Cerulean Dreams

by Dan O'Brien

  Marlowe scowled. “Then guide me. The shaman promised me answers, but that building was yet another question.”

  Alezander nodded.

  It turned and fluttered. The edges of its cloak flickered out as the body hovered. “Follow me, Marlowe. Let us see where this goes.”

  Marlowe followed the creature as they walked about the white sands of the desert. The sun beat over his frame as he walked, but there was no sun in the sky. There was only the surreal redness that permeated every inch of the horizon. The dunes and valleys that they climbed were effortless for the being. Marlowe, however, felt the pain of fatigue, the anguish of thirst.

  Soon a destination came into view: the Wall of Shadows. Marlowe pointed at the obsidian wall. “Why are we here?”

  Alezander turned. His body seemed much taller to Marlowe now, as if it had grown in their short walk. “You are tied to this wall. That is why you came to it in the desert. That is why you are now in Shadowfall. Do you wish to know what the Wall of Shadows is?”

  Marlowe shrugged, his eyes widening with a small shake of his head. “I imagine I need to know its origin.”

  Alezander nodded.

  It gestured toward the wall. “Touch it.”

  Marlowe tilted his head suspiciously.

  “You want me to touch the wall of death?”

  Alezander nodded again, the hollow features incapable of emotion. With a sigh, Marlowe moved forward slowly, eyeing the wall. “What happens if I touch the wall?”

  He looked back toward Alezander, but the creature was gone. Panicked, he looked back at the wall and cursed as a thousand hands reached out toward his body. They grasped at him––many slipping as their hands were covered in a slick black substance that stuck to Marlowe’s skin as he flailed.

  “Get off of me. Get them off of me,” he groaned, striking at the mass of arms that sought to claim him. The hands were pasty white, the fingernails blackened and chipped. Stretched and contorted, they were the hands of the dead.

  “Marlowe.” The voice seemed close.

  He craned his neck to look, but one of the hands had managed to grab his neck, pulling him in closer to the wall. “Help, get them off of me, get these damned hands off of me,” he roared as he struggled.

  “Marlowe, keep struggling.”

  The voice was closer yet.

  He thrashed against the hands. Every ounce of strength in his muscles devoted to fighting the bodiless arms and hands that attacked him. Freeing his leg, he kicked, pushing with all that he had to get away from them.

  “Marlowe, what happened?”

  He knew the voice.

  It was Mograli.

  “There are more pressing matters….” managed Marlowe as he kicked out viciously, breaking one of the ghastly arms that threatened him. “Pull me free. Damn it, pull me free.”

  Marlowe felt the iron grip of the shaman as he grasped his frame and pulled. There was the sensation of floating for a moment as he was disentangled from the hands and fell on the sand. His chest heaved, both of them out of breath.

  The shaman looked at him with a crooked smile. “What could have possessed you to touch the Wall of Shadows in this strange place?”

  Marlowe rolled onto his stomach, breathing heavily. With a labored grunt, he pushed himself to his feet. “It told me to.”

  “Who?”

  Marlowe looked around with a passive shrug. Looking past Mograli, he saw the shadowed form of the creature that had called itself Alezander. Pointing past the shaman, he spoke. “That thing did. That shadow in the distance.”

  Mograli spun. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the creature. “Why would you listen to that thing? That is the Lurking. It would like very much to keep you here, Marlowe of Orion.”

  Marlowe rolled his eyes. “When the trance came on, this hand grabbed me. It was a scaly, horrible-looking thing. That hand was attached to that thing right there. You weren’t around and it kind of looked like me. Given that we took some serious medicine to get here, I figured anything was possible. With the circumstances as they were it seemed credible, I guess.”

  “A decrepit creature of shadow seemed credible? Like someone you should follow?” asked Mograli with a raised eyebrow.

  “It knew my name, your name,” objected Marlowe.

  Mograli touched the back of his head with his hands, lacing them together. “Of course he knew your name, and mine as well. What do you think this place is? Had we lived in an ocean, this would have been water. Imagination, my Orionian friend, is what dictates here. Things in this place will know what you know.”

  “Fantastic,” murmured Marlowe. “That might have been something worth telling me before we did this trance thing.”

  Mograli smiled again. The people of Shadowfall, despite their difficult lives, smiled more than any person Marlowe had ever known. “I am sorry for that, Marlowe of Orion…”

  Marlowe shook his head, his left hand covering his face. “Stop calling me that.”

  “Stop calling you what?”

  Marlowe made annoyed circles with his hands. “The of Orion thing. Just call me Marlowe. Or Alex. Or Alexander. Or even Alexander Marlowe, like my family did, but no more Marlowe of Orion.”

  Mograli studied him for a moment, deciding which to use. “I understand. I would very much like to call you, Alexander. May I?”

  Marlowe could not help but smirk. He squinted as the crimson sky beat down on him. “Didn’t I just say you could?”

  Mograli nodded excitedly with a smile. “Of course.”

  Looking around, he watched as the shaman simply stared at him. “Was there something else? Shouldn’t you be leading me somewhere?”

  The incessant smile. “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I am not your guide.”

  Marlowe put his hands on his hips, hanging his head as he sighed. “If you aren’t my guide, then who is?”

  Mograli smiled anew, wider and brighter than he had previously. “You are, Alexander.”

  XXIII

  S

  ephan, Elder of Shadowfall, stood outside of the shaman’s hut. He looked at Holarian, who had not moved since arriving with Marlowe. They exchanged smiles and a curt bow.

  It was Holarian who spoke first. “Elder Sephan.”

  Sephan nodded, pleasantries a constant in Shadowfall.

  “Good evening to you, Holarian. How is our guest?”

  Holarian looked up and down the lane suspiciously. The night air had cooled considerably and the Elder now wore a long cloak that was tied off at his waist. “Not well, many medicine women have come and gone fetching ice. Your daughter has not left the hut since Marlowe of Orion went with the shaman.”

  Sephan frowned, a strange facial expression for a man who smiled as often as he did. The Elder folded his clothed arms over one another contemplatively. “She has not left once?”

  Holarian leaned in closer. “I peeked in a few times and she is right beside the young girl. I have seen her cradling her, whispering in her ear.” The sentry paused. “I believe I have seen your daughter’s face wet with tears, Elder.”

  The Elder watched the beads of the shaman’s hut. “I wish to speak to my daughter, Holarian. Would you see to it that no one enters this hut during that time?”

  Holarian straightened.

  “Of course, sir. No one will enter.”

  Sephan the Elder pushed through the beads, making sure not to disturb them too greatly. He looked into the darkened room with a practiced eye, as much of Shadowfall was without electricity.

  “My daughter,” he spoke softly.

  Her head rose from the gloom––hair tussled as she lifted her head from Dana’s unconscious body. “Father?”

  The Elder moved closer, bridging the distance and kneeling beside his daughter. He grabbed her hand, holding it in his. “My Sephes, you need rest. There are others who can attend to the young girl. You do not need to stand guard.”

  Sephes brushed hair away from her face as she stood. H
er face was hardened into a scowl. “I choose to watch her,” she replied in a steely tone.

  Her father stood as well. “My daughter, you will not heal her simply by being here. She needs rest, as do you.”

  Sephes shook her head defiantly. “No.”

  “My daughter, I am only…”

  “I love her,” she screamed and then lowered her head.

  Sephan looked at her critically, his arms folded.

  “What did you say?”

  Her voice was smaller as she replied, almost defeated.

  “I love her.”

  The Elder moved closer to her, placing a large hand on her shoulder. “Do not be ashamed of your words, my daughter. If you love this woman, then do what is right, give her the rest that she needs. Trust in your family and friends to watch over her.”

  She looked up, her eyes glassy. Her dark features were tired, rings around her eyes. “I do not want to leave her. I am afraid that she….”

  Sephan bent down so that he was eye to eye with his daughter. “I do not think death will claim her this night, Sephes. If you do not wish to leave her side, then at least sleep on the floor comfortably. Find sleep, rest will make things clearer. You will see that everything will be alright.”

  Sephes sniffled. She felt like such a child at that moment. “Where is Icarus?” she asked suddenly. Absorbed in her attention to Dana, she had forgotten her companion.

  Sephan shrugged. “Hawks of the Great Desert are noble and proud creatures, Sephes. If you have chosen another to spend your time with, then perhaps Icarus has also sought out someone new.”

  She frowned, looking to Dana.

  “I did not know I had to choose.”

  Sephan smiled broadly. “We all make choices, sometimes unknowingly. That is the price of life, of growing, whether we wish to or not.”

  Sephes smiled sadly. “I see.”

  “You are still so young, my daughter. Though you are a hunter now, a scout of the Great Desert, you still must learn many things. We all must continue to learn throughout our lives.”

  She nodded.

  “I will leave you then. Please heed my advice, find rest and in the morning things will seem better.” Sephan the Elder turned and exited through the beads without another word. And Sephes, daughter and hunter of the Great Desert, took her father’s advice. She closed her eyes, searching for solace amidst sleep.

  *

  Marlowe looked at Mograli––his irritation evident on his face. “You are not my guide? Then why did you come with me? Why are we here together?” he exclaimed.

  The warm winds of the dream desert passed over Marlowe, tickling his skin. It was hot and oppressive, yet he had never felt colder.

  The shaman was unencumbered by the heat. He simply stood and stared at Marlowe, his characteristic grin spread across his face.

  “I have come so that I may warn you of pitfalls and dangers,” he replied, and then gesturing toward the wall. “Such as not touching the Wall of Shadows in this world.”

  Marlowe scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, great call on the wall. You really did a good job warning me to not touch it. Nice.”

  Mograli continued to smile. “Even so, had I not been here you would have been taken by the Lurking, perhaps never to wake up. You would have been trapped forever in your mind, in this dream desert.”

  Marlowe’s skin itched, his clothing felt as if it were melting into his skin. He breathed heavily as he looked down at his body. The runes had spread. They now covered his torso completely. They glittered as if illuminated from underneath. He touched a rune and it rose from his body, spinning, gliding on the wind.

  “What the…?”

  Mograli smiled wider yet. “You see, you are the guide indeed. You possess the map, the rules. All of it is written there on your body.”

  Marlowe looked at the shaman incredulously.

  “You can see it?”

  “Can’t you?” he replied, his smile infectious.

  Marlowe shook his head, throwing his hands up. “Of course I can. I wouldn’t have asked you if I couldn’t. I asked because it has been there since I met Dana. Spreading slowly until it became this sprawling mess.”

  Mograli nodded, moving closer to Marlowe.

  “I did not see it in Shadowfall.”

  “I think that I am the only one who can see it, but what does that mean? Why can you see it here and not when we are awake?”

  The frustration was mounting.

  Mograli frowned, the corners of his mouth turning for the first time. “Perhaps you are more attuned to the world, more connected to the earth than any other being. Are there any other anomalies, strange occurrences since meeting the girl?” He was interested now. The smile was gone. Instead, a very serious look spread across his face.

  “A voice, there is this whisper that I hear sometimes. I heard it in the room where we call to the spirits, and when I was in Orion. It would come from all over.”

  “Voices?”

  “Like mutterings that never made any sense. There are these weird crawling bodies that cover every inch of everything. Hollow eyes.” Then as if remembering, he continued. “They look like that thing, the creature that called itself Alezander.”

  Mograli nodded grimly.

  “The Lurking. The Forgotten.”

  Marlowe rubbed his stomach and chest, stretching out the runes. “What is the Forgotten?”

  Mograli’s face became gravely serious. “I must preface what I say. No one in Shadowfall has come to this place more times than I. The Elder has been here a handful of times, some others. Sephes has come once, perhaps twice.” Marlowe looked at Mograli expectantly. “I have seen ten Elders,” he continued, speaking slowly.

  Marlowe watched the shaman’s features carefully. “That would make you very old, perhaps older than you rightfully should be. Is this a trick of this world as well, delusions of grandeur?”

  Mograli shook his head. There was no smile. “In the way that people of Shadowfall count, I have seen thousands of moons.”

  Marlowe laughed, his head thrown back. “You’re kidding, right? You’d be hundreds of years old. You are very spry for a man centuries old.”

  Mograli moved closer, his eyes hard. “You must listen. Here in this place, you see the world without inhibitions. Your mind accepts everything, denies nothing. There are those forces that exist just beyond our understanding, our sight. This desert, this reality, awakens those forces. The runes upon your body should not be frightening.”

  Marlowe shook his head in disbelief.

  “If not frightening, then what?”

  “Hope. Those runes are a map, an ancient map given to you by those who live beyond our walls and barriers. Life is a short, brief reprieve from that world. The Forgotten that I spoke of are those who exist here. They are bound to the Wall of Shadows by the Lurking.”

  “No. If you brought me here to make me believe that there’s some great force binding us together, that finding Dana and these runes are not by chance, then you were mistaken. I am not a fool. I will not be taken in by conjuring, shaman.”

  Mograli frowned. He continued unabated. “When I came here the first time, it was frightening. Much like you, the Lurking came to me, guided me, and tried to trap me in the Wall of Shadows. A being still alive trapped in his own mind is a conduit for the Lurking.”

  “No, no. This is about Cerulean Dreams. This is about control.”

  Mograli smirked, not yet his glaring smile. “Indeed, Alexander, but perhaps not as you have believed. When I found Shadowfall, the Wall of Shadows was not as bright as it is now. There was not the Eye.”

  Marlowe felt his skin prickle.

  The Eye had frightened him.

  Mograli nodded. He saw Marlowe’s apprehension. “I see that you have seen the Eye. There was no one here, save a few squatters who had survived something. My tribe was very small. We lived deeper in the desert to the west, near the mountain breaks. We never dared to ascend the single path through the m
ountains for fear of death.”

  “Your people did not build the wall?”

  Mograli shook his head, closing his eyes. “No, I wish that we had. A city once stood where Shadowfall now stands. A sprawling metropolis called Ark.”

  “Did you live in Ark? Are you from that city?”

  “No, nothing that ominous. I am a desert tribesman. My family was starving. I came upon Shadowfall, though at that time it was unnamed. I sought food, better shelter. There was a great vine that climbed the Wall of Shadows. It was gray and worn, as if it had been torn down. Bright fruit hung from the vine.”

  “Fruit?”

  Mograli cast him a dark glance. “I brought my entire tribe. There were not many of us, less than a thousand, and we settled in this place. The fruit lasted us for some time. But the more we ate, the more spoiled the fruit on the vine became. In time….”

  Marlowe felt his stomach turn.

  Mograli hesitated, drawing a long breath. “A couple hundred survived. We abandoned the fruit on the wall, but it was already too late. It had changed. The wall began to change color, gray to purple, purple to black, until it became the beacon that it is today. We saw the lights of your city, but dare not venture there.”

  “Why did you call it Ark?”

  Mograli grimaced. “I was getting there, Alexander. Patience. As I said, when I came here there were squatters, white men mostly. They wore the clothing of city dwellers, boots and leggings, not cloth and animal skins like us. They did not last long. They grew sick. They talked of a plague, one that had destroyed mankind centuries before. Our tribe had similar tales that we were born out of man’s foolishness. We returned to the earth and in return we were granted a reprieve by nature.”

  “A plague is different.”

  “Indeed. There was no mention of a plague in the history of our people. This man was certain. He would speak to me at night. Alone. Tell me horrible stories.”

  “What was his name?”

  Mograli smiled. “He was called Alexander as well. He was kind, but strange. Often he said that the plague had corrupted his mind, made him mad. Ark was a sprawling city, he would say. They created it as a template. He used that word: template. I have never heard it since.”