The Waking Dreamer (2 page)

“Elder,” Rhiannon said as she looked with pain at the mother. “We brought Amala tonight as you instructed.” She motioned to the girl, who stood uncomfortably still, her small hands fidgeting within the folds of her muted orange dress. “But what is—”

“The mother,” the Archivist interrupted. “Poor thing will never fully recover. Find a hospital for her, Oliver. See that she remembers nothing of this or us.”

Amala looked up at Oliver and saw him shaking his head at Rhiannon. “Of course, my Elder,” he said slowly, as if unsure whether to obey or not.

“Amala and Rhiannon will stay with me. We have things to discuss. We will return to our Grove together,” the Archivist said, not looking up from the infant still cradled in her arms.

Oliver looked like he was about to object when Rhiannon subtly shook her head. Still the Archivist did not turn to look at him as he sighed and stepped over the pool of birthing blood to kneel beside the mother.

Nine months of various abuses had robbed the mother of her natural beauty, transforming a once-petite face into a death mask with skin now stretched across a gaunt frame. Her long, dark hair was brittle and prematurely gray at the temples. As Rhiannon stroked the backside of her hand over the skeleton-like body, the mother roused and gripped the Druid’s wrist.

“Get … it … away … from … me …,” she slurred, eyes fluttering as the rise and fall of her chest waned dangerously.

Oliver bent and lifted the woman easily out of Rhiannon’s hands. He pursed his lips and hummed a short series of tones softly into her ear. Her shivering body calmed immediately, responding to a wave of warm air.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Oliver whispered as Rhiannon stood. “Be careful, my morning flame. I couldn’t bear the darkness without your light.”

Amala recognized the tension release from Rhiannon whenever Oliver called her his morning flame. The two kissed before he winked at Amala. Bowing his head curtly at the Archivist’s back, he carried the bloodied mother in his arms out of the boiler room.

With Oliver gone, Rhiannon turned to wait for their Elder’s command. Amala’s almond-shaped eyes locked onto the infant, and the serpent, too, craned its neck to see the newborn child. Amala’s finger absently twirled around the serpent’s tail in the same way other little girls twirl their hair. Her dazzling eyes were wide with interest in the baby, and she stood unmoving as the old woman, rocking the infant in her arms, began to slowly circle the room and whisper to him.

“Amala,” Rhiannon said again with a lowered voice. “It is the highest honor of any Druid to serve their Grove’s Elder. Ours is the oldest and most powerful of all the nine in the world. Obey her words and remember the lessons you learn tonight.”

The little girl nodded quickly with a child’s expression of awe, focusing her attention on her Elder.

“So, Amala,” the old woman began as she finished circling the room and came to stand just before the child. “I suppose I should be asking you of your training, yes?”

“I’m learning how to listen to my Wisdom. I found you tonight,” Amala nodded before looking down at the ground. “But it took me three days. I’m sorry
…
I’ll get better.”

“You found me when it was time,” the Archivist chuckled, crinkling her nose. “And what have you learned?”

Amala looked up as she began recounting. “Our Grove is called Silvan Dea, and you are our Elder, which means I do whatever you tell me.”

The old woman seemed highly amused by this. “What else?”

“Well, ’Anna hasn’t taught me the Dance yet. She said I have to learn how to listen to my Wisdom more.” She looked to Rhiannon for approval, who beamed with pride. “But Oliver said he thought I was ready to learn to fight, and he tells me about the monsters I’ll face. The
really
bad ones, too.”

Again the Archivist tickled the infant’s chin. “Oh, what of them?”

“The Underdwellers,” Amala pronounced slowly, the word awkward in the mouth of a child. “And he told me about the Revenants, the Wights. And ghosts. And he even told me about the Shadowkind that you can only see out of the corner of your eye.”

“Quite the education. Has he told you about the Old Ones?”

The girl shook her head.

“I see. You like Rhiannon and Oliver?”

“She’s my best friend,” the girl answered as Rhiannon looked down as if to weep. “And Oliver, too. I like him.”

“And what do you think of the baby?” the old woman asked.

Amala stood unmoving, uncertain how properly to respond. “I don’t know,” she shrugged with a child’s curious half-smile. “I don’t know him. His mommy didn’t like him.”

“The child spent nine months whispering into her mind,” she said, running a finger along the baby’s lips and smiling with pleasure as he began to suckle. “We must pity those who are driven to madness, Amala. But of the baby, ask your Wisdom,” she prompted.

As if in response, the serpent stretched forward. It tasted the air inches from the baby’s face. The infant’s eyes followed the serpent’s bobbing movements, foregrounded by the green wings of the luna moths. The serpent finally brought its head back to Amala’s and rested against her cheek.

“She likes him,” Amala finally said, the serpent now disappearing back into the girl’s thick hair. “So … I like him, too,” she said with a pleased expression on her round face.

“Good. A Druid must always trust her Wisdom,” the Archivist said, kneeling again so that Amala and the infant were at eye-level. Amala caressed the baby’s cheek with the back of her small hand as his hazel eyes slowly closed.

“He’s tired,” Amala nodded. “Babies need lots of sleep.”

“Yes, Amala, they do. But you see, when
this
baby sleeps, he dreams, and when he dreams, he calls out into the darkness.” The woman’s expression grew distant suddenly, eyes narrowing as she looked down at the sleeping infant.

“Who does he call to?” Amala asked.

“That which does not sleep,” the old woman answered.

Amala did not understand, yet she felt heaviness in the words. She saw Rhiannon’s confused expression, too. “What does that mean?”

The Archivist shook her head silently.

“There are reasons why I wanted you here to greet this new life. I will tell you something, Amala—a secret. But you must promise me that you will tell no one. Not Rhiannon or Oliver. No one at Silvan Dea, nor any other Druid or Bard in any of the other eight Groves in the world. And most certainly not to your future Companion, however necessary it might seem. You will want to. You will feel that you need to. But you must not. Do I have your word?”

She nodded somewhat reluctantly. Rhiannon was friend, sister, and mother to her now; she did not know how she could keep anything from her. With Rhiannon nodding her approval at her, Amala knew that, above all else, to be a Druid meant to obey one’s Elder.

The old woman leaned forward and whispered words into the little girl’s ear, words not meant for Rhiannon, Oliver, or anyone else in all the world. Most of them made no sense to the child. One moment she almost giggled; another she grew quiet; and finally, she trembled with fear. After a few moments, the Archivist finished abruptly, looked over her shoulder at a dark corner of the boiler room, and turned again to the sleeping infant. “Ah, and so the battle for the Waking Dreamer begins.”

The old woman’s motions became quick and agile. She moved to the birthing area and bent down to drag a finger through a puddle of blood. She moved to a spot in the opposite corner and traced a small circle on the ground, edging the circle with various symbols. She hummed to herself, occasionally saying words that Amala did not recognize. Yet there was a charge building in the air as if the words spoken commanded their own energy. And Amala felt that energy, first in the fine hairs along her arms, and then through her Wisdom, who reemerged and excitedly tasted the air.

“Come, child, quickly,” the old woman motioned, and Amala recognized the tone of adult urgency. Taking her Elder’s outstretched hand, Amala followed and stepped into the bloody circle.

Rhiannon’s posture tensed at their Elder’s tone. “What is it, Elder?”

“Hold him like me,” the Archivist said, ignoring Rhiannon and lowering the infant toward Amala.

The little girl shaped her small arms the same as the old woman’s, and as she did the infant was placed into her care, still glossy with afterbirth and fast asleep.

Amala’s Wisdom and Rhiannon’s hawk both jerked toward the dark corner of the boiler room that the Archivist had examined. A sensation of the most primal, visceral panic shocked the child’s small body. “’Anna!” she cried out instinctively, her arms trembling even as she held fast to the sleeping infant.

Rhiannon had already reacted, withdrawing the iron stave bound across her back and thrusting it defensively before her.

“It is not yet time for you to dream, child,” the Archivist said as she ran a still-bloody finger in a strange pattern across the baby’s forehead. “Not until Amala returns for you.”

The old woman stepped outside the bloody circle, turning her back to stare into the dark corner. Thunder crashed again and again in an unending procession; lightning arced across the sky in web-like formations as rain poured into the room.

“Send word that we will arrive in the morning,” she said aloud seemingly to herself, but as one, the mass of delicate moths turned in the darkness and flitted upward, disappearing through a gap in the roof.

Rhiannon’s Wisdom had already taken flight up through the holes in the ceiling, perching itself in the rafters as the Druid spun her stave aloft over her head.

“Amala, take the baby and hide!” Rhiannon commanded.

“No,” the Archivist corrected over her shoulder. “Remain silent and still, child. You and the infant are hidden within the circle. You are now responsible for his safety.”

The serpent twisted in the air, growing more agitated. Rhiannon had told Amala about true darkness in the world—not the absence of light that came with the setting sun, but the absence of hope that gave space to invading despair. Oliver may have described the monsters, creatures of the night that masqueraded as humans or hid deep in the earth, but Rhiannon told her of the evil that festered in the hearts of the wicked. And Amala had always listened, secure with her mentors and yet fearing the day when she would finally see evil for herself.

The air around her grew heavy, immense; it tasted bitter, stinging the nose. The darkness intensified somehow, weighed down as if the shadows held form and mass. Amala felt pressure against the insides of her ears, and they popped so hard that she had to bite down on her own lip to stop herself from crying out. The infant now woke and gazed silently upward, unmoving in her arms even as she trembled in the cold downpour.

Amala’s Elder stood yards away, staring fixedly at the dark corner of the ceiling. “Appear and be done with it,” she said defiantly into the darkness.

She was answered by a bellowing sound that began like the rush of high tide. It grew quickly, becoming a mixture of roars and mocking laughter that caused Amala’s serpent to contort tightly as she felt her knees grow weak with fear.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the corner. The figure was taller than the old woman and was concealed mostly in whirls of black, inky shadows that writhed in the air. Through the shadows, the figure’s outline produced a pair of glowing, pupil-less red eyes devoid of white. It showed a wide, grinning mouth just beneath where a nose should have been. The mouth was set with two rows of unnaturally white teeth locked in a grin that mocked the innate and effortless softness of a genuine human smile. Yet a false smile could not hide the figure’s capricious and unrelenting contempt for all.

Stave pointed forward as if she meant to skewer it, Rhiannon leapt at the figure with such speed even Amala’s Druidic eyes could not follow her form. An invisible force met Rhiannon bluntly, effortlessly throwing her back against the wall. She groaned under the invisible pressure that pinned her upside down against the brick, blood seeping from her head, trickling down her fiery red hair. It was only her terror that kept Amala from screaming, never before knowing any man who could so harm the strongest and most powerful person she’d ever known.

Do you like my new monkey skin, Mother? I spent decades stretching it out. Don’t you think it suits me?

The figure spoke into their minds, a chorus of murderers and sadists crying out as one. Amala shut her eyes but was unable to block out the figure’s words.

Ah, it has been too long since I last saw you. Siddim, was it? Or Dachau, perhaps? No, no I remember now. It was Nyarubuye. Yes, hysterical weeping. The air tasted fetid and decadent. I saw you there prostrate on your knees, mourning the monkeys. It marred the moment’s picturesque qualities.

The preternatural grin turned sideways as if an unseen nose were sniffing the air.
Where is the child? He called out for his Master. I can smell his mother’s womb still fresh on his newborn skin. Where are you, little boy? I wish to know your untouched skin. Come out and let me taste your mommy’s insides still wet on your pink flesh.

The old woman sighed, looking directly into the red eyes. “It is not yet your time. Leave this place.”

The shadows rolled down the walls like melting wax. They reached out like tendrils across the floor toward the old woman. The shadows entwined themselves like vines around her feet, climbing her body. With no change to her calm expression, she batted her hand backward as if repelling a mosquito, and the darkness recoiled immediately, retreating back into the corner.

If you’re so powerful, why not banish me forever? Grant me a reprieve from the eons I have tolerated their ignorance and self-importance, their fawning and sycophantic ways. I long for the abyssal silence that once existed before the monkeys learned their grating speech.

“I do not claim such power,” the Archivist said. “But the day
will
come when you and those like you are removed from this world. Soon.”

Amala heard the figure laugh into their minds; she heard screaming children and weeping women in that laugh.