by Dan O'Brien
“Like a trial, an experiment for future endeavors.”
Mograli nodded. “This city, Ark, was a template created by a group of scientists, men he called the Children of Babylon. He said that they controlled dreams, manipulated consciousness. They had built the wall because they feared what had happened in the absence of proper sleep. Something had been released and there was an incident. Men had gone mad. They burnt the city to the ground and fled into the desert. None were seen again. The Forgotten are those men. All those trapped by the Lurking, unable to find solace in death, to move on as we must.”
“What does this have to do with Dana? With Orion?”
Mograli gestured to the desert. “This desert extends beyond all thought, all reason. If Ark was the template, then Orion is the masterpiece. What the people of Cerulean Dreams have done is to toy with the fabric of what makes us human in many ways. To dream, to seek; to understand what we are. Without control of our own minds, we are lost in lethargy. The Lurking comes and holds their minds in that wall. Binds them because they cannot see they are bound.”
Marlowe opened his mouth to respond, but Mograli held up a hand. “There is more. When Ark was destroyed, Alexander told me something frightening. Without people to feed on the Lurking would manifest itself, become physical form. Many of us who live here in the desert fear the Mimic. Some believe it to be a manifestation of man’s sin, of his greed. But I believe that the Mimic is the Lurking taking physical form, the collected evil of distracted minds.”
Marlowe shook his head. “That isn’t possible.”
“Nor are runes covering your body. The whispers, voices, crawling forms: all of these things are not normal. They are a product of this world. Things, physical things, are manifestations of the value and meaning of the belief from which they come.”
“What is that, philosophy of the desert?” replied Marlowe with a smirk.
Mograli looked off into the distance. “No. When I came here the first time, when the Lurking tried to lead me astray, I fled. For some time I ran through this phantom desert. I watched the sky turn, change. I slept. I wept. I felt the hand of death upon me. For how long I wandered, I do not know.”
Marlowe waited, arms crossed over one another.
“I came upon a small, white dune. Black stones were littered about it, blending with it beautifully. In that dune atop the sands, I saw something, something very strange. There was a small book with a red cover, a broken spine. In that book, I found many things. A path. A reason. But inside the cover, written in flowing script was that sentence.”
“Things, physical things, are manifestations of the value and meaning of the belief from which they come,” repeated Marlowe with a nod. He looked at the horizon, seeing the setting of an azure sphere. The crimson dispersed, replaced with bright white light. “This is night here?”
The shaman nodded, his smile faded. “Night and day are illusions. We give names to things we do not understand; reason to things that would do well without explanation. For your purposes though, we shall call this night.”
Marlowe looked at the sky. He knew that there was some truth to what the shaman had said. With a look toward the strangely darkened horizon, he craned his neck back to Mograli. “Let us find that dune again.”
XXIV
T
he Tower overlooked everything. The ocean beat against the beach as it extended out beyond sight; rust-colored sand, stained with wetness in places as far as the eye could see. Winding, climbing into the skies, the Tower was a monolith of obscene construction.
At its pinnacle was a bright blue light: cerulean.
Reaching across the skies, its light dimmed as it crossed a wintry peak. The wintry peak gave way to a lifeless desert––lifeless except for a spanning city and a small village.
They were but grains of sand upon the world. Waiting quietly, it stood. Soon it would thunder with cries, echo in pain––very soon.
*
Marlowe reached the next dune. The cold grip of the night made him wish for the black blanket he had shed upon the desert in the world that still possessed time and rules. He looked over his shoulder at the shaman, who followed quietly. Their collective footprints trailed off into the distance. The night air brushed them away, erasing them from their surreal existence.
“Are there landmarks here?” called Marlowe.
Mograli shook his head, watching his step as he navigated the side of the dune. Marlowe shook his head. “How can we gauge where we are going? Find our way back?”
“When the time comes for us to leave, we will leave.”
Marlowe chuckled as he struggled up the side of a dune, bending to dig his hands in for support. “Very cryptic. Not helpful at all, but obscure. Thanks.”
Mograli grinned, the white tunic he wore opened wide at his chest. “You forget quickly that the laws of this realm are different than our own. Here, there is no entrance, no exit. No sense of how long we must go, or what distance we must travel.”
Marlowe stopped at the top of the dune, looking out across miles and miles of similar terrain. He sighed loudly. “What then is the purpose of this mindless search? If there is no distance, no time, then why must we look for this dune that you speak of?”
Mograli moved past him, not breaking stride. “That is because you will see it when you are ready. We could walk for some time without ever seeing anything. We see what you want to see. This place is made of dreams, Alexander. You have yet to dream.”
Marlowe placed his hands on the top of his head, lacing them. “I haven’t dreamt? That’s why we are walking aimlessly through the desert in a dream world?”
Mograli stopped, wiping his forehead.
“That is correct, Alexander.”
Marlowe took a few large steps forward. “Are you serious? I have to dream about the book for us to find it?”
“Indeed. You must believe that there is such a book and once you have done so, then we shall find it. Find it as if it had been here the entire time. That is the nature of this realm.”
Marlowe looked at the shaman dumbfounded.
“Why didn’t you tell me that from the beginning?”
The shaman looked at him, disappointed. “Are people in the habit of telling you their intentions up front? Does life often tell you what comes next? Or what path to take? Are things laid out at your feet, every detail of life explained?”
Marlowe wanted to reply, but stood quietly.
“If you were told what to do in life, then invariably you would choose otherwise. For me to say you must imagine something, it would no longer be your imagination, but instead only what I told you.”
“Be that as it may…”
Mograli silenced him with a slice of his hand through the air. “Do not be a child. Find the path; believe that this is what you must do. For Dana, for yourself. Believe and the path will become clear.”
Marlowe nodded, reproached by the shaman’s comments. Looking again out across the endless dunes and bleached sands, he frowned. The weight of the world seemed upon his shoulders, the fate of too many things on his threshold. His legs felt weak, eyes heavy. He sat into the sand.
Mograli watched him in apprehension.
“Dana. Cerulean Dreams,” he mumbled as his head fell forward, his arms loose at his side. Weightlessness passed over him; his head dangled. His memories slowed. Every step of his journey was a mute replay of itself.
He shook his head, his vision blurry.
“Believe in yourself, Alexander. Believe.”
Marlowe sighed.
He drew in a long breath and released it, the sound like a mighty gale. “The book. Where is the book?” he murmured.
His eyes closed as colors swirled in his mind.
He saw the desert: blue sands, red skies.
He breathed out.
The desert shuddered: white skies, blackened sand.
The world shattered like a pane of glass.
Colors intersected, swirling, mixing.
He breathed out in a panic.
Drowning: he felt like he was drowning. Grabbing his own throat, his eyes remained closed. The world was darkness, and then there was the book: red cover, broken spine.
His eyes snapped open.
He stood with a start, blinking several times as he looked out across the desert. Marlowe no longer saw endless dunes. In the distance, there was one black dune. Amidst a sea of bleached desert, there was an omen.
He dashed into the desert in a mad rush. His hair blew wildly, his eyes set in cold determination. A wild laughter welled in him like a great pressure, but he dare not laugh. Tumbling, falling, he dug through the sand with his hands. Swimming, crawling, he moved toward the darkened dune.
The world flashed by in his peripherals. He neared the dune and threw himself into it completely. Collapsing, diving into the darkened sand, he slid to a stop. There atop the dune, buried slightly in the black sand, was the book.
It was a small book with a red cover and a broken spine. He knelt, his hands shaking as he reached down to touch its cover. His eyes were warm. “Here it is. Just as he said,” he whispered as he hovered above the book, casting a shadow across it.
Mograli stood beside him, his chest heaving.
“The book.”
He looked at the shaman.
“I was wrong to doubt you, shaman.”
Mograli shook his head.
“You were wrong to doubt yourself, Alexander.”
Marlowe grasped the book in his hands, dusting sand from the cover. He held it gingerly. The cover was blank. Turning it over, nothing was written on the back. “The book has no name?”
Mograli smiled. “Truth does not need a name given by fools. It is what is within that matters, Alexander. Open it, my friend.”
Marlowe turned the cover over.
The interior was cream-colored. There in the book, inside the cover, it was written. “Things, physical things, are manifestations of the value and meaning of the belief from which it comes. It is real. Who wrote this?”
Mograli looked at Marlowe, his wide eyes bright.
“Whom do you think?”
Marlowe shook his head. “I don’t know….”
“Nor do I. Does it matter really who did? Are the words not enough?”
Marlowe shrugged.
He could not argue with him. Turning the pages over and over, they were blank. He continued to flip, each flick of his hand more agitated. “What is this? It’s empty. There is nothing written, shaman.”
Mograli stared at him, the line of his mouth strong.
Marlowe moved closer, so that they were face to face. His features were drawn. A thin beard had begun to grow wildly. His eyes were wide, intense. “Is this more madness? Do I have to wish the words onto the paper? Believe that there are words?” He slammed the book into the sand. “What must I do?”
Mograli circled around him. “They say that when my tribe was spared that our Elder walked into the desert for many days and nights in search of an answer, a path. In that time there were no cities. No Orion. No Ark. There was the desert and my people.”
Marlowe glared at him, his anger transparent.
“This Elder, a man called Lindelof, came across a young child wandering alone in the desert. A young girl. My Elder, the first Elder of our people, asked the child what she was doing there. Do you know what she said?”
Marlowe shook his head.
“She said that she was where she needed to be, but asked why he was so far from his home. The Elder returned home and told his only son, who through time told this story to his son, and so forth. To know your destination is to misunderstand your journey. It is that journey, the path that you have taken, that reveals what the destination means to you.”
Marlowe fell back to the ground, hands laid over his knees. “I thought there would be answers, shaman. These aren’t answers. They are riddles.”
Mograli knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I said that they would be your answers, Alexander. Not mine. Pick up the book.”
Marlowe shook his head.
“It’s blank. I saw that there were no words. It will not tell me how to save Dana. It will not lead me to the Tower. I don’t know what I must do. A blank text will not reveal these answers to me.”
Mograli retrieved the book gently from the sands and placed it before Marlowe. “They are your answers, Marlowe.”
Marlowe sighed, looking at the red cover.
“A blank book….”
Mograli looked over his shoulder at the horizon. The dark creature stood beyond the dunes. It watched them carefully.
Leaning in closer to Marlowe, he spoke softly. “I have led you far from the Wall of Shadows. But you must face this alone, Alexander. It was not until I bested the Lurking that I found what I was looking for.”
Marlowe looked up at him, and then beyond him to the dark creature. “You told me that I should avoid it, not be drawn in by it. Now you leave me alone to speak to it?”
“You will meet him on your terms. This is a place of dreams. In a way, he is the creator of this place. He holds the answers. Your answers, Alexander. Do not fear him.”
Marlowe stood slowly, the red book held in his hand. He watched as the shaman walked away through the sands, fading with each step taken. The shaman turned back as his body was nearly gone.
“Make him fear you.”
Marlowe watched as the creature filtered across the dunes. He reminded himself that it called itself Alezander. Sand swirled beneath Alezander as it traversed the desert with fluid efficiency.
Its voice was ethereal. “I see we meet again, Alexander Marlowe.” The hollow eyes looked at the book in Marlowe’s hand. “I see that you have found the book. Did it grant you many revelations?”
Marlowe took a step forward, looking at his runes.
“What is this place?”
The creature tilted its head, the empty chasms of its eyes shifting in shadows. “This place is my home. Home to those whose deaths I own. It could be your home as well.”
Marlowe shook his head, the cover of the book glowing in the presence of Alezander. “The shaman brought me here for answers. He said my answers. What did he mean?”
“You speak candidly with me. That pleases me.”
Marlowe paced away from Alezander, slapping the book against his palm. The action made the creature shudder.
He caught the reaction and stopped mid-smack.
“Does this bother you?”
The creature watched him impassively.
“Do you fear death?”
Marlowe shook his head, shaking the book dismissively as well. A hiss rose from the creature. “Is this your book? Did you create this empty text for us to find?”
Alezander smiled. His mouth was full of pointed, razor-like teeth. Blackness seeped from tooth to tooth, stringing through his mouth. “What makes you think that I would create something so mundane? I hold the key to souls. Why would I care for a book?”
Marlowe smirked. “Fair enough.”
Opening the pages, he grasped the top of the last page of the book. Looking at the creature, he smiled. “It really helps with my stress to do this.” He tore the page slowly, the tearing echoing across the dream desert.
The creature howled.
Marlowe smiled. “So the book is important. I see why you wouldn’t want to tell me that. Let’s start again. What is this place?”
Alezander hissed loudly, turning as if to disperse. Marlowe grabbed a handful of pages, tearing them from the spine with a horrific ripping sound. The howl returned and the creature fell. Marlowe stood over top of it, his shadow covering its darkness.
“What are you?”
Alezander stood again, its body like mist as it contorted. “This world is a void. Those who cannot chose to dream have dreams created for them. Their want, their need for dreams, created me. Your world created me,” it gurgled.
Marlowe gripped the book tightly in his hands. Bending the spin
e, the red cover cracked. Prevailing white lines blossomed. “What are these runes? How can I save Dana? Where is the Tower?”
The creature looked at him darkly.
“The runes are your guides. The spirits of the Forgotten have marked you, given you a path. They cannot affect the living. But when you dreamt again, you saw the world anew. They found a way in. They are mine,” it hissed.
“And Dana?”
The creature looked through him. “The plague. Her kind is susceptible to the sickness. You cannot save her. Death will save her.”
Marlowe shook his head, his eyes glassy. “No. That isn’t true. I can help her. Tell me how to fix it.”
Alezander floated away. “You know the path to the Tower. I needn’t tell you what you already know.”
“No, I really think you should.”
Alezander rose, its form growing in size. Its shadow now dwarfed Marlowe. “You may not fear me, Alexander Marlowe, but when your time comes you too will find your place among the Forgotten.”
Marlowe lowered his head.
“That may be, creature. But you will not last forever.”
The creature flexed its hands across the sky, blotting out everything except it and Marlowe. Its voice rebounded all about him. “I am ever-lasting. You cannot destroy me in this world.”
Marlowe looked at the book, opening it to the inside cover. “Have you read what is written here?”
The creature scoffed.
“Why would I read the words of mortals?”
Marlowe closed the book and sighed. “I will see you on the other side, Alezander.” Tossing the book to the ground, he felt a pull on his body. He looked back at the creature once more.
“You are a creation of belief….”
XXV
D
ana awoke with a start. The room was dark and she felt cold. Her body shivered uncontrollably. She reached out and felt the rugged exterior of the blankets: animal skins. She remembered the events that had transpired. Marlowe had returned, this she remembered fondly, but everything else faded into a hazy blur.
