The Dream Leaper

by Cory Barclay

  Steve followed suit, standing awkwardly in a corner. He stood as straight as possible, trying to blend in to the wall.

  “Christ Almighty, Fueda, it smells like a barn in here,” the older gentleman said as he cut into his sunny-side up eggs.

  Shit, was Steve’s first thought. If he knows Christ, he must have been to Earth before . . .

  Fueda scowled at Steve from across the room. He gave her an apologetic shrug.

  Hugh Hefner turned to Steve with a blank look. “At least stand further back, boy. You must be new. Did Fueda forget to tell you we don’t like to smell the outdoors while we’re eating breakfast?”

  Steve reddened. “M-My apologies . . . sir.” He backed up, into a wall, and had to reposition himself through an archway that led into another room.

  The younger woman giggled as Steve ran into the wall, then went back to her food.

  The first few moments of eating were agonizing. Steve could hear his heart beating in his ears. He was in a foyer, but didn’t dare inspect his surroundings, lest he draw the ire of the Playboy headmaster again.

  Hefner reached for some fruit, and said, “Are you ready for the excitement today, son?”

  The young man across from him, who was about Steve’s age, smiled wolfishly. “Yes, father. The dogs are ravenous. They’ve been waiting all week for today.”

  Steve shifted his feet. The talk of excitement and ravenous dogs, without any context, gave him the jitters. He absentmindedly glanced to his left. Something in the corner of the room made him double take.

  It was a guitar, leaning on a black stand.

  Steve made a sound in the back of his throat, in mild surprise. He hadn’t seen a guitar—or any instrument—since he’d been on Mythicus.

  He didn’t realize he’d gasped aloud. When he turned back to the table, the father and mother were both staring at him.

  He opened his mouth to apologize, but thought better of it and stayed quiet. The disapproving glare from the parents didn’t exactly instill confidence to speak.

  “What’s your name, new boy?” the father asked.

  Steve’s mind rushed. He tried to think of an alias, but realized no one on Mythicus would recognize him anyway, so he said, “Steve?”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I saw you eyeing my guitar. Can you play?”

  “I dabble, sir.”

  The girl at the table giggled again. Maybe she was younger than Steve had originally estimated. She seemed more like a late teenager when she opened her mouth. But her laugh was light and airy, and not unpleasant.

  The father nodded, going back to his plate, trying to end the conversation. But his son wouldn’t let him.

  “Play something for us, then,” the son said.

  Steve stammered. “R-Right now, sir?”

  The son snapped his fingers. A spasm of anger coursed through Steve. He didn’t enjoy being called on like a dog.

  “Yes,” the young man said, “you can be our minstrel—playing while we dine. I’ll give you a slice of bacon if you play well enough.”

  Steve frowned.

  The father said, “Now, Tiberius, don’t be a pain.”

  Steve was already moving toward the guitar. For whatever reason, the young man’s challenge made Steve feel obliged to show he could play. Plus, he wanted to. He hadn’t touched a guitar in quite some time.

  Nostalgia overcame him as he felt the smooth wood in his hands. It was like hugging an old friend after a long time apart. He pulled a chair from the foyer, placed it under the archway, and sat.

  The family kept eating, their forks and knives clanking, paying no attention to Steve. He crossed his legs, leaned over the guitar, and started plucking.

  He played the opening melody of “Stairway to Heaven.” It was something only he would recognize, he was sure.

  After a few moments of crisp notes and a drawn out melody, the young woman at the table put her knife and fork down. She looked at Steve with a questioning glance. “What song is that? I recognize it.”

  “It’s called ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ ma’am,” Steve said, struggling to keep playing while he talked at the same time.

  “I haven’t heard Led Zeppelin in some time,” the father said. He spoke so nonchalantly that Steve hit a bum note and it glaringly rang out. He almost apologized, but kept his rhythm and played over it. His fingers started moving faster as the song picked up pace.

  He turned to the father. “You know it?”

  “Of course. But my question is: how do you? Unless you’re from Terrus . . .”

  Steve nodded. “I am, sir.”

  The young woman yelped with glee, her hands shooting to her mouth. “Ah! A human!” She jumped from her seat and skipped over to him, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for him to stop playing.

  Her smile took him by surprise. He didn’t want to be rude, so he rested his hands on the strings and took the girl’s hand in his.

  “I am Emilene, but you can call me Emmy.”

  “Steve, ma’am. A pleasure.”

  Emilene motioned to her father and said, “Papa is Jareth”—then to her mother—“and mama is Dosira.” Frowning, she eyed her brother. “And you’ve already met Tiberius.”

  Tiberius was shaking his head. “You stopped playing. No bacon for you.”

  Steve almost laughed—why did this guy imagine he wanted bacon so badly? Perhaps he assumed all servants and butlers lived undignified lives. Though he was hungry . . .

  “Tiberius, that’s enough,” Dosira said.

  In the five minutes he’d known them, this family seemed the most normal to Steve since first arriving on Mythicus. It was refreshing.

  After Emilene went back to her seat, Steve faced the father again and said, “Are you all from Terrus, too?”

  Emilene shook her head.

  Jareth said, “We’re fascinated with your kind, though.”

  Steve furrowed his brow.

  “What are you doing on Mythicus, honey?” Dosira asked, innocently enough.

  Steve glanced to the other end of the room, where Fueda had been, to try to read her face. He wasn’t sure how much information to divulge, especially being brand new in the household.

  But Fueda was gone.

  Damn, she is sneaky. Left without anyone even noticing.

  He decided the family’s questions were harmless. “I’m trying to win back the woman I love,” he said.

  A long, drawn out “Awwwww” followed, and Emilene had her hands clasped next to her chin in adoration.

  Tiberius sniggered. “Love is foolish,” he said.

  Jareth, the father, said, “The idea of love is timeless, son. Even if you don’t begin by loving a woman, you surely can learn to. Isn’t that right?” Jareth put his hand over his wife’s hand, which was resting on the table. It was an adorable gesture that made both Steve and Dosira smile.

  “It’s something you should try to understand, son,” his father went on.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, father. Not over breakfast.”

  Based on first impressions, Steve decided he liked Tiberius the least of the family. Jareth’s eyes bore into his son, as if he was trying to make a specific point, rather than a general one.

  Steve figured that, as far as first impressions went, he thought he’d given a pretty good one. He had the entire family rapt when he started playing his next song.

  It was a Spanish flamenco song called “Asturias,” one he was pretty sure no one at the table would recognize. Then again, he’d thought they wouldn’t recognize Zeppelin, either. The strings of the guitar were nylon, the wood dark red. His fingers moved across the guitar’s fretboard with effortless speed. Even though he hadn’t played in some time, it was like riding a bike.

  But Jareth was musically competent. With a smile, he said, “Ahh, Isaac Albéniz. One of my favorite composers.” After listening for a few more moments, he got up from the table. He was taller and bulkier than Steve
realized—not fat, but fit—and he stretched his legs out as he stood. “I’m going to get ready for the hunt, son. You’d better, too.”

  “Can I come, Papa?” Emilene asked as her father started to walk away.

  He looked at her endearingly, but shook his head. “No, Emmy, it’s too dangerous. This is work for men.”

  Steve almost scoffed as Jareth implied a woman didn’t have the capability to hunt. It showed how old school this family was. That statement wouldn’t have flown where Steve had come from, on Terrus—not in this day and age.

  Emilene pouted but didn’t press the issue. She got up to leave the room, just as Fueda entered from stage left, to help clean up the table.

  Emilene’s mother left with her daughter, leaving only Steve, Fueda, and Tiberius in the room.

  Steve finished playing the song, letting the last vibrant note ring out.

  “I’ve decided I want you to teach me guitar,” Tiberius said abruptly. As Steve stood and placed the guitar on the stand, another wave of anger flooded through him. He wasn’t used to orders or demands. He’d never been a servant before, and he wasn’t exactly warming up to the idea. He could see how having to put up with brats like Tiberius could become quite a pain . . . especially when you couldn’t leave anytime you wanted.

  “Why?” Steve asked.

  Tiberius narrowed his eyes, not expecting to be questioned. Fueda gaped.

  Tiberius’ eyes darkened, and Steve didn’t like the vibe.

  A moment later, the bratty young man smiled. “So I can get the girls, of course.”

  Steve clicked his tongue. He wanted to mock Tiberius’ tone and misguided belief. Instead, he reverted to what he thought was proper “servant speech.”

  “Yes, sir. Perhaps after your hunt?”

  “Come on the hunt with us,” Tiberius said.

  Steve glanced at Fueda, who was eyeing him disapprovingly.

  “Don’t look at the midget,” Tiberius added. “It’s not her decision.”

  “I’m not sure it’s such a great idea, sir—”

  “I didn’t ask you. You’re coming on the hunt with my father and I. You’ll be our caddy and kill holder.”

  Steve sighed. He hadn’t expected his buttons to be pushed so far.

  Why does he look so . . . off? Steve wondered, staring into Tiberius’ face. He was a bit gaunt, with high, pronounced cheekbones, a broad forehead. His cleft chin jutted out, and Steve could see the hint of a five o’clock shadow forming on his jawline.

  When it was clear Steve wasn’t going to say “yes” or “no,” Tiberius harrumphed, turned around, and marched out of the room.

  Steve helped Fueda take the dishes back to the basement.

  “I think that went well, all things considered,” Steve said as he strode alongside the brownie.

  Fueda snorted.

  “What?” Steve asked, ducking to enter the kitchen.

  “You draw too much attention to yourself. You’re supposed to be hiding in plain sight, wafer-man.”

  “Is it so bad they know I love a woman and I play guitar?”

  “It starts there . . .” Fueda said, trailing off. “The Reynolds family has a way of finding out things they shouldn’t know. Their means are not always pleasant, either . . .”

  Steve gulped. That isn’t reassuring.

  “But enjoy your hunt,” Fueda said with fake enthusiasm.

  Damn, Steve thought. Are these people gonna try to kill me while we hunt for rabbits or something?

  Am I the hunted one in this scenario?

  CHAPTER TEN

  STEVE THOUGHT THE HUNT with Tiberius and his father would be aimed at finding deer or rabbits or some other helpless, innocent creature.

  Then he learned how wrong he was.

  While the trio saddled up outside the manor, Jareth explained the predicament.

  “Wolves,” he said.

  Steve’s eyes went wide. “Wolves? Why wolves?”

  “Our family has livestock on a pasture on the other side of this forest. Though they’re fenced in from harm, a pack of wolves recently broke in and slaughtered one of our cows. So, we’re going to find the bastards and kill them, as a protective measure.”

  That made sense, but it didn’t calm Steve’s nerves. He didn’t enjoy the fact they’d be hunting an animal that could fight back. It was a poacher’s worst nightmare, he imagined, other than PETA.

  They left the barn and headed into the woods. Steve quickly found out how deep the surrounding forest went.

  He stayed behind Tiberius and Jareth’s horses. The father and son wore leather armor over their clothes and had bows slung across their backs. They used bows because they said guns spooked the animals, and because they didn’t have any guns.

  They did have a flare gun, though. They gave it to Steve, in case he was separated from the group and found himself lost or in danger. He wondered how they managed to smuggle a flare gun out of Terrus, but didn’t ask. He also carried an extra quiver of arrows for the two hunters and a large, empty burlap bag.

  The woods thinned out after a short ride, making it easier to maneuver their horses around the trees. The thin birch trees went as far as the eye could see, though that wasn’t very far.

  Steve could hear the chirping of birds and the continuous buzzing of insects. He kept slapping different parts of his exposed body as he felt mosquitoes having their way with him. Though it was a sunny morning, and tendrils of light snaked through the canopies, he was miserable.

  What have I gotten myself into? Why am I helping these people, other than because they told me to come along?

  Steve realized he was not fit to be a servant, by any means. He was too independent and questioning. He wondered if he could annoy Tiberius and Jareth enough for them to dismiss him. He wanted to go looking for Geddon or Selestria, but knew it was a faulty plan. He would be better off staying put, for the time being, while the two Mythics found answers. Why did Barns betray them? Where was the real painting that would lead to Tetsuo, their leader? Steve knew he’d be easier to find here, as part of the Reynolds’ household.

  Plus, he liked being close to Annabel.

  It had only been a single day since he’d seen her, but he missed her immensely.

  One of the two hunters called his name, shaking him from his daydream. When he looked up, Tiberius was motioning to him.

  He brought his horse through the trees, its hooves crunching leaves and undergrowth. He came to a larger tree, with a broken branch leaning and touching the ground.

  Tiberius pointed at the leafy ground. “What do you see, boy?”

  Steve frowned. He was growing tired of Tiberius’ antics, especially being called “boy.” But he held his tongue. Looking at the ground, he saw paw prints and he told Tiberius and Jareth as much.

  “Correct,” Tiberius said. “The prints lead deeper into the woods, into the thickets.”

  His father said, “We’ll leave our horses with Steven and travel slowly.”

  Steve had trouble managing one horse—he had no idea how he was going to handle three.

  “Should I come with you, sir?” he asked.

  Jareth shook his head. “You aren’t as attuned to the woods as we are—you’ve been causing a ruckus since the start.”

  “Sorry,” Steve said, but he wasn’t.

  Jareth pointed over Steve’s shoulder. “There’s a watering hole less than half a mile that way. Take the horses there and wait for us. If anything troubling happens, you have the flare gun.”

  Steve said, “What about you? Don’t you want the flare gun in case something bad happens?”

  Jareth looked thoughtfully at Steve. “Would you be able to help us if you saw a flare in the sky?”

  That was a good point. “No,” Steve said, “I doubt I’d even be able to find you.”

  “Exactly.”

  Jareth and Tiberius handed the reins of their horses to Steve and dismounted. They took their bows from their shoulders and crept away from the tree, follo
wing the paw prints.

  Steve was alone, only the buzzing and chirping of wildlife to keep him company. He gripped the reins of the two riderless horses and trotted off in the direction Jareth had pointed. He didn’t know if it was north or south, up or down—he was lost in these woods.

  It didn’t take long for the trees to widen and the undergrowth to become more forgiving. Before long, he passed a low-hanging branch, ducking to avoid being tossed from his horse. After the branch, he opened his eyes to a large clearing.

  The watering hole appeared abruptly. It was a wide, shimmering pond, surrounded by mossy banks and stones. It reminded Steve of a Disney fairy tale land. This would be where the sirens lured the men with their silky songs, before making love to them and drowning them.

  Steve was shocked when he noticed a woman in a white dress on the other side of the wide pond. She hummed to herself—her back turned to him—and stood next to a black horse, who slurped from the pond.

  Instead of it being a deadly siren, it was Annabel. Steve recognized the jet black hair that swept past her shoulders. The horse beside her was Francesca the Third.

  Steve’s heart leaped. He jumped from his horse and ran to the other side of the pond, dragging the three horses behind him.

  When he was halfway around the bank, Annabel heard the approaching footsteps and spun around with a look of abject terror.

  Her expression brightened when she realized who spooked her. They locked in a tight embrace and kissed each other. Steve felt Annabel bury her head in the crook of his neck, an energetic sensation creeping up his spine.

  They looked at each other’s faces without saying a word.

  After a long, drawn-out moment, Annabel broke the silence. “What are you doing here, darling?”

  “I could ask you the same, Bel.”

  Annabel shrugged. “While my parents sleep during the day, I have free rein to do as I please. I found your horse in the stables—a clue that you’d been there recently—and came here to look for Charles. I haven’t seen my brother for quite some time. Betsy needs water, though.” She patted the mare’s neck.

  Steve smiled. “Her name is Francesca the Third.”