Eventually, after some very bemused theorizing as to cause, I heard a sound—drums. They were indistinct at first, but gradually increasing. They came from beyond infinite distances I could only faintly detect. It was the hidden staccato of my private song, stretching out into the clearest notes I’d yet to hear, and still it slept, coiled and waiting. Before I could attempt to total the slivers of clarity I’d been provided, the void swept me from the stairwell, and then some. I was all but lost to the crashing waves of waking when something spoke to me, whispered perhaps, from sleep. It said, “And still, there shall be hope.”
Into the crush, again. Memories and dreams and pain and loss and love—a confusion of waking and dreaming and remembering. The precise state that had been overthrown in favor of an enduring order to things, now only the occasional and wholly unstable nexus for the hidden and secret. I was caught in the pull of a thousand currents, red games and scheming mothers and dead families, old and new. It was almost, pleasantly, too much for me to bear. But revelation was not yet through with me, for when I opened my eyes, it seemed as if dreams had yet again invaded the earth.
***
While I was reasonably certain I had awoken below the city of Willard, within the strange device Doctor Coldglow had placed me within, there was a strange overlap with a previous and skin-strewn dream. I seemed to occupy a bizarre hybrid of the Willard reality and the Skin-swapper’s nightmare. While the room was of its previous size and shape, it had been filled with the skinned bodies of White Wigs, all of them made to appear dancing around the most bizarre and unintelligible shape, a shape slightly intimated from the negative space outlined by the sewn-together skins of the denuded towheads. No doubt, this was the symbol for the insanity the lunatics were beholden to, forever orbiting a thing barely hinted at, even by the sum of their many stolen skins. It was majestic. I even felt a pang of jealousy. Here was some of the finest art I’d ever had the pleasure of witnessing—at the cost of appearing braggadocios, it was certainly worthy of standing alongside any of my own pieces. It even seemed like something I would create. Unfortunately, as is the case within the solid world, there was a good reason for the similarity.
A voice from the shadows, husky and proud, came at me from the back of the room. “I can tell you approve of my work. Or, is it our work?” It was Mister Hyde, but that was the least of my realizations. The pain that came out of the dream with me had not subsided, but in fact had been augmented. The pale light of the room revealed me, affording the deepest look at myself I’d ever been given—I had been removed of my skin.
Mister Hide continued with his soliloquy, as I was without lips with which to properly converse. “I assume it is only by the good graces of that feral Red Dream you still live, just as I’d hoped you would. You see, it seems you’ve left me with a bit of a problem. Prior our interruption, you had me dead to rights—defeated. Now, if I’m the chosen one to right the world, to replace the lost skins, how is it that you could defeat me? Don’t answer, allow me—it’s because I was not in my right skin, after all. Here I was, mis-attired the whole time, just waiting for my own lost skin to be returned to me. And here we are, appropriately dressed for our last and rightful—fateful—contest. But unlike what you presumed during our first encounter—you’re a perfect fit.” Mister Hyde stepped into the wan light, wearing my skin.
There were precious few things, I must sadly confess, which could truly surprise me—this was such a thing. He was a grizzly sight, a collage of raw, red skin atop glistening, exposed muscle. My contorted face was sewn into the meat of his cheeks and forehead. My ample beard bristled and tangled into the flaps of the sewn-on chin, yellowing globs of blood-streaked fat weighing them down, folding them over. My mane of hair fell like tousled darkness across his back, framing a most wonderful piece of art, if not the antithesis of the nature of Deadworld art—it had survived its creation. Here was not the corpse of a dream, but its living, breathing body.
Not even the pain of having been undressed of all my flesh could diminish my admiration for what stood before me. But as it turned out, I was wrong—I hadn’t been left entirely nude. I put my hand to my face, realizing something had been sewn atop it—Hide’s own face. He had altered the very reality of our first encounter, reversing our roles, perhaps even our respective fates. My head throbbed with the question—what if he was right? What if I was only the means to Hide’s end? He was living art. What was I next to that? Then, a deciding moment. Hide moved to gather my father into his hand. I would let him choose—my father would know best. The grotesque doppelganger hefted the axe with ease, his—my—face unfazed for the contact. His next words were not his own, and dipped in purest hell. “You cried for me! Pitied me! For that, you will pay, whelp!” It was my father’s voice. It seemed my epiphanies of the last hours were not entirely my own to know, but had been shared with the shadows in my soul. And one shadow in particular was not happy for the knowledge. Father now realized I had cried for him, and now he was in a body—though a bit small for him—to exact a price for my transgression.
In keeping with our switched identities, I had been equipped with Mister Hide’s knives, which I raised in a doomed attempt to deflect my inbound father. The axe batted aside the blades with ease, sinking into my shoulder. The pain was explosive, riding down exposed nerves already buzzing like live wires filled with electric agony. This turn of events after so much unwanted, unfiltered knowledge was almost too much for me to endure, and all coupled with the fact that my soul was only a few bloody layers from tumbling completely out my body. I tried to roll with the attack, to deny the axe a fatal depth, but my father descended at his leisure, going where he would, snapping and splitting skin, cartilage, and bone—but minding my more vital areas. This, it seemed, would be a lesson I wouldn’t soon forget, but one I might walk away from.
Perhaps sensing my father’s non-lethal intention, Hide threw him away, clanking down into the ample blood of dead Wigs, smoke hissing from his killing edge. Hide now meant to tear me apart with his bare hands, which had been skillfully gloved in my own —I think even Janus might have approved of that detail. Despite the Red Dream plying me with my share of unreality, I was still nearing the end of my respective tether. I had lost so much blood along with my skin, and my mind was already piled three times its weight in painful recollection. Not to mention the visionary in me could barely see the artist for the gallery—so much wonder and beauty. It was nearly paralyzing.
Hide applied little thought to his attack, likely due to my severely compromised state. I couldn’t blame him for that, but my weakened state differed largely from the depleted conditions suffered by lesser artists. He shouldn’t have confused the two. When at last his hands were around my neck, hoisting me from the earth, my own hands were busy prying up the lower portions of his rib cage. A clear red line of sutures secured my skin to his, and they strained and popped as I peeled my flesh from their moorings. Where the stitching was once merely shallow pock marks along Hides abdomen, they were now gaping flesh wounds, rivulets of blood pouring from their lengthy tracks.
It took only a moment for me to force my questing hands inside his body, finding the edges of his ribs. Hide, either to his credit or foolishness, paid no heed to my burrowing hands, and continued to lift me, my grip upon his bones supplying enough counterforce to disallow my placement above his head. It was then only a matter of placing my boot upon his chest, using him for the necessary leverage, and pulling backwards with all my might, ribcage in hand. His bones came away like roots pulled from the dirt, with the colorful exception of all the red spillage and wet snapping sounds.
Hide released me, roaring more from indignation than pain, it seemed. I rose back to my feet and held out my prizes. I filtered my speech through the paradoxical powers of the Red Dream, allowing my lipless words to be understood. “You took so much from me, yet left me only with your face—so I decided to take something more from you to balance the scales.”
>
It was now Hide’s turn to lean upon the Red Dream, as his wounds would have proven fatal otherwise. I continued to cast words at him through the bleeding vision we shared. “We could be brothers, you and I. Twins, even. And now, having established such a connection, you know how I use the bones of my family, yes?”
I lunged forward, placing the mass of broken ribs in my hands back into Hide’s chest. Once they had achieved the proper depth, I used the makeshift handles to lift my howling opponent from the ground. It was a long walk to Hide’s art exhibit, but I’d always enjoyed brisk strolls through the underground, especially in such wonderful company. Hide’s violent protests came to a sudden stop when I slammed his body down atop a large steel shaft anchoring one end of the canopy of skins. His grip upon the Red Dream was fading, his swan song near completion.
With one last effort, Hide clawed out at me. I allowed his hand to close over his lost face, reclaiming it—and with it, the fate he attempted to impart me. I looked down almost shamefully before meeting the eyes of the skinner. “I would have enjoyed nothing more than spiting such a creature as fate,” I whispered, “a mindless brute rusted into ancient habits. But if it should occasionally align with my needs, I must wish it well.” Hide’s eyes had shed their fury, the face he’d stolen from me placid and near blank. “I’d like to think that I bring all of you with me,” I continued, “our mighty pack of Wolves, ever-growing, preparing for the final battle.”
He only looked up and smiled with my lips, murmuring, “I’d like that, too.” I watched the great skin-switcher’s fire sink into the ashes of his dark eyes, and I reckoned yet another awful deed performed in service to the Shepherd’s terrible Game.
For quite some time, I slept in the gathered silence beneath the lunatics’ conjoined skins, regrowing my lost flesh. I was host to many wonderful dreams there, happy for the excuse to do nothing but drowse. But I was clearly not alone. I had calculated the absence of Doctor Coldglow and his protégé as soon as I gazed upon Hide’s art, that beautiful thing partaking in equal measure from myself and the spoiling giant nearby. Yet it was not the hypnotist or his companion, but the very Angel of Madness itself, the irrepressible Deleriael. I denied its presence for as long as I was able, though I wanted nothing more than to converse with the thing. But ultimately, I knew it would be to my mind’s peril. I understood that the real failure of insanity lay in its false victory against the Deadworld, its host made to believe they’d burned it down, when in fact they bore only the smoke of a great fire—none of its heat. And yet, the very thought of conjuring such phantom flames, however illusory, was extremely tempting to me. Too tempting. It was because of such thinking the angel chose to speak with me, or possibly because it realized I’d recently regained the use of my speech, my lips having finally returned.
I watched as one of the skinned lunatics broke from his circle of dancing White Wigs, a blazing laughter of light forming a strange, wheeling design above his head, its brilliance throwing the shadows of the skinless dancers upon the wall, where they silently twirled and pirouetted and leapt. Deleriael’s host calmly walked to where I stretched out upon the floor. He sat down and joined me as I marveled at the shadow show. After a few minutes, without turning away from the darksome sights, Deleriael said, “There is strength in numbers, Vincent. You would not be alone. We would be with you, sharing an interim world of finest foxfire until finally, inexorably, we grew the real thing. A fire made from fever dreams and dragon’s breath, enough to burn down heaven and hell both, leaving nothing behind but the souls they’d stolen away. All of them—us—now free to wallow in a world without walls. Is that really so bad, my stubborn friend?”
“You know it’s not, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” I replied. “Yet I wonder if you’re telling the truth. For what insanity was ever purposeful?”
“Pray tell, what good was ever intended by a dream?” the angel returned. “One might argue, if they were so inclined, that it’s you who’s not being very honest, Vincent. You more than suspect her, now. You’re a player in more than just the one game, and you know it. You just won’t admit it. Because if you did . . .”
“I would belong to you.”
The angel laughed mightily, howling, “Bingo! So why not derail the whole train while there’s still passengers to pulverize? Why wait until it’s too late, and you’re merely forced to come with me? They’re still advancing you across the chessboard, making plays and calculations, minding rules. Imagine the chaos you’d cause if you just leapt off the board! You and that wonderful Jack Lantern, both. I’m sure it’d take very little convincing for him to join you—us. By the gods, imagine the trouble we could cause, the three of us!” Deleriael proved a master artist, painting the most exquisite pictures in the gallery of my mind. The three of us, joined in the sweetest madness an angel could supply, riding the lightning across the world.
“I can’t deny the beauty of your offer,” I admitted. “As an artist, I’m impelled to see it both for what it is and what it could be, given certain cosmic adjustments, of course. But I’m afraid I must refuse, much to my own chagrin. This whole journey of mine, this quest, Game—whatever it turns out to be—harbors a chaos none of its players or even its hosts can contain or control, despite their efforts to the contrary. I can feel that as surely as any of the truths you’ve uttered. It’s my chaos to cultivate, my dream. I must see it through, to give it life.” I finally turned to look at the angel, waiting for its response, truly sorry for rejecting its splendid offer.
It only continued staring at the wall, where its mind painted the souls of the mad in shadow and dance. But the show was quickly fading back to the stone of an unflinching wall, the strange glowing sigil above the angel’s head diminishing by the second. When the light was all but gone, the creature stood and replaced its borrowed body back into the line of frozen dancers, slowly reassuming its pose. Still not looking at me, the dejected angel said, “I understand. I just wish you’d come play with me. The fun we could have, forever. But I do think you’re correct to refuse me. I see it, too—the chaos. But it’s not in my nature to wait and see, you understand. I’ll see you soon enough, Vincent. And I do hope you win your game. You deserve it more than anyone. But one word of advice, before I go.” The angel finally turned its head to face me. “Chaos is no respecter of its creator.” And then Deleriael, the Angel of Madness, was gone.
The rest of my wanderings through Willard, even the dreams that followed, were rendered dull by the angel’s visitation, or more specifically, its declined invitation. Every sight I came upon, even those that should have proved delightful, I was forced to see as inferior to what might have been, had only I allowed the mad angel to open my eyes. It was for this very reason I chose at last to inspect Mister Hide’s kill list, to find some relief in the next name and the mystery it would hold.
But there was no mystery. There was only one name on his list, and none left upon my own. I’d reached the end of the Game, and my final opponent was revealed. The name was both thrilling and terrible at once. I let the lists fall to the ground, now merely debris, there purpose exhausted. That very moment, I departed Willard for Autumn City, where I would face my final challenge—Jack Lantern.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
With only the two of us left, the list left no mystery, as our awareness of each other was now fully joined. That awareness transcended even the traditional formality of the name-giving, which was always supplied as the wolf’s prosaic name, what was given to them at birth, not the more hard-earned moniker that followed. The moment I set my sight upon the name, William Grin, I knew it was Jack. It was as if the name itself were merely a mask, and the time for masks and hiding had passed away. I did not wonder if he was as pleased as I was for the knowledge, because I knew the answer to that, too. I could feel his excitement at the prospect of a proper playmate, a Wolf as beholden to dream as he. Of course, the distinctions between our dreams could not b
e starker or portentous in their coming into being. This latest reason was my confidence, as my quest held more to gain, for everyone.
Jack’s dream, it seemed to me, was just the want to progress down a dead-end tunnel, largely uninterrupted but for the lovely orange holiday he would celebrate en route to the bitter end. I didn’t suppose my purpose better supported by fate, only that our respective hearts would be more or less involved in the fight due to the grandness of potential gains. But even this perspective supplied only a dash of self-confidence, as I knew my opponent was not limited to a logical interpretation of his dream—as is only appropriate, after all.
As soon as Willard was in the waning distance, its solidified insanity an indistinct collection of absurdities playing against the glittering orange of the sinking sun, I stepped upon solid road for the first time in months. Granted, the road had likely not been traveled by any honest persons for some time, mostly serving the needs of things wishing to move through the night upon a slightly more forgiving surface. But it pleased me to walk upon the thing, as its banality served to augment the other, stranger sights I might come across traveling its length. My imagination had come under a kind of pallor since my talk with Deleriael, and the conceptual boost would do my mood well.
The road was like a solidified creek of snaking black stone, trying—but clearly failing—to escape the encroaching banks of the forest which drew ever closer to erasing the artificial passage, once and for all. At other times, as the light grew weaker, I had the sense of walking a narrow boardwalk, barely set apart from the surging green tides rushing past its fragile construction, and at any moment, the scaffolding might fail, abandoning me to the wildness beyond. Finally, sketched in the dim light of a waning moon, I often thought I glimpsed passing shapes, appearing generally at the untrampled margins of the fading thoroughfare, shapes that might have been artifacts of the Darkness, or perhaps not. Taken together, my travels along the road were uplifting, and allowed my mind to deal with sights as it pleased, cobbling marvels from the mundane.
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