We Are Where the Nightmares Go and Other Stories

by C. Robert Cargill

  Then the blaze loosed itself from the bullroarer, spiraling out and away, a fiery corkscrew drilling into the darkness. Koorong raised his spinning arm above his head, slowed its spin, then snapped it like a whip, cracking a fifty-foot length of flame at Mandu, scalding him across the chest, broiling his exposed flesh.

  It. Was. On.

  Lightning flashed and the swamp lit up, thunder grumbling with the patter of a wall of rain sweeping in. Koorong grinned, the flaming whip writhing at his side. Finally a break, a turn in the tide. There was great power to storms, and he had spent years learning how to harness it. Then he remembered what Mandu had said. Before this is done, it will rain terribly. Twice. It has to. For justice.

  Winds gusted past, blowing the tree fire long, flames whirling like a flowing cape. At once everyone braced themselves against the gales, Koorong grabbing Warra, Mandu steadying himself with his staff. Only Colby stood unwavering, having spent so much time in the elements that he’d long ago learned how to stand against a storm. His feet became one with the earth, his center of gravity constantly shifting against the strong bursts. He stood there, showing off, acting every bit the eleven-year-old he was.

  Koorong closed his eyes, reaching out to the storm, its tendrils twitching rhythmically, rippling like waves through the dream. He could feel the lightning coming, feel it building pressure within the cloud. This was the moment he was waiting for. “Warra,” he said, “kill the boy.”

  Lightning flashed immediately overhead, bright and furious, the thunder quaking everything the instant the bolt struck home. A tree exploded with the strike, raining timber and fire in a twenty-foot radius.

  Koorong ran straight for Mandu, and Warra in turn charged Colby. The lightning bought them precious seconds, blinding everyone for an instant, letting them cover the ground they needed to get in for the kill. Colby and Mandu weren’t expecting the sudden charge, their eyes stinging from the rain, ears ringing from the thunder. By the time each noticed, it was too late.

  Koorong pounced, teeth bared, growling, a ball of fire boiling up in his hand. He swung wildly at Mandu with his flaming whip, Mandu blocking it with his walking stick, embers and sparks exploding as the blow glanced away. Mandu darted back, sweeping his stick in front of him to keep Koorong at bay as Koorong flung another flaming sphere at him.

  Mandu ducked, letting it explode against another tree behind him.

  Koorong jumped again, arms out wide to grapple Mandu, flaming whip trailing.

  Mandu stepped back into a tree, sinking into it, Koorong following, slamming chest first.

  Koorong howled, pushing himself off the tree with both hands, then kicking it repeatedly out of frustration. “I. Will. Gut. You!” he shouted with each kick. Then he whipped it with his bullroarer, the fiery lash embracing it, setting the whole tree immediately ablaze.

  Across the field his son gritted his teeth, growling low and mean, a bone wand clutched tightly in his hand. He slashed at Colby, who jumped back in time for the stick to miss him with a wide berth.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” said Colby.

  Warra ran the point of his stick across his own tongue, slicing it. “You won’t,” he said. He let the blood pool in his mouth, swished it around, concentrating. The he leaned his head back, gargling incoherently through the blood. Steam billowed from his mouth and he turned, hocking a pinch of sizzling spit at Colby.

  Colby ducked, the spit soaring past his cheek, hitting a fallen tree beside him instead. The gob ate through the wood, burning a hole the size of a nickel all the way through to the other side. Warra smirked at the look of horror registering on Colby’s face. The boy was clever; had been taught tricks of his own. He wouldn’t disrespect any longer, finally knowing what was at stake.

  Now it was a fight.

  The boy spit again, the battery acid wad toppling end over end. Colby slipped aside, hands up and back like he was being held up, the spit missing him by only half an inch. Warra swished more blood around in his mouth, lips puckered, eyes smiling.

  Colby had had enough.

  He reached out with a single hand and unleashed a pent-up reserve of kinetic energy, slamming into Warra’s chest like the fist of an angry giant, lifting his feet off the ground, throwing him head over heels over head. Warra crashed to the ground, ass up, folded over like a soft taco, his toes touching the ground six inches past his head.

  Warra scrambled, hurt but not injured, pawing blindly for his wand. Tears blurred his vision. He trembled, frightened—really, truly scared. No one had ever hit him like that before, not even his father. And it looked as if the whitefella wasn’t even trying. His hand found the sharp end of the stick, slid his fingers up to the handle, took a deep breath, pushing the fear down into the pit of his gut like his father had taught him.

  Time to use it.

  Behind him, a hundred feet away, his father furiously kicked over trees, upending them, exposing their roots, dirt clods exploding around him. “Get out here!” he screamed. “Get out here and face me!”

  Mandu laughed from the darkness, the sound of it echoing through woods.

  Fists balled, knuckles white, Koorong screamed again. “Get out here!”

  Mandu stepped out of the tree, directly behind Koorong, calm, patient, as if he’d peered into the heart of the universe, seen its collapse, and was no longer afraid. “Last chance, Koorong. This is where you get to decide your future. And what you really care about.”

  “You,” said Koorong over his shoulder, hesitating to move, waiting for the right moment. “I care about killing you. Taking your soul. Putting everything back where it belongs.”

  “But you can’t. Some things can never be put back together, no matter how many of the pieces you have. Even with a whole thing laid out in front of you.”

  “You took it. You should know better than to keep it.”

  Mandu shook his head sadly. “That’s what you never understood. I never took anything. What you want, it isn’t mine to give. You are two different creatures now. The animal and the remorseful spirit.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to. In fact, this all ends for the best if you don’t.”

  Koorong spun about, swearing, cracking his whip, unleashing a gout of flame at Mandu. Mandu arched his back, the flame searing his chest from inches above him, missing the trunk of his body. He grunted, flesh blistering instantly.

  Losing his balance, Mandu’s legs caved beneath him, hurling him to the ground. Koorong reared back, his flaming whip dangling behind him, coiling and twisting in the wind. Mandu scuttled backward through the rain and mud, his body now spattered head to toe. Then he nodded.

  “Remember,” Mandu said, “that you made your choice already. You made it. No one else.”

  It was still raining as Warra ran his pointing stick down along the flat of his arm, carving a long, thin cut, blood pouring out, mixing with the raindrops. He flung the blood into the growing puddles, singing dark notes with broken harmonies. The water began to ripple and shift, growing, rising up off the ground, a mix of swirling blood and rainwater standing as tall and wide and willowy as a nine-year-old boy.

  The waterbeast rushed Colby, its liquid hands out to strangle him, the blood rushing to the fingers—red hands on a muddy brown body.

  Colby unleashed a wild blast of energy, creating giant claws out of thin air. The claws grabbed the waterbeast from both sides, dug in, ripping through the chest, and tore the thing apart. The water hung suspended for a split second, then dropped all at once as if dumped from a bucket.

  It was all the time that Warra needed. As the water splashed to the ground he tackled Colby, throwing his body weight against him, crumpling him into the mud, wand pressed to his neck. Colby struggled, but Warra, despite being two years his younger, was stronger, more able. He was a feral kid living off the land, tough, as weathered as a mesa, and he held his ground, immovable.

  Colby was not getting up.

  “Get off me,�
� said Colby, struggling to keep the sharpened point of the leg bone away from his neck.

  Warra shook his head. “I’m gonna carve your soul out. It’ll be my first.”

  “No! Stop!”

  “Then I’m gonna carve your leg bone out of your leg and make me a bone wand with it. Your bones will point good. Lots of magic in them. Lots more than this one.”

  “No!” shouted Colby, the knife creeping deeper into his neck. “Please don’t!”

  Then Warra spoke in a deep, grumbly voice, mimicking his father. “Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon.”

  The rain stopped. Colby could see the sky clearing over Warra’s shoulder. Warra loomed over him large and unyielding. His eyes seething, his skin tight, his breath heavy and hollow, whistling through gritted teeth. He reared back, raised the dagger behind his head, and swung it down on Colby’s chest.

  Colby squinched his eyes tight, praying for it all to be over.

  Then the world exploded.

  The sound of the blast echoed for miles.

  Koorong tumbled to the ground, blown over.

  Mandu cowered still, covering his ears.

  The whole of the forest shook and then fell silent.

  Koorong jumped to his feet, looking over at Colby, who lay on his back, staring up at the sky, alone.

  “Warra?” Koorong asked quietly. “WARRA?” he called louder. He looked down at Mandu. “Where is he?”

  Colby crawled to his feet, staggered. “I’m sorry,” he said, tears beginning to choke his words. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean to.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry!”

  Mandu shook his head with knowing sorrow. “I told you. You made your choice.”

  A drop hit the ground. Then another. The soft patter of rain. Koorong looked up and saw that there were no clouds. But the drops pattered faster, now interspersed with meaty chunks, thumping lightly. Blood. The sky was raining blood.

  Koorong stared down at his hands as the downpour subsided, his son’s blood covering him, dripping into his cupped hands. His eyes welled up, his jaw clenched tight. “Warra?” he asked. “WARRA?”

  But Warra Gaari was no more, nothing but a crimson smear across the swamp, dripping from the leaves, soaking into the grass.

  Mandu climbed to one knee, also covered head to toe in blood, supporting himself on his walking stick, his chest raw and burning. “I tried to tell you. But you—”

  “No!” shouted Koorong. “I’ll kill you.”

  Koorong lunged. Then a force unlike any he’d ever felt hit him like a truck. Ribs cracked, his insides compressed, the wind was knocked out of him.

  Colby shook his head, arm extended, energy receding back into his hand. “I’m sorry. But your son made me do it. Don’t make me do it again.”

  Koorong doubled over, gasping in the dirt, and sobbed. Hate bubbled up inside, but he didn’t dare release it. Colby would kill him where he stood. He knew that now. This had all been a terrible mistake. The spirit had betrayed him, sacrificed his son.

  They would pay. They would all pay. But not now, not today. Today he would run. So run he did.

  He jumped to his feet and vanished into the night on foot, taking with him what little of his son that he could.

  Colby helped Mandu to his feet and the two exchanged troubled looks. “I didn’t . . .”

  “I know.”

  “He wouldn’t stop. I tried to make him stop, but he just—”

  “I know. But we can’t trouble ourselves with that now. There are other things. More important things.”

  Tears ran down Colby’s cheeks and he too began to sob. “He wouldn’t stop!”

  Mandu put his hands on his shoulders. “It’s okay. You had to.”

  “But I’ve never killed anyone before!”

  Mandu leaned in closer, his gaze incredulous. “Fella, I’ve heard the stories about you. I’ve spoken with spirits. You’ve killed before.”

  “Not people. Only bad things. Only spirits.”

  “People and spirits are one and the same, just different sides of the same coin.”

  “No,” said Colby, wiping hot tears from his blood-soaked cheeks. “It’s not the same. People are different.”

  “People are no different. That’s the whole point.”

  Colby continued to sob, eyes closed, refusing to believe it.

  “Colby, that boy, he didn’t have a soul.”

  “What?” Colby asked, looking up.

  “He was like his father. Someone had taken his soul.”

  “Where is it now?” he asked excitedly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “His soul. Where is it?”

  Mandu pointed up. “He’s with the campfires on the other side of the sky.”

  Colby smiled, wiping away the rest of his tears with a single open palm. “I know what to do,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I know how to save him. I can bring him back.”

  “No, Colby. You can’t bring him back.”

  “Yes I can! I took him apart. I can put him back together. All I need is his soul!”

  Colby ran off, darting into a nearby tree. For a moment Mandu pretended to be worried, to follow Colby toward the tree, but he had no intention of chasing the boy. The spirit had shown him this too, and he knew that if he stopped this part from happening, nothing of Colby’s destiny would come to pass.

  9

  Colby hopped from tree to tree, thinking all the while about how to die.

  He knew he needed to reach the campfires on the other side of the sky, and had mostly worked out how to put a body back together for Warra’s soul, but couldn’t think of just how an eleven-year-old boy could reach the land of the dead and still come back. He thought about sinking a knife into his own chest, dying in the mud to cross over. But that seemed like a one-way trip. Then he thought about waking up Yashar, asking him for a third wish, a wish strong enough to get him across. But Yashar was so far away, and there was no telling whether or not he would even wake up. And then, as he stared into the deep dark of the night sky, a shooting star blazed across it. It was bright, parts of it bursting in the atmosphere, breaking up on its way to Earth, sprinkling sparkles in its wake.

  It was a rock thrown from one side of the sky to the other.

  Colby wondered what made him think of that. Then he remembered the story of the woman who jumped from the rock into the sky. Remember the stories, Mandu had said. Remember the stories. He thought for a moment, remembering the details of the legend. He thought of the djang he felt within the rock she leapt from. And it all came together.

  “I know how to get there,” he said to himself.

  Then he turned and ran headlong into a tree, sinking in, emerging from another, miles away. And then he ran into another, emerging miles farther. And another. And another . . . until he was in the desert once more, running as fast as he could, racing the sunrise over cooling sands, to find the rock from which he would leap to his death, to find the campfires on the other side of the sky.

  He ran faster and faster, his feet no longer touching the ground. He sought trees that stood alone, using them as bridges to their siblings dozens of miles away. And soon, before he knew it, he found himself standing before an all-too-familiar boulder.

  He scaled it quickly, time working against him, and crouched low, palming the stone.

  Colby could feel the djang churning deep within it. It was powerful. Immensely powerful. While the dreamstuff was thick in the air around him, there was something far more potent, refined, within the rock itself. And as he tapped into it, taking that power into him, he let go of this world, leaping into the sky with all the force of the Saturn V rocket.

  And Colby Stevens crossed, for the first time, from our world into the next.

  10

  The Deeper Dreaming

  An excerpt by Dr. Thaddeus Ray, Ph.D., from his book Dreamspeaking, Dreamwalking, and Dreamtime: The World on the Other Side of Down U
nder

  There are three states of being either reachable or conceivable by man. There is our world, the waking world, which is entirely made up of physical vessels, some of which contain dreamstuff. There is the world beyond the veil that some call dreamtime, which is equal parts physical and ephemeral, a world in which both dream and real can touch. And then there is the deep dreaming, a place entirely of soul and dream, where the physical has no bearing.

  The deep dreaming is where all the worlds of the beyond exist. Heaven. Hell. Asgard. Yomi. Skyworld. And ten thousand others we don’t have names for. Some are vast, seemingly endless realms of energy, joy, or torment. Others are small pocket worlds, the constructs of a short-lived people or a single powerful being. The dreamings most commonly discussed are the ones to which people travel after their death. These worlds lack physicality, and only a select few possess both the power and the knowledge to find their way back to their bodies, if their bodies still exist at all. But for most, it is a one-way trip, and even the most powerful spirits rarely find their way back.

  I’m certain there is some rhyme or reason to their assembly and distribution, some fourth-dimensional structure that binds them together like an atom or a snowflake; we simply lack the potential to understand the intricate ways the deep dreaming comes together. Instead, it appears like a randomly moving and shifting assemblage of worlds, drifting aimlessly on an empty black sea, without so much as a center point to orbit, the smaller, forgotten worlds breaking away, drifting into nothingness.

  Energy cannot be destroyed, only consumed, transformed, or redirected. All things in the beyond are made of energy, and thus all things are relatively eternal. Time holds no sway over them; only other energy. Thus belief has a profound effect on the structure of these dreamings, resulting in constantly shifting landscapes, timeflows, even consciousnesses. Most beings in these realms exist out of time, in a perpetual state of “living in the now,” unaware of there being either a past or a future.

  While this keeps beings from intentionally altering the world around them, it also can lead to widespread simultaneous shifts as everyone reacts to environmental changes as if they are as it always was and as it was always meant to be. Unlike the physical world, in which properties are concrete, or dreamtime, where even fluid mechanics are held in place by steady belief, punctuated only by slow change, the deeper dreaming is pure dynamism, with entire realms able to go from stasis to chaos in the course of a few brief moments.