The Dreamer Stones (67 page)

He paused
then, bereft. Where to now? What was next? What was he to do? Where
did his meaning lie, his contribution?

Squaring his
shoulders he packed spare socks and underclothes, gloves, a scarf,
a clean shirt, and then, throwing a warm winter coat on, hefted the
rucksack.

He was out of
the door before he turned back. He forgot the torch and writi …
dear gods, there was someone under the bed. Having approached the
bed from a different angle, he saw a boot protruding.

Breathing in
and out, he found calm. Stealth was unnecessary. Whoever it was
knew someone was in the room, unless he or she was dead.

He dumped the
rucksack, quickly put in torch, pens and paper in the event he had
to flee. He stared at the bed, thinking he needed a blanket - a
sleeping bag would be better, but he could not recall where that
was. Drawing breath, he pulled the middle one out. There were a few
tears, but it was serviceable. He folded and rolled it, stuffing it
into his rucksack. It hung half in, half out, but he could fix that
later. He went to the doorway and placed the bag there and then
sprinted back to the bed, hefting the booted foot and pulling with
all his might.

The scream
that rose to his throat came out a squawk of fear. He tumbled
backward, landing on his behind as he let go.

It was dead,
the transparent flesh of its face darkening to a deep blue as if
its blood was … well, blue. Darklings had blue blood. It certainly
looked like a darkling. How had it died? No one was upstairs to
fight it.

Gingerly he
touched.

It can’t move,
idiot, find some balls, will you?

He pulled the
tunic open - no wound in sight. He craned around its head, not
wanting to touch flesh, but found no matted blood that would tell
of head trauma. He flipped the body over and lifted the tunic again
- no back wound, nothing on its legs. Yet it was cold and dead and
no one was there to kill it.

Marcus Campian
sat back. Something teased at the edges of his mind, something
about how the manner of this creature’s death could prove
important, although he did not think it coherently. He studied it,
head to toe … and came back to its left hand.

Curled into a
fist. Not a rigour mortis fist, but a fist holding tight to
something.

Squelching his
disgust, he pried the fingers open, and then realisation flooded
in.

Was it
possible it died because of what it held?

Pale, his own
fingers stiff, Marcus retrieved the object. He stared at it a long
time and then, again upon some instinct, threaded a piece of torn
silk from the bedspread, and tied the object around his neck,
pushing it out of sight inside his shirt.

Time to leave
this place. He grabbed his rucksack, pounded down the stairs,
retrieved the food bag and was out of the front door. As it shut
behind him, he heard an almighty crash. The stairs had collapsed.
He walked away, backwards, staring at the once beautiful manor.

He turned and
faced forward.

His horror
grew as he walked through the wealthy suburb that was his
neighbourhood.

He passed
homes of friends and colleagues where decaying bodies drooped like
grizzly decorations from windows and balcony rails. He passed
houses razed to the ground, where the smell was so overwhelming he
gagged, hurrying away as fast as he was able. Bloodless heads
spiked on a fence, blackened hands and feet strewn like flowers in
a patch - he soon learned not to look. Staring at his feet, he
walked on. His feet encountered trophies also, thank god for the
boots, but he forced himself on, ever on.

No one alive.
It was silent, empty of human sound. What evil had befallen their
world?

A dog startled
him, barking from behind a wrought iron fence and he stopped dead
and stared at the animal. It was small and hairy, a child’s beloved
pet. He was so surprised to see anything alive that almost it undid
him. Swallowing convulsively, he lifted his gaze from the yapping,
pitiful creature - the house further back was a blackened shell. A
bright blue tricycle lay discarded on the trampled lawn … dear
lord. The dog, soot encrusted and smelly, could not escape its
prison. It would starve and die slowly. No.

Marcus cried
as he struggled with the gate … had to let it out, it was as hungry
and as lonely as he was and did not deserve its fate. The dog sat
silent, watching, waiting, its tail periodically wagging, as,
cursing, he fought the latch.

Open! The poor
animal came warily, but when Marcus knelt to scratch in his food
bag it ran over to sit before him, black eyes flicking from bag to
man, man to bag, tongue hanging out.

He sat hard in
the road and let tears come. Muttering nonsense, he drew out water,
the cup, and one of the containers of crackers. Neither of them, he
suspected, would stomach more. Crying and speaking to the dog just
to hear his voice, glad to hear the humanness, ridiculously happy
to see the dog perk its ears at the sound, he shared the water, the
dog drinking greedily from the cup, and then shared the
crackers.

One for the
dog, one for him, one for the dog, one for him, until between them
they finished it. He reached out and scratched behind its ears, it
licked his hand … and a friendship was born.

Marcus stood,
hefted his load and walked on. He did not call, said not a word,
but he did not chase the dog away either. He smiled down as it
trotted along at his side, and nodded.

You and me,
pal
,
just you and me
.

As Marcus and
his furry companion reached central Galilan, snow came down in soft
flakes.

Twice they
were attacked - once by a desperate man with wild eyes, and once by
a rabid dog. Marcus hit the man, feeling terrible after, while his
little companion rose beautifully to the occasion, fluffing out to
twice its size to growl ominously, and the rabid dog beat hasty
retreat.

In a city once
vibrant, it was disconcerting to find so little life and saddening
to know only desperation remained. Fires raged in some regions
unabated, and litter of all kinds, including body parts, lay
scattered with no one able to commence the clean-up. There had to
be disease, but only abandoned animals and possibly a handful of
survivors in hiding knew of it.

Galilan was a
city of ghosts.

Man and dog
reached the river as snow thickened, becoming a presence that
intruded into numbed minds. Marcus stopped and stared across the
fast flowing water. He turned his head to the right and heaved a
sigh of relief. The railway bridge appeared whole. He shivered and
looked up. Flakes smacked into his pinched face. The dog quivered
at his feet.

“Come, little
pal,” he murmured and lifted the creature into his coat, buttoning
it so the dog stuck its head out between two undone buttons and
swung the food bag forward for it to sit on. It was uncomfortable
for both of them, but a small burden and the resultant warmth more
than made up for discomfort, and, thus, supporting bag and dog,
Marcus trudged through the growing white on the ground to the
bridge.

“We must name
you, little pal. What are you, girl or boy? Well, it doesn’t
matter, we’ll name you for both, what do you say? How about …
Tinker? You like that?” He smiled at the creature and felt it
squirm against him as if trying to wag its tail. “Okay, then,
Tinker it is. A good name, my friend. You and I are going to have
to turn our hands to anything that comes up. Marcus and Tinker,
world travellers. It has a nice ring, yes.”

He reached the
bridge, which was slick and dangerous with snow. The water beneath
raced, but there was nothing for it.

“On we go,
Tinker,” he murmured and climbed the short embankment.

Slow by
careful step, they crossed, Marcus placing his booted feet in the
grooves formed by the spars. Snow came down harder.

On the other
side, he turned to look back at the city. Galilan was enshrouded in
white flakes and powder grew mounds upon the ground. The fires
lessened, and almost Galilan was beautiful. Knowing what lay
beneath the pristine white, he turned away.

Follow the
track,
he reasoned,
all the way to Menllik
. The Valleur
would know what had befallen Valaris. They would be organising
rescue, food, shelter and defence. He halted as a thought struck
him. It was likely the Valleur had already been in Galilan and
taken away survivors - perhaps another reason the city was empty
and lifeless, and he missed a rescue hiding in the basement.

His stomach
growled. Muttering, he realised it was hours since he found Tinker,
hours since they ate. He dragged the water bottle out and took a
few sips, and then poured some into his cupped hand for Tinker, but
did not take out food. He could not be sure how long it would be
before they reached Menllik or if he would find food along the way.
They would eat at nightfall.

Squaring his
shoulders and settling his pal more comfortably, dog and man took
the metal and wood track.

Chapter
Fifty-Four

Legend tells
us, in the misty dawn of time, an extraordinary presence developed,
a body and soul and heart of decidedly female leaning. She was not
a person of race or creed, but the idea of thought and compassion.
Her mission, her passion, it is said, was Life. How, we do not
know, but she created a heritage for others to hold, to take up, to
further the cause of living. She was and is the Lady of Life.

Scroll of
Wisdom

Saska begged
to return, but Declan remained firm.

As they neared
the Dome, Saska pulled away, and then huffily headed towards the
Sylmer ogive.

“Gods,
no
!” Declan shouted. “There is no Sylmer entrance, Saska!”
He berated himself, and Torrullin, for not having told her
before.

Suspended in
the vacuum of space, she turned to him, a strange expression on her
face. “Am I not welcome here anymore, Siric? Once we lived this
place as one.”

“It’s no
longer a Guardian enclave, Saska. It’s wholly Kaval.”

“It’s
Torrullin’s now, you mean.”

The Siric
sighed. “I guess it is.”

“And he hasn’t
prepared an entrance for his wife,” Saska said in a clipped voice.
“Well. Never mind, old friend, I think I’ll not enter; I think I’ll
run along and do my husband’s bidding.”

“Why are you
angry?”

“Why am I …?
Have you ever loved someone so much you end up losing yourself in
that person?”

It had been
rhetorical, but he answered. “Yes.”

Her anger
fled. “Declan?”

The Siric
shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Not even the Centuar were formed
then, nor you, and not the man who is lord over us. It no longer
matters.”

“It matters -
you answered.”

“Yes, well,
she was Murs Siric. It could never be. I said goodbye. Shall we
leave it at that?” His face was pale and strained.

“I’m
sorry.”

“You have a
husband who loves you, whom you love. How fortunate can two people
be? He sent you away to protect you, did you not see that?”

“Am I that
weak?”

“You are
strong inside. And you are vulnerable for you have lost much of
your power, you gave too much as the Lady - do you not feel it? It
makes you no less, certainly not in his eyes, but it means he needs
to put you beyond harm whenever possible.”

Saska closed
her eyes. “You’re right. I’m such a fool.” She drew breath, smiled,
her eyes calm and guileless. “Well, so be it. I do have a duty and
I’ll see it done, for I need to put him beyond harm also.” She
inclined her head and floated away, and he let her go.

Watching her
leave, he reflected on the strangeness of their way of being. Here
they were in the vacuum, where nothing lived, where the merest
touch of deadness of space should freeze them. Little spinning
statues of solid matter - strange, and so intrinsic they took it
for granted.

‘
I can do
almost anything if I can conceive it.’

Indeed. Declan
turned away, headed for the Siric ogive. Not usually given to
introspection - many eons later it was no longer necessary - he
nonetheless pondered those words.

‘
I can do
almost anything if I can conceive it.
’ Torrullin’s words.
Elixir’s words, spoken while in the coma.

‘
I can do
almost anything if I can conceive it. I cannot alter the random
fate of electrons and protons, or not to a sustainable level, nor
can I alter, alone, the course of a galaxy’s path, but most things
between lie expectant to my thoughts. Is it enough, and am I proud
or overjoyed by this? No, for I know not enough. Knowledge aids
wisdom and in that I find myself lacking, an adolescent, one with
the means and stupid enough to use it, simply because I can, often
unmindful of the consequence, and often horrified that I still my
thought …”

Whom had he
spoken those words to? So formal, as if a higher authority
questioned him. Who was higher than Elixir? What had he learned
there? Had he found wisdom?

Shaking the
train of thought aside as the ogive pinged, Declan strode into the
Dome shouting for Jonas.

Saska went
directly to the Lady of Life.

She was a
young woman, a Minean with long flame hair and disconcertingly
uniform black eyes. She was short, barely reaching Saska’s shoulder
and reed thin. Her skin was translucent white. She was strange and
alien, and pixie beautiful. Her name was Lily.

All Mineans
were named for flowers, and lived as close to all things natural as
was possible. Lily had shown a rare gift for healing among her
people and an incredible passion for life everywhere and Saska, as
the previous Lady, encountered her a year before she took the final
decision to relinquish the Lady’s duties. Lily was the only woman
to come to mind to replace her. They knew each other well having
spent three years together, the time necessary for training.