The Waking Dreamer (8 page)

The scene morphed again, a wash of colors and senses rushing past and through his awareness. She was sitting in a corner chair in an apartment now, an apartment that was immediately familiar to Emmett. As fading sunlight filtered in through the drawn curtains of the lone window, she nodded to herself with a turn of the page of her art history book
.

The familiar sights of his life’s dreams filled his consciousness. The mirrors. The nesting dolls. The painting on the wall. Only this painting was absent the words above the king’s head. Emmett looked deeply into the woman’s eyes and saw her passion for the art she lovingly read. The baroque masters. The impressionists. The perfect swirls of oil on canvas.

The image of the apartment shifted again. The woman’s pregnancy was more visible now. Her face was sunken and anxiety filled. She paced the apartment, weeping and shaking her head. She was begging someone to get out, yet there was no one else in the apartment with her. She was repeating the same words over and over, weeping as she did so. Gritting her teeth and covering her ears from some unseen noise, she finally grabbed a pen from the nightstand and began writing words onto her painting, words that Emmett immediately recognized.

Silence consumed the hollow sounds within the apartment, and once again the images merged and colors changed with the morphing of shapes and contours. Emmett felt a sharp, jolting rush of sensation as he was hurtled down a harsh, white hallway behind a rushing group of nurses and doctors.

Screaming pierced his consciousness. Hysterical, throttled fury. Amid the group of harried nurses, the woman strained vainly against her restraints, spitting and cursing. She frothed with rage. Large orderlies held her bucking fists and legs down as her mania stormed through her slim body.

Heavy perspiration matted her black hair to her face. Straining to hold her head up to see over the nurses, she looked directly at the dark corner in the room where two walls were joined. She wept hysterically. She gestured to the room’s bare corner, pleading with the nurses to see what she saw. But they saw nothing, and in her despair she wailed. Emmett felt her sobbing tear into the depths of his soul.

The images shifted again. The room was empty now. The woman was lying in a hospital bed staring mutely into the dark corner of her room, her glassy eyes transfixed as if waiting for the shadows to stir into form. Her smooth face had sunken, and in her eyes it appeared that a lifetime had passed.

She felt her flat stomach, and looking down at where once a child grew within her, she wept. Taking a used, crumpled tissue from her lap and bringing it to her mouth, she heaved again, her curved, frail body retching forward with each gurgling cough.

Her breathing was increasingly labored. Her thin arms pushed herself up from her bed, and with effort she lurched forward with arms outstretched for balance. She reached for the call button on her nightstand, her coughing continuing with frightening intensity. Her face registered panic, her eyes welling with tears.

Emmett was filled with pain, as if his consciousness were being suffocated. He wanted to cry out, but he found that he had no mouth; he wanted to reach out for her, yet he found that he had no arms or body. His awareness could not be changed, nor could his eyes be closed or turned away.

She fumbled with the call button, and a feeble, weak arm grabbed at her shoulder. The air was filled with the pungent odor of urine. She collapsed against the nightstand and off the bed, falling to the linoleum floor. With his acute awareness, Emmett could hear every grotesque, minute sound of her skull crashing against the edge of the nightstand. Crimson blood pooled beneath her head, her small body contorted in an unnatural posture.

When he thought his mind might shatter into a thousand discordant pieces, the images faded, each color returning to the empty void of his inner consciousness. Emmett felt his awareness returning to his body with the tingling of awakened limbs. He felt his essence drawn forward, anchored suddenly in substance. Emmett began to feel the fullness of his body—the contours of his limbs and the boundaries of his flesh.

“Everything that takes place has a beginning and an end,” an ageless, genderless voice said. It was like a soft wind caressing the back of his neck.

“Summer and winter, clouds and dews and rain.”

Beyond the voice, Emmett’s awareness extended to a chorus of sounds that seemed to have been present the entire time, and yet only now with this voice did he become aware of them: a baby’s joyous laughter; water splashing along river stones; the flutter of wings as a bird takes flight; the call of cicadas in the twilight; the roll of thunder across the edge of an approaching storm.

“The trees shed their leaves; the trees crown themselves in greenery and fruit.”

There were millions of individual voices, calls, and sounds layered and woven into a brilliant, pure tapestry. They produced the most perfect, sustained melody Emmett had ever heard. It suffused his entire being, stretching every space within his mind.

“All this from year to year forever and ever and ever.”

And with this pure sound of life and the voice that repeated the words on the mysterious painting, he heard another voice calling out to him. It continued to echo in his mind as the brilliant melody faded away to the periphery of his consciousness before it grew silent altogether, and only the insistent, repeating voice could be heard.

“Emmett, come back to me.”

It was Amala.

“Emmett, come back to me.”

Her voice was soft and delicate.

“Emmett, come back to me.”

He realized that she was repeating herself, insistent and yet patient with a reverence for the experience.

Emmett could feel his body again, and with trepidation he opened his eyes, feeling the world rush in around him as if his head had just emerged from the fathomless ocean depths. The quiet trickling of water deep in the cave tunnels was thunderous. The warm, unmoving air in the room was sweltering. In the near-total darkness of the cave, Emmett’s opened eyes felt blinded by what little light illuminated the surrounding area.

Amala was staring up. He lifted his neck, feeling his muscles respond to his command. Emmett gasped in wonder. A swarm of bats glided in a uniform flock above their heads, circling around the room with the natural grace borne of flight.

“Call to her,” Amala instructed, this time with urgency in her voice.

“Archivist,” Emmett said. He did not know if he felt foolish or afraid—perhaps both—but something felt too bare, too exposed. Had Amala seen what he had seen?

“Call out to her,” Amala repeated.

“Archivist,” Emmett said her name again. He felt his voice growing as Amala’s grip tightened, urging him.

“Give her name meaning, Emmett. With faith that there is a release from the pain of this life, call out to her!”

Something in the pleading of her voice and the warmth of her hands told him that she needed him to
feel
the calling as much as say it. He had to bare himself even more—surrender to the experience and to the vision itself.

He saw the image again in his mind: the woman who had studied art history and smiled over the life growing inside her; the woman who wept for her missing child; the woman who collapsed and died alone with no one to love or comfort her. Emmett knew who that pregnant woman was. He knew who she wept for in the final moments of her life. He felt the agony rushing through him, coursing through every acute sense in his body, and centering in the dull ache where the Rot was consuming him.

“Archivist!” Emmett cried out, feeling tears he could not remember crying rolling down his cheeks. The air itself seemed to shift with an unseen energy, and the bats responded, turning as one with startling speed and diving down and through their arms. Amala held him firmly and unblinking, her amber eyes sparkling with the countless shapes thundering past her face.

Emmett watched with a mixture of wonder and terror as the swarm flew around and through them, tumbling and swirling over in a maelstrom of synchronized movement. He clung to Amala’s hands, not wanting to ever let go.

Finally, the swarm shifted like a river tumbling over a waterfall. As one, the swarm of bats veered out the tunnel and into the world somewhere beyond.

After a moment’s stunned silence, Emmett felt Amala releasing his hands. At first, he could not will himself to let go. Had she seen what he had seen?

Amala must have sensed Emmett’s hesitation for she waited in the silence for him. He finally released her hands. The conflicting sensations and demands of the world returned as a flood into an already crowded mind.

“They will carry your message to the Archivist,” Amala whispered.

Emmett’s mind unfolded, his awareness focusing increasingly on his surroundings. “That was …”
unworthy
of words? He ran a hand across his face to wipe away his tears, stifling a sniffle with an exaggerated cough. He felt embarrassed to be so exposed in front of Amala.

“Whatever vision the Archivist offered you, that is for you and you alone.”

He felt immediately relieved to hear that the vision had been only his. When she stood, her soft manners were replaced with a brisk, practical expression void of closeness that Emmett felt jarring after the intimate encounter they seemed to share. She offered a hand to help him up, and he was surprised by her strength.

They were suddenly standing only an inch away from each other. Emmett was aware that he was holding his breath, and when finally he breathed, he tasted rose water and sweet cardamom in her presence. He could see Amala’s eyes widening, and when he looked down at the curve of her neckline, he could see her heightened pulse beating visibly through her skin.

Emmett’s lips slightly parted, and he knew he wanted to say something. Countless things ran through his mind.

He knew there was a reason Amala had been in his dreams. She was watching him, waiting for him to ask her.

The words began to form in the bottom of his throat. And just as Emmett summoned what courage he was certain he did not possess to utter them, a voice called down the cave’s tunnel.

“Oi! You lot done in there? I’m famished!”

Amala blinked and stepped back from Emmett, turning her head away for a moment. “Keiran will look after you while I attend to other matters,” she said abruptly, her voice suddenly distant. “I will see you soon.” And turning away from Emmett, Amala did not see the wounded, confused look in his eyes.

CHAPTER 7

“Record time, mate!” Keiran exclaimed, bounding excitedly up to meet Emmett as he emerged from the cave. His giddiness only added to Emmett’s irritation with his interruption.

“Yeah, well, bats love me,” Emmett shrugged, squinting in the sunlight.

“So we have time for a spot of lunch, then?” Keiran asked Amala.

“I cannot go, but I will see you both later.”

“Right, well, let’s get you sorted, Emmett!”

Amala turned without comment and walked off in the opposite direction. Watching her disappear into the tree line, he shook his head and followed Keiran.

“What, she just hangs out in the trees?”

“It’s her way,” Keiran answered with a knowing smile. “How are you?”

Emmett felt his heart surge into his throat. His expression must have registered some change, because Keiran looked away from him out of some shared recognition of the experience’s intimacy.

“You don’t need to tell me the particulars, mate. It’s a private matter.”

“I just don’t know what to say.” Emmett shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “I’m somewhere between ‘gonna need a bigger boat’ and ‘there is no spoon.’”

Keiran silently nodded.

Emmett looked back over his shoulder to where Amala disappeared in the trees.

“So, uh, Amala is your—”

“Companion?”

“Is that like wife or…?” he asked, trying not to give sound to the emptiness in his voice.

Keiran skipped up the steps to the front entrance, stopping to turn and face Emmett. Emmett found him intolerably bouncy. Combined with his good looks and dapper manner, Keiran Glendower was officially everything that Emmett was not. The cool accent only made it worse.

“Druids and Bards are joined together as Companions in their fight against the world’s darkness. It’s more intimate than marriage.”

Emmett pulled his hoodie over his head, wishing he could disappear.

“Ever had a best mate that knows your darkest parts and accepts you exactly as you are? In life’s bleakest moments, they are right there with you?”

Emmett shrugged, certain that if he spoke he would not be able to hide his conflicting emotions.

Keiran spoke as he slowly opened the door. “And they’d give their life for you. Not just once, but each moment of every day. Without hesitation.”

Epically unattainable by me. Joy.

“As Companions, we come to hear the other person in our minds. Fleeting thoughts, of course—a word here, a memory’s fragment there—and only during moments of heightened emotion.”

It just gets better
.

After navigating the labyrinth of Silvan Dea’s many corridors, they soon entered a private room with shower and wardrobe. Keiran extracted several pairs of dark slacks and black wool sweaters. “Find a size that fits. I hope you won’t mind if we dressed you in something more gentlemanly. A decent wardrobe does wonders for the spirit.”

Emmett tried not to roll his eyes. Keiran’s seeming genuineness only amplified his seeming perfection.

“Thanks.”

Keiran turned to leave as Emmett looked through the available clothes.

“More answers with an early dinner, I promise.” And with a parting grin that already was his defining characteristic, Keiran exited the room.

Emmett had relished the shower, washing away the stale odor of what he had accepted had been forty-eight hours of sleep. Hot water was immediate and plentiful, surprising Emmett since Silvan Dea was isolated atop a high mountain ridge. Emmett laid his head under the stream for a long time. The sting of the water against his neck was pronounced, but he gritted his teeth and hissed against the discomfort. It was brilliant like an explosion that leaves the vision spotted. Flakes of blackened skin fell from his neck, clouding the water at his feet. Yet even as it washed away, he found the same diseased skin underneath.

Emmett leaned against the porcelain basin, rubbing the fog from the mirror above with his towel. Worn hazel eyes stared back at him beneath errant curls of black, wavy hair. He traced the length of the rotting flesh on his neck down to his collarbone, horrified at how cold the decaying skin was compared to the supple flesh surrounding it.

Finding an assortment of the usual toiletries next to the sink, Emmett spent several minutes shaving his fine dusting of stubble and brushing his teeth, careful not to stare too long at the darkness crawling down his collarbone. He took a comb from the toiletry bag and began to run it through his tangled hair, not wanting Mr. Old Hollywood upstaging him.

Keiran returned to retrieve a dressed Emmett a short time later, escorting him to an adjoining garage where his car was parked between a pair of unremarkable vans. Expecting to see a cross-country swath of grime and insects splattered along the windshield, he found the car had been thoroughly washed and detailed—as much as a twelve-year-old car could be cleaned, he thought.

And Nancy thought the car would never make it out of Texas
.

Impeccably dressed, Keiran wore gray slacks tailored perfectly above black loafers, and a pressed black shirt with a starched collar and silver cufflinks that perfectly framed his physique. He could walk into a room and draw everyone’s attention with a handsomeness that was both intimidating and yet approachable. He was refined and confident, things Emmett, with his hoodie-and-jeans sensibility and predictable habit of stumbling over himself, lacked. Emmett knew he wasn’t unattractive, but he lacked the athletic definition, stone-like jaw, and wavy blond hair that took away the breath of the people Keiran passed on the street.

It’s obviously enough for Amala
.

The drive into town took two hours, Keiran having insisted on Emmett driving. Much of this trip was spent negotiating a narrow dirt road that snaked down a hidden gorge behind the Grove, through crudely excavated tunnels in the mountainside, and finally out along the dark, barren countryside that sat shadowed at the base of the snow-capped mountains. Emmett cringed as he avoided potholes, mud pits, and the occasional tawny doe bounding through the snow.

Keiran peppered him with questions about driving manual downhill, as Keiran had apparently never done. Amala was the driver of the pair, he explained. Considering that Keiran could conceivably shatter glass with his voice or sheer a face of the mountainside with his outstretched palm, his inability to drive was odd. It was the sole thing thus far that Emmett possessed that Keiran did not.

Their road transformed into gravel, and then eventually dirt, before it blended into the winterscape next to a lone stretch of highway. Emmett could no longer see the stone compound in his rearview mirror. It was easy to see how the Grove could go unnoticed, safely perched on the hidden ledge within a tapered copse in the mountains.

Keiran asked if Emmett had family that should be contacted, but Emmett said no, quickly changing the subject back to how they had found him. Keiran shared how Amala and he had been tracking a Revenant’s carnage through the Deep South for weeks. Details of the gruesome child killings left Emmett queasy as he navigated a series of roads into the outskirts of Portland.

Keiran guided him through several traffic lights and busy intersections. The downtown markets were a circus of activity in the late-afternoon hours. All manner of people perused stalls of live seafood and fresh, organic vegetables and fruits. The brisk air was tinged with the honey-infused aroma of freshly baked breads, and Emmett felt his stomach respond to the rich bouquet of tasty smells as they exited the parked car.

Keiran led him through an open marketplace busy with jostling shoppers and endless options. Chefs preparing their evening menus haggled over prices with shopkeepers offering samples of their wares with reckless abandon, calling out or shouting at passersby with their confectionary delights and lowest prices.

Emmett avoided a flying fish overhead with a careful duck and followed Keiran into a tiny shop with the name
Hiraeth
over the single, steamed window. The lettering pattern was of a sideways-facing, crimson-colored dragon with claws intertwined with the beginning and ending H.

The restaurant was little more than a wide counter with stools overlooking a cramped kitchen. It was comfortable in its uncomfortable size. Windows at their backs faced out onto the marketplace. Fryers filled the narrow restaurant with satisfying smells.

Keiran sidled up to the counter, motioning for Emmett to join him. A harried woman with flyaway hair hurried along the counter, shuttling hot plates of steaming food and manning the register. A dozen people lined the wall of windows awaiting their to-go orders.

“She serves breakfast all day. I love breakfast. Well, if the truth be told, I love all food.” Keiran handed Emmett a paper menu from the metal prongs along the counter, pointing to several items of interest.

After finishing a transaction at the register and handing off two plates of food to another person along the counter, the woman finally hurried over to them. Her eyes and face brightened considerably with recognition.

“All right, love?” she asked.

“All right,” Keiran answered with a wide smile. “Emmett, this is Mrs. Emaline Carmichael.” Emmett nodded as she returned the greeting.

“I haven’t seen you in months, my boy. I bin missin’ you. I was getting worried, but then I says to myself, I says, a strapping lad like that could well take care of himself.”

“Ta. I only come back to Portland to visit you,” Keiran flirted.

She waved a hand at him. “Oh, go on, then! I wouldn’t reckon all the hearts you’ve broken! You sound just like my late Jack, God rest his soul. Always carrying on wit’ the ladies.”

Keiran leaned in with one elbow along the counter. “I’d fancy you even if you didn’t cook for me,” he deadpanned.

Emmett sat entranced by the conversation. Or, more accurately, by Keiran. Mrs. Carmichael seemed transformed just by his presence, and with each word she seemed to grow younger with energy.

Mrs. Carmichael looked at Emmett and leaned over the counter toward Keiran. “Is this another one of yours, then, love?”

“Aye.”

Mrs. Carmichael and Keiran exchanged knowing glances, and she stepped back from the counter. “Crackin’ lookin’ boy, too. All right?”

Emmett had streamed enough BBC to understand. “Hello,” he nodded.

“Yes, well, I promised my mate here the best meal in Portland, and I expect you will not make a liar of me,” Keiran said as he clapped Emmett jovially on the shoulder.

“Well I should hope so, then! Look at you, Keiran! All skin and bones! I won’t have any of it. What’ll ya boys be having, then?”

“Emmett, may I order for you?”

“Sure.”

“Fancy a proper Welsh breakfast. For two, please,” Keiran said, handing the menu back to Mrs. Carmichael as she nodded and hurried off.

Emmett looked sideways at Keiran, and it was Emmett’s turn to grin.

“That accent of yours comes on a lot heavier when you’re around others.”

“What? Can’t understand me accent?” Keiran asked with exaggeration.

“You’d be surprised how well versed I am with British television,” Emmett said, excited he finally had something they could equally discuss.

“I actually never watched much telly growing up. Only knew of
The Avengers
from my best mate, Rory, when he dressed up one Halloween.”

Emmett’s shoulders sunk, deflated.
Of course. Because it wouldn’t have been helpful to have at least
one
freakin’ thing in common
.

Mrs. Carmichael returned with a plate of sliced breads and a smaller dish of jam. “Here you are now, lovelies, a plate of my homemade speckled bread, then–”

“It’s sort of like raisin bread,” Keiran whispered.

“—and a dollop of plum and elderberry jam. Now eat up, the both of you,” she said sternly, pointing to Emmett. “This boy is too skinny, and a strappin’ man like you needs a proper meal.” Keiran beamed as she reached over and pinched his cheek.

Emmett found the bread’s sticky moistness deliciously filling. They ate in silence for several moments, Keiran closing his eyes often with each rapturous bite, and Emmett equally comforted by the rich food.