The Door of Dreams

by Greg James

  “I think it does that anyway,” Willow said, reflectively.

  “Come, friend Willow, this no time for such thoughts. Tonight is for revelry.”

  “You’re right,” Willow said, drying her feet on the grass and pulling on her boots, “show me the way to the party, friend Henu.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A great fire burned at the heart of the gathering that night; sparks and cinders flaring upwards to reach the stars.

  Henu and Willow found a place to sit in amongst the hubbub. Nymphs in diaphonous gowns with shimmering locks of multi-hued hair wove expertly through the sprawled and kneeling centaurs; passing out flagons, dishing up stew and baked fruits into waiting bowls, and remonstrating with boisterous colts who became too free with their hands after one too many servings of wine.

  At times, they were distracted by the clash of steel as centaurs jousted and parried in mock-battle around the bonfire. Willow recognised one with a blood-red mane who seemed to easily the best the younger centaurs. He had been by Nualan’s side on the skirmish with the No-men earlier on. “Do you know the name of that centaur, Henu?”

  “I believe his name is Rathane and he is second to Nualan in the drove. A bold warrior, so Nithoe tells me, and wise in the ways of battle despite his youth.”

  To emphasise Henu’s point, a colt with a chestnut hue to his hide and hair was disarmed of his sword and brought to his knees by Rathane’s expert wielding of staff and spear. Watching the centaurs fight was like watching dancers in motion, so poetic was the flow of each stroke and thrust. The colt regained his feet, shook himself down, and reared to Rathane as was the custom; a salute of respect to the superior warrior.

  Willow ate Starababa’s stew as she watched the festivities continue and washed it down with a sweet apple cider flavoured with cloves and cinnamon. The centaurs ate and drank in constant flow around them. Their human bodies were so beautiful; finely-muscled, slender, and graceful. Their ears tapered to elegant points and, even in the dark, their long hair shimmered lustrous. A few of the drove were recognisably elders as they wore plaited beards which ran down their weathered chests as rivers of winter colour. The eyes of the elders were piercing jewels of amethyst and emerald.

  Willow suddenly realised there was a pair of eyes looking into hers.

  Starababa had joined them.

  She smiled at Willow and supped from her own bowl of stew. Willow felt like she was being considered, weighed, and judged. She wasn’t sure she liked the feeling.

  “So you are the Greychild.” Starababa said.

  “ I guess so. I don’t know. That’s what Nualan seems to think.”

  “Has he told you the prophecy?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  “It goes like so,” Starababa said.

  A greychild who is born young made old,

  A fire that does not burn, a rain that does not fall,

  A joy that comes for no reason, an anger that comes without cause,

  A sorrow that heals both without and within,

  An answer to the question that has never been asked;

  That of all things lost and true.

  “What does it mean?”

  Starababa shrugged, “Who can say? Prophecies are not known for their literalness, but I see there is age in your eyes.”

  “That’s because of what Scaethe did to me. He made me older.”

  Starababa shook her head, “No, you have known great pain. The kind that adds years to a life. You may save us or destroy us, Greychild. You are your own will and way. Beware yourself as much as others.”

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “Such is life,” said Starababa, “but we learn to live with it.”

  The old woman placed her liver-spotted hands on Willow’s. She could feel strength and warmth in those hands as the lady of Fenriver went on, “Whatever comes, Greychild, whatever must be done, you must decide the end of things and no other. Be sure and be true.”

  Willow felt scared as Starababa tightened her grip a second and tears shimmered in the corners of the old woman’s eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” Willow said, “please don’t.”

  “Hush now,” Starababa said, “the Jenn wishes to recite the tale of Tirlane, I believe.”

  The moon was very bright and high in the sky, and Nithoe strode forward into the open heart of the gathering.

  “Nithoe is the drove’s Jenn,” Starababa said, “and though many of us know the tale well, the strength of it is always in the retelling.”

  Nithoe was a ghost of darkness and grey with her precious eyes catching back the firelight as she recited the words taught to her when she was but a foal.

  “Hear me, winds of the north. Hear me, sun of the south. Hear me, hills of the east. Hear me, waters of the west; for I have a tale to tell, a memory of the long ride, and a portent of the ride to come. My tale is as all tales; of our past, of our present, and of our future.

  “Without tales to know, our hearts are stone. Without tales to tell, our words are dust. Without tales to hear, our souls are empty vessels. Thus I call all of my blood to me and beg them listen and take heed, so they might know themselves anew.”

  “In the beginning, there was nothing but the void and its emptiness. It lasted for longer than we can ever know. It lasted until something came from nothing. This something was the first life. A seed sown in darkness alone. It grew though it had no right to grow. It became though it had no right to become. From this first seed came the Archtree, and from it all life began to spread and, soon enough, the nothing was no more as waters covered it over and then came the land, rising high above the tide. The sun and moon came into being, coaxing the first stars to come out. The first trees began to grow and so it went on. The world grew and grew. It might have continued to grow until all Time and Space were consumed – for such is the nature of life, to grow and to spread and overcome all boundaries.

  “By this time, the first children of Tirlane had been born and grown into some knowledge of the world. They saw the trees growing wild, mountains soaring high enough to split the sky, and the sea rampaging so fiercely that it might tear the land apart and sink it once more. With their knowledge, the first children forged a counter-weight to the Archtree and its verdancy.

  “Though it pained them to do so, the first children of Tirlane knew the world must be bound within itself, otherwise no other worlds could come into being. As there is light and darkness, life and death, so too must there be order as well as chaos – a balance must be set between the two. At the highest point of the world, the Archtree grew unfettered. So, it was agreed the device of balance should be buried as deep as deep in the earth.

  “They named it the Worldstone, and still it anchors us, holding all in balance and from descending into chaos.”

  “Thus was the world bound and no longer grew beyond itself. The Wealdsmen guarded the woods, the Holtsmen warded the forests, and the Beorhmen watched over the eastern hills. The Morgens and Nymphs cared for the heartland. The Wisps and their Kindlings kept the Summerdowns as their own. The first children of Tirlane sat in peace at Silfrenheart and Covenheart as Wardens over all.

  “The mountains to the north were bequeathed to the Giants, and theirs was the first great sorrow of Tirlane. Within the mountains rest the remains of their city; Barrowdwell. For a thousand years or more, the Giants warded the north as the other children warded the forests, woods, plains, and hills. Giants had a deep love for all things of nature, everything that grew. They also had fierce tempers when roused and no foe was brave enough to test them.

  “So it came to pass that their fall was their own doing. They felt much pride in being the Wardens of the north and being feared by those who dwelt beyond the mountains. The mines under Barrowdwell worked night and day as they hunted for a prize they sought to show their greatness to all. They sought for the Worldstone itself.

  “However, the Worldstone was too well-hidden and it defied them. In the deepest parts of the wor
ld, they found something else buried. The Giants found the Lamia and her nest of No-men. How she came to be and by whose hand she was wrought, we do not know but we do know the Giants awakened her from a slumber which might have otherwise continued until the end of Time itself. For evil is buried within us all, but it must first be sought for and awakened before it can do harm.

  “The No-men were unleashed and spread through Barrowdwell like a plague. The Lamia’s magick was of a kind unknown in all the world. Many of the Giants were slain and the survivors were driven out of Barrowdwell. The swarming of the Lamia and No-men was only stopped by the working of a spell which bound them to the mountains. It meant the No-men could not leave yet it also prevented the Giants from returning to their ancient home.

  “The mountains have ever since been avoided. Once it was the noble crown of our country, now it is a dark and dangeous place. The Giants were bereft. Each in turn wept for a day and a night in mourning for their loss. It is from their tears the rivers of the land were born which wash ever outwards to the sea.

  “They had fallen to pride and suffered greatly for it. They named themselves thereafter as tenders of the world’s seas to pay for their hubris. The Giants left Tirlane in great sorrow to serve the Bound Sea; and still they govern her tides and obey her winds.

  “Yet as bright and powerful as the day might be so it must be overtaken by the night. Covenheart fell and the spell over Barrowdwell was broken. Silfrenheart was abandoned and we know not where its folk retreated to. The Lamia’s darkness has spread over the land and we have lived evermore in her shadow. Though our hope may fade, it must be remembered that as dark and perilous as the night might be so there must come a time when it will be dispelled by the dawn.

  “Hear me, winds of the north. Hear me, sun of the south. Hear me, hills of the east. Hear me, waters of the west; for my tale is done, and we all must rest and ride on through our dreams.”

  Nithoe bowed her head, as did the other centaurs. Willow looked around; realising that Starababa had left sometime during the recital. She wondered why. Those around her lay down to sleep with a prayer on their lips; ‘Ride swift. Ride home. Ride true.’

  It had been a long day and Willow soon joined them in slumber.

  *

  In her dreams, she sat again with Starababa and the old woman passed her a large clay goblet. The wine in it was a deep red and smelled of hot spices and summer fruit. Willow looked around and saw dried newts, marshsnakes, bats and thorny bundles of herbs hanging on the walls where light was cast by flickering candles. She was inside Starababa’s house. It was a bit creepy.

  “Please drink, Greychild. There is nothing for you to fear.”

  Willow drank some of her wine. It tasted of ripe fall berries. She felt the warmth of the alcohol, which continued to grow and intensify as a scented flame fed by ancient oils. It ran through her body, making the nerves of her fingers and toes sing. There was a soft thundering behind her eyes and in her ears. “What was in it? What was in the wine?”

  “Something to help you,” Starbaba said, “trust me, Willow Grey. I am not your foe.”

  The candlelight seemed to wash away the gloom, creating a sense of shadowy splendour. An even greater change came over Starababa as fear and wonder fought in Willow’s heart.

  Her Mom was sitting cross-legged before her, dressed in Starababa’s clothes. It couldn’t be anyone else. Willow remembered those sapphire eyes as if it were yesterday.

  “Willow? It’s been so long.”

  This was impossible. “No, you’re not ... you’re not real. You can’t be.”

  “I’m here because you need me to be, Willow. I know you’re frightened.”

  “This is a dream. I’m dreaming of you, that’s what this is.”

  “Will it make you feel better if we treat it like that? A dream within a dream?”

  “Don’t try and mess with my head. You’re not my Mom. You can’t be.”

  “Tell me why you’re so scared, Willow?”

  It was her eyes and her voice. It was Mom.

  It shouldn’t have been but it was.

  “Because I ... because ... I did something stupid. I made a choice. I don’t think it was the right one, but I’d still be dying if I didn’t make it.”

  “You’re alive, my dear. That’s the important thing.”

  “And there was this woman too, she asked me to kill her. I didn’t do it but I can’t forget about it. It hurt that she asked me, like she expected I could do something like that. Can I? Can I kill someone? Is that part of who I am, Mom?”

  “What happened is not your fault, Willow. Sometimes things happen and life gets out of our control, and we look back afterwards and think we had control, a say over what should have happened, when really we didn’t. You’re a good girl. You always have been. Remember that, in your heart.”

  “Mom, I wanna go home. I wanna see Dad again. I don’t want him to be alone.”

  “I know, honey, but you must be brave. The long way is hard but it’s the path you must take. You will find a way.”

  “But I’ve already been through so much. I can’t lose Dad as well and he can’t lose me.”

  “I don’t want either of you to be alone,” Mom said, “just promise me you’ll be brave and be true to yourself, no matter what happens. Don’t become what you’re not so you can get what you wish for. Promise me that now.”

  “I – I promise, Mom.”

  “Goodbye, Willow. I love you, always.”

  “Mom, please don’t go. I need you. I need someone to be with me.”

  “You already have someone with you in this world, Willow. You know who he is. He will look after you. Goodbye.”

  And then she was gone, and Willow slept on until morning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At dawn, the drove took its leave of Starababa’s land. Willow did not see a sign of the old woman or her nymphs. Henu assured her they were merely resting after the night’s festivities, but Willow remembered how Starababa held her hands so tightly and seemed close to weeping the night before. The old woman had been scared for her – for some reason – and she’d disappeared before the end of the recital so Willow couldn’t ask her why. Then, there’d been the dream with Mom. It all made Willow very nervous about what was going to happen next in this strange land.

  That said, the last leagues of the ride passed pleasantly enough and, by mid-morning, the henge-like stones of Harrowclave were rising to meet the sun; for it stood atop a mesa – an elevated plateau of land surrounded by sheer cliffs.

  The drove came to the pathway which led up to the plateau. It was guarded by what, at first glance, appeared to be a legion of squat figures. Willow saw they were all made of stone. Their blue-grey skins were weathered and cracked through by the elements. Moss and lichen grew in the scars. Deep tracts worn by the rain lined their faces with everlasting tears. She could see outlines of armour and that each held a short sword in one hand and a shield was bound across the other arm.

  “What are they?” Willow asked.

  “The Stone Legion,” Nualan said, “guardians of Tirlane carved by the Giants before they departed for the sea. They have slept in the shadows of Harrowclave for so long, no-one remembers the spell which awakens them.”

  “And they know only sorrow,” Henu said in a melancholy tone, “think of it, friend Willow. What has roots deeper than the trees? What has seen, known, and felt more than we ever will? What remains when all else is dead and gone?”

  “Stone,” she said.

  “Yes,” he sighed, “and the sorrow of stone is theirs; to see the sun yet never to feel it, to grieve yet shed no tear, to know all things yet never speak of them to another soul.”

  “And this made them Tirlane’s greatest warriors,” Nualan said, “their pain was their power; for a stone cannot tire, cannot bleed, and cannot die.”

  “Though it may wish to,” Henu said, “more than all things alive on the earth.”

  “It matters not, Wealdsma
n. The old magick is lost. The Stone Legion cannot help us now.” Nualan said.

  Willow stopped to look more closely at the faces of the Legion; pitted deep and worn down by time. Their eyes were mournful hollows sheltering a little water as if it were the tears they wished to shed. She placed a hand on the stone. It was cold despite the sun.

  “Come, friend Willow,” Henu said, “there is nothing you can do for them now.”

  Willow followed Henu and the centaurs along the causeway all the way up to the plateau of Harrowclave. She couldn’t shake the feeling eyes were watching her. She looked back for a moment. The Stone Legion had not moved. They stared out across Tirlane – dreaming of a time lost when they marched and fought in its name.

  “Thank you, Nualan, for seeing us safely across the plains to Harrowclave.” Henu said.

  “You are welcome, Henu of Beam Weald. You have done well and been brave to bring the Greychild so far alone.”

  “I did only as I had to,” Henu said, “I like to think any of my countryfolk would have done the same.”

  “Now, we must make preparations for the gathering of the droves and the declaration of the Greychild,” Nualan said, “and the coming defeat of the Lamia.”

  Willow wasn’t really listening to either of them. She’d seen something which made her breath catch in her throat. There, at the centre of Harrowclave’s standing stones, was a gateway. It looked to have grown, coral-like, out of the ground rather than to have been shaped by working hands. She looked through it and did not see the horizon of Tirlane as she should have done. Willow saw her home. She saw the house and Dad standing outside on the porch. His hands were cupped around his mouth, calling out her name.

  “Willow! Willow! Where are you? Come home! Please, come home!”

  “Dad!” she cried out and ran towards the gate.

  “Friend Willow, wait!” Henu cried.