“So this thing is standing right in front of me, and it’s no tame pet. It’d have to be at least eight feet tall, I’m sure, and barely fitting in the tunnel—did I forget to mention, it stands on its hind legs like a man. I was frozen with terror, I tell you! Next thing I know, the beast lowers itself onto all fours and starts speaking. Like a person! Its voice is completely inhuman—awful in your throat and neck like a screech.
First it starts talking in some foreign language, looking right past me, through me almost, talking to thin air. I suppose now it was talking to whatever I felt earlier, but at the time I was looking all around and thought maybe the creature or I or both were completely crazy!”
I’m shocked and holding my breath. Dad is eating up the attention and thoroughly enjoying the story, but honestly, it’s scaring the life out of me.
“Then it starts talking in English, and definitely to me. It demands to know what I want and why I’m there and how I got in, et cetera. I say—more like stutter, really—that I got lost in the woods and all that. It’s raging and then talking in the foreign tongue again, and I think maybe it switches between personalities or something, but then it goes back to talking to me. What do you think it says? Well, it more or less threatens my life—it’s a monster from a nightmare, what else—but then it babbles about redemption from a daughter! Can you imagine? Eh, girls, what do you think of that?”
I swallow several times before shakily smiling. Viviann just hums out a noncommittal response and props her arms on the table before laying her head on top.
“I don’t even have the chance to say a word before those weird hands without a body are on my arms again. They’re very cold, I tell you, and shaky and all—like they’re scared of the thing. Not that I blame them. Then they’re pulling me along as fast as I can move, all while the lion-bird is doing a cross between a gallop and a march in front of us. Next thing I know, the whole lot pushes me out of a cave, growling about daughters again. And that was it! I woke up, still night out, went back to bed and didn’t dream a bit. So, what do you think? Mean anything, this crazy dream?”
Viviann mumbles without lifting up her head. Damien opens his mouth to answer—probably something about work and stress-induced nightmares—when I slide what’s left of my cereal away from me and push up from the table. Even I didn’t realize how badly Dad’s tale affected me, because I stumble and have to grab the back of my chair to keep from tripping.
Damien and Dad look up at me with concern. “You all right, sis?”
I start to nod, then flinch at how shaky and uncontrolled the motion feels. “No.” Groping my mind for an excuse, I take the most honest reply. “I feel kind of nauseated. Maybe I should stay home today.”
“I can call the school if you like.” I nod; Dad would never think me a faker, even if I did fake, but I don’t—ever. I can’t lie to sweet, naive Dad, and I could never get past Damien. So today I stumble up into bed unquestioned and give in to the desperate, absolute terror that’s been nipping at my heels since the first nightmare.
Two
I would love nothing more than to disappear into quiet darkness for a few hours. However, sleeping isn’t coming easily right now, not with Dad’s descriptions filling my head and the despairing tunnel world just waiting to claim my dreams. Instead, I lie on my side and look around my room, still so much like the last time we lived here.
Just ahead of me stands my black wooden dresser. It’s the same dresser I had as a kid, but it’s been repainted since then. By my bed, the matching nightstand holds my lamp with a white and red polka-dot shade, which I bought for the condo we had in New York City. It matches the white throw rug on the floor, the red and white polka-dot comforter and sheet set, and the white curtains with little clusters of red dots scattered across. I bought them all from the same store. The television stand in the corner behind the door and the bed match the other furniture, too. I bought them as a set when we moved into the condo and I decorated my new room, and I had Damien paint the original furniture to match. Dad tried to convince me to let him buy a new dresser and nightstand for me several times in the city, but this was the set Mom and I picked out for my seventh birthday. I wouldn’t even have replaced the bed, but the bottom of it broke beyond repair during a sleepover.
I stare at the reflection of my room in the mirror attached to the dresser: bed, small window, the few boxes still full. It’s nice to have my room somewhat unpacked and put together, even if the rest of me’s still mentally moving in and getting used to the place without Mom. I keep expecting her to come in like she would on Sunday afternoons and tell me nap time’s over. I would get changed and help her in the garden out back. The house has a long gravel driveway that separates the tree-framed backyard into one large section by the house for playing, and a little triangle bit across the driveway where Mom planted her flowers and vegetables. It was never the most level ground, but Mom loved the garden she set up back there.
Cold, uncomfortable longing seeps into me and I strip off the covers and sit up. Mom’s gone, and remembering our old life here isn’t important or helpful right now. I slide off the bed and walk around behind it, where a downward-sloping ceiling closed off by half a slanted wall creates a strange sort of nook. It’s too cramped and slanted in to be of much use, but I’ve decided to keep some shelves and baskets I found on sale in the city there for storage. I pull out the one I use for drawing supplies and find some sketch paper and a graphite pencil.
I grab a book off the shelves under the television stand and use it for a hard surface while I lie on my bed and get to work. First I list everything I can remember from Dad’s monologue this morning—eagle’s talons, beak, wild eyes, long and slender tail, strong and muscled body, powerful hind legs, paws, giant white angel’s wings, furry breast. Referring to and editing my list as I work, I sketch on another piece of paper. Drawing isn’t one of my talents, except maybe when I’m doing rough sketches of plants. The image is never good enough for me. I do it frequently, though; it helps me focus and clear my mind. After three separate pages, I’ve got something close enough to Dad’s description.
I bend down to the floor and reach under the nightstand to pull out my laptop. A quick web search listing the characteristics is easy enough. It doesn’t take nearly as long as I expected to find drawings, animations, sketches, even websites about movies with this beast. The creature is called a griffin, although the spelling is definitely not standardized.
The time ticks by as I learn that this creature is certainly powerful, mighty, gigantic—everything that Dad said. Its screech-roar can be terrifying. But nearly all the stories match up in one respect: this animal is not a danger or enemy to man. In fact, it’s often portrayed as a guardian or warrior, symbolizing honor and courage. Traditionally, it was considered king of all creatures and therefore royal and majestic. Sometimes it even symbolizes God and divine power.
I think back to the invisible beings. Dad mentioned them, too. Perhaps it’s possible that the griffin is their king—or even their god? Either way, I’d say the whole ‘noble’ bit is missing in this nightmare beast. After all, the unseen-hand-people were completely terrified, and what was all the shrieking about? It must be some sort of evil griffin. I wonder if it was always that way or if something happened to make it turn.
Why do the griffin and its subjects live in those tunnels? Where are the tunnels? If they were real, I mean, where would they be? On the back of my rejected first drawing, I write out phonetically what the woman who spoke to me said—what I can remember, anyway. Then, using the microphone feature, I enter it into a translation website. The first English translation given makes absolutely no sense—”I want to do a family histories less expensive”—but the second one, “we must hurry please,” seems right, and both are listed as French. Are the tunnels supposed to be under a forest in Europe?
Those woods, though…one of the strangest parts of the dream, aside from the fantasy element of the whole thing, is th
at those woods were familiar. It’s like I’d been there before. Even now, envisioning the hazy bits and pieces I can remember the way a person remembers dream images…I’m sure I can remember them outside the dream, but not any more clearly, like I was sleepy or it was nighttime or a long time ago when I last saw them.
I close my laptop and slide it back under the nightstand. Flopped back onto the bed, my arms crossed behind my head, I think about all the woods and forests and generally tree-filled areas I’ve been to or read about or seen in movies or on television. The forests in movies and books and stuff that I can think of are generally stressed as dark and creepy, or mystical and enchanting—stuff like that. But even when I’m running and my pulse races in my dream, whatever mystery reason I’m running is the issue, not the woods. The woods from my dreams are different. They’re more realistic, really: not creepy or dangerous, not unrealistically pretty or “calling out to me” or “pulling me in.” They’re just…there, with beautiful sunlight and annoying bugs.
I can remember playing in the woods when we lived at this house. There aren’t any real woods by our house. Plenty of trees grow here, but mostly in clusters or lines around houses and big backyards and farmers’ fields. The closest actual woods I can think of are by a house down the highway, where Damien used to play when we were younger. He had friends that lived there, and they owned a lot of tree-covered land behind their house.
Come to think of it, I played there with them a time or two. The memories come up in my mind like driftwood bobbing up on the ocean’s surface. Details I’d forgotten return until a clear and somewhat disconcerting image has formed. Actually…
Of course, when we lived here last, I thought the patches behind our house counted as woods, too. Not to mention my memory could be wrong. Just to check, though, I pull my laptop back out and open a satellite map website. I find our house and adjust the zoom so I can see the street and individual buildings, but not every single tree or car.
I stare at the screen and minute. Is this right?
The house down the highway does have just a patch of trees behind it, but that patch connects to a huge green blotch on my screen. That blotch, which must be a forest, spreads out to a few fields’ space behind my house, enclosed by this highway and one a little ways off. It’s cut up in a few places by power lines and one dead-end country road, but if you piece it together, it’s definitely large enough to constitute a small wood.
The map pans around to show that there are plenty of other green patches and blots within a short drive, but nothing this size and none that I could possibly have been to before.
I shut my laptop and climb into bed. Dreams or no dreams, I really am feeling ill today. Maybe I’ll be able to have complete, black oblivion like the past few nights.
Neither dreams nor oblivion came with my nap. Instead, I had a few hours of the griffin’s words—in Dad’s voice—playing over and over in my subconscious. “Threatens my life… redemption from a daughter… monster from a nightmare… pushing me out of a cave…”
When I finally pull myself awake and wipe the groggy feelings off my face, I’m more tired than when I first lay down.
The evening creeps by with a quiet, uneventful dinner and a few hours of “settling in,” which means Viviann ignores Dad’s request that she actually unpack at least one of her boxes while Damien hangs up photos. I spend most of the time lying on the recently uncovered sofa, ignored by my family and disturbed by my own thoughts. Finally I slip on my shoes so I can go out to the garden. I took Cecelie’s suggestion and replanted the area Mom used to garden in; now I check on it every night. Once I’ve watered the little rectangle patch, I return inside and change into pajamas. It’s early still, so I lie in my bed, unable to sleep but equally unable to avoid thoughts of the nightmare.
When I do drift off close to midnight, I don’t dream of invisible hands or hear words playing through my mind. Instead I find myself in a dirt room, with the same red packed-dirt walls as the tunnels, but a different design. This room has an odd shape, five sides instead of four. A set of carved wooden doors almost entirely covers one wall. The design is intricate, covered in circles and lines and flowers. There’s nothing in the room but a single torch on each wall, and a chair in the middle of the room. It doesn’t quite match the doors, but it’s just as elaborately carved. It seems like it’d be a seat for someone rich or of high position, although not quite a throne. I can’t make out the design because there’s someone—something?—sitting in it, completely covered from sight by the long black cloak the figure wears. Actually, it’s more like slouching or lounging than sitting.
“Hello?” I call out cautiously.
The hood turns sort of toward me—facing the floor to my right—but the figure remains seated. “Yes.” The voice is low, a male’s.
“Excuse me?”
The side of the cloak makes a wide gesture. “Come in, welcome.” He sounds young and not at all frightened like the invisible woman I heard before. In fact, he almost sounds unhappy, resigned, possibly even bored. Most notably, of course, he speaks clear, easy English.
“May I ask…where am I?”
“The tunnels.”
I nod and take a few steps forward, then take a deep breath and repeat, “Yes, I thought so, but where?”
This time the hood faces me directly, still completely covering the man’s face. He remains silent for a minute before pushing against the curved arms of the chair and standing quickly, like the President or a king just walked in the room. Again, he is silent and motionless for a long minute.
“Your name.”
“It’s Beila. I’m Beila Durand, from New York.” Another minute of silence passes, and I feel like he’s examining me. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel as awkward if I could see him—his eyes, his face, even his general form to confirm that he’s human. It’d be nice just to make sure I can see him, that he’s not invisible too. Or maybe, if he would only speak, then this place wouldn’t seem so stifling. “And you are?”
The hood nods quickly. “Ah, yes, of course. My apologies. I am…well, perhaps it is best for me not to say. Call me whatever you like, I suppose.” At least he’s polite.
I take another step toward him to close some of the distance between us. The cloak side makes another wide gesture, this time seeming to indicate the chair. I shake my head and sit cross-legged on the floor, so he takes the chair. It seems a little too much for me to sit in this mystery cloak man’s throne.
“Is your name dangerous?”
The hood shakes. “No.” Then it leans back ever so slightly before dropping forward. “Actually, it is. Now that you ask, yes. It’s…best for you to not know about me. Not yet, that is.”
Yeah, that’s not weird at all. “Okay then. Next question…why am I here? Oh, and you still never said where here is.”
“Those are questions I cannot answer for you.”
My eyebrows bunch up. “That makes three. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Only that these dreams are very important, to all who live in the tunnels. Our lives are in your hands.”
“Our? You mean the griffin too, then?”
There is no response, no movement of the cloak.
“And the invisible people, with the cold hands that speak French? They live here too, right?”
I wait for him to speak. I’m beginning to wonder if he will when he clears his throat. “You have done well to learn this about our world. But I cannot answer questions for you. You must learn the truth for yourself.”
He likes that I’ve figured this stuff out, but he won’t help me any. Interesting. “So they do live here—the invisible people, and the griffin—here with you, in tunnels. But you can’t tell me anything about them, or you.”
He nods.
“Why not?”
“To tell would be grave. The truth must be sought for us to be saved.”
So many new questions come to mind with that statement. I fo
cus on just one. “What do you mean, saved?”
The hood shakes and I nod. “I get it, no questions. Well then, if you’re not going to tell me anything, why am I even still here? Why doesn’t anyone come to take me to the cave? Or why don’t I wake up—something like that?”
The hood nods again, past me rather than at me this time. “You may leave whenever you like.”
When I turn around, all I see are the massive doors. Closed doors. I turn back around. “So I just up and leave, then? The cave’s out there?”
“When you step through the doors, you return to your home. The cave is unnecessary from here.”
“Huh. Unnecessary.” I push off the floor and stand, brushing the dirt off my hands onto my pajama pants. It’s only then that I realize I’m in my pajamas, with my hair down and unbrushed, as if I climbed straight out of bed into this room. I wave to the cloak, suddenly a bit self-conscious. “Well, guess I’ll be going, then, if that’s it.”
The cloak rises from the chair and steps forward. “Before you leave, milady.” Suddenly a necklace dangles in front of my face, right there in thin air. I look at the cloak-man, who just points to it and nods once. I take it and hold it out in my palm, trying to get a better look at it in the torchlight. It’s some sort of golden pendant on a chain. The pendant is an oval, with the design of a ribbon tied in a bow carved on top and a fancily scrolled loop carved on either side, connecting the pendant to the chain. Matching scrollwork curls along the bottom of the oval. The center of the pendant features a portrait painting framed by a thin gold line. The painting is of a young man, with nearly-shaved dark blond hair and eyes the same color. He’s wearing armor that’s elaborately carved and painted in red and black designs. The piece isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen in the city, and I’ve been to quite a few unique shops.
World of Shadows Page 2
