The Dream Catcher's Daughter (25 page)

“Awesome, I guess.”

“Good, good.” Jason picked up the book and
placed it on the table. “Did you hear me? Reading the story?”

Trevor nodded. Then his eyes drifted to
the window at his right, just across the bed from Jason. “It was cool. There
was nothing at first. But then I heard your voice. And the story...I could see
it. I saw everything. The knight and his house. The maiden and their kids.”

“You dreamed.”

“Yeah. But I don’t dream lots. Not lately.
Seems like no one does. Everyone keeps saying they just slept. It’s so boring.”

“I agree.” Jason glanced back to the book.
It had been the product of a happy time. But a product of grievance, as well—a
true story.

To love yourself; ‘tis the most important
thing.

Jason stood and smiled at Trevor. “I’m
sure your parents will be here soon. Especially after they hear the news.”

“News?”

Jason shook his head. “Never mind. Just go
back to sleep. Dream. Then come back, okay? Make sure to wake up. Promise me
you will.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die at the
hands of
Decepticons
!”

***

He dropped a note off at the
receptionist’s desk. She’d left, but a sign promised her return in five
minutes. Outside the sun had set and streetlights dotted the dark streets.
Jason sat down on the bench beside the entryway. Rubbing his chin, Jason stared
off into the distance, toward the police station, only a few blocks away. Right
next door to the paladins’ stronghold. Jason glanced at Darlene’s phone: 8:55
P.M.

He nearly tucked the phone away, but
opened it again. Once more, he activated the spell book app and re-read the
instructions left by the Guardian out loud:

“Use this spell when Sirin and Shemillah
are in the same room.”

Jason stared at the glowing screen a
little longer, then closed it. After tucking it away in his pocket, he stood.
The execution would be early the next day. He had a few hours to burn, and
tonight he didn’t feel like sleeping. Jason walked away from the hospital,
toward the street corner, breathing in the night air as if for the first time.
Just as he reached the edge of the hospital parking lot, a car passed him.
Jason glanced back to the hospital. From the car, two adults and three kids
half-leapt half-stumbled out and rushed inside.

Jason smiled. “To love yourself.” And he
started to remember. Everything.

With only a few hours to go, he turned
toward downtown and started walking.

The sun had barely dawned when they came
for her. Len’s eyes fluttered open to the concrete floor she’d fallen asleep
on. The heavy mix of body odor and dusty jail cell wafted up her nose, and she
coughed. The sun peeked through a hole in the boarded wall of Jason’s old cell.
She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen the train herself. But what
did it mean for Jason? That he was the Dream Caller? Or something else? Len
wasn’t quite sure.

The thud of footsteps echoed down the cell
block. Len’s eyes flicked up to steel slab that had once been the block’s
door—not budged since yesterday. She rose slowly. Aches radiated in all her
joints; pinpricks ran down her back. Sirin came into view, wearing the widest
grin. Two paladins followed behind him with their swords drawn.

“Oh,” said Sirin, “I’ve been looking
forward to this.”

Len grunted, then flipped him off.

“I’ll make you eat that finger.”

“It’ll be too far up your ass.”

Sirin motioned to one of the paladins. He withdrew
a key from his armor and unlocked the cell door. Both of the paladins somehow
squeezed into the cell and gripped Len tightly about the wrists. She struggled,
which caused her father’s wand to fall out of her pocket. She tried to duck the
two muscle-heads, but their grip was ironclad. Sirin spotted the wand and
grinned. Len’s eyes narrowed, her lips tightening.

“Don’t you dare touch
that.
”

Siring stooped down and picked up the
wand. He dangled it only inches from her face. She jerked and writhed, trying
to free her hands. But the paladins didn’t budge.

“Shame,” he said. “This was your father’s
wand. It could’ve been used by someone better. Someone like me. But oh well.”

He took the wand between his hands, and
snapped it across his knee.

Len screamed, whipping her head and
kicking her feet. “I’ll rip your eyes out!” she said as Sirin unceremoniously
dumped the wand halves to the floor.

“I’d like to see you try when you’re
dead.”

The last she saw was
Sirin
nodding to the paladins. Darkness fell, and Len slept again.

***

Just below the surface of consciousness,
Len heard murmurs. As she neared awakening, they
crescendoed
into buzzing. By the time she opened her eyes, a hum of excited chatter filled her
ears, and there before her stood a crowd, here for one purpose: her execution.

Around six-thirty in the morning, a crowd
of magi converged on the paladin’s stronghold. He only knew this because,
usually, the paladins held a public court hearing once every month. His father
had told him they weren’t interesting and, most of the time, trite. But today
the crowd was large. Jason knew two of the likeliest reasons:

1. There was going to be a public
execution, not a court hearing.

2. A rumor: the Dream Caller had
resurfaced and would be at the execution. Or be executed.

Jason wished Shemillah were the one being
executed. He wished it so bad, he almost stormed the stronghold early. But
withheld himself and waited to sneak into the crowd. During the night, he went
home and retrieved one of his father’s old double-cloaks. The magi would see
the cloak for what it was, but normies only saw jeans and a t-shirt—a commodity
among
magefolk
. The throng of magi was alight with
whispers and mumbles. Rumors jumped from mouth to mouth like a virus: Who had
caught the Dream Caller? Had the Dream Catcher come out of hiding? Had the
Council lied about the Dream Caller being dead all these years?

The crowd flowed into the main hall of the
stronghold. Signs pointed them in the direction of the execution site. Through
winding halls they trudged, and the rumors bounced and echoed off the walls,
assaulting Jason’s ears from all sides. If these magi knew who was truly being
executed, Jason thought the chatter would only be louder. Half of these magi
looked unsavory. After all, Shemillah had raised a legion of followers. But
Jason put it out of his mind, and instead mulled on the cell phone in his
pocket. And the right moment to use it.

The hall opened up into a coliseum-like
space, much too big to fit inside the stronghold. But magic had its tricks; the
Arena—as this underground courtroom was so fittingly dubbed—was only one. The
Arena stretched out in a circle wide enough to park four submarines. Bleachers
and theater seats fringed one edge. In the center of the Arena stood a low,
wooden platform, upon which a chalk circle was inscribed. High above hung a
view of the sunny sky—complete with rising sun.

Jason took a seat about halfway between
the
front
and back. No one sat close to him. Perhaps
this was due to the muddy pockets under his eyes. Staying up all night had its
cost, but it gave Jason time to think, to prepare, and to edge a bit on the
crazy side. He continued to remember everything.

More and more magi flowed into the Arena,
slowly filling the seats. Eventually, almost all the seats in Jason’s row were
filled. Someone sat down to his left, but they took one look at Jason’s haggard
face and turned forward, focusing on something far-off. The man who sat to
Jason’s right didn’t even look at Jason as he seated himself. The man crossed
his legs at the ankles, and threaded his fingers together in his lap.

“I was worried you might not make it,”
said the man. “Of course, I did not know if my hints would aid you.”

Jason grinned. “Are you calling me
stupid?”

“It never crossed my mind.”

Jason glanced over at the man. His head
was clean shaven and olive-toned. He turned his head slightly, just enough for
Jason to see his broad face—and his piercing green eyes.

They broke eye contact, both turning back
to the front. A few moments passed as Jason’s eyes flicked to the entrance.
More magi came. Some looked as though they’d come from other countries—India,
Europe, Ethiopia. One mage even wore a cloak fringed with white fur. Jason
wondered how many people had heard of this execution and what they’d heard.
Probably nothing but exaggerations.

“I have a lot of questions,” said Jason.
“All of which I’m sure you know. But you won’t answer any, will you? The Dream
Catcher wouldn’t.”

The man grunted. In his lap, the man’s
hands unlaced and clasped together, as if in prayer. Suddenly, the crowd’s
murmurs were silent. People still moved, their mouths flapping in conversation,
but Jason couldn’t hear them. All he could hear was his own breath and
heartbeat.

“I will allow you a question,” said the
man. “But only one. I suggest you choose wisely.”

Jason had already chosen his question. He
had been pondering it all night. He’d been pondering it earlier than that, but
ever since his first encounter with Shemillah inside Talshe, the question had
become more and more prevalent.

“I remember a lot of things.
Everything…was meant to happen. It was all part of a plan. My plan, though I
don’t remember when I made it. But I do remember certain things. Like my time
in Visonia before…all this. Before I ever existed. There have been quite a few
bumps. Len’s father. My mother. Tara Engel.” He paused for a few moments, then
continued. “But I can’t seem to remember much before that…So, my question is,
what happened?”

The man’s jaw ticked, and he heaved a
sigh. His eyes now focused on a far-away point, some unknown point in time. How
long ago this time was Jason could only imagine. No one truly knew the age of
the Guardian or his descendants.

“When I was born,” said the Guardian, “the
world intrigued me. Everything in it: the animals, the plants, the birds—all of
it held special meaning. And I wanted to discover it. I developed a system. It
started out as a mere tool to help me study and manipulate things in this
world. Eventually, my tool evolved into the craft of magic.

“Others learned my craft. A couple dozen
had even developed their own. But even they came to me, seeking advice. One
such man was a wandering storyteller. He called himself Ole Lukoje. At first, I
refused to teach him. A mere storyteller did not require my tool. He had his
voice and imagination. But he said that was the problem. I did not understand
what he meant, so he said, ‘Let me tell you a story.’”

The crowd had stopped flowing in. Paladins
shut the entrance doors. Jason’s eyes flicked to the wooden platform below.
Empty.
But not for long,
he thought.

“He told me his story, and as the words
left his mouth, the images became real not just in my head, but in life. In
flesh and blood. This filled me with sweet joy—something I had forgotten. I
asked him how he was able to do such a thing.

“He smiled, and said, ‘Not without a
price.’”

A pair of doors at the back of the Arena
swung open, and out walked Sirin and several paladins. Two of the paladins held
someone between them, a black bag snug over their head. Jason leaned forward a
bit. He could see other people turning forward as well, but their mouths still
flapped excitedly.

“I could pay him anything, I said.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘how about you take a
burden of mine away?’ I asked him what burden that might be, and he said,
‘Another story.’”

Sirin directed the other paladins up onto
the platform. They led their victim to the center of the circle and made her
kneel, head down. Sirin smacked the back of the victim’s head, his lips ripped
back in a scream. To his left, the man in the cap shifted. But Jason hardly
noticed.

“I eagerly accepted, certain this story
would bring me as much joy as the last. But as Lukoje started his tale, I felt
nothing but tension. Unease. Progressively, I felt an urge to kill this
wanderer and rend him of all his belongings. More than that, I wanted to wear
his skin. I wanted to swallow his soul and lap at his blood. I wanted his
ability to weave stories. Seeing I was on the verge of possibly killing him,
the storyteller ceased. He shook his head, saying, ‘I never finish that story,
because even I can’t imagine its ending. Such a gruesome conclusion it would
be. Don’t you agree?’

“I did. I did.”

The paladins spread out around the circle,
each taking a point marked in red chalk. There were six points. The seventh lay
at the front, only three feet from Sirin. He walked toward the red mark, as
though he would complete the circle and finish the execution without any
bravado. Jason moved to stand, but the Guardian’s hand was on his knee.

“I have not finished my story.”

“But...Len...”

“She’ll be fine” said the cap man. “I
won’t let anything happen to her.”

Jason turned around, glancing over his
shoulder at the man to his left. Had he spoken? If so, how had he heard Jason?

“Be calm, Jason” said the Guardian. “Sirin
knows you are here. He is only trying to force your hand.”

Sirin jumped around the final red mark, then
walked toward the center of the circle and stood next to Len, arms crossed
behind his back. He offered the crowd a huge smile. Even from this distance,
Jason thought the hook-nosed paladin looked like a rat. But he relaxed. The
Guardian removed his hand from Jason’s knee.

“Now, Lukoje said he had a name for his
invention: dreams. And they seemed most effective in one’s sleep. It was mostly
nonsense magic, but it had positive qualities. Dreams could heal. Dreams could
inspire. Dreams could help us understand ourselves. But he also said there was
another side to the coin: nightmares. His second story was the original
nightmare, and he asked me to keep it. In return, he would sew wonderful dreams
into all my descendants and their descendants and even theirs.

“How could I resist such a tempting
offer?”

Below, Sirin reached up a hand, wiggling
his fingers. His smile looked a little too wide as he set his hand on the top
of his victim’s head.

“The nightmare, though incomplete, was
terrible, worse than any pain I’d suffered. As a consolation, Lukoje formed a
pact with me: As long as I and my children suffered the nightmare, we would
have the abilities of Lukoje. We would be able to create dreams from thoughts
and words.

“Shemillah was the first child of three. Lukoje
and I had intended for each of them to inherit a piece of the nightmare. But
Shemillah was always headstrong and had a taste for drama.”

Sirin removed the hood, and a fountain of
green hair spilled down the front of a beautiful woman. This stoked the crowd’s
excitement.

The man to Jason’s left leaned forward,
squinting. “That’s not Len. Where is she?”

“Patience,” said the Guardian. He
continued his story: “While I slept, Shemillah stole the nightmare, thinking
she alone could suffer it. But the nightmare corrupted her. Slowly. Painfully.
By the time I realized what had happened, it was much too late. Shemillah had
already learned the Dream Caller abilities, and was quickly becoming better and
better at them. She started turning away people who wanted their desires
granted. She said she would only consider the desires of those who pledged
everlasting loyalty to her.”

Shemillah stared up at the crowd. Jason
couldn’t tell from here if there was a small grin on her face or not. She
lifted a wand from her robe and raised it to the sky. A cloud with all the
rainbow’s colors appeared beneath her and carried her into the air.

“But that was just the beginning. When she
started deeming people unworthy, she would either kill them or feed them to
that second mouth. You have probably seen it. That mouth is not hers, but the
nightmare’s mouth. And as I am sure you have figured out—”

Fire erupted from Shemillah’s wand and
rained upon the crowd. Just as the fire was about to incinerate everybody, it
burst into floating and spinning rose petals. The petals then turned into
doves, each a different color of the rainbow. Awe sparkled in the eyes of those
around Jason. Compared to what Shemillah could normally do, these were cheap
parlor tricks.

“You’ll have to dive deep into the belly
of the nightmare. There, I’m certain all your questions will be answered.
Including the question that has been riding your mind since the beginning: How
do you defeat such a powerful monster?”

The Guardian clapped his hands together
again, and the roar of the crowd surged back to Jason’s ears. It drowned out
the pounding of his own heart, which was good. Jason didn’t want to hear how
nervous he was as Shemillah dropped through the cloud, wings sprouting from her
back. She landed gracefully at the front of the platform, and bowed, arms
wrapped about her torso. Like a dancer, she slowly unfolded and straightened
up. Shemillah’s youthful looks struck Jason. Her resemblance to Tara and Gelen
was uncanny.

The Guardian leaned back in his seat. “She
will call you out. For though all good has left her, Shemillah still holds an
affinity for you. As she did when you two loved each other.”

Shemillah raised her wand again, and
pointed it toward the center of the chalk circle. A cloud of dust shot up, and
when it cleared, a body materialized. It wore the same black hood as Shemillah
had but was strapped to a heavy chair. No antics were to be had with this one.
Except the ones planned by Shemillah.

The crowd quieted, but murmurs rippled
throughout like a sloshing tide. Jason focused on the new, motionless body on
the platform and hoped he wasn’t too late.

“Why isn’t she moving?” said the man to
Jason’s left.

The man in the cap, like the Guardian, had
green eyes and was wearing a small dream catcher around his neck. Jason turned
forward again, reached into his pocket, and gripped the cell phone.
Only one
chance,
he thought.