The girl ran through the woods and Roderick chased after her. Her raven locks billowed behind her as if a bridal train. For a sliver of a moment, Roderick was mere feet from her. He stretched out one hand and his fingers brushed against her trailing hair. In that instance, the girl picked up speed and darted out of his reach. He ran after her, faster than he had ever run before, but his thighs did not burn and his feet barely grazed the thick grass that covered the woods like an emerald carpet.
It was the grass that first caught his eye. Each blade stood out with unnerving clarity, sharp as a razor, but cast no shadow. A golden light flooded the woods, but when Roderick looked up he saw no end to the towering trees, only an endless canopy, woven so densely that any sunlight should have been blotted out. Even though Roderick was no woodsman, he wondered at this oddity, Where is this light coming from? How is there grass with no sun?
He allowed his eyes to slip free from the girl’s ever-shrinking form and realized that the grass grew so prolifically that not a single tree root dared to emerge. As Roderick slowed to observe this it seemed to him that the grass was steadily inching up the trees. There are no branches. Roderick urgently looked for the girl and found only a shadow. He chased after it.
As he ran faster and faster more thoughts unnerved him. These woods are silent. I don’t hear anything. I can’t feel my heartbeat. He inhaled deeply, expecting his lungs to fill, but his chest did not rise or fall. All he felt was a chill of terror that raced up his spine and wrapped itself like a python around his throat. He tried again to breathe, but nothing came of it, and on he ran, desperate to reach the shadow.
Time meant nothing to him as he continued onwards. The shadow of the girl remained off in the distance and then suddenly seemed to vanish. Moments later, Roderick found himself in a vast glade. The grass remained the same as before, but the trees seemed to vanish. As he stopped and spun around the trees retreated further and further into the distance until they vanished beyond the horizon. This is where the light comes from, he realized.
He turned back around, to what had once been the center of the clearing, and there now stood three thrones, forged from a single monolithic stone. They were pearl-white and towered over him. A countless number of steps were crudely hewn into the stone. Beyond this path lay the thrones so distant as to be mountain peaks hidden behind the clouds. Yet he could still make out two of the figures upon them.
On the left and center thrones sat skeletons, each was long of limb, with spines short relative to the rest of their frame. Both were clad in shimmering robes made of a material unknown to Roderick. Each had a crown embedded in their skull. The left one’s robes were a clear blue like a cloudless sky and its crown was formed from thorny branches and dying leaves. The skeleton in the center wore robes of a deep purple, so dark that it was nearly black, its true color brought out only by the golden light. Its crown was an iron band embedded foot-long pointed spikes.
He could not make out the third figure on the right throne. It must be the girl, he thought madly, but how could she climb so fast? Driven by compulsion, Roderick began the climb. Unlike the marathon through the endless woods, the climb sapped Roderick’s strength little by little. When he was still dozens of steps from the summit he collapsed to his hands and knees. A puddle of sweat became a pool and dared to steal his footing, but he pressed on. His lungs burned, screamed as he crawled upwards as his leather pants wore down to tatters at the knees. Each knee ran raw until they cracked and bled, but he continued until at last he reached his goal and stood proudly erect on quivering legs.
The girl he had chased after was seated on the throne, but her robe was a simple thing, made of linen and bleached white. She wore no crown, for Roderick found it at her bare feet, as if she had cast aside the golden helm. Roderick approached. I know her face, he thought as his stomach turned. A shadow stirred on the steps behind and he turned to face it.
Roderick awoke to a room flooded by a full moon’s glow, underneath sheets slick with sweat. He threw off the sheets, but remained in bed as cool night air washed over him. They’re back, he thought grimly, They’re really, truly back. Demons and dragons and woods and shadows. I thought they were gone. A hammer slammed incessantly at his temples, brought on by a mixture of whiskey and nightmares. He unstuck his tongue from the dry palette of his mouth and let out a long sigh. I hoped they were gone. Night terrors had plagued him as a child and the cure, courtesy of a bearded monk, had clearly not stuck.
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He sat up abruptly, on the edge of the bed, and let his feet fall upon the wood floor. The planks were unfinished and rough. They scratched at his feet, but at this moment he appreciated that annoyance. It assured him that the dream was over. He was safe in his hovel. In a few hours, the sun would rise and he would spend the day sweating over forge and anvil. It was just a dream.
Johanna would surely have something to say about them if he ever deigned to tell her. She’d be just as quick to laugh in my face as she would be to reference one of her uncle’s stupid books. No, he thought, It was just a dream. He stood up and rifled through the trunk at the end of his bed for a clean shirt. Once he found one, he shut his room’s sole window and swapped out shirts in the darkness. Then he lit the oil lamp that rested on his nightstand. I do wonder what she’d say, he thought idly as he gazed into a mirror and washed the sweat from his face. For a second the girl from his dream’s face stared back at him. I know her all too well.
A restlessness crept into his bones so he fumbled about the room. He soon found the object of his desire, uncapped the flask, and drained half of it in a single go. It burned on the way down and filled his stomach with a warmth that quickly spread through his long limbs. Now euphoric, Roderick pulled an ammo belt and holster out from beneath his bed and buckled it around his narrow waist. Might as well walk, he thought, giddy from drink, grabbed his revolver from off his nightstand, made certain it held all six rounds, and holstered. Why the woods? He wondered as he took a look around the room and blew out the oil lamp. It means something...doesn’t it?
Roderick shrugged and departed his hovel. “I doubt it,” he mumbled to himself as he walked through the twilight streets. “The monk said dreams meant nothing, no, less than nothing. They’re just random thoughts thrown together.” His dwelling lay at the southern edge of Reimar, far from most of the inhabited buildings. Those shacks that surrounded his own were dilapidated things, abandoned in recent years. They now served as abodes to ghosts, spiders, and whatever critters chanced to enter. This arrangement suited him. He had no fear of the waking dark.
His feet guided him wherever they wished. He paid little attention to where they took him and only half-noticed the rare pair of glowing eyes that watched him from the abandoned shacks. His thoughts had shifted from nightmares to daydreams of Johanna of the golden locks and his feet followed suit.
Roderick’s fantasies fled away as he blinked rapidly in surprise. I walked clear across town. Behind him was the northern edge of Reimar and before him, several hundred feet off in the distance, stood a tall house with a steepled roof. Its silhouette jutted out like a dagger against the night sky. Johanna lived there. Along with her uncle, the chemist Heinrich.
How that pair is related I will never understand, thought Roderick. He had moved to Reimar from the north several years ago, before Johanna’s arrival, and found himself an apprenticeship at the local smithy. Not even a fortnight had passed by before Heinrich first darkened the smithy’s door to place an order. It had been a simple task to craft the tools he requested, but something about the man put Roderick off immediately.
Heinrich’s blue eyes danced manically behind his bifocals at all times, save for when he spoke. Then they would lock onto you and bore, as if a drill, into the depths of your soul. The man must have been seventy, perhaps older, no one in the village was certain of the truth, but he had the face of a man not past forty. Baby fat still clung to his features and there was only a hint of silver in his dark brown hair, which he wore long and oiled, pulled back in a loose ponytail. A half-smirk was permanently etched on his thin lips as if he were privy to a private joke that none in Reimar could hope to understand.
The sound of galloping hooves pulled Roderick free of his thoughts. He scurried back to Reimar and lept behind the nearest house. For a few moments, his heart thumped against his ribs. Gathering his courage, he crawled around to one corner and peered down the road. A rider had arrived, dismounted, and now stood at Heinrich’s door. This rider sported a tricorn hat and his features were obscured behind a mask and knee-length traveling cloak. The rider’s back was to the front door. Though Roderick could not see the rider’s eyes, he was certain that they watched for any onlookers. This was not the first courier he had seen call on Heinrich at the hour of the wolf.
After what seemed like several minutes the door cracked open. Roderick heard the baritone of Heinrich’s voice, but could not make out the words. The rider did not speak. It handed over a parcel, nodded, mounted up, and returned to whence it came. Heinrich took a half step outside and looked about. His blue eyes fell upon Roderick and the young man nearly lept from the safety of his shadow when they went still. He can’t see me. It’s too dark. Too dark. Heinrich turned on one heel, went back inside, and softly shut the door.
He saw me, thought Roderick madly as his heart forced itself up his throat. A furtive sip from his flask and the heat that followed soothed his nerves, but minutes ticked by before he could find the courage to stand. His feet became saviors and guided him to the safety of his home at a jog where he found solace in a dreamless sleep.