Dream Thief (38 page)

Mrs. Zanderson's voice had become a whisper. "Then behind him I saw three great black things—all hunched up like giant insects, but they had wings folded over their bodies and they came out from the castle to stand beside the Dream Thief. I felt him speak to them, but I could not understand what he said; it was just a feeling I got that he was talking to them. Two of them turned away and flew off and the other one came toward me. I knew then that he meant to come and get me. I jumped up and started to run.

“I reached the bridge and, without even stopping to think, dashed across it. I found the path on the other side and ran as fast as I could. I looked back over my shoulder and the demon stood on the far side. I kept running and when I looked back again he wasn't there. I thought he'd gone away. But—” Her voice pinched off suddenly.

“What happened then, Mrs. Zanderson? It's all right, we won't punish you,” said Adjani. He spoke as one would to a child who feared the wrath of a parent for some imagined transgression. “You can tell us what happened.”

The woman's eyes had gone empty. She was no longer in the room with them; she was reliving the past. Her face suddenly twisted into a contorted mask of terror. Her hands became claws which clutched the arms of her chair, her body rigid. When she spoke again it was a trembling whisper. The others had to lean close to hear the words; they held their breath.

"A shadow came over me and I looked up and saw the most hideous face—right above me. The demon stretched out his wings over me and reached for me. I felt his hands tear at me as he scooped me up from the ground. He clutched me in his arms—they were hard and brittle like insect arms. His wings buzzed as he flew; this was the sound I had heard coming from the castle. He carried me back to the Dream Thief and put me down on the ground. I was too scared to scream; I scarcely knew what was happening.

"The Dream Thief reached out a hand and touched me on the head and then all went black. I don't remember anything at ail, just his hand reaching for me, his fingers touching me.

"The next thing I knew I was lying in the road just outside the town, not far from where we lived. I don't know how I got there, but the sun was almost down. It was a red, glowing sunset and the whole sky burned red and orange as if it was on fire.

"I got up and ran home and never said a word about what had happened to anyone. I really could not remember it very well anyway, not to tell about it. Just sometimes in my dreams it would come back to me. And sometimes I would feel the Dream Thief trying to call to me—I would feel his voice inside me. No words at all, just a feeling, and thoughts I knew were not my own. But I never went back.

"About a week later I got sick and the fever came on me. I could feel myself changing through the sickness. I was a different girl, but I kept it to myself and never told anyone about the changes I felt inside. I stopped playing with the other children. I stayed in my room and locked the door so the Dream Thief couldn't get me. I had bad dreams and couldn't sleep sometimes for several nights.

"And then, during one of my fevers, I slipped into a coma and slept for a long time, although it didn't seem very long to me. When I opened my eyes again I had forgotten all about the Dream Thief and his demons. It was like it never happened—only I knew it did. Inside I knew it, although I could not remember it or think about it. I just knew that something was there—deep in my mind, deeper than any other memory.

“I didn't get sick any more. After a while we went home to America and I tried to forget all about living in India. I tried to block it out of my mind …”

When she finished the room was silent as a tomb. No one moved or breathed; no one wanted to break the spell that had grown. But Spence had a question that needed asking—something the woman had said triggered an image in his mind.

“Mrs. Zanderson? What was the castle like? Can you describe it?”

“Yes,” she replied, speaking in the same faraway voice, as one in a trance. “It was a strange castle, but it had a pretty name: Kalitiri. It had a high stone wall which kind of weaved back and forth, not straight. Inside the walls I couldn't see the main building very well but there were two large domes, round like globes, and a tower, thin and tapering. It was very tall. The gates were wooden but old. The wood was black and scarred, as if by fire or battle. I don't remember any more.”

Spence only nodded. “Thank you. That has helped me very much.”

Mrs. Zanderson seemed to come to herself then; she slumped back in her chair and her head fell forward. A long sigh came from her lips and she raised a shaking hand and rubbed her face. She looked around at the three visitors and smiled wanly.

“Oh, are you still here? Ari?”

“We're still here, Mother. You've been telling us about your girlhood in India.”

“Oh? I don't remember. I hope I didn't ramble on. You didn't let me ramble on, did you?”

“No, no. I only hope we haven't tired you out.” Ari's mother looked as if she could fall asleep at any moment. Her face was drained of color and her lids drooped heavily over her eyes.

Adjani stood and motioned to Spence. “Ari, we'll take a little walk out on the lawn. You can be alone with your mother and join us when you're ready.”

The two men left through the French doors and walked out onto the green expanse. When they had moved away from the building a short distance, Spence touched Adjani on the arm. “Did you hear? Did you hear what she said?” He gripped Adjani's arm hard in his excitement. “I've seen it—the castle—in my dream! It exists! She's been there; she knows. It's real!”

Adjani nodded.

“And the Dream Thief, Adjani. She's seen him, too!”

“Have
you
seen him?” Adjani regarded him closely.

Spence hesitated. “Well, there's something strange about that—” A woman's scream cut him off.

“Ari!” cried Spence. “Come on!”

The two raced back across the lawn and into the room. It appeared nothing had happened. Mrs. Zanderson still sat in her chair, but her head fell to one side and she breathed deeply and evenly. She was sound asleep.

Ari was nowhere in sight.

Spence did not stop to look around. He dashed through the room and into the corridor beyond. He looked both ways up and down the long hallway, but saw only a woman with a suitcase creeping along the far side of the wall. He went to her.

“Did you see anyone run from this room?” He pointed to the room he had just come from.

The woman looked at him with wide, unseeing eyes. He knew then that his question was hopeless. “Is the ship coming? I must hurry to meet it. I must not be late.”

He ran to the entrance and asked the receptionist if she had seen anything. “No,” she told him. “No one has come in since your party.”

“What about before?”

“No one all day.”

He raced back along the corridor to Mrs. Zanderson's room. He looked in the open doors of the rooms he passed and saw the rooms were empty. One door was closed. He grabbed the doorknob and burst into the room.

An elderly lady turned to regard him with a motherly smile. She held a potted plant in her hands and caressed the plant's shiny leaves. She was not wearing a stitch of clothing.

Embarrassed, he quickly closed the door and returned to where Adjani was waiting for him. '

“I can't find her,” Spence puffed. “No one has seen her.”

“You won't find her. She's gone.” Adjani held out his hand and Spence saw a small black object—a little stone carving. “They meant for us to find this. It is a clue to where they are taking her.”

“What is it?”

“I'm not sure. But I know who can tell us—my father.”

Spence, mystified, looked at the carving and back at Adjani.

The day seemed very dark and cold, as if the sun had been blanketed in the sky. He felt a sharp sting of fear pierce him like an icy chill.

“We've got to find her, Adjani. Before anything happens to her. We've got to find her!”

T
HE TRIP TO LONDON
from Boston left Spence nervous, irritable, and upset. Heat, fatigue, and worry joined forces to make him even more uncomfortable than he already was. On top of everything else he had a headache that wouldn't quit. His head throbbed every time he moved and drummed with a steady, pulsing rhythm of dull pain. In short, he was miserable.

The last twenty-four hours were a blurred scramble. He and Adjani had chased over half of Metropolitan Boston to catch a plane to London to meet Adjani's parents and dine with them. Adjani's mother had insisted on fixing her son and his friend a meal they would both remember, although neither one professed to being at all hungry.

They ate a chicken pilau which contained okra and some other vegetable Spence could not identify over saffron rice. A cool yogurt and cucumber sauce helped soothe the fire of the curry. Fish baked in tents of paper and served with dill, peanuts, and chutney highlighted the meal. There were stacks of chapatis, the traditional flat bread of India, and endless cups of sweet milk tea.

Spence enjoyed the meal enormously and ate his share with no additional urging after his first polite nibblings. Following dinner Adjani's father took the two aside into his study. The Rajwandhis lived in spare, almost ascetic style in a small four-room apartment in an old building near the university. The room which housed the professor's library and served as a den when need occasioned it bore the stamp of a meticulous scholar.

Books lined shelves, floor to ceiling. A small desk covered with a dyed yellow and green cotton cloth sat in one corner with papers stacked squarely in the center next to a great open dictionary. A single large window looked out upon a dusky cityscape where street lights began to twinkle as stars in a firmament of gray cement.

Professor Chetti, as his students affectionately called him, settled into an armchair and waved Spence and Adjani to seats on either side facing him. Looking somewhat out of character he took up a pipe and filled it with tobacco and lit it, savoring the first few puffs in silence.

“It is my English vice,” he said at last with a happy chuckle.

He fished in his pocket and brought out the curiously carved stone charm Adjani had found in Mrs. Zanderson's room.

“You wish to know what this is, he? I will tell you. It is very interesting. I have not seen one of these in many years and never outside a museum.”

He got up and walked to one of his bookshelves and scanned the rows of books for a moment. He drew out a book and returned to his seat. He thumbed the pages of the book and smoked his pipe and then said, “Ah!” He turned the book around and offered it to them. “You see? Here.” He pointed to a picture on one of the pages.

Spence looked at the picture and saw a carving of the exact figure Adjani had found. It was of smooth black stone and looked like a man with the body of an insect. The one in the book had a tail like a snake and wings partly outstretched. Its arms were drawn up over its head and it held a circular object in its hands.

“What is it?” asked Spence.

“It is an area, an icon, a charm, you might say,” answered the professor. “In many places in India it is believed that one keeps a demon away by wearing a charm such as this, representing an even greater demon.”

“Fighting fire with fire,” said Adjani.

“Yes, in a way. This is a Naga, a snake spirit. One of the older of the demons. And this one is itself very old. Look at the fine detail. You can see the eyes and eyelids, the mouth and nostrils, even though it is very small. Even the scales of the tail are individually carved. Yes, this one is very old. Later carvings are simpler, more stylized.” He turned it over in his hands, regarding it with keen scrutiny. “Where did you get it?”

“It was found in the room of a friend,” said Adjani vaguely.

“I see—you do not wish me to know.” Chetti shrugged. “All right. But whatever you do, don't lose this. It is a very valuable piece.”

“Tell us about the Nagas,” suggested Spence. The scholar's words had struck a responsive chord in him.

Chetti settled back in his chair and laced his fingers together. “I would happily tell you all I know; the problem is where to start. It is a very long, confusing story. But I will try to make it understandable.”

He launched in at once.

"India is an ancient country of years beyond counting. The peculiar cultures of many peoples have mingled together over time, like the waters of streams flowing to a central river, and have created what is India today.

"But it is still possible to take short trips back along some of these tributaries, although many of them are lost to us forever. Such are the Nagas. Little is known now about where the belief came from. It may have originated almost spontaneously among many of the hill tribes of northern India.

"The mountains of the Himalaya were looked upon by these ancient people as the homes of gods and demons and other strange beings. They believed that in the high hills and among the snowcapped mountain peaks magic cities lay hidden from mortal eyes. The gods lived in these cities and went about their own business, for the most part staying away from men.

"There were three main groups. The Nagas, or snake spirits, dwelt in an underground city called Bhogavati and there guarded great treasures. They were usually represented as at least half human. They seemed to have special protective powers, possibly owing to their function as guardians.