A better meeting
Adam had stopped the car to look outside.
People crowded to stare at the wall, observing the strangely-shaped ice growing alongside it. It looked like the branches of a tree growing on the all, covering it for the length of the street.
A little ways from Adam a flutter of snow swirled upward. It fell back to the ground before anyone noticed how weird it was. Snow continued to fall.
Fragments were rippling far above. Several of them. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to open a rift to a dream world.
Could he really be blamed for it? He thought it would be like when he entered the Melodist’s dream, not this bizarre flow of events.
He retreated into Mary’s car, driving away from this place lest Christopher find him nearby.
Back at the hotel, he drew what now was a familiar circle and entered the forest of the Melodist.
The Melodist was always singing. Why?
It cocked its head downward in Adam’s direction. “Ask,” it commanded.
“The Withering Sun banished me from its dream. Why?”
“Did he? A shame.” The Melodist paused, seemingly thinking. “He must have felt the touch of oblivion in thee. It must have angered him. His resentment is deeper than I imagined.”
Adam sighed. It was another thing he didn’t remember. He knew of a bat, however. “Why does he dislike the bats?”
“A long time ago there was a great one, born of light and fire. His name is lost. He warred with the ancient bats, and was cleaved by them into fragments. Those fragments reformed in two separate entities. One of the two is the Withering Sun, his essence an opposite to its origin.”
“He fears it may kill him again?”
The Melodist mused. “Hardly so. He fears instead being cleaved back together.”
Adam was confused. “But why would he fear being put back together?”
The Melodist laughed a pervasive laughter. “He’s no longer the lost one. The Withering Sun is himself. To be put back together…would be to cease existing. A frightening possibility.”
Adam felt cold. A vague fear crept up his spine. Why?
“His fear, however, is unfounded. Thou brought one bat from oblivion, hardly a threat. He warred thousands of them in the far past.”
“Then why?”
“Fear needn’t be rational.” The Melodist chuckled.
“How am I supposed to get Mary back then?” Adam demanded.
The Melodist chuckled more, apparently amused by him. “She’s thy wife, is she not? Reach into her dreams instead, and they shall be an open door into the dreams of the Withering Sun.”
He sighed, somehow feeling like he was played. “Thank you.”
“I wish thee good fortune.” The Melodist fixed him a gaze. “Speak,” said the Melodist.
“When I entered the dream of the Withering Sun, a rift opened and fragments escaped. Why does the same not happen when I come here?”
For a moment the Melodist remained silent. “Ah,” it mumbled with a smile that seemed, somehow, satisfied. “It seemeth thine experiments with the ancient bats have addled thy mind. No matter. Mine demesne extends unto thee. Thou also possess solidified fragments as mine bodkin. It shall be very useful.”
Her words gave him pause. The ancient bats addled his mind? Was that the source of his amnesia? “Thank you,” he said.
Something else was missing...but what? The question eluded him. Then he realized. “Are you and the Withering Sun the same kind?”
The Melodist cocked its head. “Hmmm...in thy perspective, perhaps.”
“Why are you...so small?”
A chuckle rang out, from the Melodist, but also elsewhere. It rang from every direction, like a multitude of voices blending to mock him. “Small,” it mused. Slowly, the Melodist lifted a hand, pointing a finger at the sky, then wielding said finger like a brush, stroke down.
The forest disappeared, then the grass and the stone.
Adam started, surprised. Only he and the Melodist remained. Then even the Melodist disappeared, and only Adam remained facing the sudden darkness.
There was nothing.
Then, there was light.
He flinched away from it, in pain and fear and awe. It poured from an infinite distance, and crashed against him like a wave. Secrets were hidden within that golden light. Power. Infinity. Knowledge. Understanding.
Truth.
He fell on his knees, and blinked, seeing the green grass beneath as if for the first time. His arms were shaking, and his mind was frightened by glimpses of something too grand to comprehend. He raised his eyes to look at the Melodist, sitting upon the round stone. The smile had slipped away, replaced by an impassive face, studious and contemplative.
“What are you?” Adam asked.
A sad sigh escaped from the being of light afore him. “I am the Melodist, one of the oldest. I was born of light. I fear not the ones born of flesh, nor the ones born of nothing. The Melodist is name enough, for there exists no others like me.”
Adam swallowed. It dawned on him that the being before him was not some kind helper, but a mystical entity whose will and purpose was alien to him.
“Fare thee well,” said the Melodist, and began to sing a mournful, lonesome song.
§
An hour later, the sun was starting to dim and Adam closed another book. He wondered if he was reading too fast, but somehow it seemed that the words imprinted themselves in his mind. He could recite what he read line for line.
He smelled himself and frowned. He still smelled of dreams.
Nevertheless, he found the rite he looked for.
There multiple methods of entering someone’s dream. Often it involved an elaborate procedure.
One method was to have the person’s help, and delving directly into their heads. This involved having them participate in a specific rite of their own volition.
A second method involved a rite using a fragile fragment from any common dream, and the blood and flesh of the one you desired to enter the dreams of.
A third method involved sleeping with them. He didn’t believe it at first, but that was the gist of it.
Thankfully, once any of the rites was performed, it was possible to enter the person’s dream with a simpler rite. However proximity was needed.
He finished his impromptu research and left for the hospital.
He passed a shimmering cloud on the way to the hospital. He was pretty sure he saw a moving snowman walking around. He also may or may not have seen a worm the size of a dog flying.
He stopped in the parking lot of the hospital.
Suddenly, he heard frantic steps from behind. He turned, and was surprised by the sight of a stranger walking too purposefully in his direction for it to be coincidence.
He had a mop of blond hair, a clean shave and was rather wiry. He wore an open hoodie over a long sleeved shirt.
“Adam,” said the stranger, with a weird munch of his lips. “Was looking for you. We need to talk.”
Adam stifled a moan. He was tired of all these unknowns coming for him. “Who are you?” he asked, tired of pretending he knew people he couldn’t remember.
The stranger stared at him like he was mad. “It’s me, Charles. Did you hit your head, or somethin’?”
“Yeah, a few days ago,” Adam deadpanned.
Charles hesitated.
“Why are you looking for me?” Adam asked before the man recovered his wits.
“Mr. Pence sent me,” he said, shrugging.
“What for?”
“To call you for a meeting.”
“Can’t he use a phone?”
The man shrugged again. “Mr. Pence doesn’t trust phones.”
“Mr. Pence doesn’t trust phones?” Adam repeated, incredulously.
Charles shifted uncomfortably as if he too were embarrassed by the admission.
Adam sighed profoundly. “Why doesn’t he just come here? Actually, forget it. Where is he?”
The man scratched his chin, and took a small folded piece of paper out. He presented it to Adam.
It was an address, date and time.
“Well, goodbye boss,” said the minion.
Adam bade him farewell and headed for the hospital.
§
The first stars glittered in the sky. A gibbous moon, still half-unseen floated far above. The spider greeted him.
Many people were sitting at the front hall of the hospital, having idle conversations while Adam asked the staff to see his wife.
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“Have you heard? Someone saw a flying deer.”
“Someone needs to go to the psychiatric ward.”
“They’ve been seeing all sorts of things today.”
Mary lay asleep as always. Fluid was being injected in her. She seemed wan, and pale. The doctors said they didn’t know what induced her coma, but that they would continue to monitor her.
A machine was monitoring her heartbeat. A new addition.
He sat on a chair beside her and reached for her hair. He hesitated, then began to play with her bangs.
She remained motionless.
Adam took out the dagger, inscribed with that he now knew to be part of rites. He sliced open the tip of his finger and wrote a small ‘dream’ symbol on the dagger. Then he closed his eyes and soon drifted to sleep.
There was no tunnel or fragments of light running against him. There was only a peaceful drifting to a place that felt half a step away.
He was there again. He knew by the color. Red light churning and swirling all over the place.
This time there was stone under his feet. Square tiles. Pillars rose toward a distant ceiling. Vast walls with tall glass windows stained with blue and green figures, a contrast against the red light.
He was inside a building.
He walked down the corridor past bas-reliefs of strange beings, some humanoid, most not. Dream things, he supposed. There were monstrous horned horses with six legs, women with hundreds of arms, men with the heads of snakes holding spears. Some were gruesome images of wolves and serpents devouring men with rings of light in their heads.
One image caught his attention, a depiction of a female figure with long hair sitting in the middle of a forest, surrounded by indecipherable forms, though nearest were spiders.
There was history in these walls. Adam couldn’t help but be captivated by it. He lost himself, forgetting where and why he was there.
“Is it that interesting?”
Adam started at the voice.
An old man stood beside him, facing the wall, glancing at Adam from the edges of his eyes. His face was like chiseled stone, hard and unforgiving. His hair was fine and straight, not too long, nor too short; it was grey like the ash left by burnt coals. His long beard was of the same color. He was draped in a long crimson robe with wide flowing sleeves.
“This,” he pointed a long, thin finger at one of the images on the walls. A thousand bats were flying from beyond the depiction into the frame. In the middle was a circle covered with sharp edges; beside it were two triangles connected by their tips. “Is the day of my birth.”
Unnecessary information. One look was all it took for Adam to decide this was the Withering Sun.
He turned to Adam, his expression unreadable. “I imagine what came before is of more import to you.”
Adam looked back. The corridor stretched endlessly, as did the images on the wall. “You are…the Withering Sun.”
His lips drew into a fine line. “I hadn’t a name on this day.” He pointed toward the day of his birth. “They named the two of us. Their gall.” He harrumphed, indignantly. “What brings you here?”
“My wife.”
The old man nodded. “You arrived by entering her dreams, instead of the proper method.”
“You sent me away when I used the proper method.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I did. You reek of oblivion and of bats. It’s easy to figure what you have been doing recently. From that I extrapolated your objective in coming to me.”
“My objective?”
He nodded. “My oblivion.”
Adam looked at him in an uncomfortable silence.
The old man took a long look at him and chuckled. “A mistake, I now realize. You have no such desires.” He nodded to himself, turned and began to walk. “You are here for one of my honored guests.”
Adam walked after him down the corridor. “Why did you think I wanted…”
“My oblivion,” the Withering Sun finished. “Who is your master?”
Adam hesitated. Master? Did he have one?
A tired sigh escaped his nostrils. “The one who taught you your spells in dreams,” he continued. “I ask for the sake of politeness. Nothing more.”
They continued to walk. Eventually the Withering Sun continued. “They want the Lost to return, the gods of dream. They want to cleave me and the Dimming Lantern back together, casting us both into oblivion.” He laughed ruefully. “Worse still, the Dimming Lantern wishes the same.”
“I…see.” Adam felt stricken at his tone. He felt a strange sadness as he watched that solemn back walking ahead. “My master, I believe, is the Melodist.”
“Ah, the Melodist. She wished to name me the Winter Sun. Much better than Meriden, the Life Sculptor, who wished to name me the Cold Sun. He has no imagination. Sometimes I wished that Winter Sun were my name; then perhaps, I would not be so wizened.”
They arrived at a large ornate gate. The Withering Sun never broke his pace as the gates opened before him.
Beyond the portal awaited a large hall, much wider and spacious than any room Adam had seen. Two rows of strange creatures stood at attention around a red carpet laid before them.
The creatures were like large cats standing on their hind legs, but without bending their legs or spines whatsoever. Their bodies were meant to walk on two legs. They wore large robes, and several pieces of clothing above them. Their eyes were fully black, and they stared avariciously at Adam.
The Withering Sun walked down the carpet, then climbed several steps to finally sit on a golden throne. “Come, don’t stand at the entrance. It’s hard to speak to you from so afar.”
Adam hesitated, considering the cats. But, eventually, he walked up to the Withering Sun.
The cats did not hinder him in any way.
“I studied you closer this time,” said the Withering Sun from his regal throne. “Instead of banishing you as soon as I caught the scent of bats. I see now that we are two of a kind. You are fragmented too.”
Adam stared at him. “Yes. The bats have taken my memory.”
“They do not take.” He shook his head, almost sadly. “They only cleave. An old one can manage to be cleaved many times before anything of value is lost. The younger one is, however, the greater the wound. I imagine you wish to retrieve what you lost?”
Adam felt uncomfortable with his answer, but it wouldn’t change. “Yes.”
The old man sighed, as though seeing something pitiful. “Do you remember why you wanted the bats?”
Adam shook his head. “But there was only one. The Melodist said it wouldn’t be a threat to you.”
“And she was correct.” After a long deliberation, the Withering Sun continued. “I am always watching the lower plane. Many times, the Dimming Lantern has employed the help of mortals to achieve her senseless objectives, as well as the help of many of the dream gods. I learned to find whenever a part of oblivion was in your world. This bat is not the first you’ve brought.”
“Not the first?” Adam asked, alarmed.
The Withering Sun nodded. “It’s the third.”
Adam considered the repercussions of this. What had he wanted with a memory-wrenching bat?
The Withering Sun seemed to be in a thoughtful mood. Eventually he extended his hand toward Adam. “Give me your hand,” he demanded.
Adam almost denied out of sheer frustration, but he remembered he was inside this guy’s world, and that he had his wife stowed away somewhere, and gave him his hand.
Suddenly they were somewhere else. A perfectly round room with tapestries covering the walls, tiles etched with strange forms and statues. Many, many statues, of men, women, animals, monsters.
The Withering Sun walked among the statues, Adan in tow. He stopped before what Adam thought at first was a statue sitting on a bed, reading a book.
It was Evelynn, sitting perfectly still.
Her old, wizened face brought a weird feeling in him.
She flipped to the next page.
“She can’t see us,” Adam declared.
The Withering Sun nodded.
“She’s not the one I am interested in,” Adam said.
The Withering Sun considered him a long while. He looked toward Evelynn, and sighed, almost sadly. “She has been cleaved as well.”
Adam widened his eyes. He looked again at Evelynn, surprised. She was cleaved?
“Her memories were taken more carefully than your own. A careful incision. Something a bat from oblivion would never fathom. I imagine it was your hand in it. Do you know why you cleaved this woman?”
Adam thought about it. “I imagine she knew things about me that were incriminating.”
The Withering Sun gave another look at Adam, one so filled with sadness he seemed about to spill tears. He sighed, profoundly, the sound echoing as Evelynn flipped another page.
“Why would her incriminating you matter?” he asked, showing his back to Adam as he inspected a statue of a wolf with two heads.
“It’s a matter of money,” Adam said. “I’m trying to take money from her late husband.”
The Withering Sun chuckled. “An oblivion bat is a chaotic thing. It’s ludicrous to make use of one simply to make money.”
“I guess I shouldn’t use them anymore, then. I mean, I did lose my memory.”
The Withering Sun turned back to him, amused. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you wouldn’t have brought a bat from oblivion for such a small thing. No one would.”
Adam considered his words. What had he wanted the bat for then?
Evelynn flipped another page.
The Withering Sun gestured at her. “You took not only her memories, but her ability to cast magic. A terrible thing. And unlike you, she will never repair.”
“She could cast magic?” Adam asked, surprised.
“Yes,” said the Withering Sun, looking bemused at his reaction. “Though even in her prime she was far below the other one in ability.”
“Mary?”
He nodded. “She introduced herself as such.”
Adam felt somewhat befuddled. He looked again at Evelynn. She was frowning at a statue of a spider. Several books lay at her feet. A plate with that looked like the remains of food lay nearby.
“You’ve been talking to them.” Adam didn’t know why the idea was so surprising. But, somehow, it was.
The Withering Sun at on a chair that materialized out of nowhere. He cocked his head. “What did you expect?” He gestured at Evelynn. “I learnt much from our conversation. She panicked less than most humans, likely because she retains an understanding of what I am, even if she has no records.”
“You were looking to see if there was any ploy against you,” Adam concluded.
“Yes,” the Withering Sun agreed.
“She looks older here,” Adam noticed as Evelynn opened another book. “Why?”
“Many things are made manifest here,” the Withering Sun explained. “She fears old age, excessively.”
“Why do you think I had the bats,” Adam asked, “if they were not to take away memories?”
“To reconstruct yourself with fragments of dreams,” the Withering Sun said, easily. “It used to be done constantly in the past, and without needing help from oblivion. But it became impossible once Meriden decided no more mortals could partake of the drink he drank himself. Hypocrisy.”
“Meriden?”
All of a sudden the Withering Sun took him by the arm, and suddenly they were flung to the corridor he arrived in, looking at a section of the wall.
He was looking at the bas-relief of a large man with a mane of wild hair that gave the impression of a lion or a bear. A circled adorned his head, its rays stretching unto the distance. Alongside his body were depicted many beasts, all with their eyes turned toward him.
At his feet several men lay prostrate.
“Meriden,” said the Withering Sun. “The Sculptor of Beasts, the Life Sculptor. Meriden nonetheless.”
“Is he human?” Adam asked.
“There were no humans at the time of his apotheosis. He was a paleotaris.” He harrumphed, indignantly. “Soon after he ascended, he closed the path to ascension for those of his land. They thought he merely wished to impede his enemies from ever posing a threat, small as the chance was. But even after millennia, he still holds the gate closed.” He gestured at the men prostrated at his feet. “His servants. They are tasked to bring death to any who aggregates knowledge beyond their permission.”
To Adam the image on the wall seemed to grow more loathsome.
“They have come after you.”
“What?” Adam snapped at him.
The Withering Sun merely turned his head at him. “You have killed many of their members in the past. Several times they thought you dead, only for you to appear again years later. The two after you now will be no different, I imagine.”
Adam knew, without any prompting, who he spoke of. “Christopher and Philip.”
“I know not their names. They often close themselves from all other dreams but their master’s. I only managed to bring them for a conversation a few times in the past. And they were not cooperative.”
He took Adam by the arm again, and whisked him back to Evelynn’s room. “I suppose you don’t want to bring this one out.”
Adam was about to agree, when a cold sensation crept up his back. He was leaving her to die, he realized with anxiety. Was he so callous and indifferent? And what about Delilah? This woman was her mother; he couldn’t just leave her here.
“You are very arrogant,” the Withering Sun continued, looking over Evelynn as she continued to read. “It’s a common trait among those like you. Still, it matters not. This woman cannot leave.”
Adam felt a strange mixed surge of dread and relief. “Why?”
“Because she is dying. Something has been done to her a long time ago, possibly a result of your experiments. She won’t live for much longer.”
Adam looked at Evelynn, feeling horrified. “The bats?”
“Yes.”
Adam felt the bile rising. “What…what did I do?”
The Withering Sun shrugged. “I don’t know.”
A new terror gnawed at him. “What about Mary? Was there anything wrong with her?”
“No,” he said. “At least not yet.”
“What do you mean by that?” Adam demanded, confronting him more aggressively than was wise.
Regardless, the Withering Sun regarded him with the same calm impassiveness he had showed ever since they met. “It means,” he said, slowly. “That I know not the plans of your previous self. Or if the current you will tread the same path.” He took Adam by the arm, whisking him away.
They were on the open desert. A red river flowed along banks lush with grey vegetation. Joseph was suspended in the air, a large root piercing him as his blood dripped over purplish blooms.
Adam almost puked at the sight.
“You were the one who pushed him here, yes?”
“How…how did he die?”
“Oh, he is not dead,” the Withering sun said with a curious look at Joseph. “Not yet at least. Maybe never. The roots are trying to make a gate out of him, and they might succeed since he is so young.”
Adam, felt a lurch of repulsion. He turned away from Joseph.
“Would you like me to save him?” the Withering Sun asked. Before Adam could answer he followed with, “we had an interesting conversation when he arrived. He asked me several times to kill you.”
Adam hesitated. He looked toward Joseph. He heard a moan that made him shudder. He was still alive! Adam felt like bugs were crawling on his skin.
The Withering Sun waited patiently for him.
“Make him go back to the real world, please,” Adam said, averting his eyes. “This is too disgusting.”
The Withering Sun snorted. Joseph disappeared. The roots that had pierced him wriggled them sunk into the earth. He took Adam by the arm, and whisked him away again.
The next room was a small one. Mary was sitting at a table, eating pastries and drinking tea. She was wearing a long red dress of old design. Victorian maybe.
Unlike Evelynn, she turned toward the two of them, and gave a small shout.
“You surprised me,” she said, calming down. She looked toward Adam, then at the Withering Sun, seeming uncommonly fearful.
“I have spoken at length with your husband,” the Withering Sun declared. “You can both leave. Forgive me for your captivity.”
He bowed.
And just like that, Adam opened his eyes.
Mary thrashed about in the bed.
He took her hand and she stilled, looking at him wide-eyed. She took a deep breath, and she looked around. “Oh, of course, hospital. Look, mist.”
Adam noticed it too. Mist covered them. He heard a sudden horrifying scream coming from outside their room.