Only gradually did he hear her humming. He had become so accustomed to the roar of the wind, the thrum of the lions and the whistling shrieks of the eagles that he scarcely noticed another sound among the noises reverberating around the mountain. At first, it was an occasional nasal drone, building gradually into a full-fledged melody, plaintive and swooping. It was catching. He’d completed a sketch of her whole head and was now trying to pin down a detail of her headdress when he registered that his movements were accompanying the meandering tune. He stopped.
“Continue,” came a gravelly, rasping voice.
He searched for the source of the voice, and it was then that he noticed that where the statue he had been sketching had previously had sightless stone eyes, now, two dark liquid irises were focused on him. He tried to continue but he had lost the tune. She began to hum again, and he joined in as he was completing an outline of the garland.
“Show me.”
Joe held up the pad before the statue.
“I’ve never seen a likeness of myself before. At least, not in this incarnation.”
“You’ve had many incarnations?”
“I used to. And really, people never give up worshipping me, otherwise they would not gamble.”
“What’s your name?”
“I have many, but you will know me as Fortune, or Luck, or Chance. You may call me Tyche.”
Perhaps this was a moment where a bow would be appropriate, but it seemed a little late for formality.
“Can you help me?”
“They all say that. You humans are very dull. I only have to mention who I am, and you bombard me with requests.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just wondered if you knew what I should do next. I was told to go to the desert because I’m an apprentice Dream Master. Is this the desert? Should I be doing something?”
“You’re the next Dream Master! Why didn’t you say so?”
Joe forbore to mention that he just had.
Tyche was much warmer now that she knew who he was. “You’re in terrible danger. I suppose you know that.”
Joe nodded. “I need to defeat this Eidolon guy.”
“I can’t help you there. That depends on your own ingenuity. Have you completed your three tasks?”
“Not yet. I wanted to ask about one before I went any further.”
“Oh, here we go. You don’t want to give up your heart’s desire, I suppose. It hasn’t occurred to you that once you’ve become a Dream Master, you can dream it back into existence with no difficulties at all.”
“It had occurred to me, actually, but that isn’t the point. Once I reach that stage, it won’t be my heart’s desire, will it?”
“You’re one of the perceptive ones.” There was a flicker of respect in the shining eyes of the goddess. “So what is the problem?”
“My fondest wish is to bring back to life someone who has died. Is that possible, or is there some catch?”
“Yes, of course there’s a catch. That clause is irrevocable. It’s not like the first one. The difference is that a heart’s desire will change, but the fondest wish won’t, so you can never go back to it and make it work. You lose the mastery if you do.”
“So if I seemed to turn my back on it, then became the master and tried to make it happen, I’d stop being the master.”
“Isn’t that what I said?” The goddess rolled her eyes with impatience. It looked as though they might fly out of their sockets.
“I’m just making absolutely sure that I understand this malarkey.”
“Malarkey! You call ancient lore that has lasted thousands of years ‘malarkey’? You’re a cheeky so-and-so.”
“You haven’t answered the other question. Can I bring someone back from death?”
“You can. It’ll take it out of you, and you won’t be dreaming for quite a while if you play that sort of game, but you can weave that dream if you have to. You can’t do it too often. Wrecks my plans a touch, I must confess.”
“Do you plan?”
“Not in detail. Broad-brush stuff. Sometimes someone will take my fancy, and I’ll give them a helping hand. The problem with you humans, though, is you think you can do without me. There’s the one God business, for starters, then the ones who don’t believe in a single god tend to think they can make their own luck. I used to get frankincense and virgin sacrifices. Now I’m lucky to get my face drawn by a spotty youth.”
“I can’t believe you really want frankincense. It’s just smelly. And what can you do with a clutter of dead virgins messing up your altar? I bet I know what you really want.” At that very moment, Joe had no idea what the statue really wanted, but he knew he needed her on his side.
“Oh yes? What do I really want?”
Joe sketched quickly. As his fingers flew over the page, he carried on talking. “I don’t know how long it will last—I suppose that’s up to you—but I think I can get you what you want, if you let me have a little rest.” He finished sketching, tore the sheet out of his notebook and held it up for the goddess. She saw what was unmistakably her head, minus the fruit and veg topping, sitting on the shoulders of a pneumatic woman wearing dominatrix clothes—a tight black T-shirt, leather trousers, thigh-high boots with buckles and knife-skinny heels.
The dark eyes blinked to conceal their interest, but she said next, “So where am I, clever clogs?”
Joe drew frantically, positioning her in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, leaning casually against the fountain under Eros. All around her were men and women gazing hungrily at her magnificence.
“London, a summer’s evening, loads of people falling for you, worshipping you.”
“What do you want in return, little boy?”
If she was resorting to cheap jibes, it meant he had her. “While I’m Dream Master, you’re on my side. Absolutely no chance for my enemies. Not an atom of luck. You don’t even smile in their general direction.”
She didn’t much like it, but she was seduced by the vision of escape from the barren emptiness where she was trapped. After a little cajoling and flattery, she agreed.
“Done. Now how are you going to become Dream Master, little shrimp?” It wasn’t a nice epithet, but the perspective of an eight-foot-high head was naturally a little different from the average human point of view.
“Get rid of my heart’s desire and turn my back on my fondest wish. How will I know that I’ve become the Dream Master?”
“I suppose you want celestial choirs and brass bands. A fanfare. Bunting and a parade.”
Joe could see she was going to ramble on. He didn’t feel too confident interrupting a goddess in full flow, but it seemed important to correct her misconceptions. “No. I just want to know how the Dream Master deal works.”
A little nonplussed, Tyche paused. “Haven’t they told you?”
“Who are they? I’ve had one person help me out with some research and otherwise, I’ve been on my own. I don’t know anything.” Joe made sure his tone was clear that he was getting fed up with this state of affairs.
“I’d better start at the beginning. You’ll know once you’ve become Dream Master. You won’t really have to sleep to make dreams happen. They’ll be much more vivid, and you’ll have more control over what goes on in them. When I say more control, I suppose I mean total control. You will be master of your imaginings. The only thing is, you have to abide by the rules set by previous Dream Masters. Initially, I had a hand in drawing up a few guidelines, along with my relatives, but the Dream Masters began interfering. It became a death-bed prerogative, if you like.”
“Who was the last Dream Master?”
“Some English milord, died in 1596. He didn’t have time to appoint a successor. It was in a boar hunt organized by Eidolon. Our evil friend there had set up some youth to become the apprentice, but the youth disappeared. Unfortunately, Eidolon had set in motion the whole chain of events that led to the death of the master. Bit of a mess, really. He found this boar that had been killed.
He dismounted to inspect the carcass, and its mate turned up, was a bit upset, charged him and the master didn’t make it. Too quick.”
“How do I find out about these rules?”
“I don’t know. I should think they will tell you in a dream. Are you going to get on with freeing me or are you going to carry on asking questions forever? I’d quite like to get out of this head.”
“Sure,” said Joe and held the paper. He curled up on the ground and drifted away, to London, where he’d only been a handful of times, but at least those times had been memorable enough for him to get to Piccadilly Circus. He sat on the steps of the Eros fountain and looked around. Then she appeared, about six feet tall, her classical features obscured by white foundation and black eyeliner, her hair no longer bound, but instead a great teased black spikiness, her lips outlined in garnet lipstick. She wore black leather and had a kilt pin holding her coat together.
“Thank you, Joe Knightley. You’d better get back home. You don’t want to hang around much longer on Nemrud. It’s soooo boring.”
She turned and walked away, and Joe experienced an uneasy qualm at having unleashed Tyche on an unsuspecting London.
He got back to the mountain she had called Nemrud and did more sketches, hoping this would help him plan for his return home. Once it was clear that he was simply postponing the inevitable, he returned to the plinth where he had woken and lay there, his eyes closed, his mind ranging free.
Which of the fancy gentlemen at Eidolon’s Elizabethan home had been killed?
Before he knew it, he was standing over the boar he had killed. Blood spurted from its wounds and the dogs had fallen back. His horse had skittered away, and he could hear the drum of its hooves as it cantered into the distance. He stepped back too, then heard crashing in the undergrowth. Whether it was another beast or his fellow huntsmen, hanging about seemed unwise. There was a young horse chestnut tree nearby, its trunk forked at the sort of height that Joe could manage, and from there, he could climb higher into the boughs of one of the older trees in the forest. He swung himself upward and scrambled up first some five or six feet above the ground then a farther five or six feet upward into the shelter of an old oak shrouded in ivy. He pressed himself against the bark and hoped that no one would look skyward.
The arrogant young man appeared in the clearing. He dismounted and approached the boar. He looked for the beast’s killer but saw only the dogs. He reached for the horn buckled to his belt and lifted it to his lips, blowing three long bursts, his cheeks full and his face reddening from the exertion.
It was then that the other boar broke cover, emerging from a hollow where it had been lurking in the browned bracken, its small red eyes gleaming with bloodlust, trotters shredding the earth as it hurtled toward the young man. Joe watched in horror as the boar thudded into him, its tusks slashing at his belly and groin, its powerful shoulders shivering with exertion as the man screamed in agony. Its snout and pelt splashed with blood, it turned and galloped away. Joe slipped down from the tree and went to the young man, kneeling at his side.
“I’ll get help. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be like this. She said that you were trying to dream it away but didn’t have time. I never imagined it this way. It’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have killed the first one.”
Blood was trickling from the man’s lips and his eyes were frantic. “Doesn’t matter. Last rule. Listen.” He tried to take a deep breath but that made him writhe in agony. He blew out and flecks of blood misted the air then settled on his skin. Joe wanted to run. He’d had enough of violent, messy death. But the man clutched at his arm and said, “Last rule. Next master must destroy Eidolon. He must be destroyed. Go. Go now, Eidolon is coming, and he will finish me. Go.”
Joe felt himself propelled away by a force emanating from the dying man until he was standing by a tree—then in the tree. As he was absorbed into its bark, Eidolon came running into the clearing.
“De Vere?” He stood over the dying man. “Lucifer and all his demons take you. You aren’t meant to die now!” He looked around and cursed Joe fluently while the man on the ground twitched and twisted in pain. Eidolon drew his sword and said, “Since it’s too late now, I suppose I should put you out of your misery.” Then he plunged the blade into the man’s belly again and again until there was no further sound or movement from the ragged, broken heap. Eidolon dropped to his knees beside the dead man. “I’ll find that boy, and when I do, I’ll make him mine and I shall be his master, no matter how you and all your kind try to thwart me.”
Taking up an attitude of prostrated grief, Eidolon composed himself as an artist might pose a model for a painting. Joe shrank away and sought the sanctuary of his room.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dealing with Dolon
Joe did not wake again until morning, his body finally rebelling against the destruction it had seen that day. He was lying on his stomach when he woke, his booted feet dangling over the edge of the bed. He peeled off his clothes then threw himself under the covers for more sleep. Again he sank into dreamless oblivion.
When he woke properly, it was after midday. Ben was sitting at Joe’s desk in Joe’s chair, hunched over a pile of books on the drawing board. Joe lifted his head and checked out the rest of his room. His clothes were strewn around the floor. The carpet was in a heap at the foot of his bed, and there was paper everywhere. That was Ben’s, balled up and tossed aside as he’d struggled with his latest essay.
“How long have you been here?”
“Mum sent me up around ten. She doesn’t want you going downstairs in your usual Saturday morning state. The house is mobbed.”
“Who’s mobbing us?”
“You’re a tragic hero for all the red tops from the Burton Enquirer to the Sun and the Mirror. Boy cradles dying teenager as her lifeblood drains away. The police did warn us, but Mum hadn’t expected it to happen quite so quickly. They’ve got photographers with zoom lenses out there ready to capture the slightest sign of life at the front and the back of the house.” Ben’s tone was sour.
Joe levered himself upright and wandered through to the bathroom. Ben packed up his books and left, calling to their mother that Joe had shown signs of life, so could they have lunch now?
Liesel was sent up to accompany Joe directly to the kitchen without going into the front room or anywhere near the front door. She behaved like a burglar, sneaking down the stairs and shushing Joe if he made a step creak. They sat down to soup and toast. Mrs. Knightley broke the silence.
“I’ve emailed Dad. I don’t know if he’ll be able to get away, but of course, he had to know. I’m amazed the phone didn’t wake you, Joe. It’s been ringing off the hook all morning.”
“I couldn’t get to sleep at first, then those pills must have kicked in.”
“Oh yes.”
Silence fell as they sipped their soup. Cream of tomato, what Mum always made in times of sickness—only no one was really sick.
“What happens when we want to go out, Mum?” asked Joe.
“I don’t know. We’ve got plenty of food, and I can put in an order over the Internet for more on Monday or Tuesday. I’ll go to work, but I don’t want any of you at school for the moment. The police rang this morning. It was that woman who was with us last night. She’s been appointed as our liaison officer. She suggested issuing a statement through the police. I’ve drafted a couple of paragraphs, but maybe you want to add something. I don’t know. You can take a look after lunch, then I’ll email it to her if you think it’s okay.”
“Will that make any difference? They’re going to be camping out there for days.” Ben did not sound at all pleased at the prospect.
“Until the next big story comes along,” said Joe, “which will be in a couple of days’ time.”
“Bang goes the weekend.”
“Ben!” Mrs. Knightley rounded on her eldest son. “Someone died yesterday afternoon, someone you’ve known since she was a tiny kid and all you can think of
is missing a date? I never thought you’d be so callous.”
“That’s not what I meant, Mum.”
“Isn’t it? It certainly sounded like it. Now eat your soup and focus on that essay. You might as well use your time productively.”
Once again, the Knightleys stopped talking. Joe stared into the soup as if it might reveal some great secret. He couldn’t swallow any more. He’d been able to deal with his own thoughts about Nell’s death because he knew he could recover her. But hearing Mum talk about her as a tiny kid took him back to the days when Nell had refused to come to school unless she was wearing her cowboy boots, the day when she’d squirted paint all over their first teacher, Mrs. Nelligan, who’d thought it was on purpose, and the day when Nell had biffed him with her Cry More Tears peeing dolly. Memories of Nell seeped and slithered through his mind, eclipsing everything else. When it occurred to him that there could be no more memories, he was overwhelmed by a sensation of nausea so powerful that before he could quell it, Joe was throwing up what tomato soup he had drunk. He had managed to get to the sink in time.
“Great. A weekend cooped up with Mr. Vomit.”
“Go to your room, Ben, and don’t come out until you can be civil.”
Ben squared up to his mother, but when it came to outstaring her, his eyes dropped, and he slunk off.
Mrs. Knightley went over and stroked Joe’s back as he rinsed out the sink and his mouth with cold water. “There, there.” She didn’t say it would be all right. Nothing could make anything all right at the moment. Even if they managed to get Charlie Meek locked up in a truly horrible juvenile detention center, Nell was gone.
Wrung out and shabby, Joe shambled over to the couch in front of the television. He switched it on and it was time for the news at one. Nell’s death was the second item after a car bomb in the Middle East, not a million miles away from where Dad was working. First they had a photo of Nell in her school uniform, giving a faint smile as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa and far prettier, then a series of shots of the bus stop, with blue-and-white police tape everywhere and a dark patch where she’d bled. After that, they announced the arrest of five minors and finally, they had some talking-head bloke pontificating on the evil youth of today and their hoodie-wearing culture of pointless and random violence.
Dream Guy Page 23
