The Sleeping Man did not sleep as his moniker would suggest. Many years ago under the Green Mountain Temple where the monks practiced sword dances and lit heady incense, a little girl in apprentice robes ran up to the head of the monks and pulled his robe, “Big Brother, there’s a sleeping man! Come!” A chamber had been revealed underneath the temple itself, in the oldest part of the sanctuary. The monks found him lying in the chamber silent and still. His violet eyes fixated on the ceiling.

Unconsciousness felt like death to him. It was nothing. It was deeper than black vacuum of the stars. While his body rested he would enter the Dreamscape and float on the currents of dreamers. The few times he had been unconscious was nothing less than complete blindness. From the depth of the black there was a single spark, which soon multiplied and increased exponentially as his mind woke. Enough sparks caused internal alarms to snap his body awake. In the next instant he leapt to his feet, reaching for his sword. It wasn’t there.

He looked around. He was in a small cave with a natural stone bench and an unused fire pit in the corner on the opposite side. There was an opening to his revealing nothing but a short ledge and the grey sky of The Desert. Immediately to his right appeared an intimately familiar woman.

“Lillian.” The word escaped with his breath before he could think to speak it. She was right there. She was just as he remembered her, with long, dark hair. Her skin seemed colored from within, like a tan marble. Her ears pointed up like the rest of her people or so the pictures showed. The last Siren had befriended the last Dreamwalker with eyes as green as the emeralds for which the Green Mountain was named. He could reach out and touch her. His hand demanded it and began the journey before he recalled how he got there. He backed up as much as he could before the wall surprised him. He couldn’t see his sword anywhere. “Who are you?”

“Lillian? Yes. That’s my name. Lillian.”

“No. You took my memory.” Her hands looked like they did right before he held them for the last time.

“Memory? Yes. That is. That’s true. I am a memory. No. I am an echo.” She took a step toward him. “Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.” He whispered.

“I know, but I remember. The Bad Man. He hurt you before. He hurt me.”

“Who?” Another whisper.

“Ah, I remember. There was fire. They were terrored. No. They were afraid. Yes. Very afraid. No. Very afraid is… terrified. Yes. They were terrified.” While everything about her was recalled in perfect detail, her movements were not natural. They reminded The Sleeping Man of a bird walking on the ground. No creature would choose to walk if allowed to fly. He wondered what her reasons were for walking.

The Sleeping Man tried to see her through the Dreamscape, but could not decipher whether he was unable to see anything because he was distracted by memories of fire, or if this Lillian mimic was blocking him.

“Yes, I am preventing it.” She answered his unspoken question.

“Are you inside my head?” The Sleeping Man realized he was not able to outmaneuver so he went instead for information. “Are you reading my mind?”

“No. Not inside now, not now. Was inside, had to find words. No. Language. Yes.”

“I see. Where am I?” His head motion indicated the cave.

“One thousand steps. So strong. Strong thoughts. No. Memory. Yes, but strong like recent not strong like arms. Thousand steps to cave. We know. We make. No. We build.” She walked the six steps to the bench on the opposite wall. “We carve-make-build. Carve to change, make to function, build to last.”

The Sleeping Man matched her cross with one of his own, keeping himself the same distance from her or it. “Who are you? Who were you? Before I came here.”

The Lillian mimic tilted her head to the side, furthering his image of a bird in his head. She or it didn’t speak or say anything, just looked directly in his direction at something far away. “Before you came to Dubia Perpetua?”

“What?” He guessed by context she meant The Desert but wanted to keep her talking.

“Dubia Perpetua. No. Frozen. No. Endless Desert. No. Almost. This Desert, The Desert.” She looked up and down his body. “You are tired, would you like to sit?”

The Sleeping Man realized he was in fact very tired, the adrenaline from waking was wearing off and he did not sense danger from her. His body was relaxing under him, with the exception of his stomach which had begun to politely insist on food while hinting that it would not politely insist for long. He crossed to the bench and sat on the edge with his back upright. “Yes, before I came to The Desert, but you called it Dubia Perpetua? What does that mean?”

“The Desert was named this when I was. Before I was this.” She held her dress forward as a child shares its wonderment in clothes.

“Yes.” The Sleeping Man’s violet eyes grew rich upon her visage.

“It means. Endless Doubts. No. Perpetual Fear. No. It gives to itself, so that it may receive. That is why it has no end. That is why so many are lost within, they do not exist. They push and pull and try to escape. They make storms, they make fire.” Her hands outstretched to either side as if she was pulling apart the veil itself to explain. A frown marred her perfect face, “You are not lost, yet Sleep- No. That is not your name. You name is-“

“My name is my own.” The Sleeping Man leaned back. “It’s not important. I am called The Sleeping Man.”

The mysterious Lillian covered her giggling with her hand. “As you wish, Dreamwalker.”

“Please, continue.”

“Hm?” She was listening to music he could not hear.

“You were saying, about me not being lost, do you know what I seek?”

“Yes. Many seek Cathedra Omniscientia. No. You say, Compendium. Wait, that is an old word. How do you know of us?” The creature frowned again, betrayed by stolen memories, mixing up times from past Ages with this one. She advanced on him, demanding. He stood.

“If you have my memories then look at how I know these things.”

“I see stone. I see words on stone. Many were sought. No. Many were seeking. Yes. Many were seeking this place.” She began to trace the outlines of words in the air, remembering ages before anyone living could, using his memories to put it into words. “We found the way. The Adeunt Regem demanded the path. My family. Died. In parts. In pieces. I wrote the words on stone. No. I carve words into blocks.”

The Sleeping Man’s pulse jumped. “Can you show me the way?”

Finding the words became even more difficult. “Changed the words. Made into jokes. No. Riddles. Yes. To hide it but to show. When steps are followed. One thousand paces to fire.”

“Can you show me the way?”

“No. Words are broken, you would not know.” She shook loose the troubling thoughts. “The words protect the path. Doubt will kill in The Desert. The lost do not find their way. They fight while they dream of life.”

The Sleeping Man realized how far he would have to go for the Compendium. As those who tried to reach this place lost themselves in The Desert they dreamed of escape. This dreamer had pulled him from the storm, but he couldn’t figure out why. He was glad he wasn’t dead, but he had to find The Compendium or the Volto Empire would give rise to a new Adeunt Regem. Ancient writings suggested he had tried to unite the world under his banner. The force he brought down was necessary for everyone to thrive, or so he thought. He would weep openly at criminal executions which gave him his title of Aduent Regem or The Sad King. With the knowledge in the Compendium there is no telling what he could have done to the world.

“I must go then. There is no time to waste.” The Sleeping Man stood and looked around the cave once more. There was no sign of his sword. So be it. He walked to the back wall facing the entrance, recalling the next bit of words apparently she had written at the Green Mountain Temple. He wondered if the Temple was even there when she was alive.

She stood watching him curiously, like one does when a brightly colored animal is engaged in thoughts completely foreign to the observer. He focused on his task. While she might not be revealed through the Dreamscape, he might be able to see something in the cave. He gathered his breath, slowing the rhythm of his heart. He began to dream.

While his eyes remained closed, he opened the ones which could truly see. Before the Desert remained its palette of grey, but the alcove he found himself in showed signs of color. It was very faded, hardly there at all. It showed faint traces of previous activity. This was his first discovery he had made as a child and with it realized he was not the same as others. He would dream himself into a world where the echoes of the past were imprinted on the present. He could see whole families which used to reside at the Temple. He would explore the world through this new lens and revel in the worlds he saw. There was no time for that now. Now, he would pull on the thread of the old memories and recreate the scene.

He looked at the bench where many had sat so it was the strongest memory. He hoped to find evidence of the path to the Compendium. Conducting the energy around him he poured himself from him hands, filling the echo left by the travelers on the bench. This was partly a science, with exact steps to perform. It was also partly intuition, relying on the dreamer to take leaps to fill in the gaps. Too many wrong guesses and the dream no longer was a memory, but the dreamer’s will imposed onto historical images. He moved slowly, letting the strongest scene emerge. The memory began to take shape out of nothing, his energy would bring it to life, and if enough of the echo was there, he could move it on its paths backwards and forward for as long as the memory lasted.

He was beginning to make out the shape of a person, leather leggings met with a leather vest, a cross belt of pouches across a women’s chest. They were sitting forward with their hands on their chin apparently deep in thought. Having a ghost image clear enough for him to work with, he began to conduct the figure, moving her forward from this memory. At first he could not tell if it was working but eventually she did move and rubbed her face to free her thoughts. The figure got up and went to the opening opposite the wall, looking out at the Desert. After a moment, she turned and in her ghost like state and walked to the fire pit in the corner.

Sweat began to form on The Sleeping Man’s forehead. It was very difficult to maintain such an old memory. The figure began to fade, “No!”

Suddenly he was flooded with energy, acting as merely a focus point for a turbulent river. He vaguely felt the Lillian mimic hand on his back, “Do not fear Dreamwalker, dreamers fade but dreams do not die.”

The faded figure changed from her ghost like state to appear completely solid with her back to The Sleeping Man. The woman pulled a long dagger from her hip and struck sparks into the pit, lighting a torch that was placed there. Holding up the light she moved it across the wall. “Lapidem Umbr,” She placed her hand upon one of the stones and pushed while walking forward, moving through the wall as if it were not there. Halfway through she turned and looked back and as the memory was more solid The Sleeping Man could see her eyes. He could see they their violet hue. The figure turned and went through the wall, he rushed forward only to be stopped by the wall.

The Lillian mimic remained where she was and his movement had broken the contact, thus hiding the memory from sight. He turned, “Her eyes!”

“Yes.”

“She was a-“ he looked back at were the figure was.

“Yes.”

“Show me more!”

“I cannot. The dream fades each time it is remembered.” The Lillian figure looked contemplative, almost sad.

The Sleeping Man walked defiantly to the stone the memory had touched, and pressed. The figure had walked through the wall, but in reality the stone had revealed a portal. “Not one step shown,” he quoted the directions he had memorized. He looked at the Lillian mimic.

She was continuing her bird motions with her head. “I had remembered. No. I had forgotten how I looked.”

“The memory was of you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a dreamwalker?”

“Dream. Walker. Yes.” The Lillian mimic ran her hand along the wall, caught up in old memories.

“Come with me, please.”

“I cannot. But you will remember soon.”

“Remember what?”

“Why they call you The Sleeping Man.”

The Sleeping Man was caught by the opening in the wall. The tunnel loomed before him. He was close to his goal. He was close to the Compendium. The sight of her haunted his past and the presence of this mimic haunted his present. “They named me at the Temple. It was-” The memories fell through The Sleeping Man’s fingers like sand.

“And before?”

“Before?”

The Lillian mimic stepped towards him, “Before the Temple.”

The Sleeping Man felt something tickle in the back of his mind. There was a complex hole within his memories and he didn’t have the piece. “I don’t remember.”

“You will.”

A moment suspended from the ceiling and stretched in either direction. There was nothing left to say. The Sleeping Man once more looked at the Lillian mimic. “Thank you for letting me see her once more. I have not been able to find her dreams.”

“I have created this shape from your memory. With the memories there are associations.”

“I know.”

“My dream has been waiting for you. To show you. Now the last echo of my memory will fade, and I was using this to hold onto yours.” She held out her hands, empty. She reversed the position of her hands and quickly put them back into their original position making a quick figure eight. His sword was now resting between her hands.

Looking into her eyes, he removed the sword. “Will you rejoin the dreamers?”

“There were many memories of you and her.”

“Where will you go?”

“When I lived, I lived without you and her. No. I lived without those associations. No. Love. Yes. Would you like to kiss me?”

He saw his violet eyes reflected in hers. Lillian had never mocked and was never afraid. “Yes.” The sound was hardly brave enough to be heard. The Sleeping Man turned and stepped with a measured pace.

~

Consciousness returned to the Cannoi slowly. It was caused by the sensation of heat which gradually increased his awareness. Having no eyes, the picture afforded to Conqua was one of temperature, sound, and touch. Combined into one image, he could sense where the other Cannoi were. They had run, like cowards, like wet men. The Night Wake Man had summoned the Maysoong. He remembered the lightning moving towards him, picking him up and scratching at his mind. The pain was unbearable. He screamed. He begged it to stop. He pleaded that he had not asked for rain. His people were not so foolish as to ask for rain. The scratching worsened in his mind, but it was imitating the click and hisses of his people’s language. Without being able to form words he pointed at the Night Wake Man. The lightning had thrown him and he had passed out from the pain. He had not run.

He saw the places where his brethren had stood. The temperature on the ground was slightly warmer where they had been as the rain had not fallen on the ground where they stood for as long. Conqua pulled in a huge rush of air into his lungs, and couldn’t detect The Night Wake Man. Placing the right side of his head on the ground he listened and felt for reverberations, there were none. The Night Wake Man was not moving on the desert floor.

Giving a high pitched yip he used the echo from the ground to locate a calling channel. Slight grooves in the desert floor would carry echoes farther than the dispersed flatness. The Wet Men did not know how to touch the floor to find where the temperature was cooler by a fraction of a degree. They did not know the hard ground was not flat. If they did they would not need to bring water which made them slow and stupid. They walked in circles looking for the Sang Lon, The Big Light. His people could not go there, they were blind there.

The Night Wake Man was not lost. He was heading for the forbidden place. He did not know for certain but Conqua thought he would not be blinded by the light. The Night Wake Man saw the colors like the Cannoi, but he could see more. He was awake with his senses like the Cannoi.

He taken his discovery to the big hunters of his clan, the song keepers, and even ventured underground to Mother. He was beaten for that. She had told him of not just one Night Wake Man, but a group of Night Wake Men crossed The Desert and forged the Twilight Blade. He had asked her if it was the very same blade the song keepers sang about. She had said yes, but it was long ago. She never left the birthing chamber, but she had the longest memory. When he told her one was walking across The Desert. She began to scream to bring her the Night Wake Man, he must not reach the Sang Lon. The others came in then. They chided him like they were Mother. He would get the blade and then he would not be Conqua, he would be Tonqua. The image of the Song Keepers adding more tattoos to signify his rank sufficiently motivated him.

He had convinced two others to go with him to see the Night Wake Man which did not go as planned. The younger of the two he had brought with him had died. When they returned with his body and the other badly injured, everyone demanded the blood of the interloper. No one had wanted to say it was a Night Wake Man.

They ran the desert floor and communicated through dry clicks in their throats. Conqua had lead them to the Night Wake Man. He was close to the light, he had to be stopped.

When they found him Conqua heard something he had never heard before, song with color. It was like the song keepers, but coming from the Night Wake Man. The color radiated out from the singer in waves, a dark gold dome that pulsed into the sky. The Night Wake Man had called the Maysoong. Water that came from the ground was good, but the water from the sky was fake water that hurt their skin.

Finding the calling channel with a series of clicks he used to it call for his fellow clan men. He repeated the message twice. Anyone nearby would hear it above or below ground. There was no response. No response was a response. He was shunned. The realization made him howl to the sky. He would not be allowed to listen to the songs. He would not be allowed to breed with Mother. He had lead them to a confrontation and made them look like cowards. They would not come again. He should go back and confront them. Call them all spineless.

Unless he brought back The Night Wake Man, he would remain outcast to die. He would hold the Twilight Blade high above his head and be first among Breeders and Big Hunters alike.

He did not need them then. He found the trail of the Night Wake Man, his energy and fear still in the air. He stalked up to the cliff wall where his prey had sung the old song. It was completely smooth. He searched and searched and finally yelled and yipped in frustration. The echo that came back was not perfect, so he yipped again. Going back and forth with his yips he honed in by clicking. Part of the wall was not smooth. This part of the wall he could climb. Imagining the wealth that would be available to him, he slowly began to click and climb his way towards The Sleeping Man.

Next Chapter: The Tunnel