Chapter 1

1.

         “It’s not so much a . . . a dream, I mean, I’m sleeping and so I guess it has to be a dream . . . but it doesn’t feel like one. It’s like I’m just . . . watching something that’s happening, it’s happening and I just happen to be standing there.
         “The dead are walking. But they’re not dead. At least, they don’t look dead. They don’t act dead. I don’t know why I think they’re dead. Old men walk past me and they’re not paying any attention to me. And as they’re walking they’re getting younger. But not like turning into babies, just . . . young guys. Like me. For some reason I think they’re soldiers but they don’t have swords, they have . . . I don’t know what to call it . . . sticks maybe? Heavy sticks, but I didn’t get the sense you hit people with them. But what you do . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. It really doesn’t.
         “There’s no sound. Not their footsteps, sometimes I think they’re talking to each other but I can’t make out the words. I can’t even read their lips. I don’t think it would matter. It’s just a feeling. They never speak to me. Some . . . some of them are bleeding, I think, from their faces or their chests or . . . or other areas but I can’t be sure. Because they stop bleeding right away. Really fast. I mean, it . . . sometimes when I’m working I cut myself and sometimes it stops right away and sometimes I can’t stop bleeding for, you know, a while. But those are little cuts, not like . . . not like what I was seeing.
         “One by one they’re all walking into the ocean. From the forest to the water. It’s nowhere around here, that much I can tell. Maybe it’s not supposed to be. But it’s nowhere I’ve ever been. I don’t recognize any of it. Sometimes I think I can feel warm air on my face, something gritty, like . . . sand. But it doesn’t matter, because they keep walking. I think they know where they’re going because they don’t hesitate and they don’t act like it’s not there. One by one, they go in. It closes over their heads and I lose sight of them. There’s not even a ripple. No sound at all.
         “And I don’t know what to do about any of this. I feel like I should do something. That’s the weirdest part of the dream. I keep thinking I should be reacting to something. What I’m trying to say I guess is that . . . it never feels . . . like, ah, I don’t know how to even describe it. You know, when the troupes come through and they put on those shows? And those shows, they’re always the same, no matter how times they do it. That I think a dream is supposed to be. But not this one. I mean it seems that way but . . . I always feel like there’s something I could be doing, but . . . I don’t know what that is. So I just stand there and watch this . . . procession and wonder what to do until I wake up.
          “Except, last night, someone tapped me on the shoulder. While I was dreaming. In the dream, I mean.
          “And I spun around and I saw this man with sad eyes and a face I couldn’t see standing right next to me. I don’t know how long he was there. I’ve never seen him before. I wanted to be scared but everything was just . . . dull, like when you’ve . . . when you don’t get any sleep for a few days and the world just moves slower than it should, or it just feels that way. Like that.
          “But he spoke to me. There was no sound. I don’t know how it happened. He told me, he said, `You don’t have to stay here. She choose freedom. Don’t you see? None of us have to stay.’
          “And he paused and his eyes got sadder and I got the sense he wasn’t looking at me but talking to . . . someone behind me, maybe? But to whoever, he was saying, he said, `We’re coming, but we don’t have to. He left. Why can’t you leave?’
          “I wanted to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere but he just looked away and sort of . . . pulled at his face, just peeled at it and something just came off in his hand and he handed it to me, his face, I mean, that’s what he was holding, and there was no weight to it, like a handful of feathers.
          “And a voice from everywhere said to no one `Wearing it doesn’t make it yours’.
          “And I looked down at it, and I was holding your face.”
          The young man looked down at his calloused hands, at the dirt seemingly forever ingrained in those contours. The chair creaked softly as he self-consciously shifted his weight. “And so, I came here. Because, ah, I don’t know what it means and . . .” biting his lip, he rubbed his hands together, creating a rough, scratchy sound. “I hoped you’d know. Or at least have some idea. Or . . . or . . .” he trailed off, looking at the man across from him, his eyes cautiously expectant.
          “Hm,” the man said, his entire body still except for his eyes, which barely seemed to rest for a second, always shifting this way and that. Not a nervous gesture, so much as . . . alert. Aware, perhaps. After a minute or so of this, the boy found himself wishing he’d make eye contact or say something or dismiss him or anything. He didn’t like being here longer than he had to. The man always made him feel small. Not by his actions or his words but purely by his presence. Even when they were both sitting, like now, their eyes level with each other and the other man almost painfully thin under his robes, the boy couldn’t help but feel smothered, as if the man was all around and not just a foot away.
          Finally the man’s eyes came to rest on him again and the air seemed to become simultaneously thicker and lighter around him. “And you’ve been having this dream for how long, Jaymes?”
          The question was a relief. “About . . . a week. Two, maybe. But,” he added quickly, “it’s not the same, the first part, it’s the same but that last part, the part with your-“
          ”Yes, yes, you said,” the man interrupted tersely. Jaymes inwardly flinched at the tone, feeling already the impending sting of a rebuke. I said it wasn’t worth bothering him over, I told Mother. Yet, surprisingly, a smile softened the man’s tanned face, almost changing his features entirely. “You should have mentioned this a week ago, Jaymes, I could have easily put your mind at rest.” Standing up in one smooth motion, he clasped his hands behind his back, saying, “As I’ve said before, dreams are merely messages from our brains that we can only hear when we’re asleep, even though those messages are there all the time.”
          He began to pace, his boots lightly scuffing on the packed dirt floor. Jaymes willed himself not to follow the other man around the room with his eyes. The last time he did that he felt dizzy for ten minutes afterward. He didn’t seem to walk in any kind of discernable pattern but it felt repetitive all the same. “How old are you now, Jaymes? Eighteen?”
          The question was unexpected. He actually had to spend a second to think about it. Wetting dry lips, he said hoarsely, “Nineteen . . . nearly twenty.”
          “Ah, well then,” the man noted, sounding pleased, as if that explained everything. “A man, or just resting on the cusp of manhood.” His boots scraped the floor as he came to a halt behind Jaymes. The man’s form blocked the light streaming in from the doorway, casting a needle-thin shadow over the back of his head. He could feel it. Pricking. Not drawing any blood. Just touching. “And like any boy becoming a man, you’re unsure about growing up, unsure how you’re going to handle all the new responsibilities, feeling like you’re marching relentlessly through life, wishing you could just simply go back to being a child, where all the worst problems seemed like make-believe.” His voice was as darting as his eyes had been.
          Jaymes nodded slowly. It made sense, the way he explained it. Growing older. Of course, who wanted to do that? It was frightening. Why hadn’t he seen that himself? It was just stupid childish fears. Of course.
          Except . . .
          Not daring to twist in his chair to face the other man, he asked, “But what about . . . the last part? With the man? And . . . you know, your . . . that part at the end . . .”
          “Well . . .” and he could hear the benevolent smile in the other man’s voice, “not everything in a dream means something. Sometimes the apparently meaningless bits are just that . . . meaningless.” He paused, seeming to consider speaking further. “Though, perhaps,” he added, with some humor, “it represents a buried dislike of me, hm? Perhaps it’s something you’d like to do to me?”
          He was out of the chair before the action even occurred to him. It wobbled and threatened to fall over but remained upright. The other man’s shadow bisected it cleanly. He’s just asking, a voice noted calmly in his head. His heart pounded out a cold, rattling beat. Jaymes struggled to keep his breathing even. Why are you reacting like this?
          The other man said nothing. His eyes were now very still.
          The silence stretched, twisted, crystallized. The man’s form was less a silhouette than an absence. A void.
          Jaymes’ lips felt stiff and dry. His words had to wrestle their way to the unyielding air. “N-no,” he stammered finally. His voice was a dull thud against the frozen quiet. Even the noises outside appeared to have stopped. “That’s not it.” Ice was forming in his brain. If it melted it might take his memories with it. “That’s not it at all.”
          The other man’s eyes narrowed.
          It’s not-
          Suddenly, the man nodded briskly, the smile returning to his face. Jaymes didn’t remember it ever leaving. “Quite right,” the man said, “like I told you, some things in dreams are just meaningless. You try to puzzle them out and you’ll just go mad.” He clasped his hands together, as if cold. “Now, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time today with my idle musings.” Nearly sliding, he moved out of the doorway. It should have made the room brighter but barely seemed to make a dent. “Your dream is perfectly normal, I wouldn’t trouble yourself any longer with it.”
          What just happened? Jaymes thought. But there was no way to even recapture the feeling, to bottle it so he could examine it later and try to figure out what he had just experienced. Maybe it didn’t matter. Just paranoia. That’s all. “Thanks,” he said quietly, stepping around the chair and toward the doorway. “Thanks for your time.” A wordless voice in his head was shouting to get out. He somehow managed not to run for the door.
          “Oh . . . Jaymes?” the other man said, his voice jauntily casual. “Before you go.”
          The voice nearly reined him to a halt physically. Turning slightly, he regarded the other man, not even daring himself to say anything.
          “How is your father doing?”
          Oh. “He’s . . . he’s doing well.” It was hard to swallow for a second.
          “No more nightmares, then, I take it?”
          He shook his head unnecessarily. “No, no . . . none at all. Ah, at least he hasn’t said. As far as I can tell.” Grinning sickly, he added, “No, he’s good. He’s doing good.”
          The other man nodded, his lips pursed in thought. “Excellent. Delightful to hear. Let him know to ask me if anything is troubling him again.”
          “I . . . I will,” he replied, without knowing how sincere he was. He turned to leave again. It felt so much warmer outside. It was just his imagination. “Thank you again. For all your help.”
          “My pleasure,” the other man murmured, bowing his head in thought, buy Jaymes was already gone, the retreating thump of his footsteps on the hard ground the only reminder of his departure.
          For a few minutes the other man didn’t twitch. Sightlessly he stared at the wall for a long time, his face an unmoving mask.
          Suddenly there was the sound of swift footsteps growing closer and shortly after a slim shadow appeared in the doorway. Without moving, his gaze flickered over to the figure, regarding it silently.
          The figure took a few steps into the room. “Another dream?” a woman’s voice said. “I think you’re placing too much stock in these things. It’s not like you have any evidence-“
          ”Did you not pay attention at all?” the man barked out softly, his voice blunt. The woman barely blinked, instead taking several more steps into the room, until her hands were resting on the back of the now unused chair. “Ageless soldiers with transient wounds marching into an endless ocean?” He spun to face the woman, saying, “Who does that sound like to you, hm?”
          “Come now, don’t tell me you believe those rumors-“
          ”Frankly, I’m starting to believe rumors and myths have more truth to them than the actual truths we’ve always accepted,” he spat out. The woman’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing. Running a hand over his balding head, the man added, “And then that last part.” His gaze sought, stabbed her. “`She choose freedom’ it said. That much should be clear to you at least.”
          The woman inhaled sharply, looking down. “He lost, then,” she said after a moment.
          “At the very least,” the man nearly sneered. More calmly, he said, “It’s beginning to look like we did the right thing, leaving when we did. But . . .” he clasped his hands together, resting his chin on his knuckles. “I don’t like this. I don’t . . .” he stopped, drawing himself up sharply. “Alert the others,” he said, apparently coming to a decision.
          The woman considered this for a second before nodding in agreement. “Very well,” she said slowly. “But then what? What do I say?”
          “Be vigilant. Be alert.”
          “For a myth? A bare rumor?”
          “Yes,” he snapped back. Ducking his head again, he said, “Maybe it will turn out to be just . . .” cutting himself off, he added angrily, “but no, tell them . . . if you must, if that is what it takes, if necessary tell them to look for myths.” His eyes sought her again, iron hard. “Can you do that?”
          “I’ll do my best.”
          “Good,” he said perfunctorily. “Then go.”
          From the edge of his vision, her shadow departed, followed closely by her rapid footsteps.
          Alone, the man let out a slow breath and stared at nothing for a very long time.