Start Writing!

2. The Rain

He was being hunted. Even though he was constantly checking his surroundings, his thoughts were focused on measured running steps, how he would find water in this place, and what Crow Face meant by demanding the Twilight Blade. It did not seem possible they were unaware of the Compendium, but he was living proof of the impossible.    

He had done the math and he didn’t have much farther to go on this trajectory. He did not know how he would be able to wait for the water which would indicate his next direction. Visibility was getting worse. He wasn’t sure if the desert was actually getting harder to navigate or if the dust from the Cannoi was making things worse, but either way he was near the end of his path. Mentally he prepared himself for the final paces.    

 Upon reaching the end of the path, he immediately crouched, hoping that marking the group would work again and he would survive long enough to make sure they did. He looked for water, but could see more than a couple feet in any direction. There was no time to waste, so he slowed his breathing and visualized the ancient steps of the Sonno Forzato. The Forced Sleep. A technique used to peer inside the Dreamscape for premonitions. It layered the Dreamscape onto the physical realm like looking through a lens and revealed hidden truths of the environment. It was hard to clear his mind, and entering the Dreamscape with worries was something he always tried to avoid. When the mind is already agitated, he found forcing sleep would cause nightmares to come to life. Such was the power of the dreamwalkers, they had to balance themselves before they could affect the balance of others. He had awoken with real scratches on his arms and half remembered explanations as to how they got there.     

 Visualizing a stone spiral staircase was fine, but the more detail he gave to the Sonno Forzato the more effective it was. He did not have time for non-effective measures. The inner wall had a torch every quarter turn opposite a small arched window. One of the stones on his next step had a crack running the length of it, which he stepped over and continued down. The process is repeated until the mind self-hypnotizes an endless pattern, one of the ways he tried to achieve Sonno Forzato in the past was endlessly pouring water into a trough which drained into another bucket which then would have to be poured into the trough. The staircase was easier for him, but the image of the eyeless horrors with jagged teeth called the Cannoi was affecting his concentration. Nevertheless, he soon was rhythmically going down mental steps of stone. He kept the pace mentally, the details repeating over and over. He had read accounts of his lost tribe of nomadic dreamwalkers meditating for hours to find the door of the Sonno. He did not know why, but it never took him that long.     

 He rounded the last bend and saw the door. He opened it, and stepped inside. Stepping through the door in this case was not a mental projection outside his physical form. While it was technically the Dreamscape, he could not simply visualize what he wanted and have it appear. The Sonno Forzato was trying to steer down a raging river, and his consciousness was the raft to which he held. First he zoomed back along the path he came until he saw the Cannoi running in slow motion. They were moving through dust clouds with vague outlines and glowing red eyes pulsing with energy. He barely had time to register the fact they even had eyes in the Dreamscape until his perspective zoomed straight into the air looking down. He only saw a half circle visible on the ground, then all around him dark clouds formed thunder and lightning. They were gray and turbulent, faces forming to frown at his intrusion. The Sleeping Man felt a coldness seep into his bones as these were clearly the dreamers of this place and his previous foray into the Dreamscape did not reveal them.     

 He was hit back and forth amongst the faces by their silent shouts until they gathered their energy and hurled him towards the ground. His body was clearly the target and right before he slammed into himself he wondered how they were kicking him out of the Dreamscape. He woke gasping for air in the same way when he used to dream of falling as a child and he would wake up on impact. The difference was that when he woke up from a fall he had very real injuries. It was not until he knew more about his people that he understood he did not dream in the same way as others.

 Now he was kicked out of the Dreamscape, had no idea where the water was going to come from, and would have to wait for the Cannoi to do whatever it was they did to the people they caught. The fact there were no tales of survivors spoke volumes. He was anger that he didn’t learn more from the Sonno Forzato. The red eyes of the Cannoi in the Dreamscape indicated to him they could see as well as if they had eyes. The half circle of approaching Cannoi probably meant he was trapped. The faces of the storm were the most disconcerting thing. Faces gave them an identity, made they were partly thought or at least had the remnants of thought. If their lives were so long ago that they were dreaming in elemental shapes because they forgot their form then he should not ask for assistance from them.  He didn’t quite understand what falling from the storm clouds meant. Unless he was thinking too metaphorically, falling from the rainclouds could be more literal. Rain! He would have to follow the rain! The elation was short lived as he had no real idea how to travel upwards.    

 The Cannoi had traveled within earshot and his panic increased. This was due to the fact he was not certain how he could travel upward in a completely flat environment. Flying was out of the question as he could only do that in Dreamscape and his body would be in the physical realm. He would have to decide something quickly, there was no more time. Thinking back to the instructions, he wondered what he did wrong. He ran he didn’t walk, but the distance should be the same. Intuition came to him then, something in the vision tickled the back of his neck and he remembered the half circle of Cannoi. Things in the Dreamscape where not literal, but they were sometimes simple. They wouldn’t attack in a half circle when a full circle would be better. They would be able to circle him, because they could run much faster. Therefore they couldn’t circle him and if they couldn’t circle him there had to be a reason. There had to be something to climb up. Or fall from. He hoped for climbing.    

 The dust parted and he could see them. They bounded but remained low to the ground like some type of skeletal human wolf. He looked at the etching he made in the dirt of where his feet where, and with a sigh resigning to what will be, stepped off in the direction he was heading. After six paces he ran straight into a rock wall. His laugh was cut off when he saw no footholds. The wall was completely smooth. He spun around and drew his sword, ready for the end. He had hoped to make it further, but there was no changing this.     

 The certainty of his death raced across the desert floor towards him. He thought of the clouds, the ancient spirits of a place so old it had no name. Living beings who had spent so many years in death they had forgotten how to dream their own form, speak their native tongue, and yet strong enough to feel their echoes. He wondered if he would be able to join them. The Sleeping Man would fight to the death, and the best chance of fighting would be to summon the aide of the dreamers in the clouds. He just hoped they would be able to understand him. He took a deep breath, and in the polyphonic tone of his people, sang the dirge of the Dreamwalker War.

          O sorrow be, for none shall know    

           Distant shores, wher’n children grow    

            Mist and mem’ry, will softly sing    

            While yon death bells, do ov’rly ring    

            War is lost, once it has begun    

            Death is many, and life hath none    

As if appearing form thin air, dark grey clouds crackled to life. If he was going to die, it was going to be fighting and with any dreamers nearby. He would like to have met another dreamwalker just once in his life. Instead he only had half remembered tales, tomes, and the occasional spirit in the Dreamscape. It has been said upon death’s door there will be an accounting for one’s life. Flashes of memories and scenes of a life lived. The Sleeping Man waited for this, but only thoughts of a childhood apart as an outcast and shoved the memories away. He would need to harmonize the dreamscape with the physical realm to fight with dreamers and since the Cannoi seemed to be able to already see the Dreamscape he had no idea what to expect.    

 Leaping and hissing amongst the noise of clicks and yips the Cannoi were coming into to their jumping distance thirty feet away. The Sleeping Man closed his eyes to see a pulsing blood orange ring angrily clawing his way towards him. In the very middle where the most color pooled there was an undercurrent of black like a starless sky, and even someone who could not dreamwalk would feel the intention of death. Having his internal energies focused by the song, The Sleeping Man pulled from both realms and in the widest polyphonic tone spoke.

             “Only death!”

 The sound grew and poured across the thirsty ground as does an overfull cup, bouncing off the wall behind him and chased the waves already heading towards the murderous mass of Cannoi. In the Dreamscape, the sound was a trumpet blast, a war cry, a rally for any dreamer within its range. In the best of scenarios, he could use anyone asleep nearby to join him in the Dreamscape and they could combine their energies to accomplish his goals. Sometimes they provided information. Occasionally they were having nightmares, and would cause him to fight insane terrors along with the dreamer in question. The methods he studied from ancient books hinted at ways of filtering which dreamers were summoned, but he had no teacher and was forced to trial and error.     

 In this ancient place, old spirits from eons passed had forgotten their language. Everyone dreamed after death, but those who were content with their life were usually content with their dream and rested comfortably. Once enough time had passed, which was subjective to the dreamer, they stopped looking at the physical world as it had turned and moved on. With no language or memory of their corporeal form, the angriest combined elemental rage with harmful intention. Here they were drawn to each other like gravity. These were the dreamers The Sleeping Man called. These were the ones which answered.     

There was giant crack of thunder as the dark gray clouds formed shapes in the sky, manifesting as clouds focused above The Sleeping Man. With his eyes still closed he did not see the clouds, he saw waking shapes vaguely resembled the past life of the creatures above him. They seemed to be made of drops of liquid shadow ignoring the effects of gravity. The Cannoi had scared him with their innate ability to at least see the Dreamscape even if they might not be able to Dreamwalk. The dreamers he summoned terrified him with their causal malice.    

 With his attention pulled upward, he had not noticed the Cannoi had stopped. They all were either covering the holes where their ears should be or had their heads pointed upwards, clicking and hissing at each other in clear alarm. A new wind had begun, the type of wind which only intended to bring a storm. Another crack of thunder cowered the Cannoi and while The Sleeping Man flinched, he managed to remain standing. Looking at the group surrounding him, he found Crow Face. The rest of the entire group was on the desert floor, clearly in terror of the above display. The Sleeping Man yelled above the maelstrom, “Do you believe in my power now?”    

 The reply was lost of another crack of thunder which to The Sleeping Man seemed to sound like language. There was no way to determine what was being said, only the speakers of the language would know and there was no way to tell how long ago the dreamer lived. Just then lightning arced down from the clouds and seized on Crow Face, lifted him into the air it what appeared to be great pain.    

             The Sleeping Man was glad the larger mass had attracted the dreamers he summoned. He was glad because he knew he couldn’t talk to them as they clearly hadn’t been human when they lived. The Crow Cannoi was writhing in the too strong lightning grip. The Sleeping Man blinked at the scene and the liquid shadow had pooled and reached down to grab the unfortunate Cannoi. It had vaguely formed a head and arm and seemed to be listening to the scream of the creature. He saw the shape cock its head as if it was listening. The clicks and hisses of the Cannoi were somehow understood by the liquid shadow creature.

 The other shapes above the disembodied arm and head were clearly restless and were bouncing off of each other. Each movement was only the manifestation of the mover’s intention and took the form of claws or teeth or simply was to push the other creature away. As the conflict began to increase so did the injuries. In the Dreamscape, a projected form cannot bleed, but its energy can be dispersed and it is as vital as blood.    

           The physical world did not have the ancient creatures which appeared to be moving, viscous shadows. The physical world had what looked to be the worst storm in recent history. Just as they didn’t have the ancient creatures bleeding on them, they only had rain. Light at first, it soon turned into torrents. While The Sleeping Man could see both depending on what he focused on, his mind was pulled in a different direction by a thought. His first change of direction had come from wind. The second was supposed to come from water and if the measurement of his steps was slightly off then he was supposed to be at the cliff he was backed up against. The water was coming from the sky, he would have to go up.     

 He spun around desperately, looking for purchase. The cliff was completely smooth to his touch and both realms gave him no clues as to how to climb. He struck the surface with his sword and as it bounced off the reverberations ran down his arm. He looked around. There was nothing for him to do. He looked back to the group of Cannoi, most of them were scattering in fear, some appeared to be in worship, and the Crow Face was pointing. At him. The ancient dreamer turned its head like shape towards The Sleeping Man. It seemed to pause and consider him, then causally tossed the Cannoi it held to the ground where it writhed. The shape folded inwards forming a blob then pulled away from the larger mass above with great effort. Now on the desert floor, it started to move slowly toward The Sleeping Man.     

 With his desperation increased exponentially, The Sleeping Man turned again to the cliff wall. The rain had increased even more so and he looked around again, hoping this time might reveal something different.  With the increased water sheeting down the cliff face he noticed off to his right he saw an interruption in the otherwise uninterrupted cascade of water. Above it was another slight interruption. The falling water had revealed the smooth surface was not entirely smooth and The Sleeping Man sheathed his sword as he went to the one closest to him. The ancient dreamer behind him was still ponderously moving towards him, the blob seemingly rising into a shape more resembling what it was when it was alive. It remained low to the ground but twice the size of a man with four appendages on either side that were propelling it, but two other antennae moving in front of it. It reminded The Sleeping Man of a scorpion with no tail, but as the consciousness of the dreamer had not fully coalesced within the body, it was malformed and dripping parts of itself, but reabsorbing those parts as it walked over them.    

 The Sleeping Man reached for the first ledge the water revealed, finding it was barely wide enough for his fingertips. He pulled himself upward, thinking of the directions he had had to memorize, realizing a thousand steps in this case was a thousand ledges and he made note of the number. The storm grew with its ferocity, the echoes of creatures long dead continuing to battle. After ten iterations of pulling himself up by his fingertips, he ventured to look behind him without shifting his center of balance too much. The creature had recalled most of its form which became a shiny black exoskeleton oozing black liquid from the joints. A chitin plated body orchestrated the movement of the limbs, each pair moving opposite to create straightforward momentum without shifting side to side. Like the Cannoi, they had no eyes as eyes would not serve a creature grown in a featureless desert. The antennae in front had become long and thick seemingly sensing the ground, air and honing in on The Sleeping Man.     

 The Sleeping Man noticed the physical realm was showing what the creature looked like in times long forgotten. “I definitively hate this place.” He reached for the next step the water revealed, counting carefully and desperately trying to think of a plan for the creature below because with his luck it would probably be able to climb. Counting up another ten steps, he ventured another look and realized he was tired of being right. The creature had reached the base of the cliff and the two antennae were searching upwards for him while the legs were scrambling to gain purchase. Sufficiently motivated to climb for the rest of his life, he went up another set of ten steps and looked down again. The creature had regained a lot of its motor control, and was climbing slowly while ignoring the steps. The water seemed to not cause it a terrible amount of trouble and The Sleeping Man weighed his options for as long as he dared.    

 He was heading upwards to where shapes were fighting so intensely in the Dreamscape it caused a storm in the physical realm. If they noticed him there was nothing he could do about it. If he tried to fight the creature below he would not be able to hang on to the cliff the same way the creature was. The Cannoi had all but scattered, clearly in awe of what they saw as they could see at least some part of the Dreamscape. He was out of options and he had no idea what to do. One appendage moved at a time, alternating limbs on alternating sides. Once contact with the wall was made, the water would flow around them. The Sleeping Man realized the creature was suctioning itself to the wall, and the water would prevent that, if there was more of it. He had to make the storm worse.    

 He had summoned the ancient dreamers to him, although part of him wondered if he was the storm would have happened anyway. Regardless, he had maintained a slight connection with the Dreamscape even as the current horrors unfolded and he called upon it now. He inhaled with his diaphragm, summoning to polyphonic tone used to be heard in the Dreamscape, “Do not fear me, Ancient One Who Sleeps. I have no wish to harm you.”    

           The creature’s antennae stopped as they came close to The Sleeping Man’s feet. The creature seemed to understand. Then all at once it sprung upwards and grabbed The Sleeping Man, spun him to face the belly of the creature, its legs forming a prison around him while the antennae wrapped and held him in place. A strange light seemed to come from within the creature and he was positive he was going to be eaten. As he was straining, he felt a tickle within his thoughts like the name of a place on the tip of the tongue. He focused on it. The more he could focus on it, the more he could tell it was probing him, seeing what was inside his mind.     

 He found himself thinking about early memories, earlier than he had thought is a long time. A snapshot of walking through a field and calling the yellow flowers, white. He imagined Lillian’s laughter as she corrected him. She was nice when others were not. He had not thought of her for a long time. The memories began to pick up speed through his mind. He saw adults holding things in front of his facing and repeating the word ‘cup.’ The creature was flipping through his mind for language.  Panic seized his throat refusing him air.     

            STOP. RESIST. STOP RESISTED. NO. STOP RESISTING. YES. STOP RESISTING.

“Let me go!” Pain had begun to spread behind his eyes.    

WE LEARN. NO. WE SEE. NO. WE DREAM-SEE-LEARN. NO. YOU ARE WAITING. NO. YOU WILL WAIT. YES. YOU WILL WAIT. WE WILL LEARN. NEED YOUR WORDS. WE TAKE. STOP RESISITING. MORE PAIN RESISTING.

“But-“ The Sleeping Man was cut off as his thoughts turned to old word associations. Earliest memories of his very first words, how fire was simply hot to him until later her learned what fire was. His mind flipped through still images of moments of later words, children calling him freak. Times when the name of something shone in his mind as it was the first time to even hear the word. The idea of hearing the word flower, and wondering what it that? This is a flower, Lillian again. That is also a flower. Lillian, smiling.

YOU HAVE LARGE WORDS. NO. YOU HAVE MANY WORDS. THIS IS NEW TO US.

The Sleeping Man strained against the intrusion. There was a thick doughy pain behind his eyes the more he pushed. He tried to push his energy on the creature through the dreamscape to force him off.

STOP RESISTING DREAMER. WE ARE THE BEFORE DREAMERS. NO. THE DREAMERS BEFORE. NO. YOU WILL WAIT.

He stopped straining and the mental flash cards flipped more rapidly through his brain. He could see what the creature was learning. The irony of his life flashing before his eyes in a very literal way was not lost on The Sleeping Man, at least he would get to see her again.

WHAT IS HER?

The word radiant, beauty, and love all merging and being dissected by a foreign entity. The pain began to cloud his eyes, the light in the world bowed and slowly receded away. More memories, words turning to concepts, delineating from people to children and adults, to classes like rich and poor, normal and freak. Lillian never called him a freak. She had never stared at his violet eyes with disgust. The Sleeping Man lost consciousness.

Next Chapter: The Fire