by Dennis Foon
THE HYDRA LOWERS HER HEADS TO NUZZLE THE BELEAGUERED CHILDREN, BUT THEN STOPS, AS IF FEARING THAT ANY TOUCH MIGHT BREAK THEIR TENUOUS HOLD. SHE ROARS ANGRILY TO THE SKIES, SPITTING OUT FIRE. AS THE FLAMES CONDENSE INTO AN OILY SUBSTANCE, THE HYDRA EXTENDS HER MANY TONGUES TO LAP IT OUT OF THE SKY. CRANING THE GREAT NECKS FORWARD, SHE LOVINGLY SPREADS THE GREASE OVER THE CHILDREN’S STRAINING LIMBS.
THE RABBIT SHUDDERS BUT THE CHILDREN MOAN, CONTENTED: “THANK YOU, ALANDRA!” “MY TURN.” “ME TOO!”
THE HEADS GYRATE IN EVERY DIRECTION, SPREADING THE BALM GENEROUSLY ONTO EVERY CHILD. THEIR SIGHS OF RELIEF ARE MATCHED BY A RUMBLING SOUND THAT VIBRATES DEEP IN THE BELLY OF THE HYDRA, A PURRING THAT SEEMS ALSO TO SOOTHE THE AILING NOVAKIN. THEN, REACHING ACROSS THE RAVINE, ALANDRA DIGS HER TALONS INTO EITHER SIDE, HER MUSCLES STRAINING FROM THE EFFORT.
“ALANDRA,” MABATAN CALLS OUT SOFTLY. “I MUST GO.”
ONE OF THE HEADS TURNS TO MABATAN AND NODS WITH CALM GRACE. THE CURATRIX OF THE NOVAKIN. THEIR HEALER. MABATAN ALMOST ENVIES HER. ALANDRA AT LEAST IS WHERE SHE WILL BE REQUIRED UNTIL ALL IS RESOLVED OR LOST. MABATAN, ON THE OTHER HAND, MUST MOVE ON TO THE NEXT TASK WITHOUT REALLY KNOWING WHAT WILL BE ASKED OF HER—OR EVEN WHY. STILL, ANY SACRIFICE THAT MIGHT RETURN THIS PLACE TO WHAT IT ONCE WAS IS WORTH MAKING.
AND SO, AFTER ONE LAST LOOK AT THE CHILDREN, MABATAN LEAPS AWAY, SKIRTING THE WIDENING CHASM, AND THE WHISTLE OF THE WIND DRAWS HER INEXORABLY BACK INTO THE WORLD.
ROAN OF THE PARTING’S JOURNAL
MORE NIGHTMARE THAN VISION BUT VALERIA AND KRISPIN SAW IT TOO: EYES SWIRLING IN OPPOSITE DIRECTIONS AND WHEN ONE FIXED ON YOU, YOU WERE HELD SCREAMING WHILE YOUR LIFE WAS SLOWLY TORN FROM YOU AND DRAWN INTO AN EXCRUCIATING VACUUM BEYOND THE RELIEF OF DEATH.
—BARTHOLD,
VISION #782, YEAR 38 A.C.
DREAMFIELD JOURNALS OF THE
FIRST INNER CIRCLE
“I am cursed for eternity,” the old man reads.
“I have unleashed a great affliction upon the world. A scourge so malevolent that every action I have taken in this life to contain it has only led to more destruction. I have come to know that I alone cannot stand against it. It will take the combined efforts of three generations to undo what I have done.
“You, Roan of Longlight, along with your sister, are the vanguard because the sin is mine and you not only share my blood but bear the legacy of Longlight. So that you will not be alone to fight this cause, another has joined with me and has promised her descendants to it as well. The Shunned will also stand with you. They, more than anyone, will recognize you for who you truly are. One, the closest to you, will give you faith when you least expect and need it most.
“Great sacrifices have already been made; greater sacrifices are to come. And though the chances for success are small, we have done everything in our power to ensure you will succeed where we have failed. This book is only one of our many efforts.
“Feel free to judge me as harshly as you wish; there is no forgiveness for my sins. But please trust that my mistakes were not intentionally evil. I believed I had discovered a miracle, an impossibly easy access into the Divine that anyone could obtain. I was wrong. I learned too late that my intentions were nothing before the desire for power. What I saw as gift, one I had called friend saw as weapon…and in the gap between us a shadow was born. Since that moment, I have striven to understand my enemy and have gathered all my knowledge here. For you. Use it well.”
When the old man stops reading, Roan shudders. His feelings and thoughts are so confused he has to close his eyes to sort through them. Anger. Yes. He feels as angry at Roan of the Parting as he did at Saint and the Dirt Eaters. All of them defining him as if he were not a separate being, not himself, as if he did not have a choice. But there is hope too. “Not alone.”
Rat has been there, ever since he first began to see into the Dreamfield. Wazya. The one of his generation to keep their history, their stories. He must be the descendant of Aithuna, the one who joined Roan of the Parting in his cause. That means Mabatan is like Roan—she too must have been asked to shoulder this same burden. Who else? Willum, Ende, Kira? He’ll have to ask when he sees them. But Roan does not want to accept that Stowe will be “the vanguard.” That would mean her going back to the City and he can’t let that happen. Not again.
Roan opens his eyes and sees Lumpy’s smiling face, radiating a fierce pride. “One, the closest to you, will give you faith when you least expect and need it most.” Lumpy was plucked out of time too. Chosen…by the crickets? But he comes to this freely. These sins, borne over generations, do not rest on his shoulders. He’s doing this because he believes it’s the right thing to do. This, more than anything else, has helped to convince Roan to accept the responsibility that’s been thrust upon him.
“How did he know who we were, that we’d be here?” asks Lumpy.
The old man looks up to the ceiling, as if he could read an answer to Lumpy’s question there. “Visions of the future were recorded in the journals kept by the first Nine of the Inner Circle—visions they had had in the Dreamfield,” he pauses, tapping the tip of his nose, “at a place one of the members described as ‘a river that carried time.’ You could dip your hands in it and experience the flow of time in its entirety. Roan of the Parting was the most powerful of that group. He’s sure to have seen more than most. It was said the visions were what changed him.”
He places the journal into a small cavity in the wall, and closes the stone facade that seamlessly covers it. “See this. I found it in there. Forty years I’d spent looking, and could have been for another forty.” He stops, looking expectantly at Roan and Lumpy.
“Uh huh, good hiding place,” says Lumpy.
“That’s not it!” the man exclaims, then with a frown, he asks, “Did I not mention the cricket?”
As Roan and Lumpy shake their heads, the old man searches through the ink-stained papers on his desk. Finally finding the one he’s looking for, he lifts it, revealing a white cricket comfortably ensconced in an empty inkwell. “I don’t know how the insect got in here, but it did. And it perched right up on top of the release mechanism. Those stone masons of Oasis are tricky little toads, aren’t they?”
“So you’re from Oasis?” asks Roan, his heart sinking.
“Me? From Oasis? Not in your life! I’m from the City. I don’t suppose it would do any harm to tell you…but perhaps it might be best to remain silent…of course, it’s been forty years, they could all be dead now. They must be. Someone would have come to fetch me. Darius must have cottoned on and killed them all.” He groans at the thought. “No. No. They’re still alive. They must be. Too well hidden. Best to stay quiet.” He gives Roan and Lumpy a stony look. “I’m sorry, I cannot say any more.”
“Are you a Gunther?” guesses Lumpy.
The old man’s mouth drops open, revealing a full set of yellow teeth. “You’ve heard of…Gunthers?”
“We met some not that long ago,” says Roan.
“Oh?” The old man’s face twitches, at once relieved, but then annoyed. “I suppose they thought it was too risky to come after me. Are they still playing at being idiot savants? Fixing electrical panels, talking in a monotone, wheeling around little carts, pretending to be invisible?”
After a quick smile at Roan, Lumpy says, attempting to maintain a serious air, “Yes. I guess you could say that.”
The old man snorts derisively. “The minute this suicide mission was proposed I volunteered. Having to pretend all the time was infernal enough, but when Darius set me to work on his enablers and I was chastised for even expressing concern over drilling into people’s brains—well!”
Roan is thunderstruck. “You worked on enablers?”
“I designed the prototype,” he sniffs. “But when I saw how it was going to be used, I said no to serving that beast and gave myself over to books. Hundreds of thousands of books. The best company anyone could ask for. But perhaps I’m rationalizing again. Living here like a hermit’s driven me half
mad.” He clucks his tongue. “Or at the very least a trifle eccentric. Still, what of it? Eating Dirt and building things in etherworlds. Now there’s madness.”
“The Constructions,” Roan says. “That’s exactly what we’ve come to find out about. This place is supposed to have maps of the Dreamfield.”
“Oh yes, yes, we have those here too. All kinds of maps.”
“May we see them?” asks Lumpy, barely containing his eagerness.
“Certainly. They’re in the geography room,” the old man says, smiling benignly but not moving.
“It would help if you could direct us to them,” Roan prompts politely.
“I beg your pardon. Oh, my goodness. Not used to company. I’ll take you there now.” The Gunther freezes halfway up from his seat. “Ah…no. No. Shouldn’t mention it. Might be considered presumptuous,” he mutters. “Still, most human beings have at least one.”
“If you tell me the problem, maybe I can help,” Roan offers.
The old man looks up at him with a childlike expression. “Oh. This is rather embarrassing…it has to do with the matter of my…name.”
“I thought Gunthers had numbers, not names,” says Lumpy.
“Quite. But you see, after forty-some years, I seem to have misplaced my number. Forgotten it.”
“We could give you a temporary number,” suggests Roan.
“Out of the question!” the Gunther snaps. “It might be someone else’s. Impossible!” he insists, then with a shy smile, adds, “And…I’ve found such a lovely name.”
“What is it?” Lumpy asks encouragingly.
An excited grin stretches across the old man’s face. Pursing his lips, the Gunther slowly speaks, savoring each consonant. “…Algernon.”
Roan and Lumpy nod approvingly.
“You like it! I read it in a play. By an Oscar Wilde. Clever man. Very funny. Made me laugh. Not the name, of course—the play. Oh yes, laugh. Not enough of that in the City. Laughter.”
“It’s a great name!” says Lumpy, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Alge—Alger—?”
“Oh. Oh!” the Gunther squeals. “It’s a bit long, isn’t it? But please, please, you can call me Algie for short, if that’s easier for you.”
“Sorry, Algie. My name is Lumpy.”
Algernon takes Lumpy’s hand, musing. “Lumpy. Could that be short for…Perlumpo?”
Lumpy shakes his head.
“No? Alumpelle, then? Not that either? Clumpington?”
“No,” says Lumpy, chuckling. “Just Lumpy.”
“Oh. Well, then, Lumpy, Roan, allow me to escort you to the maps.” But as the Gunther slowly makes his way around his desk, a deafening alarm begins to peal. Raising his hook-sword, Roan rushes toward the door.
“Wait! Wait! No need for that, sir!” Algie shouts over the din. “The tintinnabulation is simply notification that one of my snares has been tripped.”
“Intruders.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Don’t you go check?” Lumpy yells at the top of his lungs just as the alarm abruptly stops. After looking sheepishly at Roan, he fixes Algie with a stern glare. “Well?”
“Well—” Algie frowns, clearly uncomfortable. “To tell the truth, no. I’m not in a position to deal with the sort of people who come nosing around here. That’s why I installed the traps.”
Lumpy’s appalled. “You leave them to rot? There are all kinds of skeletons out there!”
“Yes, I suppose there must be,” says Algie guiltily, “but not that many, I’m sure, when you consider how long I’ve been here and it was that or leave the library vulnerable to attack. They did try to destroy it, you know. I knew they’d be back. The slightest suspicion is good enough for them. And all these books. They had to be protected. But, if you feel so inclined, please, I would be most grateful if you could investigate. That particular bell signified one of the book traps, so the victim may be a book lover.”
“Only one?” asks Roan.
“One snare, yes. Can’t guarantee how many it’s caught, though. There’s a pulley system, just past the entrance to the left fork. If you want to get them down, that is.”
“Algernon, two of our friends are waiting in the physiology stacks. Would you take them to the map room?” As the old Gunther nods, Roan turns back to Lumpy. “Let’s go,” he says, remembering the bones he saw in the net. “The intruders made their way past the first snares—not that easy—we should be prepared for the worst.”
As Roan and Lumpy silently wind their way back toward the entrance, the music of three voices rises in perfect harmony to greet them.
“Mony a ane for him makes maen, But nane shall ken whaur he is gane. Over his banes when they are bare, The wind shall blaw for evermair.”
Roan and Lumpy relax their stance. Moving into the high-ceilinged cave, they wave to the three captives swinging inside the net.
“Lovely view up here, you really ought to try it sometime,” Kamyar’s voice booms out. “You remember Talia and Dobbs?”
“Good to see you, Roan!” yells Dobbs.
While Lumpy locates the pulley and slowly lowers the trio, Roan calls up, “Didn’t you see the warning?”
“Who could resist Chaucer!” Kamyar blusters. “Such a prize left to perish ignominiously in the dust! Please tell us there are still greater pleasures to come.” Kamyar raises his arms and leans backward, stretching. “Ah. That’s much better. As much as I love my cohorts, I prefer not being sausaged in with them.”
“We hope you’re not expecting anyone else,” says Talia, giving Roan a hug. “We took the liberty of covering up the entrance and removing the warning.”
“Are you sure it’s not safe to rescue this copy of Gulliver’s Travels?” As he clamps a huge arm round Roan’s shoulder, Dobbs wistfully eyes a large illustrated book.
“When you see what we’ve found,” smiles Roan, “you won’t give it a second’s thought.”
Kamyar gasps. “The library’s intact?” Roan doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Storyteller so impassioned.
Roan nods. “And, there was somebody already here when we arrived,” he says, enjoying the rapt look on the Storytellers’ faces. He realizes it’s the first time he’s the one with exciting information to convey. “A Gunther found it forty years ago. He’s been here ever since.”
After looking to his cohorts for confirmation, Kamyar nods. “It must be the legendary Number One Hundred Twenty-Six. Before he disappeared, that man spearheaded projects the Gunthers are still perfecting—everything from fila-armor to intuitive flying machines.”
“He’s got a name now,” Lumpy says, leading his friends to the entranceway.
“That’ll stir things up,” laughs Talia.
“Well, don’t keep us waiting, young Lump,” Kamyar says with a sly smile. “What is it?”
“Algie. Short for…” Lumpy looks hopefully at Roan.
“Algernon!” blurts out Kamyar. “Wonderful,” he sighs, but it is not the name he is reacting to. Stepping aside, Lumpy’s allowed them their first view of the cavern. “But where are the books?”
Roan laughs. “That’s what Othard said.”
“He’s here?” asks Dobbs over his shoulder as he scurries to follow Lumpy.
“Imin too?” inquires Talia.
Roan begins to explain, but Dobbs and Talia, like Kamyar, have reached the library entrance and are spellbound by the sight of its multitude of books.
“We are privileged to see this day,” says Kamyar, savoring the moment.
Talia sniffs dramatically. “Those blasted Masters thought they’d burn all hope from the world. But knowledge finds its own way. Here is the proof.”
“Nothing could have prepared me for this,” says the good-hearted Dobbs. “Pinch me, please. Have I died and gone to heaven?” Seeing a head poking around the corner of a stall, he calls out, “Othard!” And rushing over to the doctor, he lifts him off the ground in a big bear hug.
“Oh my! Dobbs! Was that y
ou? Well, thank goodness you weren’t hurt,” Othard says, attempting to pat the giant storyteller’s back.
“Othard saved my life, oh, must be fifteen years back—Nethervine poisoning—I still have the scars,” Dobbs says to Roan and Lumpy over the doctor’s shoulder. Then, pulling back to look at Othard, he adds, “I was worried about you—five whole years without even a word!”
“Dobbs! Can’t you see the man wants to tell us something? Come, come my good physician, spit it out!”
Othard, gaping at Kamyar, struggles for words. “It’s…it’s an honor…to be in your presence, learned one—”
Kamyar snorts. “Let’s have none of that or we shall be here an hour exchanging ‘worthies’ and ‘celebrateds’ and ‘distinguisheds’ until we’ve put all the others to sleep.”
“Here! Here!” Talia adds. “Where’s Imin, by the way?”
“That’s just it. I’ve come to fetch you all to the geography room. Algernon and Imin are waiting there.” Gesturing for them to follow, Othard leads the way through dozens of rooms crowded with overflowing stacks, until they finally arrive at a large open area.
The Gunther and the doctor are sitting at a long table where a most unusual map is spread out. It’s been folded and refolded to create a three-dimensional chart tracking the sky, surface and undersurface of the Dreamfield.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” says Algernon. “Hand drawn by the great architect August Ferrell. He was presiding over the Academy when it was abandoned.”
“Well, at least he did something right,” mumbles Kamyar. “Imin,” he says with a friendly tap on the open-mouthed physician’s arm. “And you must be Algernon,” Kamyar moves forward to grasp the old man’s hand. “A privilege and a pleasure. I’m Kamyar—and permit me to introduce my very rude fellow storytellers, Talia and Dobbs,” he says as both storytellers lean inquisitively over the map, barely sparing the old man a smile.
Roan, too, is entranced by the drawing but try as he might, he can’t recognize anything he’s looking at. “None of it seems familiar.”
