by Neil Gaiman
"Take care," she said. "I miss you," and many other safe words, safe because he couldn't hear her, because the line was dead. She hung up tenderly. The TV was there, waiting to comfort and understand.
A blue face onscreen said, "Run, run, run ..."
The television flared up into flames and melted into a sizzling multicolored puddle. Sarah didn't care because the entire room was on fire.
She peeled down, pulling off every layer until she reached ground zero, skin, and still couldn't strip off enough, unwind herself, cool down her soul.
Sarah fought up toward wakefulness, slipped, fell back into the flames, the torrent of flames and blood.
"I don't like this one," Delirium says. "Make a different one. Come on, you can do it. Let's have the blue flowers again or the white noise. No, wait. What about blue noise? Or maybe strawberry?"
Sarah is motionless, staring at something that Delirium can't see.
"Stop it," Delirium says. "Stop it. I don't like it anymore. This is real, isn't it? I don't like it." She watches Sarah, fretful now. If only her brother Destruction were here. He would know what to do. But he's long gone. He had been nice to her.
Her other brother? No, not Destiny. The other other one, Dream. He might help. He had helped her before, after she had cried. He was nice, too, sort of.
"Dream! I'm holding your insect face thingamajiggy. You know. Your vigil, um, sigil. Yeah. Anyway, Dream, I need you. Where are you? I know you can hear me. DREAM, ANSWER ME!"
A sound that is not a sound. The movement of air that is scarcely perceived, barely felt. The lord of the dreamworld, her brother, stands before her, dark robes billowing. "You called, my sister?"
"I did?"
Dream, her brother, floats before her, a pale wraith with hair the color of the darkest nightmare and eyes unfathomably deep. A look of irritation crosses his colorless face.
"I did," Delirium says, nodding happily. "See?" She points at the bed, at Sarah. "It's really not my kind of thing, is it?"
"What isn't?"
"Her." Delirium gestures again at the curled lump of Sarah.
"Who is this mortal?"
"Her name's Sarah. Don't you know? I mean, weren't you in charge of her originally? Who gave her all those awful dreams?"
"I may once have given her dreams, sister, but she is unknown to me now."
"You didn't send her the fire and the burning babies and the wolf-thing in the sky?"
"No."
"Well, neither did I."
Dream sighs. "No, I suppose you didn't. Is that all?"
"Dream! Don't you dare leave."
"My sister, I confess I have no idea what you want of me."
"If you'll--just wait a minute, then I'll tell you." Delirium pauses, squinting. She can't remember. But she must. "Um. You're my brother, Dream. Yes, that's right. And I called you. So it must be because of dreams." She smiles, triumphant. "Yes, her dreams."
"I've already told you, sister, she has not been dreaming."
"Then what is it, all this fire and things exploding and cities getting smashed and stuff?"
"Possibly the imaginings of a diseased mind."
"Don't you talk about her that way! She's nice. She's unhappy, and she's trying to die because of all the pictures in her head."
"Then you have called the wrong sibling. You want our elder sister."
"No I don't. And she doesn't, either."
"What exactly is it that you want me to do?"
"Help me find where her pictures are coming from. She took pills and yucky things to get away from them."
"I don't know the source of her discomfort."
"Well, find it. And hurry up."
"And why can't you do it?"
"Because I have to stay here with her. That's my job. But you don't. You can go see Destiny--he likes you best, anyway--or look it up in your library or pond or mirror or lily pad or tea leaves or entrails or..."
"Enough! I'll see what I can do."
He thins upon the air. She can see the blue-rose wallpaper on the wall behind him, through him. He is gone. Poof. Dream is like that.
Delirium waves at the empty air and wonders if she should call for Death. Probably not. Her sister is always very, very busy. Sooner or later she would be here anyway. She went everywhere, sooner or later. Better to wait for Dream to come back. Yes. But in the meantime Delirium will do the best she can. She smiles. She has an idea.
"Hey," she whispers to Sarah. "Wake up. Just a little bit." She nudges the telephone with her spangled toe. "Come on. Wake up. You can do it."
The time had come. The leader gave the sign and his followers rose, shook hands, then turned to the piled objects against the wall. Each man took a soft, cloth-wrapped bundle: death swathed in flannel. To them the weight of it against their bellies was sweet, almost as sweet as the weight of a nestling fetus, awaiting birth. But this coming birth would be fiery, bringing death and deliverance. The thought, too, was sweet. The leader reminded them of their quest once more. With tears in their eyes, proud tears, they went out into the night carrying their deadly parcels, secure in their righteousness.
"Brains turned in upon themselves, beating themselves to death," the thin, high voice muttered.
Christ, Bill thought. It's the Poet. Again "Look," he said. "You know the rules. Three calls maximum. This is your fifth today."
"But really, I feel suicidal...."
"No you don't. Read a book or watch TV or something but don't call back here until tomorrow." Bill hung up, immediately regretting his rough treatment of the Poet. He was getting an edge, bad sign. Maybe it was time to take a vacation. But who would fill in here if he were gone? So much need, so few volunteers.
The phone rang.
"Hello? I just took something. At least, I think I did."
Bill sat straight up, all fatigue gone. The woman's voice quavered slightly. This was for real. He could feel it. "What did you take?"
"Little green pills." A yawn. "Some of them."
"Dark green?"
"Pale."
Shit. Probably Valium 20s. That could be bad. Especially if she mixed them. "How many?"
"The whole bottle. And rum. A bottle of that, too."
Definitely bad. He went into major crisis mode, signaling Rita that he had an emergency and to call the police and have them tie in the trace line.
She nodded, signaled back when it was engaged. Fine. Now all he had to do was keep his caller on the line for fifteen minutes.
"Hello?" he said. She sounded woozy. He had to keep her talking. Keep her awake. "Have you vomited?"
"No."
"Can you make yourself vomit?"
"I don't think so."
Don't panic, he thought. She didn't swallow Drano. It's good old Valium with booze. Takes a while to fully dissolve, get into the bloodstream, and conk her out. "Did you eat dinner?"
"I think so."
Good. Anything to slow the body's absorption of the poison. "When did you take the pills?"
"I don't know. Maybe an hour ago."
"What's your name?"
"Sarah."
"Sarah, I'm Bill. Why did you take the pills, Sarah?"
"Because the world is coming to an end."
"How do you know?"
"I saw it."
The men separated, all of them taking different cars with untraceable license plates. Some were thinking of the task ahead. Others were thinking of loved ones. A few thought of the parcels, their little clock faces shining green and red and yellow with digital readouts. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Dream, dark lord of the subconscious, has been busy, been many places in the space of time that a mortal lowers and raises an eyelid.
Blink.
His brother Destiny's garden is not a restful place. Nor is Destiny himself a pleasant companion. The visit is brief. Destiny reveals the patterns he sees in his books for Sarah.
"This is not he
r time, not yet," says Destiny.
"But see, here," Dream replies. "She is tangled here with the destiny lines of these others, these violent men."
Destiny nods. "Sometimes connections cross. At night, late. It happens."
"I see. Thank you, brother."
Blink.
Dream is in the leader's house, the man called the general, listening as the man sits alone at a table and babbles to an imaginary army.
"We will destroy them all. The evil ones must be vanquished. Only then can we make the world safe for our families. We've waited too long. You know what to do. Make them die, make them all die. We must cleanse the world so that our children will be safe."
Dream sees that the man exists in a waking dream state, constantly hallucinating.
"No," says the lord of the Dreaming. "No more. You may dream no longer."
The general's face grows pale and he begins to tremble. His eyes go wide but the light within them falters, dims, fades. His splendid cap tumbles from his head as he crumples like an abandoned puppet, falling into a long, empty sleep which medics will call persistent vegetative syndrome.
Blink.
The general's followers. There are too many to handle at once, dispersed as they are.
Dream returns to find Sarah on the telephone and his sister, Delirium, whispering in her ear.
"Sister," he says. "Why are you interfering?"
Delirium gives him an indignant look. "If I hadn't been supposed to interfere, then I couldn't have, could I? So I must have been supposed to do what I'm doing."
Dream sighs. "Never mind. Listen to me carefully. I need your help in order to prevent many foolish mortals from destroying themselves--and from further polluting the dreams of others."
"You said I was inter--inter--"
"Interfering."
Delirium pouts. "What do you call what you're doing? And you've never asked for my help before."
"It never seemed so peculiarly appropriate."
"Will this stop her bad pictures?"
"I think so."
"Then okay." Delirium takes his outstretched hand. "How was Destiny?"
"The same."
"He always is. Poor Destiny. What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to steal this mortal's pictures and give them to me."
Delirium giggles. "You really want them? But I could give you something much prettier, with hyacinth wings, maybe, or lemon tires. Or you could do it for yourself. Why do you need her pictures?"
"Never mind, Del. Just do it. Please."
"You called me Del." She dimples at him. "Okay, Dream."
She pulls all the ugliness out of Sarah's head, encapsulates it in gossamer bubbles whose curved iridescence masks the horrors within. Gently she tosses each bubble toward her brother.
He catches them in a deep basket made of wind. "Thank you, sister." Laden with nightmares, Dream bows and leaves.
In the time it takes to tell it, he is with the general's men, sitting in the car beside each true believer. In each car Dream raises up one of the shining bubbles and pricks it. Soon his basket is empty. And each one of the general's men knows that he has been betrayed. The general has promised that Armageddon and agony will fall upon the others. He has promised. And lied.
The streets dissolved into rivers of fire and blood. Terrible riders raced beside the general's men, riders in blood-caked armor and horned helmets, on hellish beasts, who pierced their mortal bodies with flaming spears. They fell, screaming, into fiery cauldrons where their skin was burned from their bodies. They writhed in torment, screamed, covered their faces. The luckiest among them died.
The police and hospitals had a busy night mopping up after a string of strange accidents. Each wreck produced a dead or dying driver and a deactivated bomb. Months later, the bombs led investigators to a silent, unresponsive man lying in a hospital bed in a county ward. Very peculiar. Definitely one for the books.
There was the shriek of brakes, the slam of car doors, and frantic knocking. Sarah raised her head but was too weak to get off the bed.
The front door burst open. Tito scrambled for the safety of the bedroom and, gratefully, Sarah fell into the arms of her rescuers.
One of the blue-coated medics picked up the phone. "Hi," he said. "It's okay. We got here in time."
On the other end, Bill said, "Thank God," and hung up the receiver. He and Rita exchanged high-five slaps of congratulations. He blinked, yawned, stretched. Rescues always made him feel light-headed and spacey. He checked the wall clock. Two hours to go until dawn, until his watch would be over. He shrugged and reached for a cookie.
Sarah sleeps upon the medics' stretcher. Delirium blows the mortal a kiss.
"Take good care of her, Dream," she says. "And come visit me and Barnabas." A kaleidoscope of rainbow colors, and she is gone.
The lord of the Dreaming peers down upon Sarah on her stretcher. "Sleep well," he whispers. "All of your dreams will be sweet." He leaves her dreaming that she is a star twinkling in a blazing, beautiful firmament. In her sleep, Sarah smiles.
Dream is there and then he is not there, and the space where he stood is filled with a strange wind from a bone dry land and a hundred emotions, but not one single regret.
THE WITCH'S HEART
Delia Sherman
Delia Sherman is a real lady. She knows more about things obscure and English than I do, and has written brilliant, stylish stories, and an amazing novel called The Porcelain Dove. Sometimes she lives in Boston and sometimes she lives in New York.
This is a beautiful tale of love and madness and heartbreak, hearts and wolves. There's blood running through it, like a strong, intoxicating wine; blood, and desire.
"I have killed."
The girl took two steps into the room and halted nervously, brushing the brindled hair from her eyes to glance at the cocoon of wolf pelts huddled by the fire and then away.
"Are you clean?" A woman's voice, resonant as an oboe, but without emotion.
The girl examined her hands back and front. "Yes," she said.
"Come, then." A long, delicate hand extended from the cocoon of furs and beckoned to the girl, who padded obediently to the woman's side and curled down at her feet.
"I left it at the kitchen door for the cook," said the girl. "It's chewed. I was hungry."
The woman laid her hand on the girl's hair. The girl leaned into the touch. "What was it, Fida? A rabbit?"
"A deer."
"Did you gut it?"
The girl Fida stilled, then shook her head vigorously. The woman's fingers tightened in her hair, gave it a small, sharp tug. "Bad cub," she said.
"Yes." Fida's mouth opened in an embarrassed grin, baring pointed teeth. She began to pant. The woman tweaked her hair again. "I'm hot," said Fida apologetically.
It was no wonder. The room was at blood heat from the fire and seemed hotter still; for it was red as the inside of a heart. Turkey carpets blanketed the floor, crimson hangings muffled walls and bed. The clock on the cherry wood mantel was made of red porphyry. Its hands stood at half past one--whether morning or afternoon was impossible to tell, the windows being both shuttered and curtained.
"I'm hot," said Fida again, and shifted, restless and uncomfortable. "I'm going out."
"You just came in."
"I'm going out again."
The woman withdrew her hand into her furs and shivered. "Of course," she said. "You must do as you please."
In one swift heave, Fida was on her feet and padding to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. "Will you watch me go?" she asked.
"The moon's full," said the woman.
"I'm going to the Mountain," said Fida.
The figure in the chair went very still. "To the Mountain," she said, laying down her words like porcelain cups. "I will watch you go."
Fida grinned, and was gone.
No need to go to the window immediately
, thought the woman. Just sit a moment longer by the fire while the girl readies herself. But even as she thought it, she was up, pulling back the curtain, unlatching the heavy wooden shutters, folding one of their panels into the thickness of the stone wall, pushing the casement window open to the night.
It had snowed, snow on deep snow. The clearing between the manor house and the forest was a silver tray polished to brilliance by a full moon riding the Mountain's shoulder. A beautiful night, all black and crystal white, and very, very cold. The chill flooded the woman's lungs, stung her cheeks and her eyes, cut through her layers of wool and fur and velvet as though they were thin silk. She clenched her chattering teeth and endured until a lean pale she-wolf trotted out around the side of the manor and toward the wood, pausing halfway across the clearing to look up at the window.
The woman raised one hand in a bloodless salute; the wolf howled.
As she watched the wolf's shadow lift its pointed chin against the snow, the woman felt time slip. The moonlight fell just as it had a year ago, the night she'd heard a noise outside her bloodred room. An owl, she'd thought at first, or a wolf howling. But when it came again, she thought it was a voice, shouting a word that might have been her name.
She was curious--no one had come near manor or Mountain for more years than she could count--so she had unshuttered the window and looked out. She saw naked trees groping at the edge of a dense wood, snowdraped Mountain brooding beyond, full moon glaring down on the courtyard, and nothing else. But as she shrank back into the room, away from the moon's cold gaze, a wolf had slid across her vision like a shadow.
Two shadows, really. The wolf's shadow was darker than the wolf itself, long and black as a shard of night fallen into the courtyard, stretching out from the wolf's forepaws, shoulders hunched, head tilted curiously, arms splayed just a little too wide for grace: the shadow of a young girl, as human as the wolf was not.
The woman had thrown wide the casement and leaned out into the frigid night.
"Come!"
Her voice rattled the air like a flight of pheasants; the wolf disappeared under the trees before the echo of it faded.
The woman closed the window with stiff, blue fingers and fumbled the shutters and the curtains shut. Then she blew up the fire and crouched beside it to thaw her hands among the darting flames. A young wolf, she thought, still a cub, to judge from the outsize paws and the lean, gangling body. A wolf with a human shadow.
A strange sight. But the woman was a witch, and she had seen strange sights before. A brown man with branching horns and dainty, cloven feet bending gravely above her to offer soup in a silver tureen. A small, sleek woman with apple-seed eyes, who swayed like grass in the wind when she walked. A Lady whose face shone coldly among her dark hair like the moon among clouds, and the Witch's father weeping at her feet. This wolf with a human shadow was not the strangest of them, nor the most unexpected. Once her father's Lady had shown it to her, trotting unsubstantially over the face of the moon. "Tinder," she'd said, and, "A two-edged blade." Then she'd smiled and gone away.
The Witch had not understood the Lady's words at the time, being young and passionate and unacquainted with blades and their uses. But she'd had time to consider them over the long, cold years, and she'd decided they meant that such a wolf was a promise of heat, like tinder, and that fire could burn as well as comfort. Now it was come, she was forewarned. All she need do was bring herself to step out under the moonlight, the starlight, the shadow of the Mountain, and she would be warm.
