by Steven Fox
For a few moments, he haunted the doorway. He’d already seen Trevor the first time, right after he’d fallen under his coma’s dreamless veil. He couldn’t look any better by now. Jason hardly noticed the clik-clak of heels behind him. He jumped when the doctor spoke.
“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”
He pointed at Trevor’s doorway. “Is he still in a coma?”
“Afraid so. It’s strange. He doesn’t show any negative signs. We’re not even sure why he’s still comatose. All of his brain activity is normal.” She shrugged. “But I’ll tell you…for being alive, the kid looks…you know…not.”
“Thank you.”
Jason moved inside the door, hoping just to get away from the doctor. Only a few feet inside the room, he spotted the bed. And it took all Jason had not to start crying.
The boy’s arms were straight at his side. A number of tubes and other hospital gadgetry were plugged into him, as if he were a human power strip. Trevor looked more like Frankenstein’s monster than an eleven year-old boy. Jason shook his head. If anyone here is the monster, thought Jason, it’s me.
Just off to the right of stood a nightstand crowded with flowers and get-well cards. Somehow, Jason’s Megatron figure found its way there, despite the fact that Trevor’s parents had returned it to Jason—thanks for coming to show his condolences. Jason sat down in a chair next to Trevor’s bed. The boy’s chest barely lifted, but the heart-rate monitor blipped steadily. Jason leaned back in his chair.
“I know you probably can’t hear me,” he said. “But I’m sorry. I should’ve done something earlier. And I’m sorry for not being there…That year was rough, I bet. You had to start a new class without me. I wish I could’ve been there. Are you doing well in English? See? I said ‘well’ instead of ‘good.’ That’s good English, Trevor.”
But the boy’s lips remained still. Not even a flutter of the eyelids to acknowledge Jason’s presence. The look on Trevor’s sleeping face—it seemed like one of anticipation. Waiting. Jason slumped back in his chair, his eyes drifting over to the nightstand. He straightened up slowly, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “We…I gave it to Trevor.”
Jason moved aside the Megatron figure to get at the picture book beneath it. He laid it across his lap, staring down into the water-painted cover. The title spider-webbed across the top of the cover in a flowing script, reading, The Tale of the White Knight.
Jason glanced at Trevor. A small smile came to his lips. “You wanna hear a story, Trevor? You used to love it. That’s why Tara and I…Forth…Sorry. We made this hardcover for you. The look on your face was worth the hard work. But don’t worry, we had fun. That’s what’s important, right? Fun.” Jason cleared his throat, opening the cover of the book. “The Tale of the White Knight,” he read.
“Once upon a time a knight didn’t want to be a knight. On the outside he looked like a knight, talked like a knight. He could duel swords with King Arthur, and he could scare even the bogeyman with his ruthlessness. But the knight hated this. He only wanted to be kind, to care for all…On the inside he wasn’t truly a knight.
“No one would believe him, though. They knew him for his deep voice and muscular body. They never noticed his poetry or the flower garden he kept in his backyard. They only saw his armor and his sword.
“So, one day, the White Knight took off his armor. When he did, no one recognized him. The knight found this foolish. How could they not recognize him? Did his voice not rumble as before? Did his walk not hold the knightly pride they’d all come to know?
“But they didn’t. And a sad realization dawned on the knight: People knew him for what they wanted him to be, not what he truly was.
“The knight gave up; he would return to his house and put back on his armor and sword. He would destroy his garden and burn all his poetry. Knights didn’t do those things, he decided. They had no place in his home.
“But inside, the knight hated his decision and wished he could make it stop.
“On the way home, as the knight was sulking, he bumped into a maiden. The maiden dropped her things, and they both apologized to each other. The knight bent down to help pick up, and noticed what she had been carrying.
“A sword and shield! The maiden had been carrying a sword and shield. He found this strange, and asked the fair maiden, ‘By what reason do you carry these manly items?’
“The maiden replied, ‘I carry them because I so please! I find them much more interesting than the flower gardens of my house and the poetry I’m forced to learn.’
“The knight found this ridiculous. But before he said anything, realization struck him: This maiden was in the same boat as him. The exact same boat, just sitting on opposite ends. So the knight said, ‘Milady, I shall teach you my sword-craft if you shall teach me how to raise the most beautiful flowers and write the finest poetry.’
“At first, the woman couldn’t believe it. But when the knight took her home and showed her his garden and large collection of poetry, she considered his offer. In the end, she accepted. They spent the rest of their lives supporting each other and became the best of friends. Eventually, they lived together. Then they had kids, and when the kids asked why their father wrote poetry and their mother wielded the sword, the knight and maiden would smile and say:
“‘To love yourself, ‘tis the most important thing.’”
Jason closed the book and heaved a sigh. He felt surprisingly good. He couldn’t exactly place the feeling, but something about it belonged. He moved to set the book back on the nightstand. Trevor’s eyes were open and watching Jason. The book slid out of Jason’s hand. He rubbed his eyes. Nothing changed: Trevor’s mouth twitched up into a smile.
“Jason? Are you tired? You keep rubbing your eyes.” Tears sprung from Jason’s eyes, rolling down to his chin. Trevor’s smile shrank, and his nose scrunched. “Why you crying? Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry if I did.”
But Jason shook his head, wiping away the tears. “No, it’s all right. I’m just very emotional today. How’re you feeling, Trevor?”
“Awesome, I guess.”
“Good, good.” Jason picked up the book and placed it on the table. “Did you hear me? Reading the story?”
Trevor nodded. Then his eyes drifted to the window at his right, just across the bed from Jason. “It was cool. There was nothing at first. But then I heard your voice. And the story…I could see it. I saw everything. The knight and his house. The maiden and their kids.”
“You dreamed.”
“Yeah. But I don’t dream lots. Not lately. Seems like no one does. Everyone keeps saying they just slept. It’s so boring.”
“I agree.” Jason glanced back to the book. It had been the product of a happy time. But a product of grievance, as well—a true story.
To love yourself; ‘tis the most important thing.
Jason stood and smiled at Trevor. “I’m sure your parents will be here soon. Especially after they hear the news.”
“News?”
Jason shook his head. “Never mind. Just go back to sleep. Dream. Then come back, okay? Make sure to wake up. Promise me you will.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die at the hands of Decepticons!”
***
He dropped a note off at the receptionist’s desk. She’d left, but a sign promised her return in five minutes. Outside the sun had set and streetlights dotted the dark streets. Jason sat down on the bench beside the entryway. Rubbing his chin, Jason stared off into the distance, toward the police station, only a few blocks away. Right next door to the paladins’ stronghold. Jason glanced at Darlene’s phone: 8:55 P.M.
He nearly tucked the phone away, but opened it again. Once more, he activated the spell book app and re-read the instructions left by the Guardian out loud:
“Use this spell when Sirin and Shemillah are in the same room.”
Jason stared at the glowing screen a little longer, then closed it. After tucking it away in his pocket,
he stood. The execution would be early the next day. He had a few hours to burn, and tonight he didn’t feel like sleeping. Jason walked away from the hospital, toward the street corner, breathing in the night air as if for the first time. Just as he reached the edge of the hospital parking lot, a car passed him. Jason glanced back to the hospital. From the car, two adults and three kids half-leapt half-stumbled out and rushed inside.
Jason smiled. “To love yourself.” And he started to remember. Everything.
With only a few hours to go, he turned toward downtown and started walking.
PART THREE
TWENTYTHREE
The sun had barely dawned when they came for her. Len’s eyes fluttered open to the concrete floor she’d fallen asleep on. The heavy mix of body odor and dusty jail cell wafted up her nose, and she coughed. The sun peeked through a hole in the boarded wall of Jason’s old cell. She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen the train herself. But what did it mean for Jason? That he was the Dream Caller? Or something else? Len wasn’t quite sure.
The thud of footsteps echoed down the cell block. Len’s eyes flicked up to steel slab that had once been the block’s door—not budged since yesterday. She rose slowly. Aches radiated in all her joints; pinpricks ran down her back. Sirin came into view, wearing the widest grin. Two paladins followed behind him with their swords drawn.
“Oh,” said Sirin, “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
Len grunted, then flipped him off.
“I’ll make you eat that finger.”
“It’ll be too far up your ass.”
Sirin motioned to one of the paladins. He withdrew a key from his armor and unlocked the cell door. Both of the paladins somehow squeezed into the cell and gripped Len tightly about the wrists. She struggled, which caused her father’s wand to fall out of her pocket. She tried to duck the two muscle-heads, but their grip was ironclad. Sirin spotted the wand and grinned. Len’s eyes narrowed, her lips tightening.
“Don’t you dare touch that.”
Siring stooped down and picked up the wand. He dangled it only inches from her face. She jerked and writhed, trying to free her hands. But the paladins didn’t budge.
“Shame,” he said. “This was your father’s wand. It could’ve been used by someone better. Someone like me. But oh well.”
He took the wand between his hands, and snapped it across his knee.
Len screamed, whipping her head and kicking her feet. “I’ll rip your eyes out!” she said as Sirin unceremoniously dumped the wand halves to the floor.
“I’d like to see you try when you’re dead.”
The last she saw was Sirin nodding to the paladins. Darkness fell, and Len slept again.
***
Just below the surface of consciousness, Len heard murmurs. As she neared awakening, they crescendoed into buzzing. By the time she opened her eyes, a hum of excited chatter filled her ears, and there before her stood a crowd, here for one purpose: her execution.
TWENTYFOUR
Around six-thirty in the morning, a crowd of magi converged on the paladin’s stronghold. He only knew this because, usually, the paladins held a public court hearing once every month. His father had told him they weren’t interesting and, most of the time, trite. But today the crowd was large. Jason knew two of the likeliest reasons:
1. There was going to be a public execution, not a court hearing.
2. A rumor: the Dream Caller had resurfaced and would be at the execution. Or be executed.
Jason wished Shemillah were the one being executed. He wished it so bad, he almost stormed the stronghold early. But withheld himself and waited to sneak into the crowd. During the night, he went home and retrieved one of his father’s old double-cloaks. The magi would see the cloak for what it was, but normies only saw jeans and a t-shirt—a commodity among magefolk. The throng of magi was alight with whispers and mumbles. Rumors jumped from mouth to mouth like a virus: Who had caught the Dream Caller? Had the Dream Catcher come out of hiding? Had the Council lied about the Dream Caller being dead all these years?
The crowd flowed into the main hall of the stronghold. Signs pointed them in the direction of the execution site. Through winding halls they trudged, and the rumors bounced and echoed off the walls, assaulting Jason’s ears from all sides. If these magi knew who was truly being executed, Jason thought the chatter would only be louder. Half of these magi looked unsavory. After all, Shemillah had raised a legion of followers. But Jason put it out of his mind, and instead mulled on the cell phone in his pocket. And the right moment to use it.
The hall opened up into a coliseum-like space, much too big to fit inside the stronghold. But magic had its tricks; the Arena—as this underground courtroom was so fittingly dubbed—was only one. The Arena stretched out in a circle wide enough to park four submarines. Bleachers and theater seats fringed one edge. In the center of the Arena stood a low, wooden platform, upon which a chalk circle was inscribed. High above hung a view of the sunny sky—complete with rising sun.
Jason took a seat about halfway between the front and back. No one sat close to him. Perhaps this was due to the muddy pockets under his eyes. Staying up all night had its cost, but it gave Jason time to think, to prepare, and to edge a bit on the crazy side. He continued to remember everything.
More and more magi flowed into the Arena, slowly filling the seats. Eventually, almost all the seats in Jason’s row were filled. Someone sat down to his left, but they took one look at Jason’s haggard face and turned forward, focusing on something far-off. The man who sat to Jason’s right didn’t even look at Jason as he seated himself. The man crossed his legs at the ankles, and threaded his fingers together in his lap.
“I was worried you might not make it,” said the man. “Of course, I did not know if my hints would aid you.”
Jason grinned. “Are you calling me stupid?”
“It never crossed my mind.”
Jason glanced over at the man. His head was clean shaven and olive-toned. He turned his head slightly, just enough for Jason to see his broad face—and his piercing green eyes.
They broke eye contact, both turning back to the front. A few moments passed as Jason’s eyes flicked to the entrance. More magi came. Some looked as though they’d come from other countries—India, Europe, Ethiopia. One mage even wore a cloak fringed with white fur. Jason wondered how many people had heard of this execution and what they’d heard. Probably nothing but exaggerations.
“I have a lot of questions,” said Jason. “All of which I’m sure you know. But you won’t answer any, will you? The Dream Catcher wouldn’t.”
The man grunted. In his lap, the man’s hands unlaced and clasped together, as if in prayer. Suddenly, the crowd’s murmurs were silent. People still moved, their mouths flapping in conversation, but Jason couldn’t hear them. All he could hear was his own breath and heartbeat.
“I will allow you a question,” said the man. “But only one. I suggest you choose wisely.”
Jason had already chosen his question. He had been pondering it all night. He’d been pondering it earlier than that, but ever since his first encounter with Shemillah inside Talshe, the question had become more and more prevalent.
“I remember a lot of things. Everything…was meant to happen. It was all part of a plan. My plan, though I don’t remember when I made it. But I do remember certain things. Like my time in Visonia before…all this. Before I ever existed. There have been quite a few bumps. Len’s father. My mother. Tara Engel.” He paused for a few moments, then continued. “But I can’t seem to remember much before that…So, my question is, what happened?”
The man’s jaw ticked, and he heaved a sigh. His eyes now focused on a far-away point, some unknown point in time. How long ago this time was Jason could only imagine. No one truly knew the age of the Guardian or his descendants.
“When I was born,” said the Guardian, “the world intrigued me. Everything in it: the animals, the plants, the birds—all of
it held special meaning. And I wanted to discover it. I developed a system. It started out as a mere tool to help me study and manipulate things in this world. Eventually, my tool evolved into the craft of magic.
“Others learned my craft. A couple dozen had even developed their own. But even they came to me, seeking advice. One such man was a wandering storyteller. He called himself Ole Lukoje. At first, I refused to teach him. A mere storyteller did not require my tool. He had his voice and imagination. But he said that was the problem. I did not understand what he meant, so he said, ‘Let me tell you a story.’”
The crowd had stopped flowing in. Paladins shut the entrance doors. Jason’s eyes flicked to the wooden platform below. Empty. But not for long, he thought.
“He told me his story, and as the words left his mouth, the images became real not just in my head, but in life. In flesh and blood. This filled me with sweet joy—something I had forgotten. I asked him how he was able to do such a thing.
“He smiled, and said, ‘Not without a price.’”
A pair of doors at the back of the Arena swung open, and out walked Sirin and several paladins. Two of the paladins held someone between them, a black bag snug over their head. Jason leaned forward a bit. He could see other people turning forward as well, but their mouths still flapped excitedly.
“I could pay him anything, I said.
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘how about you take a burden of mine away?’ I asked him what burden that might be, and he said, ‘Another story.’”
Sirin directed the other paladins up onto the platform. They led their victim to the center of the circle and made her kneel, head down. Sirin smacked the back of the victim’s head, his lips ripped back in a scream. To his left, the man in the cap shifted. But Jason hardly noticed.
“I eagerly accepted, certain this story would bring me as much joy as the last. But as Lukoje started his tale, I felt nothing but tension. Unease. Progressively, I felt an urge to kill this wanderer and rend him of all his belongings. More than that, I wanted to wear his skin. I wanted to swallow his soul and lap at his blood. I wanted his ability to weave stories. Seeing I was on the verge of possibly killing him, the storyteller ceased. He shook his head, saying, ‘I never finish that story, because even I can’t imagine its ending. Such a gruesome conclusion it would be. Don’t you agree?’
