Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Again!

Once more on his right. He started to turn around in circles – chasing his imagination – but he could discern nothing but fog. He called out. Did he? His ears were still muting all sound, and couldn’t tell whether his voice penetrated the heavy mist. Around and around he turned, eyes darting to and fro, dizziness threatening to overcome him.

 
He stopped and closed his eyes, silently praying for the mists to leave. But when he opened his eyes again, his fear turned to panic as a hand slowly extended through the fog towards him. Reeling in terror he scrambled backwards, almost toppling over; the hand again disappearing into the fog as he retreated.
 

He stopped after a few paces, daring to catch his breath. After a few seconds his panic eased and he wondered whether the hand had been offering salvation from the mists. Forcing his feet into movement, he dared to step forward again. As he regained his ground, he saw that the hand was still there: a right hand, palm turned slightly upwards, an invitation to take it. Though its owner couldn’t be seen through the heavy mist, it was clearly a woman’s hand. With soft, gentle skin, and fingernails painted deep red, Michael thought that the woman must be young.

He could feel the call – an invitation of safety and companionship – and he reached out, placing his fingers over those of the unknown woman’s.
 

A part of him instantly wished he hadn’t. There was a coldness to the touch that went beyond temperature, a clamminess that intuitively suggested deceit. But her hold was quickly strong, and Michael felt himself pulled after her.

No, not that way.
The words came directly to his mind. He instantly planted his feet in the ground to prevent further travel.
 

Release yourself from her. You must not go that way.
The urgent voice in his mind was also that of a woman, but Michael felt love in it – a love he had longed for his whole life.
 

Mother?
he silently called back.

He thought he could almost feel a gentle smile from the voice’s owner.
You must try to release yourself. Please.

The hand holding his strengthened its grip, its pull unrelenting; but the emotion that had entered him from the voice in his head grew powerful. After a brief relaxation of his arm’s muscles he pulled suddenly and with all his strength. With a jolt, his hand was freed, and he fell backwards to the ground with his momentum.

Michael expected the hand to chase him, but nothing appeared through the fog. As quickly as he could, he stood and ran, stopping after a couple of minutes, when he realised that it would be pointless when he couldn’t see where he was going. The fear filled his body. An instinctive sense that there were invisible hands seeking him through the fog made him want to crawl into a tight ball on the ground, as if the act of making himself smaller would hide him from the menace.

The voice in his head had not returned, but perhaps it would respond to him.
I released myself,
he silently called to the woman.
Where should I go?
 

He worried that he wouldn’t get a reply, but the voice soon enquired,
Where do you want to go?

Michael felt a degree of calm return to his body at the silent reply, but his response was desperately instant.
I want to find you. Are you my mother?
More than anything he wanted the voice to answer ‘Yes’; his years of feeling abandoned – unwanted – to be over.

Follow your heart,
came the reply,
and you will find me when you need to.

Are you my mother?
he cried again.

He waited, but there was no response this time.
Are you my mother?!
There was still nothing. Tears began to fall from his eyes,
Please tell me. Are you my mother? I want to find my mother? Please… Please.

Michael fell again to the earth, curling himself into the foetal position, sobbing. He was sure that the voice had been his mother’s, but it had left. Abandoned. Again.

Always abandoned.

Forever abandoned.

He no longer cared if a bodiless hand took him.
Let them destroy me if they want to
, he thought, wishing extinction to the hopelessness now filling his soul.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that; the fog stayed thick around him making passage of time impossible to determine. When he eventually opened his eyes, he could see a row of hands reaching through the fog. He should have been frightened, but strangely wasn’t. Somehow he knew the fingers that now reached for him were unrelated to those which had tried to ensnare him. The previous hand had been… alluring; enticing him forward. In contrast, these sought no response from him. They appeared before him as if offering a gift.

Slowly standing up, he realised that the hands surrounded him in a ring. Some were clearly human hands belonging to men and women, but others he couldn’t identify: small, thin and bony, snow white – or charcoal black – with sharp pointy talons for nails. All of the hands had their palms facing upwards.
Just like the guard on the sword
, Michael realised.

His deafness meant that he couldn’t hear the growing rumbling of the thunder above him, but he could feel his skin grow goose bumps. Looking upwards, he saw that the fog directly above him had disbursed. In its place, separating him from the expanse of space, he saw swirling dark clouds. His skin began to pull taut, and stretch, as he saw the clouds appear to dance with each other.
 

They’re not just swirling
, Michael realised,
they’re forming a pattern
.

He watched with fascination as the clouds stretched into lines, while others formed around the edges, and the pain on the skin of Michael’s body increased. He fell to his knees with the pain, far greater than he had felt previously, not noticing the tiny specks of blood that began to seep through his skin, his life force being sucked through his body’s pores.

But the image in the sky was calling his soul. The pain, though great, was incidental.
 

What is happening to the clouds?
he thought, as the pattern continued to form.
 

He was becoming dizzy from the pain, and knew he would soon pass out, but fought to maintain his focus; the excitement in his chest providing him with the energy he needed. Michael was transfixed as the clouds finally organised themselves into their design, and astonished beyond measure as he finally saw in the skies the image of the Woodland Star. Myriad questions entered his thoughts, as a spark began to grow from the centre of the clouds, and Michael knew what was going to happen next.
 

He forced himself back to his feet, but realised that other than that he wouldn’t be able to move. This time it would strike him directly and he would die, but strangely the thought didn’t cause him alarm. He somehow knew that this was why he had left his flat. The clock in the shopping precinct and the sword were only precursors – foreshadows. This moment was why he was here, and that thought gave him peace.

He closed his eyes while his face remained skyward, awaiting his destiny, when the woman’s voice again entered his thoughts.
 

Trust yourself, Ami.

He was overwhelmed with a sense of love, and tears again touched his cheeks. He spread his arms wide, his palms facing his celestial executioner.

CRACK!

CHAPTER TWO:
 

Seeking

Shadows are curious things. If you ask a man of them, he will say that they are vague and lack definition. He will say that they are less than the thing from which they derive their existence. But is such a man correct in his thoughts? Though the sun be hidden, yet from its shadow the observant eye may still determine its place in the heavens. It is not from men that times and seasons are discovered, but from shadows. While it is true that a man may seek to use his shadow to deceive, often it is the shadow that reveals his sleight of hand. Even more, this dark reflection of his being imprints itself upon that which it touches, leaving traces for those who know how to see. Men may lie, but their shadows do not. We therefore must ask, which bears the greater truth: the man or his shadow? If we wish to know him, we must take care to gain knowledge of both. Then we may come to know him better than he knows himself, for a man rarely seeks to understand the truths found in his own shadow.

From the Wisdom of Ashael

***

Michael opened his eyes with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. The bell on his alarm clock was ringing. It took him a few seconds to realise that he was lying in his bed, and that it had all been a dream. The clock. The sword. The fog. The lightning… It had all been a dream. His pillow was wet with the tears he had shed, and his nightclothes damp with sweat. It had all been a dream.

It had been so vivid, so real. Even now he could remember the feel of the woman’s hand grasping him; the fear that had come with the intuitive knowledge that the alluring invitation had been a trap. The repeating picture of the Woodland Star was still clear in his mind. And the feeling of love that had emanated from the woman’s voice… the emotions that it had brought were still felt in his chest. But they were mixed with anguish knowing that it was untrue, that he had never known a mother’s love and that he never would.

In truth, Michael didn’t know why the absence of a mother was still so important to him. Sure, he had been abandoned. But that was years ago. He wasn’t the only child to have grown up without parents, and he was sure that other orphans didn’t dwell on it so much, especially not at his age. He hadn’t ever known any other orphans to discuss it with, so he knew that this was an assumption, but he was sure it was true. Only he, Michael, pitied himself over not having known his mother, and he considered himself pathetic for doing so.

Most of the time, he didn’t dwell on it, of course. But there were times in his life when, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t stop wondering what she must have been like, and he would try to imagine how such a love would feel. One time especially had stuck in his memory.

He had escaped his school building to have his lunch in the quiet of a nearby secret stream – not that most people would have called it a stream, the flowing water carrying empty plastic bottles, and with concrete walls for its banks. But hidden amongst the lifeless tower-blocks and grey overpasses, it was invisible to traffic and pedestrians alike, meaning Michael could sit in peace. There he could close his eyes, block out the noise of the traffic, and pretend he was by a mountain brook or meadow rill.

He had been especially angry and upset that day. He couldn’t remember why, but it was probably something another student had said to him. He knew he would find solitude next to the stream, so he had gone there to eat his lunch alone. Sitting in silence, chewing on his chicken sandwich, and throwing silent curses at the universe for his fate, he spotted for the first time a small plant growing from a crack in the concrete wall on the far side of the stream on which were scattered three small flowers. Each carried a triplet of blue petals, reaching out like trumpets, that deepened in colour as they approached the flowers’ centre. A large bumblebee was investigating each flower in turn, walking across the small petals to seek the pollen nestled inside their bright clothing.

He was suddenly struck by the remarkable plant that was not just growing, but was giving of itself despite its difficult life. As he stared at the flowers and the bee, his thoughts strangely turned again to his mother – a longing to know her almost bursting through his chest. As he lay in his bed this morning, he still remembered the feeling that had come over him that day, being filled with a sense that she had loved him beyond measure. He had wanted the feeling to last forever. And so he imagined the world around him stopping, allowing him to remain with his pretended moment of happiness unhindered by the march of time. He even thought that he could see the wings of the bee slow and then freeze perfectly still as the creature hung motionless in mid-air between two of the flowers.

But the universe hadn’t intended him to remain in that moment. Perhaps the chicken in his sandwich had been spoiled, as nausea suddenly overcame him, and he vomited. When he finished retching and looked up again at the flower, the bee was gone, but the feelings of that moment had remained with him. He had remembered it often; a comfort to him in times when he felt especially low.

The memory of that day quickly crossed his mind as he reached across to the alarm clock to silence it, slowly rising from his bed. There were so many lingering memories of his dream, and he wanted to leave his flat early to ensure that he had the time to consider them all on his way to the library.

He had a quick breakfast and showered, pulling on his jeans and a plain dark chocolate brown shirt that matched his eyes. A quick look outside confirmed that it was a bright sunny morning; the skies lighting on dry streets. It was nothing like his dream – there had been no thunderstorm overnight – and so he didn’t wear his jacket today. Although there would be a slight autumn chill in the air, the twenty minute walk to work would warm his body. Today’s walk would be a little longer, but no matter. He nearly forgot to grab his rucksack, but remembered just as he was about to walk out the door; quickly collecting it from next to the solitary armchair in his tiny living room. He would need it today for the books he would be bringing home.

He hurried down the three flights of stairs to the front doors of the flat block, taking two steps at a time, and threw his rucksack over his shoulder as he set off down the street.

“Good morning Michael,” called a voice from the alleyway next to his flat block.

“Hi Col,” Michael replied. “You okay this morning?”

Michael glanced over his left shoulder at the homeless man who had made the alley his home. Preoccupied by his dream, his smile was forced today, but was nonetheless warmly returned. As much as Michael was annoyed by those who considered fashion a statement of personal value, he enjoyed the company of those whose lives enforced a degree of humility. Within a couple of days of moving in to his small flat he had met Col, and every morning and evening since then they had greeted each other. He liked the honesty that he would get from this middle-aged man – a man who had held a responsible position working for a large utility firm, but who had lost everything, including his home and family, when he’d had a breakdown a few years ago.