The Door of Dreams

by Greg James

  After all, dreams do not need to sleep, nor to dream – do they?

  *

  Willow was awoken by everything trembling violently. An undulation ran through Cheren Mokur as if a great weight had been disturbed and was moving beneath the surface.

  “It has found us,” Henu cried out, “it knows where we are.”

  They crawled out of the hollow tree and as they did a line of trees before them was swallowed by an eruption of marsh-water. Everything shuddered again and more marshland sank from sight, but through the space created something could be seen – the castle of Silfrenheart.

  “Look, Henu,” Willow shouted, “over there.”

  “You are right,” Henu yelled with delight, “it is the castle.”

  The sight of the land beyond the marsh was sweet indeed and they strode hard through the churning waters to reach it. Willow could feel sweat beading on her brow and her legs were aching from strain but she couldn’t stop, not with the Voice so close.

  Something scraped against her leg underwater and was gone as soon as she noticed it. The waters shuddered again. A tendril trailing algae and mud whipped into the air, and then was gone below the surface. It was right underneath them.

  Suddenly, something grabbed Henu. He was jerked off his feet and there was a brief kicking and thrashing before he disappeared. He’d been pulled under the water by the Voice. Willow dove in after him without a second thought.

  “... come ... Willow ... come home to me ...”

  Not this time, she thought, as she swam strongly down.

  Willow saw Henu, just, through the foggy water and grabbed at him. She tried to haul the Wealdsman back to the surface but the grip of the Voice was stronger than before. They both began to be dragged down, away from light, life, and hope and towards the deathly glow of the Voice. The dark pressed in on Willow, wanting to flood her lungs and drown her heart. Down here, it was as dark as it gets – and Willow said no. There was no air and the Voice had no ears with which to hear her but she said no.

  She would have screamed it if she could.

  Willow Grey said no and the Voice of Cheren Mokur gave Henu back to her, just as the Great-No had fallen back from the Summerdowns and its slaughter of the Wisps. She dragged the Wealdsman up and away from death. She broke through the surface of the water gasping for air.

  There was land, not so far away.

  Willow swam for it, hauling Henu along with her, out of the marsh’s churning waters. On the shore, she rolled him over so he could cough the foul water out of his lungs. He looked up at her and managed a weak smile. “Thank you for saving my life, friend Willow.”

  “I think we’re even now,” Willow said.

  They were interrupted by a surge of water from Cheren Mokur and a monstrous shape rising from it; trailing water, roots and weeds. It was a thing of darkness and slime. Willow could see it had no shape other than that of the things which made it up. A single baleful eye glowed in the heart of the dripping mass; seeing her and hating her for defying it.

  She could not say no to it this time. Whatever power she’d invoked would not work on this horror again, so the two companions ran headlong from the slithering nightmare.

  Silfrenheart waited for them.

  Henu raised his hands and pressed them against the worn metal of the doors.

  He closed his eyes and muttered.

  The gates opened with a crash.

  Willow and Henu hurried through them.

  The doors closed with a second crash.

  Outside, they heard the Voice roar its frustration.

  They had made it through Cheren Mokur alive.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Willow dropped to her knees, wheezing until she was able to catch her breath. She listened to the wet sounds made by the thing which had arisen from Cheren Mokur on the other side of the doors.

  “There is no going back that way,” Henu said.

  The Wealdsman drew the Kindling out of his pocket, wiped it with his sleeve and let it rise into the air. Its glow reflected off high walls and vaulted ceilings.

  “Here we are, friend Willow. The castle of Silfrenheart; first seat of the Wardens who once oversaw Tirlane. Your way home lies ahead if you still seek it.”

  “It’s very quiet in here,” Willow said, “do you know what happened to the Wardens here?”

  Henu shook his head, “No, the tragedy of Covenheart is well known but the fate of the Wardens of Silfrenheart is not. All I can say for sure is that the castle was abandoned shortly after the fall of Covenheart and the casting of the Uncanted Spell.”

  Willow nodded, saying nothing more as they began to walk further into the castle.

  The halls of Silfrenheart were exquisite. Planes of polished marble lined the floors, the ceilings and the walls. The silence, so long undisturbed, seemed to crack like glass each time Willow took a step. She tried to tread more softly, not sure what she was afraid of. They walked past arched windows without glass which looked in on empty chambers and rooms. There were doorways leading into dark hallways, some of which were blocked by fallen stone. Willow could feel the fine hairs on her skin bristling.

  “We’re being watched,” she whispered.

  “But by whom?” Henu asked, “the castle is abandoned.”

  “Henu, ask the Kindling to go a bit higher. Bit higher than that.”

  The flame of the Kindling reflected off dozens of minute points in the nooks and crannies of the arches and vaulted heights they had been walking under.

  “The spiders,” she said, “and the rats. They’re all watching us.”

  “Yes,” said Henu, “and with more alacrity than is usual for such creatures. This must be the Lamia’s doing.”

  He raised the thule and said, “Close your eyes.”

  Brilliant light was released, then extinguished.

  Willow blinked rapidly as the sudden eruption of light faded as quickly as it had come. Instead of the glowing eyes, there was the shrieking of rats who could no longer see and the hanging webs quivered as spiders scattered in all directions.

  “A good job, I think.” Willow said.

  “Yes,” said Henu, “A very good job.”

  The two companions passed through vast halls with grand tables and high-backed chairs that no-one sat in. They crossed courtyards where fountains stood; dead and dry, crowned by sculptures of Tirlane’s denizens. One of them was a proudly-rearing centaur. Willow went up to it and laid her hand upon the shaped stone. It was cold. There was no life there – and it was headless.

  “Come away, Greychild,” Henu said, gently.

  Willow let the Wealdsman lead her away.

  The most arresting sight they came upon was a hallway in which the walls were inset with tubes of heavy glass which reached from the floor to the ceiling. The Kindling’s light revealed each tube contained a No-man suspended inside. The glass of each tube was inscribed with countless minute runes.

  “What are they doing here?”

  “I have heard tales of the Wardens capturing No-men in order to study and better understand their nature.”

  “Why would the Lamia leave them here with the Wardens gone? Why not set them free?”

  “She cares no more for her spawn than a spider cares for the hundreds born at each hatching. They are called No-men for a reason, friend Willow. They are nothing.”

  Willow’s heart missed a beat when the narrow featureless face of a No-man – a mask of midnight velvet – turned slowly in her direction. She felt eyes upon her that she could not see. She held herself very still, feeling like prey in the predator’s gaze. She watched long, obsidian arms come alive, reach out to the glass and begin to stroke at the surface with slow, sensual movements of its thin fingers. A curious trembling began deep inside her, a stirring unfamiliar, from being in the presence of such a thing.

  “Let’s go, Henu.”

  “They cannot harm us, Willow. They are safely sealed in their rune-gaols, I promise you.”

  Willow
knew better but didn’t say so this time, “Let’s just go, all the same. We don’t want them to get ideas.”

  Or, for them to give us any.

  The two companions ventured on until they were brought to a halt by two colossal doors of polished grey stone. Henu reached out and laid a hand on the smooth stone. The doors were utterly featureless. There were no carvings and no signs of how it might be made to open.

  “Sit a while, Greychild,” he said, “while I open the way for us.”

  Willow sat down, cross-legged, and watched.

  First, Henu rapped his knuckles against the stone. He did it once, twice, thrice, and four times. He did it slow. He did it fast. Nothing happened.

  The Wealdsman stroked his beard and whistled through his teeth.

  A small sound came from the stone doors.

  “A-ha!” he said.

  He whistled. He shouted. He chanted. He called out Eren’s name, and other names Willow didn’t know. The doors did nothing. They stayed closed.

  Henu cursed and sat down.

  Willow got to her feet, “Can I have a go?”

  The Wealdsman blinked at her “Sure. Go ahead.”

  He didn’t sound hopeful.

  Willow rolled up her sleeves and walked up to the doors. She had no idea what to do so she put her hands on the doors and pushed.

  The stone doors began to grind open.

  Henu gasped.

  Willow kept on pushing. The doors should have weighed a ton but it felt like nothing at all as she kept on pushing. She couldn’t help grinning to herself as she took her hands away from the doors before giving them one last, hard push. They swung open and crashed against the walls. The sound echoed and rolled back through all the halls and courtyards of Silfrenheart. Willow was standing at the far end of the grandest hall they had come to so far. There were tiered rows on either side, which gave the impression of an amphitheatre as they walked inside.

  Willow saw there was an elevated dais at the centre of the hall much like the one upon which Eren had sat upon in Covenheart. The two companions climbed the steps and discovered atop the dais was a small marble shrine rather than a throne. A porcelain bell hung inside and beneath it rested a silver hammer.

  Willow picked up the hammer.

  She looked around the empty hall. There was not a sound to be heard apart from their own breathing and heartbeats. She stroked the side of the bell with the hammer, feeling it vibrate slightly at the touch.

  Henu met her gaze, “We do not know what it will do, friend Willow. It could be your way home. It could not.”

  “You’re right,” she said, “but I’m willing to take the chance, either way.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know a lot about what’s going on here, Henu,” she said, “but I do know where I want to be.”

  Willow struck the bell with the hammer and said, “I want to go home.”

  Her words resounded loud and clear in the space around them.

  A single, clear note rang out from the bell. It was low, quiet and seemed to be answered in every surface. It travelled through the open doors and echoed throughout the castle of Silfrenheart. Willow set down the hammer and waited.

  She blinked – and everything changed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rain ran down the dirty glass of the window, and reflections of the droplets showed as the shadows of tears on Willow’s face. She leaned forwards and traced the lines of the minute streams with her fingertips. It was growing cold outside and it would be Christmas soon. But Willow already knew she wouldn’t be celebrating.

  What was there to celebrate?

  That she had been in the Brightcoast Mental Health Facility for three years?

  “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah...” she breathed onto the weeping glass.

  It had all seemed so simple back then, three years ago, when she came back from Tirlane to the real world. Go home. Forget about it. Move on, right?

  Ridiculously simple.

  Life wasn’t easy like that though.

  Instead she found that going home was the hardest thing.

  I saw No-men, ghouls and demons, she thought, and then it all went away. I didn’t know how to just be Willow Grey anymore.

  She’d also returned five years older than she should have been. What Henu said came true. She was something impossible. There were no magic cures for cancer. There was no way someone could age so much in such a short time. She wasn’t her Dad’s daughter so the professionals had told him. Bewildered, he signed the papers so they could find out the truth – as they told him they saw it. Willow wasn’t given the chance to tell him her side of things. They locked her away as soon as they could. She was an impossible thing and not many people could accept that before breakfast.

  Willow had wanted so badly to come home now she only wanted to escape again. It was like she was stuck in a never-ending cycle. Tirlane existed. It was real. It had happened. It was not a dream.

  “Please, let me out of here.” She whispered quietly to the outside world.

  The air of Brightcoast was the same as the colour of its walls; washed-out, beige and mundane. Antiseptic. Unscented. Lifeless. She hated it and they knew that she did – the doctors and the orderlies. They also knew that she was smart and aware of herself. Most of the other patients were lost and had been for a very long time. You could see it in their eyes; how they never focused on you, but instead stared right through you at some far-off point in the distance, which only they could discern.

  Willow was focused. She knew what she wanted – to get out of this place.

  She remembered one of her many interviews with Dr Frampton.

  “So, Miss Grey, you believe that you have been somewhere else, yes?”

  “How else do you explain how I aged five years in less than a week?”

  “Miss Grey, I need you to tell me who you really are. This charade is only hurting the father of the real Willow Grey. We don’t know why she ran away but she is very sick and anything you can do to set his mind at rest as to her whereabouts would be much appreciated.”

  “I am Willow Grey and Dad knows it’s me. You’re just messing with his head. What about my DNA test? What were the results of that?”

  “Inconclusive.”

  “You know I am who I say I am, just admit it!”

  “The truth is inside you, Miss Grey, and it is only you that holds the key.”

  “I know the truth. I was in another place, another world, and it changed me.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first girl to play games with others because she has been abused and felt a lack of control over her life.”

  “So, you think I’m doing this because I’ve been raped or something? You’re the one who’s sick. I’m not going to deny Tirlane or who I am. I know that’s what you want but it’s not going to happen.”

  The rest of the interview went along in the same tone. Dr Frampton was a thin prig of a woman with a face as sharp as her spectacles. She was a dull reflection of the world around her. She had no imagination. The ability to listen to Willow and what she had to say was barely there – never mind the capacity to understand. They could both see that things were going nowhere.

  Lack of progress – three words Willow had become very familiar with.

  They had tried a number of medications on her. The names of which seemed to get longer with each prescription. None of them worked because Willow was telling the truth. A fantastic truth but the truth all the same.

  Rain continued to run down the windows. The sky rolled with dismal clouds. There was a tension in the air that told her there was a storm on its way. The world outside grew darker and began to rumble in its hidden throat. The door to her room opened. Willow’s shoulders knotted tight as she turned around and saw Dr Frampton standing there ahead of two orderlies who were slouched over a gurney, “Miss Grey.”

  “What is this?” Willow asked, backing away instinctively.

  Dr Frampton ad
justed her spectacles up, down and then into the centre of her scrawny nose, “We have tried everything. We have given you medication to treat your condition – you have thrown it away, or spat it out. I have undertaken numerous therapy sessions to which you have not responded at all.”

  “You never listen to me – how am I supposed to respond if you don’t pay any attention to what I say?”

  “As I said, you are unresponsive. To this end, we have agreed on a more demonstrative form of treatment – one that I dearly hope you will respond to. Usually we would ask the patient’s consent but, in this case, it has been agreed you are not in your right mind and cannot make this kind of decision for yourself.”

  “Not in my right mind? What the hell does that even mean?”

  “We cannot go on like this, Willow. This has to end. This has to stop. Please, come with us.”

  “What are you going to do?” Willow asked.

  “That will become apparent.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to get upset unnecessarily.”

  “Upset? Talk to me. Tell me.”

  “Arthur. Willis. Could you assist Miss Grey, please?”

  The orderlies approached Willow. “Come on now, Miss. Let’s not make a scene.” One said.

  “You lie down here and be good. Soon it’ll all be over.” The other added.

  Willow backed away from them. Their soothing words were not soothing at all. There was something they weren’t telling her and she didn’t like the look of the gurney.

  What kind of treatment needed you on a thing like that?

  “Stay away from me.”

  One of the orderlies grabbed at her. She ducked away and lashed out. Her fingernails found the stubbled skin of his cheek, gouging four crooked lines along it. He yelled and clapped his hand to his wounded face. “She scratched me! Grab her!”

  The other made a clumsy lunge for Willow. She brought her knee up hard between his legs, making him clutch at his groin and come to a sagging halt. She moved past them towards the door.