Prologue
The Child Who Dreams
People say that only misfortune would happen in the midst of a stormy night. To the people living in Lower Heysdale knew this as a fact and held the belief as something close to their own heart.
Lloyd Scuggins, owner of the Blue Shears Tavern, swore by the aforesaid motto and was known to close up early when the storm was coming.
Tonight, it was especially stormy. The wind blew harshly over the trees, threatening to blow down everything that weren’t nailed down. It howled and tore at the canvas outside.
“Cripes. Look at dat weather! Feels like somethin’s abrewin’ in de devil’s cauldron!”
“Again wid de old wife’s tale, Scuggins!? I tole ya, no one’s coming here even if it ain’t spittin’ ice out dere!” He spat, “yer pie tasted like rat’s ass.”
“Yer free to stop eatin’, den!”
Cray shrugged as he bit into his pie. “Never said I don’t like rat’s ass, Scuggins.”
Cray the greengrocer swiped another piece of pie from the table and put on his cloak.
“A’right den. See ya tomorrow, if yer place still stands.”
“It’ll damn will!!”
Knock Knock.
Cray opened the door. Suddenly a big gust of wind flung the door open, nearly off its hinges, bringing droplets of water and cold wind inside. The wind put out the candles and all of a sudden, there was a mysterious figure in cloak standing in front of the door. He was short, stocky, and lurched a bit. He moved with the ease of an unoiled machine.
Lloyd Scuggins stared at the new guy, sizing him up. He intended to tell him off, but what came out was anything but menacing. “T-the tavern’s closed.”
“Evening, thurs. Thorry if I thcare you, do you happen to know the road to Elmore Hill?”
Tension left his shoulders when he heard the man talk. He didn’t sound like he meant harm. Lloyd had been robbed enough times to know the difference. “Elmore Hill? What’cha gonna do dere in de middle of this storm!?
“My mashter happen to own that hill.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“But de only thing on dat hill is-”
Before he even finished talking, the man held up a shiny golden coin between his fingers, “I have a gold coin for your trouble,”
At the sight of the gleaming coin, Lloyd quickly gathered his guts and pointed North. “It lies dat way. It is beyond the river and Smith’s Smithies.”
“Thank you,” the man flicked the coin. It landed on top of the counter with a satisfying plunk.
When he turned to see him, the man had already vanished.
There were neighs outside, a loud cry, a thunderclap and then everything was silent again, except for the beating of the rafters.
Lloyd Scuggins took the coin and bit it. It was real. And a crooked smile appeared on his lips. As he pocketed the coin, he called out to Cray. “Cray, ya coward! Stop sittin’ on yer butts and close the door. It’s gettin’ chilly in ‘ere.”
But Cray didn’t move. He was still on the floor, trembling.
“Cray?”
“Dat face! ‘s like a monster!”
A pair of horses pulling a carriage went down the road without caring of the storm. They let out a grunt every time their hooves touched the ground, sparks flew as they did.
“So how was it, Igor?”
“Just a few minuteth more, mathter.”
“I see the villagers have given my house an amusing name,” the one Igor respectfully addressed as mathter ventured. His lower and upper jaw was misaligned, causing the man to lisp.
“Why do we have to return to this godforsaken village, Mathter?”
“Because the Oracle said it so. The Child Who Dreams has appeared. And we will find him. The one who will decide the fate of the world.”
----------------------------------------
England in the 1800’s was a bad time for babies to be born. It was a time when health was something you buy and most of the people were too poor to care.
In Lower Heysdale, a town so poor that boots were considered staple, a man watched as a woman gave birth on a birthing table. His eyes were empty and unfocused. Like a man watching a scene that wasn’t there.
Before he even realized it, he felt his arms holding something warm and heavy. And he was pushed from the warm glow of the house to a chilling November weather outside. For the briefest second, the man looked at his arms where a baby boy – still red from birth – was sleeping in a crude yellowing cloth with a big rusty key around his neck.
And his eyes glowed with sanity, something he had lost long ago.
Then he walked, advancing slowly against the wind and snow. He ignored the freezing cold, not even knowing his destination, only that he must keep on walking. Without warning, the white snow that surrounded him turned black, white, and then black again. From the shadows of the snow came long arms which reached out to the baby. White teeth appeared on the surface of the arms, ripping through the arm’s ethereal flesh like opened wounds.
The teeth splith apart, forming misshapen mouths that uttered incorrigible words.
“You will not take him!” he said at the top of his lung. As soon as he said that, blood gushes out of his mouth. He ignored the pain and took out an old bronze wand. He wove an intricate patterns in the air and the air grew hot. A bright light came out of the wand and formed a dome which enlarged and snuff out the darkness.
When the spell vanished, the man fell. A drop of blood stained the white snow crimson. He looked at the baby, still sleeping without a care, and he found a new strength welling up inside. He forced his legs to move until his eyes spotted a window glowing with the warmth of a fire and walked to its door.
“I’m sorry, my son...I didn’t even get a chance to give you a name.”
With the last of his strength, he balled a fist and beat on the heavy door. Shortly after, the poor man slipped to his death in the snow, wearing the smile of a father having accomplished his mission.