Forsaken Dreamscape (Nevermor)

by Lenore, Lani

  She looked at him steadily, awaiting his diagnosis.

  “Nevermor is not real, Wren,” he said gently. “The Rifter and those boys are not real! Nothing that you have described to me actually happened. It is impossible that shadows are alive and that people can fly. It defies all logic, and I am quite accomplished as far as logic, let me tell you.”

  Wren stared at him blankly. She heard what he was saying, but she wasn't willing to respond. She had told her story many times and no one ever believed her. Of course he would try to translate the impossible into something that he could understand.

  “You had an unfortunate life, abandoned as you were, forced to grow up too quickly,” he said. She thought she heard a bit of sympathy. “You’re not to be blamed for that. Your mind was overwhelmed and it created a new world for itself.”

  His voice sounded so convincing, there was no wonder he believed it himself.

  “The Rifter and his actions toward you are a reflection of your father. He was your savior but he betrayed you. The Rifter’s ability to fly and his strength to battle the nightmares indicate what you wish you could do for yourself, and that is why you were drawn to him.

  “The boys of the Wolf Pack represent your fears about your brothers and the possibilities of what they might have become if they’d lived an ungoverned life.

  “This Scourge is a dark and evil man – an enemy. Didn't you say that the Rifter cut off his hand? No, what you're thinking of is something else. I believe this man is a mixture of your own father and another man that you were afraid of. Do you remember that day at the factory?”

  Of course Wren remembered it. They had been young workers at the cotton mill to bring in money for Miss Nora, and they were supervised there by a wicked, balding hawk named Reynald Worthy. They’d called him the Devil behind his back. On her last day there, Wren had pushed him into the machine to save her brother Henry from being beaten to death. Because of her actions, the machine had torn off several of the man's fingers. His blood had fed the fibers. Wren was not sorry for that, but yet there was something else that she was in agony for.

  Henry… Even after four years, the pain of what had happened to him still lingered. She had been alone with it for so long. Wren frowned. Her lips quivered, but she did not cry.

  “That fairy wisp called Whisper is your own jealousy. She is all your old memories that you put away from yourself,” Witherspoon continued. “You have thrown the blame off on a creature of fantasy, but Wren, it is you!”

  She almost pitied him for his theories, but she had never told him so. She knew what had happened. There was one thing, however, that he could not explain away. Perhaps he had forgotten it, but Wren knew what it was.

  “If what you say is true,” Wren said quietly, “then what of this?”

  She brushed back her hair alongside her temple, revealing a white scar in the shape of a tiny handprint. The outline of it was so perfect that it could hardly be disputed – unless of course one did not believe in fairies, as clearly he did not.

  “You were born with that scar, Wren,” Witherspoon said after a pause. “That's the only explanation.”

  He claimed it was a birthmark, and while there was no one to verify that or otherwise, Wren knew that she had gotten it when Whisper had burned Rifter’s lost memories across her mind. Wren could not remember what those had been, but she knew that they were horrible. She never wanted to see them again.

  Briefly, Wren weighed her options. If she gave him what he wanted to hear, she might avoid those extreme measures he had mentioned in the journal, but yet she would be revealing herself to be false. The decision quickly made her head hurt, and she refused to dwell on it. In this moment, she only wanted to be honest with herself.

  “You're wrong, doctor,” she said calmly, meeting his eyes again, her own filled with shimmering sadness, “and I can't give up now. I've waited so long. If my time in Nevermor taught me anything, it’s that it’s important to fight, and whether one does it with swords or words or strength of mind, I have to stand up for myself. I can't stop believing that he'll come for me. If I do, then what do I have left?”

  Witherspoon stared at her as if a new woman had suddenly come out to sit before him. Wren was not willing to turn away from her truth. It was the only thing she had to cling to. She had done nothing wrong, except perhaps been too young for a dark world and yet too old for a boy who hadn’t been able to love her like she’d needed.

  “Wren,” the doctor said gently, looking into her eyes, “somewhere inside, you must not believe it yourself–”

  She didn’t let him get further than that.

  “I haven't been sleeping again,” she confessed abruptly. “Could you please give me something so that I can sleep?”

  Wren didn’t look at him as she made her request. She was not normally hurt by the things he said, or anyone else for that matter, but this time felt different. This time, perhaps she had begun to truly feel that first hint of hopelessness.

  She knew that Witherspoon was watching her, but she was done talking. Eventually, he had to give up on her response.

  “Of course, Wren,” he relented. He lifted his eyes above her toward Mary, who was waiting at the door, giving her a short nod. “I’ll send something for you later.”

  Wren felt a light touch on her arm, and she rose obediently to go. Though her mouth was silent, her thoughts were reeling once again with the circumstances that might have kept Rifter from her. She knew the simple answer. Of course he must’ve forgotten, but he was her only hope of being delivered, and she could not cease to look for him.

  Wren had always wanted to believe in hope, and she could not afford to abandon it now.

  2

  Wren felt fortunate that she was only taken back to her cell, yet uncertainties plagued her mind. She had escaped consequences for the time, but that did not mean there would be none. She could not say what ill-fated things might befall her because of the night’s events, but knew there were bigger things to consider now.

  What of that shadow she had seen – Adele’s fairy? She had not been able to look at it directly, but she was certain of its existence. Had it come from Nevermor? She knew that Rifter had often sent Whisper to find dreamers in the real world before he would come to retrieve them. He and the fairy were the only ones who could cross the rifts between the two realms – that was how Rifter had gotten his name, in fact – and so Wren could not help thinking that this had something to do with Whisper.

  The shadow mimic was meant to finish the job that she started two years ago. Wren was almost certain of that. Most importantly, where was it now? In what corner was it hiding, waiting for her to close her eyes?

  Wren felt that she had only begun to ponder these things before Mary came to her with the sleeping draught that Witherspoon had sent. Perhaps it was a welcome intrusion. At least she was no longer alone. The nurse, however, was more distant than usual.

  Wren had taken the draught before, though not often, and she was never convinced that it made her sleep at all. If it did, the sleep was dreamless, and she felt just as tired when she awoke, so she did not opt to take it often. She had only asked for it in order to escape the doctor’s accusations.

  “Hm, you seem a bit disturbed still,” Mary muttered as she came inside. “You’re seeing spooks again?”

  For a moment Wren wondered who she was speaking to – as if Wren was not the only one there. Mary did not usually try to make conversation with her.

  She’s talking about the story I told Witherspoon. Wren knew this, but she couldn’t say anything beyond the jab. Her thoughts once again returned to the shadow. Was it responsible for what had happened to Adele, and would it come for her next? She still wasn’t sure if those imps could even cross the veil, but if one was here, it must have come for her. She didn’t care to know what it wanted.

  I haven’t been trying hard enough, she thought suddenly with a cringe of fear and self-loathing. All this time, she had been sitting by passivel
y, waiting to be delivered. Perhaps there was nothing that she could do on her part – as she’d believed – but that was no excuse for how lax she’d been in her effort.

  I need to try harder!

  There was, however, only one way for her to get out, and that was by seeing Nevermor again. She’d felt that there was nothing she could do to change that misfortune, but standing there now, thinking of accusing eyes and extreme measures, an idea came to her.

  Wren eyed the bottle as the nurse prepared a portion of the draught for her, wondering for the first time what might happen if she took more than intended. Would it be enough to make her sleep so deeply that she dreamed?

  This thought had never come to her before. She had never liked to take medicine, but…

  I have to get out.

  Mary offered her a dose of the draught on a spoon and Wren took it onto her tongue, swallowing the liquid down, drawing up her mouth at the bitter taste. Mary put the bottle back on the tray and corked it, no doubt preparing to leave with it promptly.

  I have to distract her, Wren thought. It’s the only way I might get closer to the bottle.

  “Would you straighten my bed, please, Mary?” Wren asked swiftly. It was the only thing she could think of.

  Wren wondered if the events of the night had any effect on how much Mary would trust her now. The nurse eyed her a moment, but shortly after, Wren saw a familiar irritation in her eyes that was not any harsher than usual.

  “Right,” the woman relented with a sigh. “Step away, then; to the wall.”

  Apparently, there was no such thing as complete trust in this place. Mary was not so comfortable that she would let Wren stand close while she worked. Though disappointed, Wren would do as she was told, but moving to the wall would be much too far from the bottle, whether the nurse turned her back or not. If her opportunity was ever, it was now.

  Wren stepped back and swung her arm out purposefully, nudging the top of the bottle so that it rocked back and forth, then toppled over. She didn’t have a plan, thinking only now that she might be able to kick the bottle under the edge of the bed, but to her misfortune, the bottle was not quite as sturdy as she’d hoped. The glass shattered against the stone floor, shards and tonic spreading all over – a valuable potion, wasted.

  Mary was quick to act.

  “Step away!” she commanded, ushering Wren toward the wall. “Sakes, what a mess! Look what you’ve done!”

  Wren did not have to look at it twice. She knew what she had done. She waited quietly as Mary stooped to her knees and began to collect the shards in her apron, as Wren silently hated herself for ruining her opportunity. She’d never been a resourceful girl.

  As if my time in Nevermor taught me nothing at all.

  Mary gathered the largest pieces and then stood, dumping them onto the top of the cart.

  “Wait there and I’ll be back in just a moment to wipe up the rest,” she instructed, pushing the cart toward the door. She let herself out into the hall, leaving Wren alone with the spill that was still spreading out through the cracks in the stone blocks that paved the cell.

  As Wren stared down at it, desperation began to well up inside her.

  It’s spilled. It’s ruined, yet still there.

  I need it, she thought, regardless. I need to sleep. I need dreams more than anything!

  Wren was hardly aware of her actions. Before she had stopped herself, she was on her hands and knees in front of the spill, lapping at the draught like an animal. She did not stop to consider the state of the floor, but took the precious liquid onto her tongue as if it were the key to her existence. She drank as much as she could before she began to feel groggy from the previous dose. Her heart was pulsing too fast with panic and her head was spinning. She pulled herself up in enough time to collapse on the bed just before Mary reentered the room with rags to wipe up the spill.

  Wren groaned a bit as her head swam. Did the draught usually work so quickly? Maybe it was only because she was nervous and her heart was speeding, pulsing the drug through her system. She could feel Mary lifting her legs to maneuver her fully onto the bed, but the woman seemed distant – in a world of water and muffled sound.

  “There you are, Wren,” she heard the woman say unfeelingly with a grunt. “Sleep the sleep of angels, dear.”

  Chapter Four

  1

  Black over black, Wren was in a world without light or sound – the abyss of unconsciousness. When her vision finally cleared, she was peering down a stretch of dark beach, but she was not coherent enough to question it. She was dreaming.

  This place seemed familiar and yet so different to her now. The water was as dark and thick as blood. The sand was sharp black gravel. Though the pointed edges pricked her bare feet, she walked for a while, barely able to balance on her own legs.

  She knew that she was searching for something, but it seemed like a fruitless task. She was alone here. There was no eerie hum of a flute as she’d heard in the past, only the wind whipping around her ears. The roaring ocean waves were the only things that were alive. A rain of ash clouded her vision, and she could not see the island for the haze.

  Is this death? she wondered. It was certainly not the world she had sought so desperately.

  Moving on, she was able to see a form in the distance, set off against the light of the moon. Someone was standing there, dressed all in black, and she was certain that it was a boy. She reached out for him – called his name.

  “Rifter?” He didn’t move – didn’t seem to hear her at all. She continued on, moving closer, picking up her pace. “Rifter, please look at me!”

  The dark figure shifted, finally hearing her plea. When he turned to peer over his shoulder, she saw only his eye, and it was enough to send her flailing backward, stricken with fear.

  Fire!

  The wicked amber eye saw her as well. It pierced her – saw into the depth of her soul. Wren could not breathe, desiring nothing but to get away so that it could not see her.

  It's HIM! The Scourge!

  With a gasp that nearly choked her, Wren was jolted awake, her lungs heaving, her heart in her throat. There was a cold sheen of sweat on her skin, chilling her as she fought the drowsiness from the medicine. Her plan had worked and she had dreamed, but now she struggled to stay awake. She did not want to go back there.

  Was what she'd seen real? Had she been walking in Nevermor, or was it merely a dream brought on by her memories? She couldn't say, for she’d not had a dream in so long that she’d forgotten what it was like. There was no way to know, but it left her feeling weak and horrible, nauseous.

  That was not the place I remembered.

  No, it could not have been Nevermor that she had seen, and she was anxious to convince herself of that. It was some misconstrued image projected by her own mind. Her dream was because of the asylum, because of what the doctor had said to her, and because of Adele. They had all ruined her once-precious dream.

  Despite how her heart was pounding so harshly within her, she supposed she should have been glad. Even though Nevermor did not look as she’d expected – though her tormented mind had twisted it so – she might have been relieved that she’d finally managed to dream after so long, yet all she could think of was that fierce eye staring at her, burning into her soul.

  She laid there in the dark, detached, fearing what sort of trouble it would bring.

  2

  Deep in the night, the barking of dogs jolted Wren out of her catatonia. The hounds in their pens outside were making a terrible fuss – growling and thrashing, baying like wolves on the verge of a territorial war. It was enough to pull Wren from her bed on unsteady legs that took her to the window, where she could peer through the bars and down to the yard below.

  Beneath a new moon, the night was black as pitch. Wren could not see anything that might have disturbed the dogs, but she could hear their continual din.

  What has gotten them so upset? she wondered sleepily, still a bit drunk from the overdos
e.

  Something had disturbed the dogs, but perhaps it was nothing to worry about. It might have been a stray cat that had managed to get itself inside the walls. Even if there was an intruder in the courtyard, she knew she was safe in the ward. There was no need for her to fear anything of that nature.

  She was about to turn away, back to her bed to ponder her dream for the rest of the night, when a horrible chirping cacophony began to spiral down the hallway, flowing in and out of the cells then looping back again. Wren froze in her step, pushing back her tangled curls as if it would make her hearing sharper. Something had disturbed the birds in the aviary, which was much closer than the dogs. Wren stood there, fearing to breathe.

  It’s closer… What is happening?

  Gradually, the cells of the female ward came to life. Inmates began to scream and cry, most for sheer bewilderment. Wren was likewise lost in confusion, but just as quickly, a thought settled in which lifted her heart. Instead of fear, she was filled with hope and relief. There was only one possibility in her mind: the thing she’d been waiting for all this time.

  Rifter! He’s finally come for me!

  She’d managed to dream and he had seen her, despite whatever else had. That eye… But it didn’t matter. He was here! He’d come to take her home!

  In spite of the terrible sounds around her – the orderlies and nurses shouting to each other, the screams of the other patients as they scratched at the walls – Wren had a hopeful smile on her mouth as she approached the door. She knew that at any moment, the way would open and Rifter would sweep in to deliver her. She was on the verge of tears, desperate as she was for it – but stopped short when a quick movement within the stone room caught her eye.

  She became still, her pleasant thoughts gone. Peering around, she saw no more movement, but she knew she had seen something – and she knew exactly what it had been. It was the quick dash of an unknown shadow.