The Book of Dreams

by O. R. Melling

  Dana stood at Thomas’s graveside, remembering her great-great-grandfather’s life. Here lay the young man who had sailed to Canada, recording the dreams of his fellow emigrants; the intrepid adventurer who had traveled the length and breadth of the country in search of his own destiny; and finally the one who had settled in the backwoods of Ontario once his dream was fulfilled; for here lay the man who had been given a glimpse of that other Existence he had sought all his life.

  As she stood there thinking of Thomas, Dana knew without a doubt that he had kept faith with that other world even unto death. Her skin tingled. The air around the grave felt charged with electricity. With no effort on her part, her hands were shedding light.

  The portal was here.

  She stared at the bird on top of the tombstone. Had Thomas been thinking of the raven who carried him here? It was fashioned from snow-white marble. A soul-bird of Faerie? A great longing came over Dana. Faerie was near, just beyond the veil.

  Holding her hands outward, she poured light over her ancestor’s grave. But though she felt the portal’s presence, it didn’t appear. Something was wrong.

  “It’s here!” she called to Jean, turning around, “but I can’t seem to—”

  Intent on her find, Dana hadn’t noticed how far away Jean was. Nor had she noticed the shadow creeping out of the trees.

  • • •

  From the time they entered the cemetery, Jean had been keeping a wary eye on the woods. The wolf in him was alert and on guard. When Dana ran off to find Thomas’s grave, he decided to patrol the perimeter. The site was ideal for an ambush. Surrounded by a rampart of trees and shrubs, it was isolated and well-hidden. There were too many nooks and crannies, too many places to hide. As he scanned the woods, they seemed to darken before his eyes. Neither he nor Dana had given much thought to the possibility of an attack in broad daylight. He suddenly realized how foolish that was.

  He called out to Dana to suggest they leave.

  • • •

  Deep in the gloom of the woods, something dark had been watching them. Called by an evil akin to itself, it had come down from the midnight lands of the North. Its ravening hunger craved human flesh and it knew the name of its prey.

  • • •

  Dana heard the cold whisper on the wind and shivered. The air had darkened suddenly, as if night were coming or a storm approached. She stared into the trees. A bleak feeling fell over her. What spell was being cast from the black heart of the woods? A disturbing odor crept through the air, something rotten and decayed. Following the smell came a low mournful sound, both seductive and chilling. She stirred uneasily.

  Daaa-naaa.

  There was a cry in the voice, tortured and desolate, yet it also echoed with abominable power.

  The wind through the trees, the sigh of a restless soul, the waves of the waters are the unquiet spirits. The white man asks, “What is that sound?” We who know the answer cry, “The We-ti-ko.”

  Dana knew nothing about the spirits of the Canadian North, those who roamed the wilds of the taiga and the tundra. Though Grandfather had spoken the name of the We-ti-ko, she didn’t know the giant cannibal whose heart was ice. Its hands were gnarled with crooked fingers that had nails like claws. Its feet had long pointed heels and a single toe. The face was the most dreadful thing to behold, black with frostbite and lips gnawed raw. The yellow eyes rolled in sockets of blood. Through jagged teeth it hissed and whistled before letting out screeches and blood-curdling yowls. Worse was the voice when it chose to speak. Nothing could be more awful than to hear it call your name.

  Daaa-naaa.

  Only in those last minutes did both Dana and Jean realize the extent of their foolhardiness. Was their love to blame? Were they too happy together to imagine catastrophe? Were they too clouded in their thoughts to make a proper plan? The truth was, they had come to the heart of the quest with no preparation or defense. Now it was too late, even for regrets. They were under attack.

  • • •

  As soon as the demon broke from the trees, Dana raised her hands to make light. She would use it as both shield and weapon. With Thomas’s tombstone at her back, she stood her ground on her ancestor’s grave. Though she quailed at the horror that charged toward her—the hideous eyes, the clawed hands, the frostbitten lips howling her name—she did not run.

  • • •

  Jean knew of the monster that raced toward Dana; knew that no human could fight it off. He made his decision. It was the second time he had faced this moment and, once again, like his grandfather, he suffered no doubt. It was his nature to act this way, his love for Dana simply made it easier. Still, the sacrifice was a bitter one, for he knew what it meant and what he would lose forever. As the midday sun beat down on him, he willed the change to come upon him.

  • • •

  Dana hurled her first fireball at the creature. A direct strike at its chest. The We-ti-ko screamed with pain, but didn’t slow down. She was about to throw another when Jean cut in between her and the demon. His eyes were golden. He was pitching forward, about to land on all fours. By the time she opened her mouth to scream—NO!—he had turned.

  • • •

  In a flying leap that arced through the air, the great black wolf struck the We-ti-ko.

  • • •

  The demon was an abomination of winter, an evil spirit that stalked the frozen lands of the North. It liked to grip its prey by the head or feet and lift it from the ground, high into the air. Horrified witnesses would describe in dismay how the victim’s cries grew muted by distance; a melancholy wail that faded away in the night. Then hidden in the farthest wilds, in a foul lair fashioned of human bones, the demon would devour its prey alive.

  • • •

  The We-ti-ko recovered quickly from Jean’s assault. With an ear-splitting screech, it exploded to its feet, hurling the beast away from it. The wolf yowled with pain as he hit the ground with force. Before he could recover, the monster leaped upon him, claws extended like knives. The talons slashed and raked. Black fur flew with red spurts of blood.

  • • •

  Helplessly Dana watched, sick with horror. The two were locked in a death grip. She couldn’t strike at one without hitting the other. Rolling frenziedly over the ground, they clawed and bit, howled and screeched.

  • • •

  But if the We-ti-ko had otherworldly power and strength, so too did the loup-garou. And the wolf was wild with rage, insane with the knowledge that he had lost his humanity, that he would never again take the form of his own kind. The form that matched his beloved’s. Till the day he died he would be separate and different. The rage coursed through his veins. As it burned away all sense of his humanity, Jean gave himself over to the pure power of the wolf. A strength that would die fighting, kicking, screaming, that wouldn’t stop till the last breath had been wrung from its body. With tooth and claw he tore at the monster, ripping flesh and muscle, biting bone and tendon. In the end, his sacrifice was not in vain, for the We-ti-ko lay dead.

  • • •

  There was no time to celebrate, no time to mourn. Other creatures were issuing from the forest, spectral and malevolent.

  Dana cried out to the wolf. Together, they fled from the cemetery and into the woods that bordered the Mad River.

  Like a pack of hounds, the dark things bayed in pursuit. Wicked and grotesque, they moved with the swiftness of shadows, hiding behind the trees and calling out to each other. Sinister shrieks rang through the woods as more joined the hunt. Some slithered through the undergrowth. Others leaped from branch to branch.

  Dana’s heart beat wildly. Her breaths came in short gasps. Their enemies were increasing in speed and number. And even as she ran, she suffered torment and shock, anguished by the enormity of a loss that hung over her. A grief that threatened to defeat her before death itself caught up.

  In the wild flight and the fear and the anguish of her heart, she was the Hunted One. And so, too, was he, the great black
wolf that ran beside her.

  • • •

  Neither Dana nor Jean saw the arrows that rained behind them. Arrows that flew with uncanny speed and unerring marksmanship. Arrows that struck with silent and deadly purpose. Arrows tipped with burning light.

  Nor did they see their enemies fall.

  Deeper and deeper into the woods the two ran, till they reached the heart of the forest where the oldest trees stood. Ancient white pine rose tall and majestic, perfuming the air with resinous scent. Green boughs reached downward as if to embrace them. Shafts of light warmed their faces. Both began to sense they were no longer pursued. As the trees thinned out, they stepped into a clearing.

  Dana looked around her. She knew this place! It was the same glade to which the deer had led her the night she journeyed in the Shaking Tent. Even the ring of stones and the ashes of the campfire were there. The air was hushed with a special stillness and peace. Sanctuary.

  Dana sank to the ground beside the black wolf and put her arms around him. Then she threw back her head and howled.

  • • •

  Somewhere in the midst of her sorrow she grew aware of his injuries. Still weeping without restraint, she let the light flow that would heal him. As the blood stopped and the deep wounds closed, her own pain increased, for she was forced to acknowledge what her power couldn’t do.

  “You shouldn’t have done it,” she whispered. “I could’ve fought it. And I’d rather have died.”

  She saw the tragic look in his eyes, but he shook his great head to show his dissent.

  There in the glade, they leaned against each other, both silently grieving: a girl who was almost a woman and a wolf who would never become a man. As they knelt on a mat of red and gold leaves, the soft light of the day illumined their sorrow.

  • • •

  Out of respect for their pain, the others came quietly, with gentle footfalls barely touching the ground. They had arrived too late at the Plain of the Great Heart. Hastening there to aid the Light, they could have turned the tide. They had the power. But before they could loose their burning arrows, the loup-garou had transformed, changing in the daylight to save his love.

  It was a tragic sacrifice, and for this they mourned; but it was also a noble one, for which praise was due.

  All drew near to the wolf. They wanted to honor him. Trueheart. Braveheart. They wished to sing of his act of heroism. With magnificent voices they began to tell his tale; for they would set his name among the constellations, his story to be told as long as they lived.

  And they would live forever.

  • • •

  It was a while before the song reached Dana’s ears and she grew aware of the circle that had formed around her and Jean. She stiffened in alarm, ready to flee, but the wolf didn’t growl. These were not enemies.

  The voices were melodious, like the whisper of rain falling on leaves, or the plash of water over pebbles on the seashore. The song was a glossolalic air, a medley of languages. Dana heard the tongues she knew best, Irish and English, while Jean heard French and Cree. In all the languages, the words were the same. It was a love song and a paean, a song of praise. A song of heroism, romance, and sacrifice.

  Dana looked around at the singers. Her vision was blurred by her tears. She saw flickering flashes; columns of light that kept shifting and changing like cascading water. She wiped at her tears. She wanted to see. There was something here. She was overcome with a sense of familiarity. Again she remembered the glade in her journey in the Medicine Lodge and the vague forms around the campfire, like trails of mist in the morning. She had almost understood the message, then, the secret of their existence, but the moment had been fleeting. As soon as she had reached out to grasp the knowledge, it had eluded her. Even now, she was struggling to accept what she saw, for she knew them and yet she didn’t know them.

  There were several tall males with reddish-brown skin and a brush of green hair like feathered needles. When she blinked, Dana found herself looking at a stand of red pine. Beside the men were equally tall women of a silver coloring with bristles of hair. Elegant cones dangled from their ear lobes. When the wind blew, they shivered like white pine. What were the ones with the wrinkled skin? They were grayish brown with a tint of purple and their hair was shiny green. Eastern hemlock! There were others she slowly began to recognize: a fair-skinned lissome birch, three shy and trembling aspens, many sweet-smiling maples with scarlet locks. Their clothes were woven of wild daisies, black-eyed Susans, and white trilliums. At times they rustled and whispered like a small wood in the wind. Then they would return to a state of deep repose, like sleeping trees.

  Some had large birds perched on their shoulders or wrists, a glossy black raven, a golden eagle, a blue jay. Smaller sparrows and woodpeckers nestled in their hair. Along with the birds, there was a host of wild animals who sat or lay beside them: a beaver, a badger, a great black bear, several families of squirrels, a raccoon, and a white-tailed deer.

  Though the animals were unperturbed by Dana’s scrutiny, the tree people appeared to be caught fast in her gaze. Human-struck.

  Dana continued to struggle with the huge fact of their existence. She found herself comparing them to the ones she knew in Ireland. Like their Irish counterparts, they reflected the landscape in which they dwelled. These had a stern beauty that spoke of dark forests, deep lakes, and vast mountains. They were incredibly old and wild and free.

  When Dana finally accepted the truth, it was shattering. A shock that reverberated through her heart, mind, and soul.

  “You’re fairies!” she cried out. “Canadian fairies!”

  The beautiful creatures looked both wary and shy as they suffered her gaze. The eyes that stared back at her were a luminous green, like stars from Ireland.

  “You’re gorgeous!” she breathed at last.

  A ripple ran through the group. They looked happy, pleased, proud. As if eased by her tone, they diminished to human height, some shrinking even smaller still.

  One of the pine women stepped forward to speak. A daisy chain crowned her long green hair. Her skin was a silvery hue.

  “I’m Daisy Greenleaf of the Clan Creemore. Pleased to meet you, Light-Bearer’s Daughter.”

  More came forward to greet her, some bowing, some shaking her hand. Others timidly stated their names and then scurried off. Those too shy for even that, slipped away into the woods like bright shadows. But soon a little band of the brave were seated in the grass around her. Tall and lithe, Stanley Moon had eyes that flashed with mischief. He looked like Pan with his pointed ears and evergreen skin. His arm was draped lazily around Daisy’s shoulders.

  Fern Moon, Stanley’s sister, was the same green color with a head of bushy dark hair. She was quiet where her brother was brazen. Brown as an oak, Big James Tweed was robust and kindly. Flora Bird was blue, tiny and quick-witted, flitting here and there. Honeywood was a beauty with long yellow hair and dreamy eyes. Her voice was mellifluous, her movements languid like boughs in a warm breeze. Lavender was pale mauve, the size of a flower petal. She was the only one who had chosen to wear wings, and she fluttered around Dana like a lilac butterfly.

  The more at ease they became, the more the fairies shape-shifted at will, from creatures of light to earthly guise to various animal forms. The divisions of nature were nothing to them.

  The loup-garou remained at Dana’s side as the fairies settled around her. Flora Bird brushed his coat with a golden comb. A family of ravens, ever friend to the wolf, nestled against him as they preened their feathers.

  “I’ve been here for over a year,” Dana said, astonishment ringing in her voice. “Were you hiding? Why didn’t I see you?”

  They looked at each other, then at her.

  “You know the rules,” Daisy said. “You can’t see what you don’t believe.”

  “I believe in fairies!” she said indignantly.

  “Canadian fairies?” they chimed.

  Dana’s huff deflated. A thousand questions b
uzzed in her mind like bees, but before she could ask them, Lavender called out in a chirp.

  “Eat as we talk! Where’s the feast?”

  “Yeah! Bring it on!” the others clamored while the animals hooted, barked, and cawed.

  Daisy, evidently the leader, clapped her hands. In the blink of an eye, they were surrounded by a cornucopia of treats. Baskets of birch bark spilled over with every kind of fruit: rosy apples, blueberries, fat gooseberries, cranberries, wild cherries, and currants. There were hot dishes of roasted corn on the cob and yams. These were followed by cold desserts of sugar cakes dripping with dark molasses and every kind of maple confection.

  Dana and the wolf joined in the feast while keeping a watchful eye on the forest. Big James Tweed noticed their wariness.

  “You needn’t worry. These woods are safe. This is Dun Croí Mor, our fairy fort. No minions of evil can come here. It is well protected.”

  As the picnic got under way, they told her about themselves.

  “We emigrated with the Irish,” Daisy said. “We couldn’t bear to see our good neighbors leave without us.”

  “We’re scattered across North America,” Stanley Moon declared. “Wherever the Irish went, we went too.”

  “At first we were homesick,” said Honeywood in her sweet golden voice. “Like the settlers themselves, we pined for the hills and woods of Ireland. And then, just like them, we grew to love it here. That’s when we took on the colors and shapes of the new land.”

  “The clans in British Columbia are huge!” Lavender piped up. “Rain-forest fairies!”

  “They went west with the Guinness family,” Fern added.

  “In time, many of us forgot about the Old Country,” Daisy said. “By that I mean Faerie. Some ran off into the bush or into the Far North, never to be seen again. None of us has gone back in over a century. We’ve all gone native. This is our home now.”