by Marc Secchia
“That is Mylliandawn, leader of the Unicorns,” Zephyr whispered, following Kevin’s awed gaze around the chamber. “This place is the Ardüinthäl, the Hall of Meeting of the Council of Seven. The Council has convened to discuss your arrival.”
Despite its magnificence, some quality of the hall suggested a museum or mausoleum. It made him shiver.
Kevin’s brain had by now clicked into gear, perhaps aided by the Aïssändraught. He felt preternaturally composed and clear-headed. His mind was awash with ideas, impressions and reactions. These creatures believed they had summoned him from Pitterdown Manor to some other place, to aid somehow with this problem of the Blight–the diseased forest! A fantastic, ridiculous idea. Just wait until he proved them wrong.
Where was the weepy little girl?
Might there be a chance, just the teeniest possibility–oh, Kevin! For goodness’ sake, he would soon waken in his bed, with its familiar mound of soft, plump pillows, and nothing would have changed–Father, Brian, the room, his blasted, traitorous body with its pains and flaws and dependence on medication. No chance. No change was possible; there was no hope of reprieve. It was genetic. Feeling absurdly better as he convinced himself of his dreaming, Kevin actually began to look forward to what this dream might bring him.
Zephyr’s swift aside was all he had time for, before the drifting journey came to a noiseless and motionless end. A hush fell over the great hall.
“Welcome to Thaharria-brin-Tomal, good outlander,” said Mylliandawn, in regal tones, “since olden times hearth and home to the Unicorns and their vassal creatures. I am Mylliandawn, Great Mare of the Unicorns, and these are my trusted Councillors–Daryanfell of Conmarin, Orsiana the Wizard, Arriansone of the lands beyond the Barlindran River, Zenbrooke who is Captain of the Guard, Liarill the Songstress, mate of Zinfandir the Healer, and Serendarill of the Eastern Marches.” Each inclined her head in turn, giving Kevin the impression of a bobbing parade. He would have been hard pressed to tell them apart, save for their flamboyant costumes.
“The Peace of the Mothering Forest to you, good outlander,” they chorused.
Kevin cleared his throat. “And–uh, also to you all, nice Unicorns. I mean, noble Unicorns.”
In the periphery of his vision, Zephyr gave him a slight, approving nod.
“Councillors, before us lies the outlander envisioned and spoken of by Alliathiune the Dryad. Zephyr, you have done excellent work both in summoning the stranger and in recovering him from the hands of the Lurks. We are grateful.”
Zephyr began, “At your service, noble–”
“From the Lurks, great Mylliandawn?” interrupted the one introduced as Serendarill, as if he had not spoken. “Why have those äithäla interfered in this matter?”
The Great Mare gave a dismissive, impatient toss of her mane. “Such a summoning is never a precise matter, as Orsiana will concede–but in this case, an outside agency appears to have interfered. The Human warrior is gravely injured.”
“By all appearances, he was swept over a waterfall and crushed on the rocks below.”
Kevin glanced down at the sheets, resisting an impulse to peek beneath and see what this comment meant. Dreams sprang from the subconscious; his imagination alone served up this stream of thoughts and images. What real hurt could he suffer? What threat could be made against his absent person? Again, his fears were dispelled.
“Good Zephyr, what make you of this?”
“Noble Zinfandir expressed his concern and displeasure at the nature and extent of the outlander’s injuries, Councillor Daryanfell. But his healing skills are peerless.”
Liarill preened herself like a courting peacock. “Indeed, my mate is–”
Daryanfell cut her off with, “And what knows he of the Blight?”
“Tell us first of the Lurks!” Serendarill insisted, flashing her teeth at Daryanfell, who looked ready to tear strips off her fellow-Councillor’s hide for this interruption.
“How dare you–”
“You mangy, malnourished–”
“Silence!” Mylliandawn thundered. “I will ask the questions! I am satisfied that the Lurks have given the outlander up to us without vacillation, or condition, Serendarill. What boon they hope to gain from it, is a matter for further consideration. What we should determine now, is what aid the outlander may offer us against the Blight. What knows he of the Blight, young Zephyr?”
“I defer to the outlander.”
“Ah–very little,” said Kevin.
Mylliandawn prodded him with, “Are you a warrior, then?”
“No, I am no warrior.”
“A healer?”
“No.”
“A sage?”
“Rather unlikely.”
“A wizard?”
“Definitely not,” said Kevin, growing sulky and irritated at this fruitless line of questioning–and emboldened by his conviction that he was yet dreaming, he spoke frankly. “Look, I dreamed about a forest. I was standing between some old trees, where I saw some little girl with patterned arms. She was crying. Then the Unicorn–Zephyr–appeared and tried to communicate with me. That is all I know. Oh, and another time I dreamed that I was walking in this same forest, and the leaves were spotted and sickly, weeping a putrid secretion from the darkest of the spots as if its lifeblood were spilling upon the leafy sod, and I realised that the forest was dying. Then I woke up.”
His head slumped back against the pillow. There was a stunned silence in the chamber. Then Liarill voiced a soft cry and collapsed upon her dais, as if her legs had been cut from beneath her by some monstrous stroke. Her sides heaved with uncontrolled weeping.
Mylliandawn ground out, “How dare you enter the Ardüinthäl and utter such blasphemies, wicked outlander? Are you a sending from the Dark Wizard? I charge you to answer in the name of Elliadora, Firstborn of the Magi!”
And her horn flashed, sending a bolt of sapphire lightning straight at Kevin, who had neither time to duck nor to flinch. A dozen hooks seemed to snag in the flesh of his face and upper torso, yanking him upright. What happened next was almost too quick for him to follow. A foreign presence suddenly invaded his mind, exploring the chords of thought and memory with callous and perverse disregard for his privacy, touching him in ways and places that throughout the years of abuse at the hands of Father and Brian had remained inviolable. With them he could shut down, deaden his senses, and barricade himself within a mental fortress where some iota of Kevin-ness remained clean and unsullied. That inner sanctuary had always been his salvation–and now its purity was ruined. But before these thoughts had reached their completion, the steely bulkheads of self-preservation slammed up in his mind, cutting off and ejecting the trespasser so utterly that the mental silence echoed like a gunshot. He slumped back onto the bed, drained, his face a ghastly grey hue. Mylliandawn recoiled as though cuffed by an invisible fist.
“Wizard!” she hissed. In her mouth the word was equal parts indictment, revulsion, and fear. “He’s a wizard!”
Orsiana shrilled, “The outlander lied. Only a master of the dark arts could shield like that against Unicorn magic! Such power is unprecedented. We must confine him! Study him! We cannot waste such an opportunity–”
“Oh, what foulness stalks our precious Forest!” wailed Liarill, who was evidently not as comatose as her position suggested. “This is an evil omen, mark my words! This manikin with his eerie red hair–see, his cheeks show the pallor of a creature not accustomed to Light! Is he a sending of the Lurks? Do they plot once more against Thaharria-brin-Tomal?”
“Peace, Councillor Liarill,” said Mylliandawn. Rest assured, we will plumb the depths of this matter.” As she turned upon Kevin, her expression was nothing short of murderous. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Human wizard, but you will rue the lighttime you crossed the Unicorns. You cannot shield your true nature from us. Now I ask you once more, outlander, what know you of the Blight?”
In all his life, Kevin had never hated anyone so cle
arly and completely. She had violated his thoughts and memories: a type of abuse he had never imagined. Were it not for the Aïssändraught stirring within him, he would have crumbled like so much fine dust in the face of her wrath. Instead, he was able to whisper, “You cannot make me.”
“Cannot make you?” Mylliandawn mocked. “Do you believe even now that you dream, you ignorant fool? He believes, noble Councillors, that we are a figment of his fevered imagination! He believes this is all a dream!” Her chuckle was as cold and malicious as a wintry blizzard. “Tell me, good Kevin–have you ever been trapped in a dream? Trapped in a dream and unable to escape?”
There was a sudden tightness in his chest, a clawing panic that made each breath burn as fire in his lungs. Kevin’s mouth opened and shut as though contemplating speech, but the only sound that issued was a tiny whimper of dismay. His eyes registered bewilderment and deep shock as the import of her words began to penetrate.
“Yes, outlander–fool that you are!” crowed the Unicorn, looming over him like a deathly shade slavering over its intended victim. “What if you sleep this darktime, only to waken once again within the realms of Driadorn? Can you slumber and wake within a dream? Can you hear the terrified pounding of your own lifeblood as it flows out of your veins? Because if you do not choose to aid us, I will cause you such hideous suffering and indescribable torment that you will wish you were only dreaming! You will beg us to terminate your miserable, misbegotten existence, but Death’s release will be denied for all time and eternity! I will pluck out your organs and have them roasted before your yet-living eyes. You will grovel and whimper like a disembowelled animal. And then you will beg to aid us with every power at your command. You will beg for your very life!”
Her closing shriek echoed around the Ardüinthäl like a knell of doom, assaulting Kevin’s ears from every direction at once. His eyes bulged; he clawed at his throat.
After a long pause to appreciate the outlander’s suffering, Mylliandawn whirled to glower at Zephyr. “And I will hold you personally responsible, noble Zephyr, for the outlander’s willingness to offer us his services against the Blight. You alone–personally. Convince him.”
Kevin was too busy fighting for oxygen to hear the Unicorn’s reply. Black spots danced across his vision and his lungs laboured for each breath, but the relentless squeezing in his chest would not abate. He needed his pump! He needed those steroids to open the bronchioles and capillaries of his lungs. But–so what if he fainted? What could they do to his unconscious body? Would it not bring him instant release?
He relaxed suddenly, giving up the struggle against the gathering darkness. The sooner he returned to real life, the better. Then this nightmare would be over.
* * * *
Kevin did not so much awake as surface from a profound and dreamless void, a timeless surcease of consciousness, a remote cradle of comforts defined more by the lack of knowing than by any perception of reality, and distinguished more in the absence of self than in self-awareness. Prolonged lingering in that sea of blindness gradually gave way to a sense of hunger and thirst. Presently he became aware of a pulsing heartbeat–his own. Faint sounds impinged on his hearing, such as the hissing and sucking of breath through his windpipe, and the minute rasping of the sheets against his skin with each inhalation and exhalation. Light prickled against his eyelids. And he remembered.
The mere act of thinking about his audience in the Ardüinthäl made his intestines squirm and clench, but Kevin stilled his body by an act of will and prayed that he would not soil his bed. Silently, he gathered his strength. Please may this be his room in Pitterdown Manor. Please let Mylliandawn’s warnings be mere fantasy. He could still hear the precise inflection of every graphic threat issued from her mouth, the passion and anger and disgust in her eyes as she vented her spleen upon him. Please let Zephyr be an imaginary friend or an alter ego; anything but a living creature whose fate now depended on the abilities–or disabilities–of one Kevin Albert Jenkins! The sounds reaching his ears were not right, but he hoped against hope regardless.
He heard, straining his ears, voices coming toward him:
“–unfair, treating you like that!”
“The Great Mare acts as she sees fit, to achieve the results she desires.”
“She has no right–and I’ll tell her that myself if no one else will!”
“Ever the firebrand, noble Alliathiune!”
There came a low chuckle, throaty and feminine. The woman’s accent was pleasant on the ear, all mellifluous long vowels and soft consonants. “Zephyr, you are an inveterate charmer. You know I would never dare. The Dryad Queen herself would not provoke Mylliandawn.”
“I wish someone would!”
“Peace, good Unicorn, for these walls have ears.”
“Indeed.”
“So we captured ourselves a wizard?”
“By the Hills, you should have seen their surprise! No creature in living memory has resisted a Probe like that–”
“Bar Ozark the–”
“Speak not his name!”
“You are exceedingly melodramatic, good Unicorn. The Dark Wizard will never return. Now, you say he believes us not?”
They must be right outside the door now; Kevin lay motionless, but his hopes lay strewn in tatters around him. An unbidden tear trickled down his cheek.
The Unicorn’s voice became faint and troubled as he said, “The outlander believes that he’s dreaming–that Feynard, the Seventy-Seven Hills, and all Driadorn, is but a delusion. He believes he hails from another world.”
“Not beyond the realms of possibility, given what we saw.”
“But highly unlikely.”
“Granted, noble Unicorn. Does he yet sleep? He’s disappointingly small for the great warrior we summoned, not so? And look at his hair–is it truly red, the colour of maylin blossoms in the Budding season? How queer and outlandish.”
“Snatcher suggested he might be a wizard, not a warrior–though a warrior is clearly what we expected from the visions. The Lurk’s insight served him well.”
“By the Well,” she sounded vexed. “Why does he refuse to serve the Forest?”
“Not all creatures, good Dryad–” Kevin thought he must have misheard at this point, but Zephyr’s next words dispelled that notion “–are integral to the Forest as you are. Some feel not the seasons so keenly, nor can they speak to the trees and understand their concerns.”
“Still,” the Dryad said, “his help must be obtained–not only for your sake, gallant Zephyr–but for the sake of our homeland.”
He said stiffly, “What care the Dryads for the fate of an ill-reputed Unicorn such as I?”
“Good Zephyr, how can you give voice to such a pile of goblin intestines? Who else is able to enter into a dream with the dreamer, and yet live?”
“It is nought but child’s play and cheap trickery.”
Besides being alien, their conversation was also giving Kevin an existential headache. Talking creatures being integral with trees? Communal dreams? A land called ‘Driadorn’? This was beyond cheap trickery, to borrow the Unicorn’s phrase. It was bizarre, and he had no idea how to escape the dream and return to what was familiar. For that was his overriding concern–to return to a place where he could once more be the victim. He was too cowardly to explore this situation, Kevin thought in a welter of stinking self-disgust, and incapable too of returning home! What a wretched little coward he was.
“Why, think you, did Mylliandawn question the outlander before my arrival?”
“That is plain as lighttime,” replied the Unicorn, soothingly. “Mylliandawn seeks always after power and status in the Council. How better than to wrest the truth from the outlander? And gain advantage over our allies, the Dryads?”
“A pox on all such politics!”
“I fear this is ever Mylliandawn’s way, this seeking of mastery both within Thaharria-brin-Tomal and in the realms beyond.” Zephyr’s sigh was eloquently gloomy. “She has few morals. I
fear for our future under the auspices of such a leader.”
During this conversation, Kevin had become aware of an itch crawling down his left leg. It felt like an insect, much to his disgust, but he had lain still in an attempt to overhear their conversation as long as possible. The itch had now reached his toes, though, and here it became unbearable. His foot twitched.
“Hush, he wakes.”
Enough pretence, he thought. “I’m awake,” he mumbled, opening one eye and pretending doziness and confusion.
Zephyr stepped towards the bed and inclined his head in uncomfortably deep scrutiny of his patient. “How are you feeling this lighttime, good outlander?”
“Like I’m in the wrong bed,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry about yester–”
Zephyr broke off as he realised that Kevin’s whole attention was fixed elsewhere. There, framed in the doorway, was the little girl from his dream! He gaped at her in astonishment, aware that he was staring but unable not to, for she had long, tangled green hair–hair the colour of oak leaves in the springtime–and velvety skin with a greenish cast, which on her hands, forearms, feet and calves, fading into her torso, was decorated with a distinctly leafy pattern! Long eyelashes framed bright hazel eyes, too large in a face, he adjudged, of flawless and otherworldly beauty. She was precisely as he remembered, yet as far beyond his expectations as pictures in a book compare to seeing and feeling the reality–diminutive in stature, barefoot, and garbed in a short dress that could only be described as organic both in design and texture. With his experience of the opposite sex being limited to early memories of his mother and a parade of sixty-something nurses who had all attended the schools of ‘no-nonsense’ and ‘buck-up-there-me-laddie’, Kevin found himself acutely mindful of her shapely figure and bare limbs, and dropped his gaze in embarrassment.
