The Dream Master (7 page)

“Well… Yes and no.” He bumped her under the table and gestured vaguely. “Well, you know…”

“Same thing all the way around,” she told the waiter who had appeared suddenly out of an adjacent pool of darkness, nodded, and vanished as abruptly.

“There go my good intentions,” sighed Render. “See how you like being examined by a drunken sot, that’s all I can say.”

“You’ll sober up fast, you always do. Hippocratics and all that.”

He sniffed, glanced at his watch.

“I have to be in Connecticut tomorrow. Pulling Pete out of that damned school…”

She sighed, already tired of the subject.

“I think you worry too much about him. Any kid can bust an ankle. It’s a part of growing up. I broke my wrist when I was seven. It was an accident. It’s not the school’s fault those things sometimes happen.”

“Like hell,” said Render, accepting his dark drink from the dark tray the dark man carried. “If they can’t do a good job I’ll find someone who can.”

She shrugged.

“You’re the boss. All I know is what I read in the papers.

“—And you’re still set on Davos, even though you know you meet a better class of people at Saint Moritz?” she added.

“We’re going there to ski, remember? I like the runs better at Davos.”

“I can’t score any tonight, can I?”

He squeezed her hand.

“You always score with me, honey.”

And they drank their drinks and smoked their cigarettes and held their hands until the people left the dance floor and filed back to their microscopic tables, and the gelatins spun round and round, tinting clouds of smoke from hell to sunrise and back again, and the bass went
whump!

Tchga-tchga!

“Oh, Charlie! Here they come again!”

The sky was clear as crystal. The roads were clean. The snow had stopped.

Jill’s breathing was the breathing of a sleeper. The S-7 arced across the bridges of the city. If Render sat very still he could convince himself that only his body was drunk; but whenever he moved his head the universe began to dance about him. As it did so, he imagined himself within a dream, and Shaper of it all.

For one instant this was true. He turned the big clock in the sky backward, smiling as he dozed. Another instant and he was awake again, and unsmiling.

The universe had taken revenge for his presumption. For one renown moment with the helplessness which he had loved beyond helping, it had charged him the price of the lake-bottom vision once again; and as he had moved once more toward the wreck at the bottom of the world—like a swimmer, as unable to speak—he heard, from somewhere high over the Earth, and filtered down to him through the waters above the Earth, the howl of the Fenris Wolf as it prepared to devour the moon; and as this occurred, he knew that the sound was as like to the trump of a judgment as the lady by his side was unlike the moon. Every bit. In all ways. And he was afraid.

He was a dog.

But he was no ordinary dog.

He was driving out into the country, by himself.

Big, a German Shepherd in appearance—except for his head—he sat on his haunches in the front seat, staring out the window at the other cars and at what he could see of the countryside. He passed other cars because he was moving in the high-acceleration lane.

It was a cold afternoon and snow lay upon the fields; the trees wore jackets of ice, and all the birds in the sky and on the ground seemed exceptionally dark.

The dog opened his mouth and his long tongue touched the windowpane and his breath steamed it. His head was larger than any dog’s head, excepting perhaps an Irish Wolfhound’s. His eyes were deep-set and dark, and his mouth was opened because he was laughing.

He raced on.

The car finally moved across the highway, slowing, entered the extreme righthand lane, and after a time turned into a cutoff. It moved up a country road for several miles, then it turned into a narrow lane and parked itself beneath a tree.

After a moment, the engine stopped and the door opened.

The dog left the car and pushed the door most of the way shut with his shoulder. When he saw the dome-light go out he turned and walked away into the field, heading toward the woods.

He raised his paws carefully. He examined his footprints.

When he entered the woods he took several deep breaths.

Then he shook himself all over.

He barked a strange, un-doglike bark and began to run.

He ran among the trees and the rocks, jumped over frozen puddles, small gullies, raced up hills and down slopes, dashed past glassy, rainbow-dotted bushes, moved beside an icy creekbed.

He stopped and panted. He sniffed the air.

He opened his mouth and laughed, a thing he had learned from men.

Then, taking a very deep breath, he threw his head back and howled—a thing he had not learned from men.

In fact, he was not certain where he had learned it.

His howl rolled across the hills and echoed among them like a great horn-note.

His ears pricked upright as he listened to the echoes.

Then he heard an answering howl, which was like, yet not like, his own.

There could be no howl quite like his own, because his voice was not wholly the voice of dogs.

He listened, he sniffed, he howled again.

Again, there came an answer. Nearer, this time…

He waited, tasting the breezes for the messages they bore.

It was a dog that came toward him up the hill, rapidly at first, then slowing its pace to a walk. It stopped forty feet away and stared at him. Then it lowered its head.

It was some kind of floppy-eared hound—big, mongrel…

He sniffed once more, made a small noise in his throat.

The dog bared its teeth.

He moved toward it, and it did not move until he was about ten feet away. Then it turned again and began to draw back.

He stopped.

The dog watched him, carefully, and began to circle. It moved to his leeward side and sniffed the wind.

Finally, he made a noise at the dog, deep down in his throat. It sounded strangely like “Hello.”

The dog growled at him. He took a step toward it.

“Good dog,” he finally said.

It cocked its head to one side.

“Good dog,” he said again.

He took another step toward it, and another. Then he sat down.

“… Ver-ry good dog,” he said.

Its tail twitched, slightly.

He rose and walked up to it. It sniffed him all over. He returned the compliment. Its tail wagged, and it circled a-round and around him and threw its head back and barked twice.

It moved in an ever-widening circle, occasionally lowering its head to the ground. Then it darted off into the woods, head still lowered.

He approached the place where it had last stood and sniffed at the ground. Then he turned and followed the trail through the trees.

After a few seconds he had caught up with it and they were running side by side.

Then he sped on ahead, and the trail circled and dipped and looped. Finally, it was strong indeed.

A rabbit broke from the cover of a small shrub.

He ran it down and seized it in his huge jaws.

It struggled, so he tossed his head.

Its back made a snapping sound and it ceased its struggles.

Then he held it a moment longer and looked around.

The hound came rushing up to him, quivering all over.

He dropped the rabbit at its feet.

The hound looked up at him, expectantly.

He watched it.

It lowered its head and tore at the small carcass. The blood made smoke in the cold air. Stray snowflakes landed upon the dog’s brown head.

It chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed…

Finally, he lowered his own head and tore at the thing.

The meat was warm and raw and wild. The dog drew back as he seized upon it, a snarl dying in its throat.

He was not especially hungry, though, so he dropped it and moved away. The dog leapt upon it once more.

After that, they hunted together for several hours.

He always beat the hound to the kill, but he always left it for him to eat.

Altogether, they ran down seven rabbits. The last two they left untouched.

The dog sat down and stared at him.

“Good dog,” he told it It wagged its tail.

“Bad dog,” he told it.

The tail stopped wagging.

“Very bad dog.”

Its head fell. It looked up at him.

He turned and walked away.

It followed him, tail between its legs.

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

The dog cringed.

Then he barked five times and howled.

The ears and tail rose again. It moved up to his side, sniffing at him once more.

He made a laughing noise.

“Good dog,” he said.

The tail wagged.

He laughed again.

“Mi-cro, ceph, al-ic, id-i-ot,” he said.

The tail continued to wag.

He laughed.

“Good dog, good dog, good dog, good dog, good dog.”

It ran in a small circle, lowered its head between its front paws and looked up at him.

He bared his fangs and snarled. Then he leapt at it and bit it on the shoulder.

It made a yelping noise and ran away.

“Fool!” he growled. “Fool, fool, fool, fool, fool!”

There was no reply.

He howled again, a sound like that of no other animal on earth.

And then he returned to the car, nosed the door open and climbed inside.

He leaned upon a button on the dashboard and the engine started. The door swung itself all the way open, then slammed. With a paw, he pressed out the necessary coordinates. The car backed out from under the tree, then moved up the lane toward the road.

It hurried back onto the highway and then it was gone.

Somewhere a man was walking.

He could have worn a heavier coat this chill morning, but he was fond of the one with the fur collar.

Hands in his pockets, he walked along the guard-fence. On the other side of the fence the cars roared by.

He did not turn his head.

He could have been in any number of other places, but he chose to be there.

He chose to be walking on this chill morning.

He chose not to care about anything but walking.

The cars sped by and he walked slowly, but steadily.

He did not encounter anyone else on foot.

His collar was turned up, against the wind, but it did not stop all of the cold.

He walked on, and the morning bit him and tugged at his clothing. The day held him, walking, in its infinite gallery, unsigned and unnoticed.

Christmas Eve.

… The opposite of New Years:

It is the time of year for family reunions, for Yule logs and trees blazing—for gifts, and for the eating of special foods and the drinking of special drinks.

It is the personal time, rather than the social time; it is the time of focusing upon self and family, rather than society at large; it is the time of rimed windows, star-coated angels, of burning bushes, captured rainbows, of fat Santas with two pairs of trousers (because the youngsters who sit upon their laps are easily awed); and the time of cathedral windows, blizzards, carols, bells, manger scenes, season’s greetings from those far removed (even if they live but
a
short distance away), of broadcast Dickens and holly and candles, of poinsettia and evergreen, of snowbanks, firs, spruces, pines, of the Bible and Medieval England, of “What Child is This?” and “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” of the birth and the promise, the light in the darkness; the time, and the time to be, the feeling before the realization, the realization before the happening, the trafficking of red and green, the changing of the year’s guard, of tradition, loneliness, sympathy, empathy, sentimentality, singing, faith, hope, charity, love, desire, aspiration, fear, fulfillment, realization, faith, hope, death; a time of the gathering together of stones and the casting away of stones, of embracing, getting, losing, laughing, dancing, mourning, rending, silence, speaking, death, and not speaking. It is a time to break down and a time to build up, a time to plant, and a time to pluck that which is planted…

Charles Render and Peter Render and Jill DeVille began a quiet Christmas Eve together.

Render’s apartment was set atop a tower of steel and glass. It had about it a certain air of permanency. Books lined the walls, an occasional piece of statuary punctuated the shelves; primitive paintings in primary colors were set in open spaces. Small mirrors, concave and convex (and now framed by boughs of holly), were hung in occasional places.

Greeting cards stood upon the mantelpiece. Potted plants (two in the living room, one in the study, two in the kitchen, and a bedroom shrub) wore tinsel, wore stars. Music flooded the suite.

The punch bowl was a pink jewel in a diamond setting. It held court on the low coffee table of fruitwood, its attendant cups glittering in the diffused light.

It was the time of opening of Christmas presents…

Jill turned within hers, swirling it about her like a soft-toothed sawblade.

“Ermine!” she exclaimed. “How grand! How flne! Oh, thank you, dear Shaper!”

Render smiled and blew wreathes of smoke.

The light caught her coat.

“Snow, but warm! Ice, but soft…” she said.

“The skins of dead animals,” he remarked, “are highly potent tributes to the prowess of the hunter. I hunted them for you, going up and down in the Earth, and to and fro in it. I came upon the finest of white creatures and said, ‘Give me your skins,’ and they did. Mighty is the hunter, Render.”

“I have a thing for you,” said she.

“Oh?”

“Here. Here is your gift.”

He peeled away the wrappings.

“Cufflinks,” he said, “totemic ones. Three faces, one above another—golden. Id, ego, and superego—thus shall I name them, the highest face being the most exalted.”

“It is the lowest one that is smiling,” said Peter.

Render nodded to his son.

“I did not specify which one was the highest,” he told him, “and he is smiling because he has pleasures of his own which the vulgar herd shall never understand.”

“Baudelaire?” said Peter.

“Hm,” said Render. “Yes, Baudelaire.”

“… Badly misphrased,” said his son.

“Circumstance,” said Render, “is a matter of time and chance. Baudelaire at Christmas is a matter of something old and something new.”

“Sounds like a wedding,” said Peter.

Jill flushed, above her snowfield of fur, but Render did not seem to notice.

“Now it is time for you to open your gifts,” he said.

“All right.”

Peter tore at the wrappings.

“An alchemistry set,” he remarked, “just what I’ve always wanted—complete with alembics, retorts, bain-marie, and a supply of elixir vitae. Great! Thanks, Miss DeVille.”

“Please call me ‘Jill.’”

“Sure, Jill. Thanks.”

“Open the other one.”

“Okay.”

He tore away the white, with its holly and bells.

“Fabulous!” he noted. “Other things I’ve always wanted—something borrowed and something blue: the family album in a blue binding, and a copy of the Render Report for the Senate Sub-committee Hearings on Sociopathic Maladjustment among Government Employees. Also, the complete works of Lofting, Grahame, and Tolkein. Thank you, Dad.—Oh my! There’s still more! Tallis, Merely, Mozart, and good dead Bach. Fine sounds to fill my room! Thank you, thank you! What can I give you in return?—Well, lessee…

“Howzabout these?” he asked.

He handed his father a package, Jill another.

Render opened his, Jill hers.

“A chess set”—Render.

“A compact”—Jill.

“Thank you”—Render.

“Thank you”—Jill.

“You’re both welcome.”

“How are you coming with the recorder?” asked Render.

“Give a listen,” said Peter.

He assembled his recorder and played.

He played of Christmas and holiness, of evening and blazing star, of warm hearth, wassail, shepherds, kings, light, and the voices of angels.

When he was finished he disassembled the recorder and put it away.

“Very good,” said Render.

“Yes-good,” said Jill. “Very…”

“Thanks.”

“How was school?” asked Jill.

“Fine,” said Peter.

“Will the change be much of a bother?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m good. I’m a good student. Dad has trained me well—very, very well.”

“But there will be different instructors…”

He shrugged.

“If you know an instructor, then you only know an instructor,” he said. “If you know a subject though, you know a subject. I know many subjects.”

“Do you know anything about architecture?” she asked suddenly.

“What do you want to know?” he said, smiling.

She drew back and glanced away.

“The fact that you ask the question the way you do indicates that you know something about architecture.”