Dreamweaver

by C. S. Friedman

  Isaac hesitated a moment, then did as he was told, ducking back into the wagon to collect two of the blankets from the cot. When he emerged and headed over to the campfire, he saw that Jesse was sleeping on a thick bed of grass, while Sebastian was inside the circle of bare earth that surrounded the fire. Beyond that circle, the plants nearest him had withered, their leaves turning brown and brittle. Isaac wondered if the old woman had noticed.

  He made his bed next to Jesse, moving as quietly as he could. The thick grass was surprisingly soft beneath his woolen blanket, and as a cool breeze whispered across his face, he shut his eyes, letting the strange, sweet smell of the old woman’s pipe lull him to sleep.

  This time there were no dreams.

  21

  BADLANDS

  TERRA PRIME

  JESSE

  I WOKE TO FIND ISAAC sleeping next to me. Sebastian was nowhere to be seen, but I heard splashing in the distance, so I wasn’t too worried. The air was still chill enough that when I threw off my blanket the breeze raised goose bumps on my arms, but after the relentless heat of the day before it was a welcome discomfort. As I got to my feet Isaac opened his eyes.

  I asked, “You okay?” Last time I saw him he’d looked close to death.

  “I . . . I think so.” He seemed disoriented but his color was good, at least what little of it I could see through his sunburn. Even the SPF 50 I’d brought with me apparently wasn’t strong enough to protect the son of a Shadowlord from this kind of environment. He reached up and rubbed his eyes, and when his hand came away the piece of latex from his forehead came with it. With all the sweat and physical stress of the day before, his disguise had become a lost cause. We both looked at it for a minute, and no doubt were thinking the same thing. This doesn’t matter now. We were in a place where no one gave a damn about Guilds, and from what the old woman had said the night before, I suspected that she found Isaac worthy of more respect than all his former undead masters combined. Which meant that he was free here. Really free. Not hiding behind makeup, hoping no one would learn his true status, but free from the whole psychological burden. As that realization slowly sank in, his shoulders straightened a bit, and a spark came back into his eyes that I had not seen for some time.

  The old woman emerged from her wagon, spared us a minimal glance, and walked over to the expired campfire. “There’s a place behind the wagon where you can wash up.” She arranged some dry brush on top of the dead ashes, then walked to where some segmented tree limbs had been stacked between two boulders and chose a few large pieces. The size of the stack suggested that people camped here pretty often. “I’ll have coffee going by the time you’re ready.”

  Isaac and I looked at each other, then he held out a fist, and I held out a fist, and we did rock-paper-scissors to see who would bathe first. Scissors won, so I grabbed my backpack and headed in the direction indicated, wondering if I should feel guilty that my brother the gaming junkie had schooled me in rock-paper-scissors strategy. Behind the wagon I discovered a natural pool surrounded by large, flat rocks. The water was shockingly cold, but the thought of being able to wash off all the sweat and the grime from the day before was so enticing that I didn’t care. It didn’t even matter that I was out in the open, with people only a few yards away. I took a moment to rest my little wren feather carefully in its case, then I unpacked my soap, stripped down completely, and immersed myself in the water. I scrubbed my skin till it looked as red as Isaac’s, washed my hair until it squeaked beneath my fingers, then rinsed out the clothing I’d worn the day before and laid it on some of the rocks to dry. With fresh clothing, I felt almost human again. The last thing I did was return the feather to my hair. I wasn’t sure I needed it any longer, but it felt lucky.

  By the time I got back to the campfire Sebastian was there, gathering his long white hair back into its accustomed ponytail. I signaled Isaac to take his turn in the pool and worked on drying my own hair while the old woman finished preparing breakfast: some kind of burrito-like wrap with corn, beans, and peppers in it. I was burning with questions, but asking them while Isaac was absent seemed wrong, so I waited.

  ‘Coffee’ turned out to be an espresso-strength brew spiced with chili and cocoa. It definitely helped wake me up. When Isaac came back we finally did a round of introductions. The woman gave Isaac and Sebastian the name she’d used with me, then I gave her both of mine—real and fake—and Isaac offered his first name in a way that made it clear we shouldn’t ask about his family name. Sebastian was the only one who offered a traditional introduction, which was ironic, given that most of his contacts never used his real name. Then our hostess surprised us by asking Isaac if he intended to introduce his other companion. Startled for a moment, he nodded and introduced Jacob. I wasn’t sure if she could actually sense the wraith’s presence, or just assumed he was somewhere around. Or maybe she was playing mind games with us; that was always a possibility.

  When those ritual courtesies were concluded I put down my half-eaten burrito and took a deep breath. “You said someone asked you to help us?”

  “Someone asked me to help you.” She looked pointedly at me. “Hence the number of horses the azteca brought with them.”

  So they’d never intended to kill me . . . but they had originally intended to kill anyone who was with me. It was a sobering revelation. “Okay, then who wanted you to help me?”

  Slowly she poured herself more coffee, then sat down again. The leisurely pace was maddening.

  “A few miles west of here is a place that locals consider sacred ground. It’s what Anglos call a Grand Portal—though that name’s a bit misleading, since physical passage through it isn’t possible. It’s more like a grand shallow: a place where worlds are naturally so close to one another that dreams can easily bridge the gap.”

  My ears perked up at the mention of dreams. “Go on.”

  “Holy men visit the site for enlightenment, and young people go there for dream quests. Some seers claim they can see into the future there, which may well be true. When visions reveal to us what has already happened on parallel worlds, they show us where our own choices might lead.” She sipped from her coffee. “Needless to say, we do all we can to protect such a precious natural resource.”

  “Is that what the azteca are for?”

  “That, and dealing with any Anglos who manage to cross El Malo. Legends of death and madness are all that keep the British Empire from trying to claim this territory. They have to be maintained.”

  I remembered what she’d said about Isaac the night before—that he might never be allowed to leave here—and the same was probably true for Sebastian. Maybe even for myself. “So who wanted you to help me get here safely?”

  “Someone who’s appeared in the dreams and visions of many people. A young girl—or perhaps a very feminine boy—who seems to watch over this place. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead, since she has qualities of both states and never speaks. In most dreams she appears only as a fleeting presence, a ghost glimpsed in the shadows, but some of us who serve as guardians of the portal have interacted with her briefly. There are records of similar contact that go back centuries.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Young. Slender. Small of frame. Her skin is as red as the darkest sandstone, for which reason some believe she’s a spirit of the desert. Her hair is as black as a starless night and hangs down as far as her ankles. Her flesh is without blemish, to the point of seeming unnatural. She wears no human clothing, but she’s dressed in a fine golden web whose pattern shifts constantly—”

  “That’s her!” I had to put my cup down for fear I would spill coffee in my excitement. “I mean, that’s not what she looked like when I saw her, but she can look like anything she wants, so that doesn’t matter, right? But I’ve seen those patterns on her. It has to be the same girl who gave me the feather to wear!”

  “Given what I was told to w
atch for, I’m certain it is. Regretfully, I can’t tell you much more about her. She seems to be guarding something, but I’m not sure what. Perhaps the shallow itself. A few times she requested that I remove someone from the area whose presence disturbed it.”

  “I know what she’s guarding.”

  For the first time since our arrival, she looked surprised.

  “It’s a tower,” I said. “I’m not sure whether it’s real or dreambound, but I’m guessing this portal can be used to access it.” I looked at my companions. “That’s why she helped me get here. So I could find it.”

  Doctor Redwind nodded thoughtfully. “There are legends of a tower located halfway between the realm of dreams and the realm of the waking. Some have glimpsed it in visions. None know its name or its purpose. I have long thought she had some connection to it.”

  There were tears coming to my eyes now, but they were tears of joy. After so many days of confusion and doubt and fear—to suddenly have all my theories confirmed like this, and discover that the portal I had travelled across half a continent to find, was only a few miles away . . . it was pretty overwhelming.

  “What is there that you need so badly?” she asked me.

  “Information.” I wiped a hand across my face. “About a number of things but mostly how to destroy some creatures who have been hunting me.”

  “And all that is in this tower?”

  “Oh, God.” I drew in a shaky breath. “It had better be. If not, I don’t have a clue what to do next.”

  “Then let’s hope for the best.” She began to gather up our plates and utensils. “I was asked to bring you to the portal and show you how to access it. After that you must walk this path alone.” She glanced at Isaac. “Though anyone who has managed to win over the azteca might win over a desert spirit as well. We’ll see.”

  We rode on horseback to the shallow. The first part of the journey followed the course of the canyon, but after that we were back on flat land, and it became increasingly hot and dry as each mile passed. Several times we dismounted to stretch our legs and water the horses (and ourselves) with supplies we’d brought along; I don’t think my legs ever felt as stiff or as sore in my life.

  I wanted to be able to sense the shallow as we approached. I wanted it to be the kind of phenomenon that you could apply your normal senses to, a breach in the wall of reality so obvious that you’d have to be an idiot to miss it. But this one wasn’t any more obvious than the one I’d visited with Rita in the Blackridge Mountains. Apparently the average human mind couldn’t detect a shallow unless that mind was freed from the shackles of everyday sensory expectations, as it was when dreaming.

  Jacob was still with us, but Isaac told me that the ghost seemed agitated and was muttering things about how there were too many voices. Isaac had explained on the train that the dead could travel between worlds more easily than the living, so I wondered if Jacob might be hearing voices from other universes. Isaac seemed to be communicating with the ghost more easily now, and his confidence in general seemed improved. He looked more comfortable in his own skin.

  We passed by landscape that looked so surreal, I felt as if we were riding through a Dali panting. Huge bowl-shaped depressions in the earth were painted in op-art patterns of swirling stripes, while the twisted pillars that towered over them looked like alien life forms. It was as if God had gotten bored with creating prosaic landscapes and decided to try His hand at abstract art. Eventually we came to a long sandstone ridge whose lower portion had eroded away, leaving an overhang that allowed us to ride in the shade for a while. Thank God. The midday heat was intense, and I would have sold my soul for ten minutes of air conditioning. Finally we came to a cavern that looked man-made, dug deep into the ridge, and Doctor Redwind directed us to dismount and go inside. There was one large room with rows of huge earthenware pots and other supplies stacked against one wall, chairs and a rough-hewn table against another, and folding cots stacked in the rear. While our Redwind hitched the horses to a rail just outside the entrance and poured some water into a narrow trough for them, I sank down stiffly on a small stool, grateful that the riding part of our journey was over. Soon she came in, opened one of the pots and scooped out some kind of loose grain, which she fed to the horses. Apparently this was the Badlands version of a highway pit stop.

  When she rejoined us she suggested we eat lunch, so we did. She also suggested we drink a lot of water, so we did that, too. Somewhere in the course of the day we’d become as accustomed to following her orders as the azteca were. When our meal was over she directed us to a waste pit hidden in a nearby cleft of the ridge, and I pictured my mother giving me instructions before a field trip: Go now, because you may not have a chance later. So we did that, too, one after the other, shoveling gravel over our waste when we were done.

  Then she said, “It’s time.” And to me: “Are you ready?”

  How can a person possibly be ready for something like this? I thought. But I nodded.

  She fetched a heavy bag from behind the pots and began to hoist it to her shoulder, but Sebastian approached to take it from her. She looked at him for a moment, then nodded and let him carry it. Then we left the cavern on foot, hiking into a land that was flatter and less colorful than the last stretch. Still I felt no tingling in my psyche, and I wondered if that should worry me. We were approaching the heart of one of the most powerful portals on the planet; shouldn’t I feel something?

  Eventually we came to a small structure, a sand-colored canopy stretched over a wooden frame, with thick wooden posts supporting the corners. A circular area beneath its center had been paved in stone the same color as the earth, with four large pottery bowls spaced evenly around its edge. Nothing else was within sight. As we passed by one of the support poles I saw that it was carved with stylized images, faces and animals and small abstract patterns. Some of the designs were highlighted with paint—red was on the pole nearest us, with yellow, white, and black on the others—and judging from the brightness of the colors, they must have been touched up recently. Isaac put a finger to one of the carvings as we passed, and I saw him shudder slightly, as if they stirred some unpleasant memory.

  “I can open the canopy if you would rather expose yourself to the sun,” Doctor Redwind offered. “Some like to test their flesh when they seek visions.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I’m good with my flesh being untested. Thanks, though.”

  She chuckled.

  I walked to the paved circle and, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped up onto it. The surface was perfectly smooth and as featureless as the desert that surrounded us. I felt oddly disappointed. I wanted his place to be . . . I don’t know . . . more.

  Doctor Redwind took some bundles of dried herbs out of her bag. “This is the center of the shallow. But if you don’t like this setting we can go somewhere else. You don’t have to be in any one exact spot.”

  “This is fine,” I said. The faces carved into the tent poles were all facing in, making me feel like I was being watched. But whatever special magic or atmosphere they were meant to invoke was part of what I had come here to find. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

  She nodded and began to place her herbs in the pottery bowls. It seemed to matter which herbs went where. “Did she show you the path to the tower?”

  I hesitated. “She showed me a design. The wren feather—” Suddenly something occurred to me. I looked down at my feet. “It was in the center of the pattern.” I raised a hand to touch the feather in my hair. As it is right now. An eerie sense of significance came over me. I felt like a priestess preparing for some grand religious ritual. Or perhaps a sacrifice. Hand shaking slightly, I reached into my back pocket and dug out the drawing I had made back home. “I sketched this right after I woke up. I know some of the pattern’s not right, though. And it’s missing a lot of detail.”

  “A two dimensional drawing can never be more th
an a flawed reflection anyway.” She took it from me and looked at it, then passed it to the others. “It’s a start. Either your Gift will fill in the rest, or . . .” she hesitated, then shrugged, “We’ll get back home before dark.”

  A tightness lodged in the pit my stomach. To come all this way and then fail to find the tower would be devastating. “It will.”

  Isaac looked at the drawing. “This looks like the patterns that the Shadows use to control their Gates. We call them codexes.”

  “Those, too, are flawed reflections. The difference is that your Shadows don’t have the Gift needed to perfect them, hence the dance of bodies you must perform to use them safely.”

  “They’re not my Shadows,” Isaac said sharply.

  She looked at him for a minute before responding. “No. They’re not. My apologies.”

  Sebastian took the drawing. “Are you saying that if one had a perfect codex, no exchange of living matter would be required?”

  She removed a large pouch from her bag of supplies and placed it on the floor beside me. “Why does a spider not stick to its own web?”

  There was a moment of silence as we all digested the sudden non-sequitur.

  “It knows how to walk properly,” Sebastian said at last. “And its feet are designed for the task.”

  “Not all the strands are sticky,” I offered. “Isn’t that right? I remember that from science class. The spider knows which ones it can walk on safely.”

  “Very good,” Dr. Redwind approved. “Now tell me: What happens if a fly stumbles into the web?”

  “It gets stuck,” Isaac answered.

  “Why?”

  “For all the reasons we just said. It doesn’t know what parts are safe, or how to walk on them. And nature didn’t equip it to do that.”