Cerulean Dreams

by Dan O'Brien

  “Marlowe,” she called out.

  A figure moved from the floor. “He is gone.”

  She recognized the voice: Sephes.

  “What happened? Why has Marlowe gone?” she asked weakly, her voice coarse.

  Sephes moved closer to the cot, her features weathered. Her hair was in disarray. Wisps fell across her face. “He is very worried that others are coming. Mograli, the shaman, spoke of finding answers for him. I believe that is where he is still.”

  Dana tried to push herself to a sitting position, but groaned. “I am so cold.”

  Sephes touched her head. Dana flinched. “We had to place you in a tub of ice. Your fever was growing rapidly. We feared the worst.”

  Dana licked her lips. “When is he coming back?”

  Sephes shook her head: hard eyes. “I do not know.”

  “Where are the others? Your father, he was here.”

  Sephes stood, pacing away from her. “My father has come and gone. We…” She hesitated, looking longingly at Dana. “He will return yet, he is worried about your condition.”

  “And you,” began Dana, her eyes dropping. “Were you worried about me as well?”

  Sephes had paused across the room, her hands close to her chest, fingers interlaced. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I was very worried. I had hoped that…”

  Dana moved forward from the cot, softness in her eyes. “Hoping what?”

  “That I would get a chance to…”

  The beads parted, announcing the broad frame of Sephan. His angular face watched the women and he cleared his throat. “Pardon my interruption. I should have spoken before entering. A thousand pardons,” he added with a quick bow.

  Sephes grimaced and waved her hand dismissively. Dana reclined back against the cot, her cheeks red. “No need, Sephan. This is your village. Such announcements are not necessary. Has Marlowe returned?”

  Sephes scowled at the mention of the guardian’s name: old enough to hunt, though not yet mature enough to shake off the fringes of jealousy. “She is worried about him, father.”

  Sephan nodded. “Indeed, one would be lost without their guardian, though Sephes has been a vigilant sentry through the night. She would not leave your side.”

  Dana looked at Sephes, her tense figure hiding slightly in the shadows at the corner of the room. “She is very brave.”

  Sephan moved closer to the cot.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  Dana nodded. “My head still throbs and I am weak, very weak. I am cold as well, but Sephes told me of the urgent need for the ice bath. I cannot thank you enough for your help.”

  Sephan bowed. “We rarely have guests of such beauty. It is my pleasure and my honor to help such a woman. As for Marlowe…”

  “Yes?”

  Each time she heard his name, her heart leapt. She trusted Marlowe. He had protected her when she felt most vulnerable. “He is with Mograli. I do not know when he will return.”

  Dana nodded, laying her hands atop one another on her lap. She thought of her journey. In the beginning, there was so much fear. It was as if she had just awoken, the words she spoke not her own. Now looking back on that, she felt as if she were a different person. Who was this woman who dwelled within? Who was she?

  *

  Armon touched the sand, feeling the heat that radiated from it as the sun was birthed from the horizon in the east. They had been traveling for days. The farther he went, the more it felt like he would never find Marlowe.

  This morning, however, proved different.

  He had chosen to scout out ahead of the others. Their slow march annoyed him. As he walked through the sand, looking at each rock and creature that slithered about for a clue, he saw what he had been looking for: a sign.

  There in the sand out ahead of him was a suit of dark black body armor that he recognized. Sticking out from the sand, half-buried, was a remnant of the man he hunted. His prey had left tracks of another kind. Turning around, he saw the dust and sand trail of his legion and smiled. They were coming. Soon, they would be upon him. He would have his prey.

  *

  The world came back into focus like a hurricane. The vibrant colors of the world blurred at the edges as Marlowe shook his head. The basement of the building returned slowly: the steel walls, the familiar writing, it all returned.

  “Mograli,” spoke Marlowe.

  He felt the reassuring squeeze of the shaman’s hand on his shoulder. “Be still, Alexander. It takes a moment.”

  Marlowe resisted the urge to flail. Watching as the images of the world shook, it careened back into focus once more.

  “That was intense, shaman,” spoke Marlowe dreamily.

  He tried to stand and as he did so, he wobbled. Using the wall to guide him, he leaned back and looked at the shaman. “The Lurking is a creation of belief,” he spoke, repeating what he had said to Alezander.

  Mograli looked at him strangely.

  “I do not understand.”

  “You had said it did not matter who wrote the words inside the book. Things, physical things, are manifestations of the value and meaning of the belief from which it comes. The Lurking was created in the mind, but has taken form as your Mimic. If you destroy the creature, then with it goes the dreams. The belief will crumble along with its manifestation.”

  Mograli thought about the words for a moment. “I do not think any man could stand against the Mimic. It is fearsome, controlling all of the powers of the desert. Powerful and soulless, it does not sleep.”

  Marlowe shook his head, waves of nausea sweeping over him. “When I spoke to the creature, the one called Alezander, it revealed something. It said that it couldn’t be defeated in its world, the land of dreams. One cannot exist without the other.”

  “That may be, but I maintain that no one can stand against that creature.”

  Marlowe leaned, retching, the paste wanting free of his system. He wiped his mouth, the stale taste more desirable than the nausea. “I will stand against it, Mograli, but I ask a favor in return.”

  Mograli looked at the man in awe. “What favor would you ask me to pay for your death? You realize that to challenge the Mimic is to welcome death.”

  Marlowe touched his back. The sheath of his blade was still in place. “Be that as it may, I would still ask you one thing, you and only you.”

  The shaman crossed his arms, widening his stance defensively. “What would you ask?”

  “Your people were from the farthest reaches of the desert? To the west?”

  Mograli nodded.

  His face was firm.

  Marlowe pushed himself from the wall, standing of his own accord. “I would ask that you lead me to the mountains, so that I may go beyond them. You were right. I found my answers. I have had them all along, my friend.”

  Mograli watched Marlowe. Before, he saw only a man. Now as he looked upon him, he saw the runes as he had in the dream desert. The determination, the blade: he appeared as a warrior of myth in the eyes of the shaman. “You believe that beyond the mountains is the answer.”

  Marlowe shook his head. “I believe that I have the answer. Beyond the mountains is what I must do. And you can lead me there.”

  Mograli smiled.

  It was the devious smile of a man who will follow a friend into hell itself. “I will do as you have said. I wish to see this plague wiped clean. If you can do as you have said, defeat the Mimic, then I will lead you to where you wish to go. This is an end I wish to see.”

  Marlowe smiled.

  His tanned face wrinkled.

  “You shall see. You shall.”

  XXVI

  M

  arlowe’s journey had been strange. His life turned upside down, yet now more than ever he felt as if he had found his place. Drifting in the calm of Orion, he had done simply that: drifted.

  Years had passed, but he remembered little. Was that an effect of the dream regulation or perhaps something more sinister? He knew that he had been a soldier, a
n officer of the law. But as he thought back, he could not find the memories that held these facts.

  Day was breaking.

  Shadowfall was too far from the mountains to see the obstruction the peaks created. But now he knew. There was something beyond. He looked at his bare chest. The runic writing no longer seemed foreign. Instead, it did indeed seem born of hope, of a promise of something.

  “Alexander,” called Mograli from behind him.

  Marlowe did not turn. “What is it, shaman?”

  “What will you tell the others about Ark and the Lurking?”

  Marlowe stopped in his tracks, placing his hands on his hips. “I don’t know. The truth might be too much. The connection between all these things is such that without the knowledge, there is no comprehension. Your people, the people of Shadowfall, seem happy here.”

  Mograli shrugged.

  “Happiness of a sort. We do not know anything else.”

  Nodding, Marlowe stared into the passing crowd. Women carried baskets atop their heads. Children laughed as they danced and played beneath their mothers. There was peace here. There had been peace in Orion as well.

  Was this different?

  Marlowe shook his head.

  Of course it was different.

  This joy stemmed from something real. There were no controls in the desert, no outside forces mapping their movements. Here the only judgment was their own.

  “No, I don’t think I shall ruin their peace with this. Though I fear the man who pursues me will rain down hate upon this place. What of your people?”

  Mograli smiled.

  It was a cruel smile of sorts. “I would not fear for my people, Alexander. We have weathered many things. The wrath of a man does not put fear in my heart. Even if he were to bring a legion, we will fight long into the night.”

  Marlowe did not feel satisfied by his answer. War, no matter the cost, always bore the poor and innocent as its greatest casualty. They would fight. Perhaps they would win, but would that break apart the delicate structure of their culture? “I hope that they can weather this as well, my friend.”

  Mograli moved past him, touching him on the shoulder. “Come, this way. We can speak about this more once we are on the move again, away from Shadowfall, toward your destiny.”

  “I don’t believe in destiny.”

  Mograli moved around the corner, waving to Holarian as they neared. “I do not think destiny always means that others have sought it for you, created your chances, your path. I think you, Alexander Marlowe, have found this destiny, created this destiny for us all.”

  Marlowe opened his mouth to say more, but the shaman parted the beads. Holarian smiled brightly upon seeing Marlowe. “Greetings, Marlowe.”

  Marlowe smiled in return.

  “Hello, my friend. Is she well?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir. The young one, Sephes, has been watching her carefully for some time. Sephan is inside as well. They are talking about a great many things.”

  Marlowe touched the man’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Holarian.”

  Holarian smirked. “It was no difficulty, friend.”

  Pushing aside the beads, Marlowe stepped through into the dimly lit room. Incense was burning; it smelled of lilac. He could make out the shapes of Sephan and Mograli, their hushed words marking them in the shadow. Looking toward the other side, he saw Dana. Sephes was not far away, kneeling just beside her.

  “Sephan,” Marlowe began.

  His throat was still raw from the paste.

  The Elder stepped forward. “Marlowe of Orion, I am glad that you are well. I hope that the shaman’s methods were satisfactory.”

  Marlowe found that he must smile. “He was quite correct, Sephan. There were answers to be found, powerful, meaningful answers that have helped me greatly.”

  “He has said that you wish to continue on.”

  Marlowe looked at Dana.

  She had pushed herself into a sitting position.

  “No,” spoke Sephes sharply.

  All eyes turned to her.

  Pointing at Dana, she began again.

  “She is too ill to leave.”

  Marlowe nodded. “She is indeed ill, but I fear it will not get better whether she is here or not. When we left Orion, we agreed to see this through. I would be willing to leave her here in your care, Sephan.”

  “Yes,” replied Sephes quickly.

  “No,” spoke Dana at the same time, drawing a concerned look from Sephes.

  Mograli crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “It will be a difficult trek and we must leave immediately if we are to evade your pursuers.”

  Sephes stood, interjecting herself between her father and Marlowe. “You cannot allow her to do this. She is too ill to travel. She needs rest. You said so yourself.”

  The Elder looked at her lovingly, placing a comforting hand on each of her shoulders. “This is her decision, Sephes. Marlowe is not making her go. None of us are making her go.”

  Dana pushed herself from a sitting position, swinging her legs over the edge of the cot. Placing her feet on the floor, she stood unsteadily.

  But she stood.

  “Your father is right. I want to see this through. When we were still in the city, Marlowe gave up everything to help me. He offered to leave me behind then, to hide me. I told him that I did not want to leave his side. Nothing has changed. Wherever he goes, I go.”

  Sephes’ eyes glassed over. “No, I want you to stay.”

  Dana shook her head, walking toward Marlowe. She smiled at him grimly. “I need to go. I have to find out why I fear what I fear. I wish to understand the root of all of this. You must understand this.”

  Sephes shook her head defiantly. “You said wherever he goes, you go. If that is how it must be, then I go wherever you go.”

  Sephan, Elder of Shadowfall, looked at his daughter with sadness. He knew that the day would come when his eldest would find a cause, a reason worth living. A father only hopes that day comes later rather than sooner. “You are grown, my daughter. This choice that you make, much like Dana’s, is yours and yours alone. But, be sure you do so for the right reasons.”

  Sephes nodded. “Yes, father.”

  Marlowe nodded sadly. They were both too young––mere children. He turned to Sephan. “A man comes. This man is death incarnate. He will burn your village to the ground if you do not tell him where we have gone. Do not sacrifice your village for my sake.”

  Sephan smiled.

  “We are not a passive tribe, Marlowe of Orion.”

  Marlowe moved in closer, placing his weight on his right leg. “When I reach my destination, I will send your daughter and Dana away. If you set him on my path, he will not find them. I promise you that.”

  Sephan looked past Marlowe out into the lane through a slit in the beads. “Does he come alone?”

  Marlowe shook his head. “I don’t know. If he’s alone, he may sneak through; bypass you completely if he believes I have moved on, though I hurt him badly when last we met. I told him that if we met again, one of us would die. He may have brought many men.”

  The Elder of Shadowfall thought carefully for a moment. “If he comes alone and does not bring violence, if he only asks where you have gone and accepts my answer regardless of what I have said, then I will tell him west and let him be on his way.”

  “This man is dangerous. He will see your peace as weakness.”

  Sephan nodded. His lips were held tight. “If he brings violence to my people, then I will return his violence. If he brings pain, then you will not have to worry about him finding you, for we will bury him here in Shadowfall. Burn his body and cast the ashes to the wind.”

  Marlowe nodded sadly, his head lowered. It seemed violence was in his wake, carried with his every step. He did not fear for Sephan of Shadowfall. “Then we must leave. Immediately. This very moment.”

  Mograli moved past Marlowe. “I will grab some things. We leave through the west entrance. I w
ill bring medicine for the child.” He turned to Sephes. “Come with me, girl. We need to move quickly. I will need your assistance.”

  Sephes looked into Dana’s eyes and nodded, disappearing through the beads after Mograli. Dana turned to Marlowe. “What did you do with the shaman?”

  Marlowe did not look at her.

  “We dreamt. We dreamt terrible things.”

  XXVII

  A

  rmon crested another dune, feeling the heat of the day beating down on him despite his climate-regulated suit. There had not been a trail for some time. Even as they had stalked through the night, it was the body armor that he had first seen. That had been the sign he required, the portent of his path.

  Now as he walked through the desert, a land with no name, he found himself questioning the path he was on. As a Child of Babylon he was granted many things. His strength and his speed seemed uncanny, but like much in life it was not what it seemed.

  The bright sky was once again cloudless.

  The corporal was a short step behind him. Even though they had conversed much in their trek, neither knew each other’s name. Sir and Corporal were the only titles exchanged. “What are we looking for out here, sir?” he called to the assassin.

  Armon did not break stride.

  His head lowered, he continued forward.

  “Sir?” he repeated.

  “Is there anything that will confirm that we are again on the right track? We have been walking west for some time,” he replied, his head craned. He was staring into the sand away from the glare of the sun.

  The sting of the sand was in the winds. The winding canyons and breakneck passages that wove their way through the desert had begun to irk the assassin. There was something about the pounding heat that made him feel like screaming, striking out.

  He saw it then, another sign.

  There was a shirt, ripped and torn, in the sand. Armon dashed to it, picking it up between his fingers. Pushing his finger through a gaping hole, he remembered the wound that he had inflicted on Marlowe. The shirt was his. This was a sign, yet another piece of the puzzle that was the pursuit.