The Sandman: Book of Dreams

by Neil Gaiman

I am surprised when the lights go off, blinking like an owl in the face of strong daylight. Kroll is standing there, his little green felt coat draped over one arm, regarding me oddly.

  "Quitting time, boss."

  "Oh. Yes. Of course." I get to my feet slowly, moving like an old man with winter in his bones.

  Kroll is still watching me, frowning. "Boss--you okay? You seemed, I dunno, a little preoccupied today. You comin' down sick or something?"

  "No. I'm fine, Kroll. I was just--thinking."

  Kroll shoves his tiny, muscular arms into the sleeves of his coat, pulling peaked cap from his pocket and onto his head. "All that does is lead to trouble, if you ask me."

  "Kroll--? May I ask you a question?"

  "Go ahead. Shoot."

  "Where do you go?"

  "Go?"

  "You know. After work."

  "I go to my quarters in the east wing. That's where most of us who aren't native to the Dreaming end up. I share my space with this pixie gal named Shian. She ain't stuck-up about my kind like those damn faerie-folk Lord Morpheus is so bleedin' fond of."

  "She sounds--nice. I'm happy for you, Kroll."

  " 'S funny, you askin' me that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The old Mender, the one before you--used to ask me things like that."

  "He did?"

  "She. The Mender before you was a woman."

  "Oh."

  "See you tomorrow, boss." With that, Kroll opens the door and disappears into the corridor.

  I stare at the door for a long time. It is time to leave. The windows are darkened, the lights are off, the vast cavern of the Restoration Department empty. It is time for me to go home. But to what?

  Taking a deep breath, I open the door and prepare to step into the gray nothing that has claimed me every day for as long as I can remember. But, as my foot crosses the threshold, I find myself not in limbo but still in the halls of the palace.

  The corridors look different after dark--more sinister and treacherous than during the workday. It's as if the palace can tell that I am not supposed to be here and has altered itself to reflect this. Although I have worked in this place for as long as I can remember, I have rarely strayed beyond the Restoration Department. I know there are countless others in service to the King of Dreams because Kroll is fond of relating palace gossip, and I occasionally catch glimpses of the various courtiers, courtesans, and servants from the windows overlooking the garden. But, during all this time, I have never dealt with anyone but my trollish assistant.

  As I round a corner I collide with a tall, gangly figure, knocking him to the ground. To my amazement, it is not a man but an animated scarecrow, its limbs made of wood and draped in a baggy pair of overalls. In place of a head is a pumpkin carved to resemble a jack-o'-lantern, a lit cigarette held between its jagged lips. Next to where it's sprawled is a bucket of soapy water with an industrial string mop stuck in it.

  "Hey, buster! Wanna watch were yer goin'?" the scarecrow snaps. "Y'coulda smashed m' noggin', and I just carved it two days ago!"

  I help the scarecrow back to its feet. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Mister, uh--?"

  "Mervyn. Just Mervyn," says the pumpkinhead, taking a drag on its cigarette. The smoke fills its hollow skull and seeps out through the eyeholes. "I'm the janitor around here. And who might you be? I don't recollect seein' you before...."

  "I am the Mender of Broken Dreams."

  Mervyn's carved features somehow take on the approximation of surprise. "So you 're the Mender, eh? I've heard Kroll go on about you! What are you doin' out and about at this hour?"

  The words come out before I realize what I'm saying. "I'm looking for Lord Morpheus."

  Mervyn's jack-o'-lantern countenance grimaces even more than I thought possible. "Are y'sure y'wanna do that, pal? I mean, the boss is an okay guy, as immortal manifestations of power go, but he's a little, uh, standoffish. Y'just don't go lookin' for him, if y'get m'drift."

  "It's very important that I talk to him."

  Mervyn shrugs and points down the hallway. "You'll find the throne room down this hall and to the right. At least that's where it was a half hour ago. Nothing's in the same place from day t'day around here anyways, but he's especially fond of movin' the damn throne room every time the mood hits him."

  "Thank you, Mervyn! Thank you very much!"

  The scarecrow simply shrugs and returns to mopping the polished onyx floor. With every swipe of the mop the floor turns from onyx to sparkling sapphire. " 'S'yer funeral, Mac."

  The throne room is still where Mervyn said it was. The great doors fashioned of horn, five times the height of a man, carved with the symbols of dreams, are shut. No palace guards stand ready, nor is there any sign of a majordomo or page who could announce me. Timidly, I move to rap on the door, only to have it open before me. From the darkness beyond the threshold there comes a voice, both frightening and familiar. It is a voice from my dreams.

  "Enter, Mender. You are very much welcome here."

  The doors swing inward, and I step inside the throne room, feeling very small and naked and vulnerable. "L-lord Morpheus?"

  The Shaper of Dreams lolls on his throne of horn, watching me with the casual interest a child gives to a shiny-backed beetle. He is still dressed in black, although his clothing is casual to the brink of insult: threadbare jeans, a French-cut T-shirt, and square-toed motorcycle boots.

  "You would speak with me, Mender?"

  "Y-yes, milord." As I approach the throne I'm astounded at how young he is. Until I look into his eyes. Only there is one reminded that this is the Third Born of the Endless, younger brother to Destiny and Death, a being old beyond human measure. "There is something I must know--something I believe only you can explain."

  "And what is your question?"

  "What am I?"

  The slightest of smiles touches the lips of the Shaper of Dreams. "You have served me well, Mender. Your skill at repairing even the most abused and sullied of dreamstuff is a marvel, even to me. Your work pleases me, Mender. And for that, I shall grant you a boon and answer your question."

  "Thank you, milord!"

  Morpheus rises from his throne, the shadows pooling about his shoulders to form a cape. "Do not be so quick with your thanks, Mender," he sighs. "Come. Follow me."

  Together we walk down a long, dark hallway, toward a distant light. Although Morpheus is slight in build, he radiates the presence of a monarch secure in his power. He glances down at me, his deep-set eyes unreadable.

  "Before I answer your question, there is one I would pose; what do you think you are, Mender?"

  "Since I can never remember where I come from and where I go at the end of my work, I think I must be a dream of some kind. Am I right?"

  "Most astute, Mender. You are correct. Does that bother you?"

  "What?"

  "Being a dream. Does it bother you?"

  I frown, rubbing my chin. "I don't know. I guess I should be--I mean, if I'm a dream, that means I'm not real, right?"

  Morpheus laughs then, startling me. When he laughs his eyes almost belie their age. "My dear Mender! Surely you, most of all, know that dreams possess a reality all their own! In many cases, they are far more substantial than the dreamers themselves!"

  He points a chalk-white finger at a wall, which ripples like water. "Every human born has the keys to my kingdom within them. For many the Dreaming is simply a place to escape the pressures of being mortal. For a handful of poets and madmen it is the land of portents, signs, and inspiration. But for others, it is the one place where true happiness can be found; where beggars ride as kings, the spurned find love, the hungry feast."

  The rippling wall steadies, becomes a looking glass. In it a heroically muscled man dressed in a loincloth hacks away at a three-headed dragon.

  "The brave warrior you're watching is a computer systems analyst from Passaic, New Jersey," Morpheus informs me. He snaps his fingers a
nd the sword-wielding computer nerd is replaced by a vision of Marilyn Monroe, circa "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend." She is surrounded by a squadron of horny young men clad only in white gloves and formal bow ties, each burdened with bouquets, jewelry cases, heart-shaped chocolate boxes, and rock-hard erections. Marilyn coos and bats her eyes appreciatively at such evidence of lust and adoration. "This dreamer is a preoperative transsexual in Dallas, Texas. There are millions upon millions of other such dream sequences I could show you--all the same, all different. But of all these billions of dreamers, few have spawned dreams substantial enough to become a member of my palace staff. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Mender?'

  I feel twin surges of pride and anxiety swell within me. "I-I think so, milord."

  Morpheus points to the light at the end of the hallway, now uncomfortably close. "Would the dream like to see the dreamer? I have the power to enter the Waking World when and where I so choose."

  We step from the Dreaming into the Waking World side by side, as if traversing dimensional barriers is of no more import than walking into the backyard. And, I guess, for him that might very well be the case.

  Whiteness.

  My vision from earlier comes rushing back to haunt me, filling my eyes with white glare, clogging my nose with the smell of urine and feces. Instinctively, I shield my face. Gently, Lord Morpheus takes my hands and pulls them away from my face.

  The blinding whiteness strobes then fades. I find myself staring at the white walls of what is obviously an institution of some sort, lit by a bare bulb held in a wire cage. The smell of piss and shit comes from the narrow bed against the wall. On the bed, curled in on itself like a giant fetus, is a human.

  Morpheus says nothing as I draw closer to the bed, inspecting the creature lying on the mattress. It looks to be a man. No. A boy. Naked except for an adult diaper, the dirty blond hair cropped painfully short. I notice that the sleeper's wrists and ankles are bound to the bed by restraints made from torn sheets. I also notice the bruises along his rib cage and the scars, scabs, and lumps on the back of his head.

  "Why is he tied up?"

  "He is indifferent to those around him and does not react to pain or recognize true danger. When he is conscious he has a tendency to repetitive physical motion--such as butting his head against the wall. The restraints are for his protection--and the convenience of the nursing staff.

  "The boy is autistic." Morpheus's voice is soft and sad. "Something happened to him as he was forming within his mother's womb that affected his cerebellum and limbic system, effectively sealing him away from the reality of the world he was born into. He has lived in a world of his own making since the moment of his birth."

  "You mean he's never been awake?"

  "I mean that the Dreaming and the Waking World are one and the same for him. He was born into dreams and shall die in them. But the spawn of such a dreamer are not those of the average mortal. Their dreams are far more potent. Far more ... real.

  "All the Menders who have ever served me were born of similar dreamers. The Mender before you was an elderly woman who suffered from Alzheimer's disease. I do not know why it is, but the dreams of damaged minds all possess a genius for repairing that which is broken."

  I shake my head in confusion. I cannot take it in. Part of me simply does not want to. "Is this what I really am? An incontinent idiot locked inside his own mind?"

  "My dear Mender--you may very well ask if you are what he really is."

  "Is there no cure for him, then?" I move to touch the slumbering boy's head, but Morpheus stays my hand. His touch is cold, but not unpleasantly so.

  "No. Not in this lifetime. Unless a scientist somewhere in the world outside this horrid room has the strength and inspiration to make a dream come true. Come, let us go. You have seen enough."

  As we return to the darkly glowing portal in the middle of the wall, I notice my dreamer's eyes tracking us behind closed lids.

  I am the Mender of Broken Dreams.

  I take dreams that have been shattered, abused, twisted, and bent by the ravages of harsh reality and repair them as best I can, so they may return to their rightful owners. Restoration work is my calling. My genius, if you will.

  I start each day by walking the long halls of the castle of my prince, whom the mortals call Dream. I still have no memories of what I do or where I go before and after work, but it no longer bothers me. I know that I am a dream, and that is enough self-knowledge.

  At first Lord Morpheus feared that by revealing the circumstances of my creation, I would go mad--as the Mender before me did, or so I'm told--and try to uncreate myself. But that has not been the case.

  I realize that I, unlike the more powerful dreams--the one Lord Morpheus refers to as tropes and archetypes-- am finite. But I do not allow my mortality to worry me. I am determined to make the best use of the time I have allotted to me, whatever that span may be. If I am to find immortality, it will have to be in the souls of those whose dreams I have rescued and returned to them. And perhaps, when the time comes, and a beautiful, pale woman dressed in black comes to embrace a skinny boy with a shaven skull tied to a bed, and escorts him to the place that waits beyond the white walls, perhaps then I will discover if the dream can outlive the dreamer.

  AIN'T YOU 'MOST DONE?

  Gene Wolfe

  Gene Wolfe is one of our finest living authors. He wrote my favorite modern novel (it's called Peace), one of my favorite science fiction novels (it's called The Book of the New Sun), and he is two books into one of my favorite historical novels (the books are Soldier of the Mist and Soldier of Arete).

  The critic and encyclopedist John Clute described Gene Wolfe as "Sergeant Bilko as Aslan" (by which he meant Phil Silvers and not, of course, Steve Martin).

  Here he tells a story of dreams: the ones we have when we sleep, and the ones that power us during the day. Of dreams, and of redemption.

  The hot pink dragster had not moved in a minute and a half. It seemed like five; but Benson was careful and accurate in all matters involving time, and it had been one minute and a half. He shifted the transmission into PARK and took his foot off the brake. One and a half minutes-- ninety seconds--was a long time. In ninety seconds flat, no more, a skilled man in one of the company's seventeen hundred Magus Muffler and Brake Shops could prep a car for the installation of a new tailpipe, a new exhaust pipe, and a brand-new Magus Muffler--copper, nickel, and chrome plated in successive layers and guaranteed for as long as the customer retained title to the car on which it was installed.

  In seven more seconds, the time would be two minutes.

  A small carrying case on the rear seat held sixty-four of his favorite compact discs. Benson reached in back for it, got it, and opened it, removing a collection of nineteenth century sea songs.

  The dragster's brake lights faded, and he shifted his car into DRIVE. He had counted on an hour, possibly an hour and a half, at his office before the helicopter that would fly him to the airport arrived. Now he would be lucky to get ten minutes. The dragster crawled forward, and his car with it; when both stopped again, they had traversed perhaps fifty feet.

  He returned the transmission to PARK and put the CD into the dashboard player. His back and neck hurt, presumably from the tension induced by this endless delay, and the pain was creeping down both arms. He would have to learn to relax.

 

  Oh, the smartest clipper that you can find,

  A-hee, a-ho, ain't you 'most done?

  Is the Marg'ret Evans of the Blue Cross Line,

  So clear the deck and let the bulgine run!

  To me hey rig-a-jig in a low-back car,

  A-hee, a-ho, ain't you 'most done?

  Benson could play that himself, and sing it, too. Play and sing it pretty well, not that anybody cared. He pictured himself seated on the tarred hatch-cover of a transatlantic packet with his guitar on his lap and a villainous black stogie smoldering between thumb and fo
refinger, ringed by delighted sailors and passengers.

  The brake lights of the dragster glowed as obstinately red as ever. Wouldn't that fool kid ever make it easy on himself? Benson let his head loll to one side, then the other, rolling it upon his shoulders.

 

  Oh the Marg'ret Evans of the Blue Cross Line,

  A-hee, a-ho, ain't you 'most done?

  She's never a day behind the times ...

  If things had gone differently, perhaps he, too, would be making CDs and giving concerts, appearing occasionally on TV, consulted by authorities on folk music who would want to know where he had learned this song or that and from whom he had learned it: seamen's songs and rivermen's songs, songs sung by lumberjacks and Civil War soldiers.

  With Liza Lee upon my knee, oh!

  So clear the track and let the bulgine run!

  He was making ten times more than he could possibly have made like that, but money wasn't everything; in fact, once you had food and clothes, a warm place to sleep and a few hundred pocket money, more money meant very little.

  One of the dragster's brake lights had gone out, or perhaps the two had flowed together, condensing into a single cyclops light belonging to a newer car. Sweat trickled down Benson's forehead into his eyes. The air-conditioning was already set on MAX, but he moved the fan control up to HIGH, conscious of increased pain under his breastbone where his stomach joined the esophagus. Acid indigestion. He tried to recall what he had eaten for breakfast. Ham? No, the ham had been on Sunday.

 

  When I come home across the sea,

  A-hee, a-ho, ain't you 'most done?

  It's Liza, will you marry me?

  So clear the track and let the bulgine run!

  To me hey rig-a-jig in a low-back car,

  A-hee, a-ho, ain't you 'most done?

  Benson blinked and closed his eyes, after one hundred and twenty-three seconds blinked a second time, aware of weakness and pain. He lay on his back; something had been thrust into both nostrils; the ceiling was off-white and very remote.

  Wires clung to him like leeches.

 

  After a time that was neither long nor short so far as he was concerned, a nurse appeared at his side. "You had a close call," she said.

  He was not sure what she meant. It seemed best to keep quiet.

  "You're awake, aren't you, Mister Benson?" She looked at him more closely. "This is real. You're not dreaming."

  He managed to say, "I never dream."

  "Really?" She turned to scrutinize what appeared to be an oscilloscope.

  "I daydream. Of course." He tried to smile, although he was aware that she was not looking at him. "Much too much, I'm afraid..." Talking was no longer worth the effort.

  Still not looking at him, but not looking now (he thought) so that she would not have to see his expression, the nurse said, "You've had a heart attack, a bad one. Probably you've already figured that out for yourself."