might not even have had the will to do it. That man might be the one guilty of the murders, but he knows that he is also to blame. For a few moments he is so filled with grief that he cannot move. He knows, however, that he cannot stand there and wallow in regret forever. He has to move. What happens next will go on forever. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and begins to walk.
He walks for hours, days, years. He loses track of the time soon enough. The world changes around him, and sometimes he marvels at it, and other times he barely notices. He walks through warm, bright, joyful places and through sad, cold, empty regions. He meets people, walks and talks with them for short times, moves on. Sometimes he sees them leave the road, but he cannot. Through it all, he carries the weight of regret, but he is not always in pain and manages to find moments of happiness along the way. There are times when he is so exhausted from walking that he wants to lie down by the side of the road and never stand up again, but the power that he drank will never let him rest. Walk on, he tells himself, and don’t look back. It’s the only thing to do.
At one point, a young man’s voice calls out to him.
“Hey, you!”
He looks up and sees the speaker standing on the path a little ways ahead him. He is indeed a young man, young and full of energy and life, and there is something in his face that reminds him of his long-dead companion, and his heart twists.
“Yeah, you! Wanna walk with me?”
He hesitates for a moment. Does he want to walk with this youth? He can already feel himself drawn to him, but walking with someone who reminds him so much of the other, lost youth will be painful. And when the time comes for this one to depart the path…
He cannot refuse. The young man is so eager, smiling hopefully at him, his eyes bright. It will do him good to be with someone who is so alive. And how would it be fair to deny the youth his company, if he wants it so much, for his own sake? He smiles back at the young man.
“Certainly.”
The young man grins as he catches up to him, and they walk together for many days, conversing happily. The pain he predicted is there, but it is more than worth it. The places they walk in are dark and cold, but they do not care; the youth’s enthusiasm makes every place seem bright.
A shadow falls on the path before them. The air grows cold. Smoke rises from the ground and forms into a horribly familiar shape. He jerks back in horror as the old man from the ship solidifies and grins his madman’s grin.
“It’s been a long time.”
He is frozen for an instant, but only for that long. His mind begins to race. The old man has come to end him, after all this time. The first priority is to get the youth out of danger; then he himself must flee. Part of him wants to confront the old man head-on and avenge his comrades, but he knows that he cannot risk a confrontation. He must not be consumed. It is not out of fear for himself that he thinks this; he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that something terrible will happen, something that goes far beyond him, if the old man succeeds in killing him. He turns and runs, pulling the youth along with him.
The old man calls after them. “Do you think you can run away?”
Maybe not, but trying is better than the alternative. He runs on into the dark, and then he loses his grip on the youth's hand, and hears glass shatter, and he is falling down, not into death but simply down and away, into whatever lies below him...