I've been dreaming of my homeland, of awesome cliffs painted with the mellow, golden light of late afternoon and apple orchards, floors a'tangle with roots and wicked white clover. I dream of the eastern briar, its fiery blooms shedding petals in all the shades of sunset, and of the frog stream that wends its way through the wild northern woods. I dream myself barefoot and wandering. I dream myself lost and lonely. I am dreaming yet.

A heap of stones. A shambling keep, forgetting its shape. Unless I do the forgetting. I. Do. Forget. I forget that my mother, beautiful and youthful always, is not young. Her shining hair, webbed with silver strands no less brilliant than the darker hues, attests to this as do the shallow, powdered wrinkles that frame her eyes and soft mouth. All her features are softening, melting into a stranger's face. I love her desperately, and cannot abide her presence. Even in dreams I flee.

I find myself outside the door to my father's study. Of course, the door is closed. Even as my hand rises to clasp the iron ring, I know this way is barred to me. Here he ordered my confined to my chambers with one breath, and disowned me with the next.

I don't know if he spoke from rash wrath, words meant to be swallowed the next dawn or season, or if he never intended to forgive my tattoo, my taboo dabbling with magic, the general inconvenience my early years brought the family. When my mother unlocked my door the following eve, I ran without another word to any of my kin. I took the southern road all the way to the city of winds. It's hard to remember that now, with cool iron heavy beneath my hand. Harder. To. Remember I'm dreaming.

I'm too insubstantial, I cannot force the door. My feet slide across grainy flagstone, my toes find no purchase, and my knees find the floor. I'm huddled there, shoulder and cheek pressed against the wood, aghast at my own weakness, when the door finally opens. I needn't lift my head to know who stands there. He has always cast the longest shadow in this house. He says nothing to me. None of them do. I am not real to them.

The heartache of that realization frays my will, and I'm loosed to the tides of dreaming. Every whim of mind and corkscrew kink of this elsewhere place becomes more tangible than the waking world, and then supplants its memory. My last lucid thought is of the danger, and then I am adrift.

.................


"Sea foam and turtles' breath mixed with the tears of a Sea Dweller." The pale man speaks, words made raspy by his ragged teeth. He pushes a bottle towards me, awaiting an answer.

"I don't want that," I reply. I don't know what it's good for, and don't want to find out. I just want to find a way home, either to my childhood or the place that witnessed it. I'm lost, I remember sadly. "I want to go home."

"Yes. You'll need this," he insists with the patience of the dead.

"I can't afford it. I'm saving plat for Kilican, I mean, Ethucan. I'm saving platinum. I'm waiting until it's all saved."

He watches me intently, no mean feat for a fellow with only the one sunken eye centered in his forehead. I lift the bottle, and marvel at its weight.

"Does seem too heavy, it does."

"Indeed," he agrees. "Barter or begone. You have less time than you think. Offer me your dreams of dragons, a game of fingers, or a gate to the field where the sleepers' eyes shine. Offer me something like that."

Dreaming. I remember I am dreaming, and I remember the one I lost in dreams somewhere between that field and the place of all waters. Doubt. A squat, dull gray bottle catches my eye, and I point to it. "What about that other one?" Even as I speak, the borders of the dream begin to decay, and it takes all my concentration to remain coherent.

The man's eye glitters, inscrutable. "Contains seven scales from a lunar moth, crushed meadowsweet petals, and a ragged bit of your true love's laughter. Not that you'll find that one. Most people never do. Still, yours for a small price, my little, misguided spirit friend. Your heart will suffice," he offers with a careless gesture to a heap of raw, cold hearts in the corner. I note that most of them are small and a little ragged. "I'll even give you a replacement in exchange." He procures a lump wrapped with coarse, stained cloth. The soul-rotting stench of a demon's heart emanates from the fabric.

I shake my head and step away, still clutching the bottle of tears, breath and stuff. "Nuh-uh. Take my dreams of dragons, and let all bargains between us be finished."

"All bargains?" His words stretch to fill the space between us.

I nod my assent, and clutch at both the bottle and the edges of my mind. The unstable dream darkens as the man's pointed teeth bare in a hungry smile, a cannibal grin of implacable hunger. Leaning forward, his suddenly empty hands dart towards my throat, and I respond by stumbling backwards with a critical dearth of grace. The creature is on me in moments, gibbering and drooling, not a remnant of humanity left on its pale features. The moment before foul teeth rake across my jaw, I close my eyes and wish myself away from here. Terror strengthens my will. That same terror steals my wits, and again I lose track of the fact that I'm dreaming.

...............

Tattering. Mist flowing, scattering. A sunrise haze, beyond delight. Melody eating the silence. Brass screeching - horns wailing. Silence again, and a cluster of stars in my ears - sound's memory. Rampant colors burgeon into a devil's playground of crimson. Red music begins. No flesh, no eyelids with which to blink away the pain. No me. Only sound, and light. Tearing, scattering, and almost sundered into shattering. Hide! In the dimmest hues gather power, cognizance, self. Senseless becomes a reverse. I fling myself out to catch anything, and begin to fall.

................

Run through the dappling shadows, run past the broken well, run beyond a sunken citadel, and run until nothing can find you. Hide in bed of mouldering autumn leaves, breath quieted as much as belabored lungs allow for, and swallow a tickling sneeze. Smell the earth, damp and alive with decay, press your fingers into the loamy soil, and pray for concealment. Fret not about the beetles and worms turning beneath your cheek, nor the damp squish under your elbow as you shift your weight slightly.

Abide there for a time, an eternity. Keep yourself small and secret until the hunt is called off and the stalker withdraws to its rancid lair. Then you may rise, furtive and hesitant, heavy with dread, and hasten away from this place, lest it return to find you here. Seek the hidden path through a grove of ash trees, become something hidden, lost to every monster.

For the stalker will be unleashed again.

Even now you hear it, the clear notes of a horn breaking through the song of birds and wind. Run again, as the trees thin and sunlight pours upon you, hotter than torchlight or betrayal. Know that you've been sighted. Feel it between your shoulder blades, sharper than any knife and twice as certain. Rebuke the desire to surrender. Flee with the promise of death at your heels.

When you find the lonesome farm house, dart within and bar the door. Glance behind your shoulder to make sure that you're alone. Breathe quietly, lest you disturb the repose of someone elsewhere in the house. Tremble if you must, but gather your strength. You hear them moving below, soft moans and rattling cries coming from the cellar. You see the door is open, and something shuffles just within the darkness of the descending stairwell. The scent of death is unmistakable, even before the first zombie's hollowed, yellow face appears.

Fight, with fist and foot, and no regard for pustules bursting beneath every strike. The spray of fetid, ancient blood must not distract you from surviving. Snap shut the door with a forward kick, and spin to run again. Bolt up the stairs, and down the western corridor until you duck into a room that smells of musty, sweet perfume. Shut this door too, and look around with edgy curiosity.

Aged and crumbling tapestries hang upon the walls, but try as you might, you cannot tell what they once depicted. The mirror in the corner is another story. You know well what it depicts, and feel a horrified fascination take hold of you. Towards the mirror you trudge, reluctant feet and eager eyes pointed in the same direction. The frame might be golden, jet, or fashioned of rusted wire and you wouldn't notice. You fixate on the smooth glass and your image becomes trapped there.

See your face, smooth skin over sharp bones, begin to decay. Watch as another looks forth from your eyes and as the skin of your smile rots, stretching into a ghoul's grin. Regard the fading of beauty from your features, the warp of death upon your cheek and brow. Choke upon the horror or revel in it. Choose on which side of the mirror you'd like to awaken.

Finally, remember you're dreaming.