The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  “Yeah, think of Seattle and California too,” Dee added.

  Beyond the cab window, the cityscape opened to embrace the Torontonians. On one side glimmered the pure blue of the Pacific Ocean, on the other sheered a grandeur of mountains. Cradled in between, like a sunburst of crystals, was Vancouver itself, with its elegant architecture and spacious streets, arched bridges and sandy beaches, museums and quaint pubs. Overhead, the Skytrain glided like a silver serpent. The weather was crisp and sunny, in contrast to the prairies where it was already snowing. Some of the trees still blazed with autumn color while others stood naked, leaves heaped at their feet like discarded garments.

  Their hotel was old and old-fashioned. It had been a stylish apartment building in its day, but now the lobby and elevators looked worn and a little shabby. Their room had an antique charm. The furniture was 1950s, with oversized lampshades in beige and brown, stuffed armchairs, wooden furniture, and comfortable beds. The carpet was threadbare, the television huge, but the bathroom was spotless with an abundance of thick towels.

  “We could have paid more for more,” was Deirdre’s comment.

  “I just couldn’t,” said Yvonne. “I always stay here when I come to Vancouver. She’s like an old lady friend. I would feel I was betraying her if we went to some tarty new place.”

  Dee rolled her eyes at Dana, but was obviously happy enough. Their room overlooked English Bay with a panoramic view of beach and promenade. Seagulls perched on the windowsills.

  “Wait till you taste the food,” Yvonne added. “Especially breakfast. Seriously yum. Bacon and eggs, fruit cup, pancakes with syrup, big pot of coffee.”

  “I want that right now,” Dee decided, picking up the phone. “Why put off till tomorrow what you can eat today?”

  “She knows nothing about deferment of gratification,” Yvonne said to Dana, then she called to her sister, “The same for us!”

  “No bacon for me!” said Dana.

  When the food arrived, it was devoured with appreciative noises as they continued to discuss their plans. Dana had brought the Fair Folk’s itinerary with her. The venue for the Vancouver dates was the Moon in the Bog, Whelan’s Tavern, Gastown.

  “I think it’s safe to say the Moon in the Bog is a club on top of a bar,” Dee said.

  “New Irish bar,” Yvonne said, nodding. “I’ve heard of it, but haven’t got there yet. That means you can’t go,” she said to Dana. “They serve alcohol.”

  “Yahoo!” said Dee, but when she saw Dana’s face, “I mean, boo-hoo!”

  “We’ll go there for you,” Yvonne continued, after throwing Dee a stern look. “If we can’t bring the Fair Folk back here, we’ll arrange a meeting for tomorrow. We know the story, we can fill them in. Okay?”

  Dana was not happy at all.

  “Can’t we just put loads of makeup on her?” Dee suggested. “She’s taller than us. She looks at least sixteen.”

  “Which is still not the legal age,” her sister said archly. “Look, we’re in pretty deep here already. Can you imagine if we got arrested with a minor and they contacted Gabe?”

  “Right,” said Dee. Turning to Dana, she shrugged. “Watch TV till your eyes bug out and run up the room-service bill.”

  Dana opened her mouth to object, but Deirdre had already turned away to peruse the itinerary of the Fair Folk. A short blurb described their music: “Findabhair and Finvarra wow their audience with the eclectic electric sound of Celtic fusion.”

  “How do you pronounce this name?” she asked Dana. “Find-a-bear?”

  Dana had to laugh. “It’s an old Irish name, linked to Guinevere. You pronounce it ‘Finn-ah-veer.’” But she wasn’t distracted for long. “Can’t we contact them before the show?” she insisted.

  Yvonne looked sympathetic. “Keep trying if you want, kiddo. But you know how well that went before we left Toronto. Groups on the road are never easy to get ahold of.”

  While her aunts unpacked, Dana rang the tavern, the club, and the Fair Folk’s hotel, all to no avail. She left messages at each number giving her name and “The Companions of Faerie” for reference, but her lack of success left her crestfallen.

  “They might call back,” Yvonne said to comfort her. “And you’ll be here to talk to them if they do. Bottom line, I promise you, we’ll bring them to you as soon as we can.”

  It was too early for the club to open, so the three went for a walk along the promenade of English Bay. Crowds of people strolled along, enjoying the sunshine in the late afternoon.

  “Very West Coast,” said Yvonne approvingly.

  There were musicians busking with guitars and fiddles, skateboarders, lovers walking hand in hand. Two old men played chess at a stone table beneath a big tree, while a young woman contorted herself into yoga positions. The pale sand on the beach was strewn with gray driftwood. Ducks bobbed on the waves. Gulls screeched overhead.

  The three bought popcorn and ice cream, and sat on a bench to watch the world go by. Dana let herself relax. For now, there was really nothing else she could do.

  • • •

  Back in their room, Dana’s good humor was dispelled as her aunts dressed to go out. Dee donned a black leather cat suit with a long zipper and metal jewelry, while Yvonne put on a slinky red dress with stiletto heels. Clouds of perfume wafted from the bathroom.

  “You look divine, Mrs. Peel,” Yvonne said to Deirdre.

  “You too, Madonna.”

  “You’re supposed to be on a mission,” Dana accused them.

  “You never know who you might meet on a mission,” Dee pointed out.

  “Heroes?” Yvonne said to her sister.

  They grinned at each other.

  “Now, don’t wait up,” Dee said to Dana. “We’re bound to get tanked.”

  “Just try and remember why you’re going,” their niece pleaded as they left.

  • • •

  The club was not what Dee and Yvonne expected. The pub on the first floor was sleek and expensive. Upstairs, the Moon in the Bog was Celtic chic, a cavernous space with a big stage and dim lights. The walls were painted to look like stone adorned with ancient spiral designs. Afro-Celt music shivered through the speakers. A well-dressed crowd slowly filled the room.

  “Not your average grotty, find-your-roots gig,” Dee commented.

  “Don’t be cynical,” said her sister.

  “I am not ‘doglike,’” she retorted.

  Heading straight for the bar, they ordered pints of Guinness.

  “Mmm good,” said Dee after a long swallow of the cold black beer.

  “You’ve got a mustache,” Yvonne warned her.

  “I should hope so,” said Dee, licking the creamy froth from her upper lip. “It’s bad Guinness if I don’t.”

  When the show started, they turned to face the stage.

  Dressed in black like the night, both Finvarra and Findabhair were tall, lithe, and beautiful. And there the resemblance ended. Where her hair was blond and spiked like icicles, his was a jet-black mane that fell in a blunt cut to his shoulders. Her skin was fair, with diamonds piercing her ears, nose, and eyebrows. His coloring was nut-brown, his eyes sloe-black. She wore a dark gown sprayed with stars and slit up the side to reveal a shapely leg. He wore black leather pants and a silken T-shirt that hugged his chest. Both had dark-blue spirals tattooed on their faces, and dusky kohl around their eyes. They were unashamedly flagrant and fey.

  The aunts approved.

  “These guys could give beauty lessons,” was Yvonne’s assessment.

  “Seriously cutie-patootie,” Dee agreed.

  As soon as the music began, they were stunned into silence. It was haunting and exquisite. Finvarra played the fiddle like a gypsy king, with searing abandon and breathtaking virtuosity. Findabhair sang in high thrilling notes like a lark. When his voice entwined with hers, it was like a low dark stream running through the light that danced across the water.

  Traveler, do not tarry

  For the moon shines so
bright

  Traveler, be not wary

  For the Old Ones call tonight.

  Weirdly and subtly, other instruments joined the fiddle. The tingling tintinnabulation of the Celtic harp. The rapid-fire reverberation of a throng of bodhran drums. The full-bodied skirl of the uillean pipes, a hive of honeyed sound.

  The audience looked around briefly for the other musicians, but returned their focus to the stage when they couldn’t find them.

  Dee and Yvonne raised their eyebrows at each other.

  “Where is the path my feet must tread?” sang Findabhair.

  “Beyond the dark your heart doth dread,” sang Finvarra.

  In between the tunes and airs, the pair onstage took turns speaking. The lilt of Findabhair’s Irish accent was evident, as was Finvarra’s, but his speech was markedly different from hers. Though peppered with modern words, it was oddly formal and quaint.

  As the first set progressed, something struck the two aunts. They nudged each other. Being artists themselves, they were sensitive to nuances of thought and feeling. Both caught the undertow of sorrow in the music; the dark grief that tore at its heart. At times the jagged edge of lament resounded with a bitterness that bordered on rage.

  It was potent stuff.

  “Grab your spear,” Yvonne murmured.

  “Look alive,” said Dee, suddenly. “I think he’s scanning for us!”

  Deirdre was right. Finvarra’s keen eyes were surveying the room. When his glance settled on the two of them, she gave him a little wave and Yvonne nodded. Finvarra’s look changed to a piercing gaze. Both stepped backward, then his eyes looked away.

  “Whoa!” Dee muttered. “What was that?”

  “Magic,” said Yvonne.

  They could feel the electricity of that look still shivering through them.

  As soon as the set was over, both members of the Fair Folk came to the bar.

  “Is one of you Dana?” Findabhair asked.

  “We are well met,” said Finvarra.

  Despite his words, neither Finvarra nor his wife was smiling. Their features were stiff. Their eyes, veiled.

  Surprised by the vague hostility, the aunts were unsettled.

  “No,” they said together, “we’re—”

  They stopped, flustered.

  “You talk,” Dee urged Yvonne. “You’re firstborn.”

  “We’re Dana’s aunts,” Yvonne explained quickly. “She’s back at the hotel. She’s only thirteen. No amount of makeup was going to get her in here.”

  “Thirteen?” Findabhair looked at her husband, horrified. “She’s only a kid!”

  “She is no ordinary child,” he said coolly. “She is the Light-Bearer’s Daughter. She has power of her own.”

  The bartender brought their drinks. Findabhair was given a ginger ale, while a pint of Guinness with two shots of whiskey were placed in front of Finvarra. As he downed the whiskey in successive gulps, his wife frowned.

  Yvonne and Dee exchanged glances.

  “Do you know my cousin Gwen?” Findabhair asked them.

  She saw the expressions on their faces before they could answer. She went pale. “Is she all right?!”

  “I’m afraid she isn’t,” Yvonne said, tempering her voice. “She disappeared over a week ago. Dana suspects she was taken by some enemy who’s been after her since this whole thing began. Gwen’s friend Laurel is also missing.”

  Findabhair gripped the counter. She looked ill.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded of Finvarra. “You must have felt something! You felt it when the others were hit.”

  His eyes darkened. “I felt the doom of Faerie, not the fall of our companions. I am as blind as you.”

  “Oh God, I should’ve joined her,” Findabhair said. Her voice rang with guilt. “She needed us and we abandoned her!”

  Embarrassed by the tension between the couple, Yvonne spoke up. “Dana wants you to find Gwen and Laurel. But we think you should join her quest as well.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Deirdre said bluntly. “To get your help.”

  “We must rescue Gwen!” Findabhair agreed.

  Finvarra signaled to the barman to bring him more whiskey. He brooded over his drink.

  “The blood of Faerie flows in Dana’s veins,” he said at last, without looking up. “She is more than any of you can imagine. It is her destiny to complete this task. The rescue of Fairyland is in her hands, as is the fate of our comrades who have fallen.”

  Even Findabhair looked astounded by his pronouncement.

  “You can’t expect Dana to do everything!” Yvonne objected.

  “She’s still a kid, no matter what you say,” said Dee.

  The aunts glared at Finvarra. But at the same time they were both overawed by him. Here was a former High King of Faerie. One who had lived in the world when the earth was young, before humanity was born. They recalled the power of his music and the keenness of his glance. Was this all that was left of his former glory?

  “What’s wrong with you?” Yvonne said. “What’s your problem?”

  “Aside from the fact that you drink too much?” Dee added.

  Findabhair flinched at their words and was about to defend her husband when he cut her off.

  “I do not expect you to understand,” he said, looking up from his drink. In the fierce gaze of his eyes, they saw the same anguish they had heard in the music. “The nature of my grief runs deep. I could not have known what I would have to bear until my exile came upon me. To be banished forever from the Kingdom is to suffer a torment that eats away at my soul.” He reached out to clasp his wife’s hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “I do not regret the sacrifice I made for my Beloved. Were I to face it again, I would make the same choice. Still, it grieves my heart sore to live in the shadowlands that are not my home and to endure an existence that is not my own.”

  Yvonne’s glare had softened to sympathy. Findabhair leaned against her husband in silent support.

  Deirdre was not so easily hooked.

  “Hey, you made your bed, you lie in it. It’s not as if you’ve ended up in demonville. There are worse things than living in this world. It has a lot going for it. You’ve got a genius for music, not to mention a gorgeous wife who needs to read Women Who Love Too Much. Your music alone could sustain you if you let it; trust me, as one tormented artist to another. It’s time you bit the bullet and stopped whining.”

  Yvonne gaped at her sister with admiration.

  “Let’s go,” said Dee. “They’re no use to Dana!”

  • • •

  Leaving the club together, Yvonne showered Dee with praise.

  “You were amazing! I was completely sucked in by the Sad Sack routine.”

  “That’s because you’re an old softie. You’d never make a director.”

  Outside the tavern, they stood in the dark street and looked around for a taxi. It had begun to rain. The initial impulse to storm out on high horses began to wear off. Both were now attacked by second thoughts.

  “Dana’s going to be very disappointed,” said Yvonne with a worried sigh.

  “It’s not as if they were offering to help,” Dee said defensively.

  “My dress is ruined,” her sister groaned.

  The quick shower had drenched the soft fabric. It clung to her skin. “I’m like a wet teabag!”

  “I told you to wear a coat,” Dee replied crossly. “Are there no bloody cabs in this place?”

  “Don’t start,” her sister rejoined.

  They were well into one of their usual spats when a tall figure approached them. At first they saw only the long coat and gray hat, but as he stepped in front of them, the streetlights of the bar lit up his face. Both drew back involuntarily. In the flickering neon, the scars looked even more gruesome. But it was the eyes that truly shocked them. Black pits of hatred.

  “Where is the child?”

  His voice was chilling, inhuman. It cut at their nerves like a jagged knife.

&
nbsp; Their first reaction was to freeze in terror.

  Their second was to run.

  The two managed only a few steps before he caught them. With terrible force he threw them into the alley beside the tavern. The passage was dark and dank and smelled of garbage. They opened their mouths to scream, but long, bony fingers gripped each by the throat.

  A horrible waspish sound rang through their brains. A sickening odor filled the air. Now their terror increased a hundredfold as his shape changed in front of them. Hands transformed to viscous tentacles. Features seemed to melt into a sickly, greenish mass. His grip tightened. Their veins began to swell.

  From the club windows above pumped the sound of Celtic rock. Any hope that the Fair Folk might have followed after them, died.

  There would be no rescue.

  Slowly the monster lifted them into the air.

  “Where is the child?” he repeated in a cold, remorseless tone.

  They managed to catch each other’s eyes, wide and terrified. Their strangled features were turning blue. Each saw the message in the other’s look. They would say nothing of their niece and they would die. In that last glance of farewell, they sent each other praise and courage.

  Hang tough, sis. You’re a hero.

  The acceptance of their deaths encouraged the final throe. With a surge of strength, they kicked out furiously to break his hold.

  Caught off guard, Crowley dropped them.

  The aunts jumped to their feet. Gasping for breath, they backed themselves against the wall. Yvonne pulled off her stiletto high heels and held them up like daggers. Dee was already wading in, kicking ferociously, glad of her boots. Yvonne joined her, jabbing with her heels. At the same time, they screamed for help with shouts that also served as war cries.

  There was a moment when it looked as if they might succeed, when they drove the monster back. It was obvious that they had surprised him. That he was used to easier prey.

  But it wasn’t long before they sensed what he already knew: their struggle was hopeless. Though they were not as weak or as easily cowed as he had expected, still they were no match for him.

  Hopelessly, courageously, they continued to resist, kicking, punching, screaming, scratching. They weren’t going down without a fight.