The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  His accent was broad, very nasal and Canadian, almost singsong in tone, quite pleasant on the ears. His look was pleasant too, and so kind and friendly that Dana couldn’t help smiling back. The train was crowded with office workers on their way home. Safe enough, she decided, if he tried anything strange.

  “I … a friend … is in the hospital,” she told him. “St. Michael’s.”

  The little man bobbed his head vigorously, displacing his earphones. “St. Michael’s a good one. Patron saint of fairies, eh?”

  Dana was startled. She studied him closely. He peered back at her over the edge of his sunglasses. The eyes were big, an earth-brown color darker than his skin. There was something innocent and childlike in his gaze, but there was no recognition. And she felt none herself. Still, she liked him and that encouraged her to talk.

  “Do you know the old folktale about Saint Mike?” she said. “How he defended the fairies after the Great War in the heavens? The fairies were in disgrace for refusing to take sides.”

  “There’s no neutral ground in some wars,” the little man murmured.

  “What?” said Dana.

  He shrugged and clammed up.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “apparently Saint Michael argued that while the fairies weren’t good enough for heaven, at the same time they weren’t bad enough for hell. He suggested they should live on Earth. Some say that’s how Faerie and our world got connected in the first place.”

  “He’d make a good lawyer,” the little man commented.

  Dana laughed. She leaned toward him confidentially. “I don’t really believe that story. You know what I think? I think Michael is their patron saint because he’s their dream, their ideal. What could be better or more beautiful than a fairy? An archangel.”

  The little man cackled with glee. “Oh, that’s a good one. I like that. Well worth some advice.” He glanced out the window. “The Lady’s station. Isn’t this your stop?”

  Queen Street. Light blue, the favorite color of the Queen of Heaven.

  Dana had lost track of the time and her journey. She jumped up and made a dash for the door. Behind her came a shout.

  “Put your hands over his head! That should do the trick!”

  What? How? She spun around. Too late. The door slid closed. He was lost in the crowd.

  Dana stood dumbfounded as she watched the train rumble down the track. Then she shook herself out of her daze. Impossible. They didn’t exist, not here, not in Canada. But as she hurried toward the exit, her heart felt lighter. First Radhi and now the little man. They had taught her a lesson. People could be magic too.

  Queen Street was bustling with office workers and shoppers. Dana hurried past a construction site that reverberated with the noise of drilling, men shouting, and trucks unloading. On the road, traffic moved slowly. A streetcar rumbled by, packed with rush-hour passengers. In the press of the crowd a ragged figure looked out at Dana, but she didn’t see him. She was threading her way up the street toward the hospital. Behind her glinted the department store windows of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Ahead rose the red brick walls of St. Michael’s.

  She didn’t need directions. From a billboard high on the wall, a benign visage gazed gigantically down: a cloud-white angel against a blue sky. He wore his wings like a feathered mantle; his head was bowed and his arm raised. Help Us Watch Over You. Give to Toronto’s Urban Angel. Cheered by the image, Dana headed for the entrance of the Victoria Street wing of the Intensive Care Unit.

  The moment she set foot on the ramp that led to the glass doors, Dana knew she was in trouble. It was the smell that alerted her: a metallic odor that soured the air. Then came the buzzing noise in her ears that made her feel immediately nauseous and faint. Terrified, she looked around. The side street was empty. Then something stepped from the shadows.

  She hardly recognized him. Crowley was more emaciated than the last time she had seen him, and his face was disfigured with hideous scars. The look in his eyes was shocking. From the depths glared a raging hatred. Worse was to come. Out of his body snaked writhing tentacles, green and viscid, like toxic matter. Now she knew for certain that Crowley and the monster were one and the same.

  She made a bolt for the doors. A tentacle whipped toward her and coiled around her waist. Its grip was like a vise. She screamed in pain. More tentacles shot out to bind her body. One curled around her throat and began to choke her. The buzzing sound was all around her, as if she were being attacked by a swarm of bees. His whispery voice echoed with the cold glee he took in killing her.

  You are such easy prey. Poor little girl. All alone and afraid. It is so easy to defeat you. You lack the will to defend yourself. You would be dead already but for the wolf.

  Somewhere in the midst of terror and panic, Dana rallied. Those scars on his face! The wolf had done that! The thought gave her strength. She began to struggle. His grip tightened, and the awful voice continued to mock her.

  Your hero is not here to save you. I have dealt with him.

  She was overcome with shame. Her worst fears were confirmed. Jean was attacked when she left him on the road. He had tried to help her and she had abandoned him.

  Why was I sent to kill you, I wonder? You are no threat to anyone. A weak and foolish child with no defenses, no allies, no power.

  She was too long without air. Her skin had turned blue. As her head fell back in a swoon, the high walls of the hospital loomed above her. The fortress she had failed to reach. The image of the urban angel stared down. Was that reproach she saw in his eyes?

  Help us watch over you.

  And deep in the back of her mind, she heard her stepmother’s words. To ask for help is a strength, not a weakness. Even her enemy knew the truth. She had no allies, and her isolation made her weak.

  She couldn’t speak, she was almost unconscious, but in her mind she formed the words.

  Saint Michael, patron saint of my mother’s people, grant me sanctuary.

  As if in a dream, she saw the image move. The arm that was out of sight in the billboard came into view, wielding a weapon. The sword of light descended through the air, slashing at the monstrous limbs that bound her. Crowley recoiled, screeching with agony. Dana was set free. Without a second thought, she raced up the ramp. More shrieks erupted behind her, but she didn’t stop to look. Catapulted forward, she charged through the doors.

  As soon as she was inside, Dana knew she was safe. Though she was trembling with shock, she began to calm down. Deep in her heart she had heard the still voice. He shall cover thee with his feathers and under his wings shalt thou trust. This was not a place where Crowley could follow.

  Stopping to catch her breath, she looked around the lobby. To her right was the reception desk. Ahead were the elevators. On her left was an alcove built into the wall, illumined by lamps. It housed a marble statue of Saint Michael, the original of the image on the poster outside. Overcome with gratitude, Dana approached the white effigy of the great archangel.

  At the foot of the statue were flowers and cards from patients and their families. Thank you, St. Michael, for your intercession. She repeated the words softly.

  His head was bowed, his features serene. Calmly he regarded the vanquished demon at his feet. One arm was raised in triumph, the other held a sword against the serpent’s neck. From his shoulders unfurled a swan’s span of feathered strength. His composure bespoke a different world, a different way of being, not human but immortal.

  A plaque on the wall told Dana about the statue, but nothing about the celestial being himself.

  For almost a century, the statue of St Michael the Archangel has graced St Michael’s Hospital as a symbol of hope for employees, patients and their families.

  The artist and date of creation are unknown, but the name of “Pietrasanta” chiseled on the back of the statue indicates that the stone is from the same quarry in Italy where Michelangelo procured marble for his famous Pieta.

  How the statue of St Michael made its way to Canada i
s unclear. What we do know is that during the latter part of the 19th century, the Sisters of St Joseph found the statue, dirty and blackened, in a second-hand store on Queen Street and bought it for $49—a sum they had accumulated from the sale of old newspapers.

  Plaque unveiling

  St Michael’s Feast Day Celebrations

  September 30, 1996

  Dana stared at the demon under the archangel’s foot, the writhing body, the ophidian eyes. Saint Michael had the power to conquer his enemy, but how could she defeat hers?

  Dana asked herself hard questions. She recalled Crowley’s taunts. Were they true? Was she powerless? For the second time that day, she remembered how much stronger she had been only a year ago, so daring and full of spirit. And what of her birthright? Was she not of the immortals herself? The silver blood of Faerie ran through her veins. Light lived inside her. All her gifts and strengths had been buried deep, like treasure in a bog. And she herself had lost her way, sinking into that bog. Could she rise again?

  With quiet resolve, Dana walked to the elevator. She had a job to do. She had come to right a wrong. Though she had no idea if or how she could do it, she was here to save Jean.

  • • •

  Admission to the Neurosurgery and Trauma Intensive Care Unit was strictly controlled. There was a waiting area with chairs and magazines, and a locked door with an intercom system. The door was already opening even as Dana grasped the handle. She smiled to herself. She knew who was helping her. His angelic presence permeated the brick and glass, indeed the very air itself. This was his hospital, his domain. As he guided her through the corridors, she saw that she was somehow cloaked from prying eyes. Doctors and nurses passed her without a glance.

  When she reached Jean’s room, two attendants stood outside the door, one in a green uniform, the other in dark blue. They spoke in low tones.

  “Definitely a gang beating. The extensive injuries are typical. Head trauma. Deep shock.”

  The second attendant was visibly upset. “Mindless violence! I hate it when the city goes this way. Wait and see, there’ll be more. It always comes in a wave. As if something evil sets up shop and starts to feed.”

  The first shuddered. “I hope you’re wrong!”

  As soon as they left, Dana went inside. She almost cried out at the sight of him. Hooked to monitors and intravenous drips, Jean was covered in bandages and plaster casts. The only distinguishable feature was the dark tousle of hair.

  Fighting back waves of guilt and sorrow, she approached his bed.

  Put your hands over his head. That should do the trick.

  Dana looked down at her hands. They were trembling. Once upon a time she could cup them together and a pool of light would well up in her palms. It was her inheritance, a gift from her mother. But a long time had passed since Dana had last called up her light. As a silent protest, she had refused to bring it to the place she considered her prison. Eventually she lost the memory of how to produce it, though she never admitted this to her mother or even to herself.

  Dana knew she needed the light to help Jean. She had nothing else to offer him. But what if she couldn’t? She was almost afraid to try. She looked at him with pity. Even unconscious, his body twitched with pain. She had no choice.

  Taking a deep breath, Dana placed her hands together and willed the light to come.

  Nothing.

  Her heart sank like a stone. She tried again. And again. By the fourth time, she was crying, utterly devastated. She had lost her gift. She had squandered her inheritance.

  Dana buried her face in her hands. And that was when she saw it, through the film of her tears: a faint dusting of gold at the tips of her fingers. The tiny specks were almost imperceptible. Hardly the pool of gold she once possessed. It was better than nothing, but would it be enough?

  She held her hands above Jean’s head. The light fell like soft rain upon him. Slowly, softly, it formed a halo. She closed her eyes. For a moment, she saw the green hill and the broken portal. She turned away. This was not her destination. Instead she thought of Jean, wherever he might be, and she reached out with her mind to find him.

  • • •

  “Tabernac! What you are doing here?”

  He stood before her, tall and lean, the raven-black hair loose around his face, the wintergreen eyes bright with astonishment.

  Dana shivered at the sound of his voice. It was like a cool mountain stream. She was so happy to see him she almost laughed, but the laugh died in her throat as she looked around. The place was horribly familiar. The burned and blackened landscape she had seen from Crowley’s car. It was even worse close up.

  They were standing in a mire of dank peat and cesspools. Olid vapors rose around them like wafts of bad breath. Nearby was a brake of barren trees, pleached and prickly like a field of barbed wire. In the distance lay a bleak prospect of crags that seemed to claw at the dull sky. The air was acrid with the sour, metallic smell that Dana had come to associate with Crowley.

  “I remember this from my nightmare!”

  “Le Brûlé,” said Jean, nodding.

  “You know it?!”

  He shrugged. “It look like a place I get lost in one time, in eastern Québec. They are all over the country. Spruce bog. In English, ‘the Brule.’Not so good. You step in the wrong way”—he made a drowning motion—“you go down.”

  “Quicksand?” She looked around warily. “I know it from the night Crowley tried to kill me. He took me here in his car, but at the same time I was somewhere else. On the Mulmur Road.” She stopped, overcome with shame. Then she burst out with, “I’m so sorry, Jean! For leaving you there! I was scared and confused. I didn’t know who to trust, but still it was wrong. I acted like a coward.”

  “Ce n’est rien.” He shrugged again. “It was a strange night, eh? Who could know what happen?”

  She was surprised by his indifference. Did he think it was all a dream, back then and now? But though he seemed to have no interest in what went on, she needed to know.

  “Did Crowley attack you? I saw a wolf fighting the monster. How—?”

  “Yes, he attack me,” Jean interrupted quickly. “The thing it was our teacher, yes, but something else. It pick me up and throw me and then I am here. In this place.”

  “What about the wolf?” Dana asked. “Where did it come from? How did—?”

  Again he cut her off. It was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it. He changed the subject quickly.

  “Dis-moi, are you really here or do I dream you?”

  “I’m here,” she said. “I’ve come to help you.”

  “I think maybe not.” His look was quizzical, but there was no sarcasm in his voice, only grave doubt. “For days I try. The bog is dangereux, but worse are the feux follets.”

  “The what?”

  “Feux follets. Crazy fire. They come from the ground.”

  “You mean will-o’-the-wisps?”

  Jean frowned. “I don’t know this word, but it sound too nice.”

  He turned to show her his back. Dana gasped. There were scorch marks on his shirt and the back of his jeans. Worse still, where the fabric had been burned away, his skin was raw and red with burns.

  “We’ve got to get you out of here,” she swore.

  Again Jean looked doubtful, but Dana was thinking fast. “Can we fight fire with fire?”

  She cupped her hands together. Regardless of Jean’s talk of Canadian spruce bogs, this was obviously a dreamscape created by Crowley. Since it was made by magic, she hoped her power might be stronger here. Now as the light welled up and spilled over her palms, she breathed with relief.

  “If I could just do that back in the real world,” she murmured.

  Jean’s eyes widened when he saw the light. Frank and curious, he studied her features.

  Unable to hold his gaze, Dana looked away. But she was pleased and proud that she had something to offer.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “Maybe we got a chance. I been here awhile a
nd know some things. See the mountains? Every time I try to go that way, the feux follets they attack me. Alors, this tell me, I want to go there. Maybe with your fire we do it!”

  The ridge was on the other side of the bog, beyond the copse of dead and withered trees. There was no discernible path leading to it. Jean set off with Dana close behind. They skirted the woods, following a sluggish stream where the ground cover was sparse.

  “Don’t look to the water,” Jean warned over his shoulder.

  Dana immediately glanced at the stream, though she hadn’t given it a thought before he spoke. She had been concentrating on keeping up with him. But there in the sickly flow of the snye, she caught her reflection. Bloated and grotesque, it wavered in the turbid waters, half-strangled by oily, tubular plants. Spellbound by the image, she watched herself thrash wildly even as she tasted the greasy stem that was invading her mouth.

  “Câlisse!” cried Jean.

  He had turned just in time. She was leaning over the water, about to fall in.

  “I say not to look!” he yelled, pulling her back.

  “Everyone looks when you say ‘Don’t look’!”

  Dana sounded annoyed, but she was angry with herself. She had to be more careful. How could she rescue him if she got trapped herself?!

  They were approaching the far side of the bog. The stream had widened to a dark turgid river that was impossible to cross. The only way forward was through the woods. Ragged branches of swamp willow and black spruce clutched at each other. The dank ground was gashed and pitted and gnarled with old roots.

  Dana was taken by surprise when Jean reached out to grasp her hand. His felt dry and warm. Though she was overcome with shyness, she was also glad. He knew the way they should go, and it was easier to follow him. Together they pushed through the brittle brush and briars. The bog made sucking sounds under their feet. Wading through a pool that bubbled like oil, they were splashed with foul-smelling mud. At last the copse began to thin out and the jagged outline of the ridge rose up ahead. The ridge was only a short distance away, but the moment they broke free of the trees, any hope of a quick escape died.