Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

The minute hand moved around the clock slowly at first, but continued to quicken, and Michael turned with it to watch until it had made a full circle, and was surprised again when the hour hand then moved also, the clock now marking one o’clock. Still the hands continued to move and Michael turned with them, the coloured tiles around him glistening through the constant stream of water that attacked them. Two o’clock… five o’clock… nine o’clock.

The minute hand began to slow its pace after eleven o’clock, and as Michael watched it pass the six, marking eleven-thirty, he began to hear a deep rumbling from the clouds above him. The rumble continued as the hand slowed further, now passing the nine. Underneath his soaking clothes he could feel the hairs on his arms stand on end; the goose bumps arise across his body’s surface – the expectation of a return to twelve o’clock unexpectedly heightening the tension in him. The growing electricity in the air surrounding him became palpable as the clock minute hand passed the eleven. An invisible bubble of something powerful was growing within the confines of the clock-face – Michael now paralysed in the centre of it. He watched with a growing anxiety, his skin feeling as if it would be sucked from the surface of his body, as the minute hand finally crept to its starting position at twelve, once again perfectly aligned with the hour hand.

CRACK!

The noise was deafening as the lightning struck, and it was a few seconds before Michael realised he had been thrown from his position and was now lying in a large puddle of water. The sound of the rain was gone, replaced by ringing in his ears. Light seemed to flash in his eyes – the aftereffects of the brilliant light from the bolt of some god’s wrath.

Michael lay back in the puddle, breathing heavily, and closed his eyes. He had never been so close to a lightning strike; never before felt its immense power, and he was overwhelmed at its focussed intensity.

After a short while, the ringing in his ears began to subside, and it was only then that he realised he still could no longer hear the rain, nor could he feel it falling on him. He opened his eyes to the heavens, and while the sky was still filled with dark clouds, the rain had stopped – as if the lightning bolt itself had given its orders, the subservient clouds instantly obeying.

As he sat up, he realised he had been thrown perhaps four or five feet towards the number six on the clock face and saw immediately that the bolt had hit precisely the twelve on the clock; the end of the minute hand had blackened: time pinned forever at mid-night… or noon.

Looking towards the blackened clock hand from where he sat, he noticed black gates in the distance – an entrance to a park and gardens. He didn’t remember the gardens being there, but then he had never stood in this spot and looked that way before. Although he had walked through this shopping precinct countless times on his way to the library, he had never paused to examine the surroundings. To Michael these shops represented people’s insatiable desire to follow the latest fashion and obtain the newest gadgets – to slavishly worship at the feet of the trendsetting gods of society.
 

He couldn’t understand why so many people fell into such mindless consumerism, but he constantly saw people doing precisely that, and it appalled him. And so he would hurry through this part of his morning and evening walk, head down and never glancing up the alleyways that led away from the shops. Now though he was staring at the open gates perhaps fifty yards away, and he immediately knew that the garden was his next destination, feeling the same pull that had already compelled him to walk through the pouring rain today.

He rose to his feet, the flashing now gone from his eyes, and began the next stage of his journey, towards the gates, passing the top of the ground clock now showing time frozen forever.

By the time he was a handful of paces away, he had forgotten completely the clock, his eyes now focussed on the gates. As he approached, he noticed a distinct chill creep into the air – the temperature appeared to be dropping – and he felt his body quiver for a brief second. He ignored it, however, as he came closer, noticing that the gates were ajar. The wrought iron columns were typical of gates into public gardens, but Michael noticed that these gates had a large decorative triangular shape along their inner edges, half of the design on either side of the gate’s edges so that when closed the shapes from both gates would overlap with each other. The lines on each side of the triangles were perhaps eighteen inches in length and were not straight, but rather curved back and forth. And instead of making a point at each place where one side of the triangle became the next, the line looped around on itself forming a kind of simple Celtic knot, before heading along the next side of the triangle.

Michael had passed through the gates and taken a few steps into the gardens when he heard the clang of the gates as they closed behind him. The sound startled him, and with a flash of fear he turned quickly, knowing instinctively that he was trapped in the garden. But his fear inexplicably departed, the patterns on the gates piquing his interest instead. He saw how the triangles had overlaid each other and now formed what he could only describe as a type of Woodland Star, with intertwining branches or vines where the lines of each triangle crossed each other. The Celtic knots in place of points now looked more like six evenly spaced flowers, each with three petals.
 

There was something in the shape that held Michael transfixed – apart they had simply been two unusual triangles, but joined together they had become something quite beautiful. The iron-wrought Woodland Star now seemed more real than the rest of the gates – more permanent and substantial, living even. Surely this is how it had been intended to be. Its prior parting now seemed a violence against nature itself. He couldn’t imagine it ever coming apart again, and for a reason he couldn’t understand he found a great comfort in that.
Something this beautiful shouldn’t ever be divided
, he thought. He was pleased that the gates had closed so that he could witness this.

As he turned to again face the gardens – the pull of… something… once more calling him – he noticed that a mist was descending. It reminded him that it was getting colder, the water that was soaked through his clothes now starting to chill him. The pebbled path beneath him was wide enough for perhaps three people walking side-by-side, and as he again began to walk the sound of the small stones under his feet seemed loud against the stillness of the air around him, almost echoing off the thickening mist. The trees that lined the path were just beginning to be obscured by the haze of the descending fog; the rich colours of the autumnal leaves that filled their branches dulled by filmy wisps in the air. The beds of flowers and shrubs that Michael had briefly noticed when he first entered the gardens were now completely hidden.

As he walked, Michael could feel the rub of his trainers against his wet socks start to blister his heels, but he continued without slowing. He needed to get there. This was
important
.

The path was perfectly straight and the fog continued to grow, and after a few minutes, he could only see perhaps twenty feet ahead. As he looked to his sides, he noticed that the trees along this part of the path had lost more than half of their leaves, as if his journey had been through time itself, each step bringing nature’s slumber closer. The air had grown colder still, and Michael was now lightly shivering as he walked.

He knew it wasn’t far now. Although he had never before seen these gardens or been on this path, an urgency was filling his chest, a tense expectation extending through his body. He was nearly there, he knew. As he looked to the sides of the path again, he saw the trees were nearly lost in the fog – only the ends of their now desolate branches visible, pointing like skeletal fingers directly towards him. It was as if they were accusing him of their barrenness. If he hadn’t come here, they silently shouted, they would still be in spring’s bloom. The fog would not have come and they would be basking in glory.

Michael’s shivering intensified, and the blisters on his heels now caused a sharp pain with every step. He tore his eyes from the trees and back to the path ahead, the urgency in his chest pulling him forward.

As soon as he looked ahead, he saw it, and it compelled him to a sudden stop. He knew instantly that this was what was calling him, but it wasn’t what he had expected. A dozen paces in front of him rose a sword. Its golden hilt was glistening through the mist, and the steel of the long blade was shining as if in perfect sunlight. Michael had visited museums and had seen real swords before, but they were old, dulled by time; many with pockets of rust. The one before him now was gleaming as it if had only just been forged and polished, issued to a king or general who would raise it in the air; its shiny surface visible to soldiers far and wide, calling them to battle.

Michael took tentative steps toward the sword, edging closer until it was within grasp. The top of the hilt was level with his stomach, and Michael wondered how far the blade was buried, and how long the sword was when fully drawn. It still called to him, but he felt no compulsion to try to draw it from the ground, or even to touch it. He needed to understand it, not hold it.

As he studied the hilt, he saw that the pommel was in the shape of two faces, one facing each arm of the guard. From where he stood, on the left was the face of a young woman, and on the right that of a much older woman, her wrinkled face moulded into the golden surface. As he slowly walked around the sword he could see that on the other side of the pommel the faces changed from female to male, although the contrast of young and old remained. He didn’t study the faces, though; his eyes drawn downwards. Below the pommel there were shoulders and then arms that wound around the grip, as if embracing the sword’s handle. Elbows turned at right angles to form the guard, the lower arms ending in open upturned palms.

Michael knelt in front of the sword to examine the blade. He was so engrossed in his inspection that he didn’t notice the silence broken by the deep rumblings from the clouds overhead. Oblivious to the growing anger above, he gazed at his reflection in the blade. It was only now that he saw his own image that he realised how cold his body was, as he saw his lips had turned blue, his long face – usually considered attractive – now looking gaunt with the signs of his chill.

The grumbling from the clouds above grew stronger. An electrical force started to build within the sword’s sphere and Michael’s skin again responded with goose-bumps. A vague awareness of his danger started to rise, when he saw it at the very top of the blade… the Woodland Star engraved into the bright steel. Confusion, excitement, and fear all coalesced in Michael’s chest and stomach, as the energy in the air surrounding him grew stronger. He was trying to understand why this symbol would be on both the entrance gates to the garden and on this sword – why it excited him – when something was again trying to pull the skin from his bones, the stretching sensation now turning to pain.

A jolt of awareness returned to him, suddenly remembering the clock, and the lightning bolt. A sudden rush of fear filled him with adrenaline. Closing his eyes, he turned and sprung just in time.

CRACK!

Michael felt himself flung through the air, his hard landing knocking the wind from him. The noise was beyond anything he could have imagined. There was no ringing in his ears this time, but the silence in the gardens was amplified. As he squirmed on the ground catching his breath, he realised he could not hear the movement of the pebbles underneath him. The sound of the lightning strike had this time deafened him. If he hadn’t closed his eyes and turned away in time, he would have been blinded, too.
 

When he was able to sit up, he looked back at the sword. It had gleamed before, somehow gathering and reflecting what little light there was through the fog, but now it glowed. Since heaven’s touch its light came from within – a soft white light warming the air around it.

Michael crawled closer and waited in its warmth until his breath had fully returned, but he couldn’t stay here. Whatever power had drawn him here, now released him; the purpose of his coming to the sword complete. But while up until now he had known exactly where to go, he had no such pull this time. As he looked around, he saw two pathways leading in opposite directions – both at right angles from the one on which he had come here. With no obvious way of choosing between them, but sensing that he needed to choose quickly, he picked the left path, and again began walking.

The warmth of the sword had removed much of the chill from his bones, but his heels were truly hurting with the growing blisters. After walking with the pain for a few minutes he decided he would stop and remove his shoes.
My feet can’t get any colder
, he thought. As he bent to untie his laces he realised that he was standing on soft grass, all signs of the path having vanished. The realisation hit him that the loss of his hearing had removed the sound of the crunching pebbles beneath his feet, silencing the one thing that had kept him from becoming lost in this vast expanse of white vapour. He tried to retrace his steps, but the fog was now so thick that he could barely see beyond his outstretched arm. After about twenty paces he gave up. In this mist, he would never find his way back to the path.

Not knowing what else to do, he decided to remove his shoes as planned, and then stood for a moment.
Which way?
he thought, glancing in each direction; searching for any clue that might help his decision.
 

As his eyes scoured the surrounding expanse of white, he caught the faintest hint of movement out of the corner of his right eye. He immediately turned to face it, but saw nothing but fog.
 

What was that?

This time the movement flashed by on his left. Something dark he was sure, but when he turned to face it, there was nothing there. His stomach started to churn, fear beginning to ferment within him.