Castle Dreams (10 page)

“It isn't a feeling. They are a pack of cutthroats posing as noble freedom fighters. They have duped everyone who has lent them support."

“Do they have support?"

“Enormous support. They have their supporters in the legislature itself, some of them in the Upper Chamber."

“Interesting."

“Their cause is widely held to be just. I, personally, think they have already won. The Dominion is doomed. It's only a matter of time. But some of us fight on."

“To save the Dominion."

“Yes. Some are still foolish enough to believe in it and in the principles for which is stands."

“Which are?"

“You want a lecture on government?"

“Not if you don't want to lecture me,” he said, “though maybe we should talk about more important matters. Like, what do we do now?"

Sativa lifted her shoulders. “I suppose you turn me in for whatever you can bargain out of the Irregulars."

“Forget that noise. Do we hide in the mine or take to the hills?"

She shrugged again. “It matters little. They will find us no matter what."

“Then our best bet is the mine,” he said.

“Is it? I suppose. It will simply delay my capture. There is only one way out, really. Please give me my gun."

“Forget about shooting yourself. I won't let them take you."

She looked up at him. “No? Strange.” She made motions to get up.

“Rest a minute,” he said, settling down beside her.

She gave him a long, questioning look. “Why are you helping me?"

He leaned over and kissed her full lips.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don't know why I did that. Well, yes, I do know. You're tremendously attractive."

“You want me? Then take me. I have no means to resist you."

“I'd hardly want you under those circumstances."

“If that is the reason you're helping me, fine. At least I can understand that."

“I don't usually take advantage of women."

“You like men?"

“Not what I meant."

“Then take me.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her crotch.

The material of the suit she wore was thinner then he'd expected it to be.

“You know how to get right to the point,” he said.

“We don't have very much time."

“Your wound,” he said, running his hand along the bloody tear.

“It will be all right."

She touched a few spots on the front of the suit and the whole thing opened up with a ripping sound like Velcro. He didn't see any Velcro. She was naked underneath.

His hand went immediately to the laceration along her side. It was long and ugly, but had just missed doing any real damage. The bleeding had stopped, and the wound was already scabbing over. Then his hand went to her small breasts.

“Yes, take me now, before they rape me."

“I won't let them. You're beautiful, do you know?"

“Some say."

“Do you have a husband?"

“Yes. He is an artist."

“I don't do married women. This is ridiculous."

“What is ridiculous about it?"

“Nothing. Sorry. I didn't mean that you're—"

“Then make love to me."

“Yes, I will."

 

 

 

 

UNDERWORLD

 

He waited, but did not know for what.

He waited on the banks of a wide river. Above, darkness, with a suggestion of limit, as of a roof. This place might be a vast cavern. Huge rocks lined the river bank, save on the narrow gravel strand where he stood watching the outer darkness for signs of life.

He did not think there was much life here.

The waters of the river were black, gray-black near the river bank, shading to inky-black farther out. The current was slow. Shallow wavelets angled into shore from his right, lapping the gravel with a sound like a dog at its water bowl. The river flowed silently, inexorably. Darkness and silence.

He wondered how he could make anything out at all. There was no source of light. This, he decided, was the realm of darkness visible.

What a striking turn of phrase, he thought.

He also wondered why he sensed a roof to the place. Perhaps it was simply a dark sky. But no; this place was underground. Deep underground. There was a hushed stillness, a quietude that could not be explained otherwise.

He listened to the water suckling at the river bank, feeding on its substance. He stamped the ground. The place on which he stood was real enough. He wasn't dreaming. He decided to defer trying to answer the question of how he had come to this place. Nor would he have a go at some corollary puzzles: Where was this place? What had he been doing before this?

Who was he?

Who?

No, better to put all that off indefinitely. One could not properly ask questions with so few facts at one's disposal. It was better to wait, to observe, to gather information. Only then would it be possible to formulate a hypothesis.

No, don't ask:
Wait for what? Observe what?
Although there was nothing here but the perceivable absence of light, he was sure something would turn up. Something would appear out of obscurity, and that something would be meaningful.

He looked out across the waters.

Nothing.

He sought out something to sit on and found a suitably flat rock at the edge of the strand. He eased himself down and listened to the water. It said nothing to him. Silence closed in, and he thought he could hear the beating of his heart. This mildly surprised him, because he had somehow got the notion that he had no heart. He considered the matter again and decided that what he heard might have been something else, some deep underground pulse. The throb of machinery. That notion struck him as unlikely. He listened again. Yes, it seemed to be his own heart. Puzzled as to why he had failed to think of it before, he put his left index finger against his right wrist. A pulse! He was alive. His body was real.

But why wouldn't it be real? No answer to that.

This place struck a chord in him. Something about it stirred him deep inside; yet it smacked of the unreal. This was all supposed to mean something. He knew not what.

Resolving to find out what it all meant, he cast himself deep into thought.

 

There was something out in the darkness.

First, merely a suggestion, a black shape on black. Then, movement, difficult to detect but growing ever perceptible. Slow, steady movement, like that of a boat on water.

It was a boat. The form took shape out of the shadows. It was a long, narrow boat, an elongated skiff, its sharp prow parting the dark waters. A single figure stood at the stern. Gradually, the figure's man-shape revealed itself; but the outline was something more than an ordinary man's. It towered a head and a half taller than workaday mortals, and the arms that grasped the tiller-oar (for the huge wooden beam seemed to be both) were sculpted of magnificent sinews.

The boat could hold a number of passengers; perhaps as many as seven or eight. Ten with crowding and the risk of capsizing.

The figure at the tiller now grew to superhuman proportions, not so much in size as in fearful aspect. The gray-bearded face grew discernible. There was not much humanity in that face. It looked like a mask. Yet it was somehow lifelike. An animated mask. The eyes seemed to glow. In them was the gleam of intelligence but not much else. No pity; surely no compassion. However, neither was there malevolence.
¹

[
^1.
The extreme tip of Latin America is an endlessly fascinating area of the world]

This was a businessman.

The boat approached the shore at a sharp angle, heading in toward the left edge of the strand.

He got up and walked to the edge of the strand and there discovered that a stone jetty extended a short distance out from the riverbank. It could be a natural formation, he decided, though he was not at all sure. The boatman swung the tiller around and the long craft aligned its length with the edge of the jetty.

He walked out from shore over water-smoothed boulders.

“Greetings,” he said when he reached the boat.

The boatman nodded his great head. His hair was an unruly mass of gray.

“What's across the river?"

The boatman heaved his huge shoulders. “I know not, nor care.” The voice was resonantly deep.

“Is it your job to take people across?"

A nod. “That it is."

“Then, I suppose..."

The boatman's left arm made a sweeping invitation.

“Come aboard my boat. But first—"

“Yes?"

“You must pay."

“Ah, yes. Of course."

For the first time he realized that he was naked.

“I'm afraid I have no money."

The boatman's dark brow lowered. “Then you may not cross."

“Pity. May I ask how payment is usually made?"

“They take from their eyes coins, like golden tears."

“I see.” He reached and touched his eyes. “I have none."

“Then you may not cross."

“This appears hopeless. What can one offer in lieu of coins?"

The boatman's voice was flat. “Nothing."

“You're quite sure? Is there no service I can perform? No favor that I might bestow?"

“None."

“Have you no needs?"

“Not many. Those which I have are met with money."

“Why was I brought here?"

The boatman shook his head in response. “I know not."

“It seems as though I should cross, that I was meant to cross."

“So it would seem,” the boatman agreed.

“Yet I am barred from this possibility."

“Again, so it would seem."

“And you have no explanation?"

“None."

He regarded the boatman for a moment. The boatman's cold gaze met his. At length the huge man turned and grasped the tiller. Angling it toward the rocks, he began to push the boat out into the river.

“Wait."

The boatman turned from his task. “Why?"

“There must be something I can do for you. You say your needs are met with money. Have you no other requirements, no yearnings, such that cannot be satisfied with material gain?"

“Such as?"

“Companionship?"

The boatman grunted.

He persisted: “You are never lonely?"

“Never."

“Is this all you do? Plying the river, taking souls to and fro?"

“Yes. Why do you ask?"

“You never grow weary?"

“Never."

“You are never bored?"

The boatman was silent, his cold gaze deflecting.

“What say you to that?"

The boatman looked up. “The task does at times grow tedious."

“Ah. Then I can help."

The boatman looked dubious. “How so?"

“I can entertain you."

The boatman again gave a skeptical grunt.

“I can tell you stories."

“Stories?"

“Yes. I know many."

“Stories of what, and of what interest would they be to me?"

“You won't know until I tell you. Stories of other realms, other regions. Other worlds than this. You, who know only those dark, despairing waters, would naturally be interested."
²

[
^2.
To my knowledge, the author has never done a book on Tierra del Fuego.]

“This I doubt,” the boatman said.

“I guarantee that you would find it diverting."

The boatman considered the matter. Then he said, “Tell me of these things."

“Take me across."

“First tell me some of these stories of other worlds."

“I will not. I will begin only if you let me onto the boat."

The boatman thought long on it. At last he said, “Get in."

He ambled down from the rocks and boarded. Choosing a seat amidships, he sat and watched as the boatman pushed the craft out into the slow, shadowy waters of the river.

When the riverbank had receded into the darkness, the boatman said, “Now. I crave a bit of diversion. Tell me a story."

He drew a breath and began.

“A guy walks into a bar with a duck under his arm..."

 

 

 

 

CRYPT

 

Something split the darkness. A vertical line of light, widening.

The door of the dark chamber creaked open and a figure stood in the door frame, outlined against the light in the corridor outside. It was a man in a plumed hat, who then entered, stopping midway between the door and a half-illuminated table.

A flame appeared, limning a face, an upraised arm sleeved in green silk, and a hand holding a butane cigarette lighter.

The man in green approached the table, on which stood a candelabra holding five half-burnt tapers. He lit one taper, then another. A third. The room brightened.

He clicked the butane light off and slipped it into a pocket, then turned about to take in the surroundings. Shelves of books abounded in the chamber. Other shelving held a gallimaufry of knickknacks and oddments, games and gadgets, curios and other quaint conversation pieces. Maps, charts, drawings, and paintings, interspersed with a few photographs of scantily clad women, covered the stone walls.

It was a pleasantly cluttered room, but there was about it a feeling of disuse. The air was still, musty and cryptlike.

He crossed and closed the door. Taking off his cape, he hung it on a clothes tree to the right of the door. The hat he parked on a large mirrored hat rack tacked to the wall, where it found several colleagues to keep it company.

Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the room, as if trying to sense something invisible. He angled his head slightly, listening not so much to outside sounds as to his own inner voices.

“No,” he said finally. “Not even Inky."

Satisfied, he crossed the room slowly, noting familiar objects not seen in quite a while. Lingering to look at a framed photograph of an attractive young woman, he smiled faintly, fondly.

“Long ago and far away."

He paused in the middle of the room and made a sweeping motion with his right hand.