Oblivion Hand

by Adrian Cole

  “Dreams?” murmured a voice behind Abal the Farmer. It was the comely girl, Shebundra, who had also been listening, and who was now deep in thought. “He speaks of dreams,” she whispered so that Abal barely caught the words. “I have known dreams. Evil dreams.”

  Abal would have questioned her discreetly on this, but the Tallyman was speaking.

  “What will you now? Journey at random through the Islands?”

  The stranger shrugged. “I have no control over my fate, though I seek it. But I will be guided.”

  “You are not without purpose, then?” said Zoig, with a cough.

  The Pilgrims found themselves looking into an expression of deep sorrow. “I am not my own man.”

  Zoig thought for a moment, then his own fierce features broke out in a smile. “Well, then, why not be my man! For a time, at least! I am Zoig, of no Island and yet of all Islands. Treasure is my quest—riches beyond dreams. I seek the fabled Glimmerdale where ‘tis said there are mounds of silver for the taking! I gather a band of worthies about me to make good my search. Come, cast your lot with us. Should we succeed, you will have riches enough to set yourself up as a monarch and forge a new destiny for yourself!”

  Abal the Farmer chuckled. “Ho! Your band of plunderers must be singularly remarkable men, for they are invisible!”

  Zoig frowned gruesomely and the man in black chuckled warmly at the subsequent banter. “My thanks, Zoig. I will consider your generous offer. I do not easily earn the friendship of men.”

  The Tallyman gathered up his fares, twining together and pocketing the smaller gew-gaws. “Ready yourselves, Pilgrims. The archipelago of Vinewalk floats ever nearer. Soon the Bladdermen will arrive to take you down, unless any of you wish to travel further. Here, we are within the outer tropics, but our journey on the Ether current takes us inward to less temperate zones. Decide quickly, for my Snapwing will not linger.”

  It was agreed by all but the three Hysterics that they would vacate the Snapwing and go down to the Islands of Vinewalk, which promised to be an auspicious place. The archipelago was now visible relatively near as drifting green banks of tightly compacted vegetation, each several scores of miles long. They floated like huge green clouds, and from those closest to the Snapwing could be seen countless waving roots and rootlets, wriggling like worms, while those Islands closest to each other were attached by long, trailing vine-like growths, festooned with lichens and tufts of dense green foliage. The archipelago seemed to be webbed by the thick cables of vegetation.

  The stranger stood with the other Pilgrims on a knoll of the living landscape and watched the archipelago in fascination. Presently he saw from the closest of the Islands a cloud spray out, as though a gigantic plant had abruptly issued a shower of spores: these quickly conformed into a regular unit, however, and commenced a distinct arrowing for the incoming Snapwing. As they came on across the Ether, the man saw that they were indeed plants of some kind, long, transparent bladders, trailing tendrils at their rear and with lateral membranes. Upon each of these slender shapes there sat a man, guiding the bladder with his knees, his hands gripping further tendrils at the front of the remarkable aeronautical mounts.

  With a whooshing of air from the rear of the bladders, the first of the riders eventually came gliding down towards the group of Pilgrims. The Tallyman was first to greet them. Overhead the main body of Bladdermen hovered like a cloud of humming insects, waiting. None of the Pilgrims could hear the conversation between the Tallyman and the principal riders, but there appeared to be a heated discussion ensuing. After a while the Tallyman and two of the riders came across to the Pilgrims, their expressions taut.

  “What’s the news?” said Zoig bluntly, sensing the great fear of these men.

  “It’s bad,” growled the Tallyman. “Ofestron here says his Bladdermen cannot take you down to Vinewalk.”

  “Cannot?” said Abal. “They have a veritable fleet of bladders, which seems a little extravagant for a welcoming party, as there are but a handful of us—”

  “It is not that,” said Ofestron. He wore a brief tunic, and the dark man noticed a thick belt encircling his waist with several weapons thrust into it. “We have to evacuate the entire archipelago. No one can remain here.”

  “Evacuate?” echoed Abal, somewhat stunned. “But these Islands seem so serene, so fruitful. The vegetation is lush, young. What ails the Islands? Is there some subtle disease at work we cannot see?” He paled as he spoke. “Gods, don’t say they have the grey mould—I have seen it only once, and it pervades all things instantaneously—”

  Ofestron shook his head. “Vinewalk is perfect in all respects. The danger does not come from within, but from without.” He pointed into the limitless Ether. There was not one among the original Pilgrims who did not blanch at the words, for they all knew well enough the many perils that drifted through the Universe of Islands. Only the dark man seemed unmoved, for clearly he did not understand.

  Ofestron explained. “Coming towards us is a rogue Island. We have had word of it from a cloud of fleeing refugees from Softwood. Its proportions are vast, incalculable. There is nothing to be done to avert the horror. Our Islands move but slowly. They have been drifting with all possible speed for a great length of time, since we first learned of the rogue, but still it comes on. It has set its own course implacably. This is no chance meeting. Vinewalk is its target.”

  “What will happen?” said the stranger. Eyes turned to him at once.

  “I have said this intruder has gone rogue,” snapped Ofestron. “Do you not understand? Are you not aware what this means?”

  “He’s a traveller from great distances,” said Abal the Farmer, placating the scowling Bladderman.

  “Oh? Well, traveller, a rogue Island is one that has lost its reason. We never know why this happens. Perhaps a clash somewhere in the deeps of the Ether with another Island, or perhaps serious damage to its membranes in a skirmish with a pack of Gaperoots. Or a partial succumbing to a Vampire Isle. Whatever the cause, the rogue Island has become a berserker, crushing everything in its path, destroying or devouring all things that are too small to resist.”

  “Yet,” said the stranger, “this rogue has selected Vinewalk as its target?”

  “Rogues are unpredictable. But this one is set on Vinewalk. It adjusts its own course to cause a meeting.”

  “Why?”

  Ofestron furrowed his brow, sighing in exasperation. “Nothing changes the insane purpose of the rogue. Vinewalk is doomed. Who knows why? But we must all ride on the back of the Snapwing. The exodus prepares.”

  The Tallyman nodded, for the Snapwing was immeasurable and could easily accommodate the refugees from the Islands.

  One of the Hysterics suddenly rushed before Ofestron, pointing wildly at the man in black. His voice rose in a high scream of indictment. “See, Bladdermen! The omen of doom is already here! Why should the rogue seek you out to destroy you, he asks! Why, indeed! From emptiness has this blasphemous wanderer come, cast out by the Dark Gods, weavers of infinite evil. His very presence is an abomination! He will bring death to all that traffic with him. It is he who has brought the rogue Island upon us!”

  Another of the Hysterics babbled, “Fatecaster!”

  And the third, “He is the comer from the void!”

  Ofestron scowled in anger and confusion at the three howling Hysterics. He had no time for the intricate ravings of their religious doctrines. Yet they had clouded his mind against the strange man, who was indeed most unusual to look upon.

  “How do you answer these charges?” he asked, noticing for the first time the weapon of the stranger. Swords were not common, their metal being such a rare commodity.

  “I have neither willingly nor knowingly brought any fate upon you. By what power could I hope to control an Island? Least of all an Island that will not respond to reason, by your very words?”

  Ofestron did not have the wit or the patience to respond to this logic. He snorted and turned upon the Tally
man. “There is no time to waste squabbling. The exodus will not be easy nor as swift as we would hope. I will begin at once, before your Snapwing flies on past us. See that the traveller from afar is kept under surveillance. I neither like the manner nor the bearing of the man. And keep those infernal Hysterics away from my people: they evoke nothing but fear and apprehension with their perpetual ranting. I wish their great god would swallow them all!” So saying, he strode off with his companion, remounting and drifting skyward.

  Many Bladdermen had come drifting down, their strange mounts attaching themselves to the surface of the Snapwing, their tendrils burrowing parasitically, though to the gigantic creature they were less than fleas. Several of the riders had been discreetly commissioned by Ofestron to watch over the dark man, though the latter did not object, accepting their ill-concealed vigilance lightly. He had found a quiet place to observe the now hectic activity of the Bladdermen communities, and had soon fallen into a deep slumber. There is no night in the Universe of Islands, for the Ether knows no suns, only perpetual glowing mists of warmth; its creatures sleep briefly whenever their bodies need it.

  The Pilgrims were uncertain how to react to the exodus, for there seemed a great many bladder creatures rising from the many Islands of Vinewalk. Yet the oncoming rogue Island brought real anxiety into their hearts, and their eyes never left the horizons of the deep green Ether, expecting at any time to see the enormous mass of the oncoming monster.

  Shebundra controlled the child Urgollo with difficulty, for he sensed the tense aura of anticipation that had clouded all of them, and though he was afraid, he was more excited, for the crossing had so far been, in his youthful opinion, quite boring. The girl was watching the stranger, who had fallen asleep. It concerned her, for she had sensed in him a terrible power from the moment he had appeared. He had spoken of dreams: did he, like her, glimpse things that must come to pass, grim, shadowed visions of possible futures? But she knew, in spite of self-recrimination, that her fate and his were somehow bound together, though she would have had it otherwise.

  As the exodus continued, with streams of the Bladdermen darting to and fro in endless spore-like processions between the Islands, the stranger woke from another turmoil of dreams. He watched the movement of the distant creatures along the vines as though they were gnats, so small were they made by distance. His dreams had not been cheering, but they never were. Near him sat Abal the Farmer, Zoig, the girl and her child, and a few of the other Pilgrims. Thankfully the Hysterics had moved elsewhere upon the strange terrain. There were a number of the silent Bladdermen about, but their watch was only casual: there was nowhere for their ward to flee, so their concentration focused on the exodus.

  “Zoig,” called the man in black, and the adventurer turned to him quizzically. “Tell me, Zoig, this advancing rogue Island—has it a name?”

  Zoig screwed up his face in uncertainty, shaking his head. “Possibly. Ho, riders! This Island that comes to engulf us, has it a name?”

  One of them looked across and nodded. “Aye, Pilgrim. We call it Dreamwarp. It has an evil reputation, for many have travelled to it in the past, seeking one thing or another, as men are ever wont to do on new Islands. Little is said about those who have returned from Dreamwarp. They have never come back as they went. The things they dreamed there stole their sanity. Evil place! It is no wonder the madness infested the entire Island and no wonder it has gone rogue.”

  “Dreamwarp,” breathed the dark man softly, as though the word had touched a live nerve of understanding.

  “What does it mean to you?” said a gentle voice. It was the beautiful young girl.

  “The name,” he mused, shaking his head.

  “I also know the name,” said Shebundra, and there was fear in her voice. Abal the Farmer leaned closer to her, fascinated as much by her words as her beauty.

  “Tell me of it,” the stranger said to her.

  “I have been to Dreamwarp,” she replied and there were gasps from the listeners. “It was—I know not how long ago. Now the memory has become just like another dream. But I was there. There were many of us at first. We were adventurous, a small clan from an Island called Reedwater, and we were lured by the excitement of Dreamwarp, thinking it would be a wonderful place to colonise and spread ourselves, for our numbers on tiny Reedwater were growing quickly. On Dreamwarp we found a world of contrasts, for it was beautiful, a wellspring of wonders, rich in fruit and harvest and in pure, sweet streams, though our dreams were plagued by grim visions. I will not speak of them. They—changed us. A kind of madness came over us. We fought. We killed one another. In the end a few of us escaped, by pure chance, for the Island of Dreamwarp is a cruel master, avidly possessive of its slaves. Those of us that escaped were fortunate that a Snapwing passed, else we had succumbed to madness and perished on Dreamwarp. I may speak prematurely, for none of the other runaways that I know of is yet sane.”

  A hush had fallen over the listeners, for the words of the girl were like a tapestry of magic that had drawn them all in.

  “Dreamwarp,” said the stranger again, picturing her description.

  “We must quit this part of the Ether in all haste!” cried Abal the Farmer. “The rogue Island seems a frightful place, best put to the torch.” Normally such words would have met with bitter resentment, for nothing was more fearful to an Island-dweller than fire, but none of them could find words to defend the unsavoury image of Dreamwarp.

  The stranger spoke again, as though saying aloud thoughts that were not meant for any other ears. “Yet I must come to you, Dreamwarp. My restless dreams have said as much.”

  “What!” ejaculated Abal. “You must go to Dreamwarp! Have you already lost your reason?”

  “Alas, my destiny is no longer as shapeless as I thought. Yes, I must go to Dreamwarp. Whatever purpose I have, it lies there.”

  Shebundra was nodding. “I, too, must return to Dreamwarp.”

  Abal looked mortified. “You—but, but—you?” he blustered.

  “Urgollo and I will go. We must.”

  “Lady, on what mad enterprise?” asked Zoig, also mystified.

  “You would toss your life away so carelessly?” said Abal.

  “I cannot explain. I have to go. I have always known it would be so,” she said simply. Urgollo, beside her, listened, but for once was very still, patient.

  “Will you journey there with me?” the stranger asked Shebundra.

  She smiled. “Very well.”

  Abal the Farmer controlled his palpitating nerves with great difficulty. Emotions welled in him over which he seemed to have little control. “Would it be impertinent of me to—request—that I come also?” he blurted.

  Zoig emitted a sudden guffaw. “Hah! This Dreamwarp exercises its influence from afar! Already its madness spreads before it. What, are you also set on doom, Farmer?”

  Abal looked sheepishly at Shebundra. “Such a radiant flower must not be allowed to wither,” he said. “I am a Farmer, a tender of crops, of herbs, of beautiful growing things. My calling was ever thus. How could I betray such a bloom as this?”

  “Well said,” grinned the dark man. “Though I fear you may yet rue such fine words.”

  “Nay, I’ll come.”

  Shebundra blushed prettily, but said no more.

  “Who else?” called the stranger, but the Bladdermen drew well away as though he was already plagued.

  Zoig was puzzling it over. “I seek Glimmerdale, Island of Silver. What treasure would I find on Dreamwarp? What tales of fabulous wealth can you tell me of this place that could whet my appetite? None, I’ll warrant!”

  The stranger nodded. “You are right, Zoig. There is nothing on Dreamwarp for you, save perhaps an early grave.”

  “Indeed! I’ll none of the place. You are welcome to savour its crazed embrace without me!”

  Four figures stood on a knoll, set apart from the main gathering of refugees from the archipelago of Vinewalk. They looked ever outward into the Ether, watching
and waiting for the vast shape of Dreamwarp to hove into view. The Ether here was thick with its own mists, so that distance soon became lost in a haze of green. Below the watchers, in a shallow valley, the last of the refugees had landed, and now the Islands were uninhabited, save for a few resolute souls who would not leave their ancestral home and who were prepared to die with it. The Tallyman approached the four; at his side was Ofestron, and both their faces were grave.

  “The Snapwing senses the coming of the rogue. I cannot restrain it, nor do I wish to,” said the Tallyman. “If you still wish to destroy yourselves, you must leave at once!”

  “Take the bladders and supplies we have given you,” said Ofestron, pointing to the nearby bladder creatures that still fed lazily. “I may yet regret letting you loose, though I cannot see how a sojourn on this monster will benefit you.” But I am well rid of you, he thought.

  “We have chosen our course,” replied the stranger. “Go your way.”

  “See!” cried Abal the Farmer. “It comes! Gods of the undergrowth! What a size!” He automatically put his arms around the child Urgollo to comfort him and the youth, who had been quick to show affection to the big man, pressed close to his chest, awed. The Tallyman and Ofestron gaped, then ran back to their fellows in horror.

  Towering over them, spreading out on either side, dropping below their horizon of vision, came the rogue Island of Dreamwarp, like some enormous creature through the eddying green mist, suddenly and abruptly there, jarring the mind with its fantastic proportions, a giant, living world. Urgollo shrieked and hid his face; Abal staggered back; Shebundra looked frightened, though it was her memory that chilled her; the dark man watched without visible emotion. Onward came the awesome bulk, like the greatest ship ever conceived.

  “We must mount,” he said, leading them to the bladder creatures.