Visioness (18 page)

“Now let’s begin.”

The next hour was an
exhausting mix of exercises—push-ups, sit ups, weight training, carrying heavy
objects from one side of the grounds to the other—and running on the spot
during times when they were not doing anything else. It was an hour of constant
movement, with only one rest break, during which they were allowed a drink of
water. Then, it was straight back into the training.

Rhene had always been fit—he
had been in training with the Dreamless for more than two years now—but never
had he been pushed so hard. In some small aspect, the training was a
competition between the five new Generals—two women, three men—to see who faltered
first. Rhene had expected one of the girls to give up first, but they held out
the entire hour, giving it all they had. If any of them looked most affected by
the training, it was the man who looked the most fit. He had a large chest, and
arms like logs, and a neck of sinew and muscle. Yet apparently the weight
worked against him, keeping him a little slower than the others, forcing him to
push himself even more during times when he struggled to keep up.

All five new generals walked
away exhausted, soundless and breathless. Rhene took himself to breakfast in a
sweat, eating on his own what he could manage, before he left out of fear of
vomiting up everything he’d consumed.

He waiting till his stomach
stopped churning, and then he sent the telegram to Adabelle to inform her of
the time of the date.

Rhene dropped Adabelle off
at the University following their date, kissing her goodnight on the steps
outside. She smiled, smelling slightly of vanilla. It was a sweet, delicious
scent, and it made him want her even more. She wished him goodnight and stepped
into the warmth of the University, just as the clock tower chimed midnight.

Rhene stepped into his cab,
glad to be once more out of the cold.

“Dreamless Barracks,” he
said. The cab driver nodded and took off.

On the way home, Rhene began
to realise how tired he was. It had been a very long day indeed, and he
welcomed his bed when he arrived home.

He curled up, closed his
eyes, unable to stop his smiling from how well his date had gone. He felt
himself drift deeply, and then he slept.

A moment later, he was
Dreaming.

He was in his own room, the
lights out, the moon shining through the window. But he was sitting up in bed.
He felt oddly comfortable here, and he assumed it was due to his being curled
up under his blankets.

A strange music began to
sound its way through the dream. It was a gentle tune, like it came from a
music box, the metal brushes clicking against the bumps on the music wheel. It
took him a few moments, for the song was slow and distorted slightly, but he
recognised it as
The Dreamer’s Lullaby
. There were only a few songs he
knew, but that one he recognised without much thought at all.

He clambered out of his bed,
stepping onto the floor, following the source of the noise. He passed through the
walls, his surroundings fuzzing and then darkening before he emerged in another
dream. He was in a field, atop a hill, the sunlight shining upon him with mirthful
warmth. A soft wind drifted up the hillside, stirring the grass. O that wind
was the scent of cologne. It was musky, similar to the scent of shaving cream.
Very similar in fact. It was an odd scent for the wind to carry.

A cloud of dust blew in his
face. He threw his arm up, shielding his eyes. When the dust stopped and his vision
cleared, he lowered his arm. Before him stood a well-dressed man, with a great
grey moustache and a black top hat.

Suddenly, the scent of
shaving cream was stronger somehow, Rhene able to taste it on his tongue.

“Hello,” said the gentleman.
He removed his top hat, revealing a bald patch, what little of his hair
remained a grey ring.

“Who are you?” Rhene asked.
“Are you a part of my dream?”

“No, no, no,” the man
replied, smiling. “I’m a Somnetii. A Dreamer like you.” He took a sudden step
forward, and Rhene withdrew. The man extended his hand. “What is your name?”

“Rhene,” he replied,
hesitantly, extending his own hand carefully. He was going to say another name,
yet when the word came to his throat, they sounded differently. It turned to
Rhene on the way out. At the mention of his name, the man nodded.

“Don’t worry, Rhene,” the
man said. “I’m not going to hurt you at all.” He filled the final few steps
between them and took Rhene’s hand, shaking vigorously. “I just want to talk.”

His surroundings shifted
suddenly, and they were in a restaurant, at their own table, with wine and food
and bread. The delicious aroma of the soup before them both wafted up,
intoxicating Rhene with how real it was. Yet even here, where the sounds of
conversation echoed from the other diners, and the scent of the food was
strong, he could still hear
The Dreamer’s Lullaby
, and he could still
smell the cologne. The music came from the pitch of people’s voices around him;
a whistle to the waiter, a sigh from a woman, a yawn from a gentleman; but it was
there.

“What about?” asked Rhene.

“I want to ask about the
Dreamless.”

“What about them?” he asked.

The man paused, apparently
taken aback by his defensive tone.

“I need to know what they
plan to do with the Oen’Aerei,” he said. He placed his hands on the table,
folding his fingers together in a slow, careful manner.

Rhene went to say
nothing
,
but he quickly remembered what happened the last time he’d tried to lie.
Instead, he said, “That’s classified information.”

The man smiled, the music
suddenly intensifying. And the scent! He could barely smell the food anymore.
The dream’s appearance faded slightly, and for a time, the Dream was only scent
and music.

“You’re an agent for the
Oen’Aerei, aren’t you?” Rhene asked. “You’ve infiltrated my dream. You’ve tried
to get information from me.” He rose suddenly from his seat, the chair thrown
back. This wasn’t his dream, this wasn’t his mind, so the chair began to float.
“Well you will not get it.”

“I will,” the man said. He
rose, too, and in his hand was a knife. Rhene froze.

“You cannot touch me here,”
Rhene said.

“Yes I can,” and within a
moment, the man had the knife at his throat. It felt so real, the cold steel
against his skin. So sharp was the blade it seemed to slice with barely a
touch. Rhene barely felt the knife, but he felt the blood. It was hot and red
and steamed as it rolled down his neck.

“Barely a scratch,” the man
said. “Imagine what I could do if you struggled.”

Rhene fought the desire to
scream, and the need to struggle. He had to stay still. He couldn’t risk it. He
understood the dream too little to know its limitations. This man could slice
him up here, and in the real world, he could stay unaffected; that was how it
was meant to work. But he didn’t want to risk it.

“What do you want?” Rhene said.
“Who are you?” He whispered it,
breathed
it, not wanting his throat to
move.

“My name is Therron Blaise,”
he said, “and I want to know when the Oen’Aerei intend to march,”

Rhene’s eyes widened.
Impossible.
That can’t be. He’s dead.

“So now you will tell me,
boy,” Therron said, pressing the knife closer to his skin. No one saw, no one
watched; but it was silent, except for the soft tinkle of
The Dreamer’s
Lullaby.
“You cannot lie here. No one can.”

“I do not know when the army
will strike,” Rhene replied. “I have not been general for long.” He paused,
sweeping his mind for ideas. “But if you let me go, I can find out. I can let
you know. Just let me go, please.”

The knife dug a little
deeper, drawing more blood, rolling heat down his throat.

“I will let you go,” Therron
said, “but I will find you again and I will want an answer. You have three
days.”

Therron disappeared, his
knife leaving with him. Rhene was alone in a Dream that was not his own.
Shaking and terrified, he felt his way back to his own mind and laid himself
down into bed, where he finally awoke.

He touched his neck and felt
cold blood there. It was only small, and it would heal quickly, but questions
would be asked. He had to decide on a lie.

Shaving
, he thought.
I cut it
shaving. It’s a little low, but weirder things have happened.

Therron Blaise had found
him. Therron Blaise, the man who had created the Oen’Aerei, the man who had
gained tremendous power, and in a moment, lost it all. Very few knew what happened
on the night he disappeared. Many said he died. The Dreamless knew he had been
sealed away in a dream sphere. He should never have been able to break out.

And now he had, and they
were all in danger.

He’s going to find me,
he thought, terrified now
to close his eyes for fear of what he might face within the realms of his own
thoughts.
He’s going to kill me.

A second thought then
clicked in his mind.

“Adabelle,” he whispered.
“Adabelle…Blaise. She’s his…daughter.”

As if his head wasn’t
already sore, it suddenly began to pound deep within.

But that would make her a Dreamer,
a Somnetii: an enemy.

But she lives at the
University! She can’t be a Dreamer.

He paused, suddenly feeling
stupid. He was a Dreamer, yet he didn’t rank amongst the Oen’Aerei.

She’s a Dreamer…a Wilding.
Like me.

Why did he feel so sick all
of a sudden? Why did he feel like he had to purge his stomach of all its
contents, and then purge his body, and then his veins? He felt unclean, and
sick. He wanted something to take his mind off things.

But he was Dreaming, and he
could find somewhere else to go. He imagined somewhere quiet. A bubbling river,
sided by reeds, and a shady tree under which he could sit.

But the world didn’t change.
It didn’t want to shift, despite his best attempt to make his mind change it,
it stayed dark, illuminated by a few bars of light from the street outside. He
rose from his bed, staring at the window. It was only a small one, but it was
big enough for him to climb through. He was Dreaming; he could do anything.

He moved the chair from his
desk, hoping his upper body strength would be enough to get him through. Surely
he’d be strong enough here.

He balled his hand into a
fist—it was only glass, after all—and drew his arm back. He took a deep breath
in, closing his eyes. He thought of the glass breaking, imagined it smashing
beneath the thrust of his fist, falling away, like a wave against a rock.

He exhaled, throwing his
fist forward with all of his might.

There was a crushing sound,
but it wasn’t the glass. It was the bones in his hand. The pain shot up his
arm, cascading reality down upon him like a massive, painful weight. He
wasn’t
Dreaming, he quickly realised. He let out an almighty scream, sure he ha just
woke the whole Dreamless Barracks.

The very next day at work
following her date with Rhene, Adabelle was bombarded with questions from
everyone. Of all of the staff at the café, though, it was Georgette who had the
most questions. She asked what it was like to kiss him, whether he was a good
dancer at all, what the food was like and whether he was ever rude.

“Because, if he was rude at
all,” she added, “I would
definitely
have to kill him.”

She responded in kind at all
times, her head spinning slightly from the barrage of questions.

“Leave the girl alone and
let her work,” Anna said from her office before closing the door once more.

Georgette just laughed.

“So what did you do when he
dropped you off?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” asked
Adabelle as she poured milk into a steaming mug.

“Well…did you…you know…go
in?”

“No, what? No! Heavens no!
He kissed me goodnight and that was it. He’s not like that, Georgette. He’s a
gentleman.”

Georgette laughed to
herself. “Say what you will.”

Adabelle slapped Georgette
on the wrist. “Don’t be so crude.”

“I’m allowed to be,” Georgette
replied. “It is, after all, my job.”

“No,” Anna interjected.
“Your job is to make coffee, so get to doing it before I make you do it.”

Georgette, slightly
shamefaced, turned back to her work. It was not long before a smirk returned to
her face, though, and she was whispering questions from across the bench.

She took herself back to the
moment when she’d stood on the University steps, having been kissed goodnight.
A small part of her—and it was only small—had wanted to invite him inside. Even
if it was only for a drink before bed, she’d wanted to prolong her time with
this new man. But she knew that would only lead to certain temptations, and
despite her interest, she wasn’t ready for that. Let alone the fact she shared
her room with Charlotte. There wasn’t exactly a quiet, secluded place in which
she could share her romance.

Instead, she bade him
goodnight and he’d left, leaving her slightly breathless.

And now she waited. She
waited for him to contact her again, when she could see him again. While with
him she had, for a short while, entirely forgotten about the troubles she’d had
to face. She’d forgotten about Therron, and the Nhyxes, and Aunt Marie and the
funeral she had to go to tomorrow.

Perhaps in Rhene she would
find a kind of peace. Perhaps with him she could find a sanctuary away from the
father that chased her and the past she tried to escape.

But what if being with him
gets him involved?
she thought.
I couldn’t live with myself if anything bad were
to ever happen.
She could see Therron now in her mind’s eye, hunting down
one of the few good things in her life. Between Rhene and Charlotte, Adabelle
couldn’t help but wonder what else she had to live for.

My mother fought for my
life,
she
thought.
I have to hold onto it.

She returned her attention
to the coffee she was making and left her thoughts there for now.

The next day, both her and
Charlotte dressed in black dresses. They pulled their hair up into neat buns
and removing all jewellery out of respect and mourning for cousin Larraine.

“I’ve never been to a
funeral before,” Charlotte said, sitting on the bed with a slightly glazed-over
look.

“Yes you have,” Adabelle
replied, as she finished tying her hair back with a black ribbon. “You were
just very young. It was mama’s.”

“That doesn’t count,” Charlotte
said. “I would have been only weeks old.
Days!
”

Adabelle frowned. “Then this
will be an experience for both of us.”

Charlotte cocked her head.
“You don’t remember mama’s either?”

“Not well,” Adabelle
replied. “I would have still been young myself. I remember flashes of it. I
remember they said Aunt Marie had gotten very sick all of a sudden and couldn’t
come—that was the Buffer Sickness taking hold—and I remember cousin Larraine
being there with us. Mrs. Abeth walked us to the cab—she carried you—and I
remember smelling vanilla.” She paused, thinking of her mother’s perfume. Mrs.
Abeth must have been wearing it that day.

“I can remember they played
The
Dreamer’s Lullaby
as they lowered the coffin. It was a string quartet
there, and they played it…beautifully.” She sounded distant now, squinting her
eyes as if to gaze deeper into her past. There were few things that made
Adabelle cry, but remembering the funeral was one of them. That last gazes at
the wood of the coffin as it dropped below the earth.

She had tried to mutter
goodbye back then, but had been unable to muster the strength. The closer the
words came to her lips, the closer she came to crying. She pushed those images
aside, spraying herself with a spritz of her mother’s perfume. Only a moment
later did she regret it. The scent brought back more memories.

It was going to be a long
day indeed.

They left the University
with Mrs. Abeth, who was dressed in black as well. From there, they took a cab
to the hospital to collect Aunt Marie. Her mind may not have been entirely
there, but she deserved to see her own daughter committed to the earth.

When they arrived, they
found Aunt Marie dressed in a black dress, a hat and shroud placed on her head.
She was sitting up in her bed, looking rather lucid all things considered. Her
eyes were still lost elsewhere, yet she sat still and quiet, and she seemed
rather careful in her movements. It was nice for the hospital staff to dress
her nicely for the day. They helped her into a wheelchair, strapping down her
legs to keep her from wandering away from them. Charlotte kept to the doorway
as usual, leaving Mrs. Abeth and Adabelle to get her into the chair and to push
her down the hall.

“Please bring her back
before five o’clock if that is agreeable,” said the lady at the counter while
Mrs. Abeth signed Aunt Marie out.

“That should be fine,” she
replied, smiling as she put a dot at the end of her signature.

From the hospital, it was
only a short walk to the cemetery. When they arrived, a handful of people had
already begun to crowd around the burial site, a handful of chairs set out for
the closest family—which was Adabelle, Charlotte and Mrs. Abeth, though she
didn’t count as direct family.

They took a seat before the
coffin. Adabelle sat between Charlotte and Aunt Marie, though her younger
sister still did not look comfortable at all.

Not long before the ceremony
started, Adabelle glanced over to Charlotte and noticed that she had a hand
held up to her temples.

“Are you okay?” asked
Adabelle.

“I’ve got a headache is
all,” Charlotte replied.

“It will probably stick
around,” Mrs. Abeth said. “Funerals do the same to me.”

“No, this isn’t that sort of
headache,” Charlotte said. “It’s different. I don’t know. It hurts, though.”

“I’ll get some water for you
then,” Mrs. Abeth said, rising up and heading over to a trestle table set out
with a jug of water and some cups. She returned with two full, handing the
first to Charlotte and the second to Adabelle. “You’ll need that, too,” she
said.

The service was simple and
quiet. A handful of people turned up—mostly university students who had been
close with Larraine. During much of it, Adabelle kept her mouth closed for fear
of breathing in too deeply and releasing the torrent of emotion that threatened
against the flood gates. She gripped tightly to the handkerchief she kept in
her lap, occasionally raising it to her face to dab at the tears that emerged.

Adabelle rosed when asked to
read the eulogy. She had very little prepared and spoke only for a short while,
but in that time she held her composure, spoke slowly and calmly, and managed
to finish it without crying. As she gazed out at the crowd, she noticed
Larraine’s father absent. She supposed he didn’t find out about his daughter’s
death till it was too late, if at all.

She took a moment before the
coffin was lowered, breathing heavily through her nose. She could smell vanilla
again, only it wasn’t her. She turned slightly, looking at Aunt Marie. The
woman was looking at her, with eyes as lucid as any other; eyes as emotive as someone
with their whole mind. She was crying, her tears flowing heavy and fast.

“No, no, no,” Aunt Marie
whispered, shaking her head. She bowed her head, as the coffin began to lower,
sobbing.

And just like that, Aunt
Marie lost all lucidity and the scent of vanilla faded.

Adabelle turned back to the
coffin as it lowered, the slow, painful descent like a knife to her heart. She
wondered whether Aunt Marie was truly aware of what was happening, or whether
the sadness was just a response to the others crying around her. And her eyes,
they’d seemed so lucid, so aware. Even during those rare moments of utter
sentience, she had never seemed as calm and alive as she had then. Her eyes had
held none of their craze; none of their madness. These were her eyes and hers
alone. They weren’t lost in other thoughts; other dreams.

She left that thought to her
subconscious and let out a sob as she heard the coffin touch the bottom of the
pit.

“And so closes the life of
Larraine,” said the priest, as was tradition.

There ceremony was over, and
with that, a handful of people began to disperse.

“I thought while we’re here
we’d visit your mother,” said Mrs. Abeth, nodding slightly up the hill where
more graves lay.

“I’d like that,” Adabelle
said. She pushed Aunt Marie up the hill, the scent of vanilla strengthening as
they neared the plot of her mother’s grave. Adabelle decided it was the
closeness she presently held to the memory of her mother that kept bringing up
that scent. She thought of her mother, and therefore thought of her perfume,
and with that thought came the wave of sweet vanilla.

Her mother’s grave was a
small and simple plot, the headstone bearing her name, the dates of birth and
death and a small inscription below. IN OUR HEARTS, IN OUR MINDS, IN OUR
DREAMS; FOREVER.

Apparently she had chosen
that inscription before her death, or so said Mrs. Abeth. A small piece of her
memory made Adabelle think that it was Therron who had chosen that particular
phrase, but she couldn’t press down exactly why that thought struck her so.

“Miss you, mama,” whispered
Charlotte, who closed her eyes and touched her forehead with an open palm and
winced.

Aunt Marie made a whining
noise suddenly, shaking her head, blinking swiftly, groaning loudly. She
appeared distressed, and judging from the way she shivered, in pain. She had
been a little fretful during the ceremony, yet this seemed worse.

“Aunt Marie,” Adabelle said,
stepping quickly around the wheelchair to kneel before her. “Aunt Marie, it’s
just us. She raised a hand to touch her face, stroking the woman’s cheek softly
with her finger. Spittle clung to her hand from where it had fallen from her
aunt’s mouth, but Adabelle didn’t mind. She attempted to calm the woman with a
gentle
shhing
noise. Aunt Marie responded with more head shakes, more
distressed whimpering.

“I think we ought to go,”
Adabelle said, rising up. She glanced down at the woman and said, “It’s okay,
we’ll be going soon.”

“My head’s hurting worse
now,” Charlotte said.

“I think we’ll go then,”
Mrs. Abeth said. “I’ll let everyone know we’ll skip the wake and head home. I
don’t think Aunt Marie is fit to be doing anything right now.” She paused,
staring past Adabelle. “No mother should ever have to bury their child. Whether
she’s in her right mind or not. Let’s take her home.”

“Okay,” Adabelle said. She
took the responsibility of the wheelchair, guiding it out of the cemetery and
up the street.

“I think I need to sleep,”
Charlotte said as they walked down the street. “My head…it won’t stop hurting.”

“I think we’ll all need a
good sleep,” replied Mrs. Abeth.

They dropped Aunt Marie off
at the hospital. Once she was in her own bed, and settled down a mite, she
looked at ease. Her pained mutterings ended, breathing calm. Her expression
returned to that of vacant serenity.

“I had the oddest moment
today,” said Adabelle in the taxi back to the University.

“What do you mean?” asked
Mrs. Abeth, leaning forward to look around Charlotte, who sat in the middle
seat. Charlotte presently slept.

“Well it’s just that there
was a point where Aunt Marie looked to me and she looked…well…lucid. She looked
completely alive and aware, like she wasn’t sick.”

“Haven’t you said she
sometimes has times where she seems entirely well?”

“Well yes,” Adabelle said.
“But I mean she might have a moment when she speaks and it’s a coherent
sentence, or that she might hug me when I’m sad, as if to comfort.” It was true
there were times where Aunt Marie could seem another mother, despite her
sickness. She was able to sense emotion, seeming attuned somehow to that
particular part of the human mind. “Things like that. This…well…
this
was
her looking at me. She stared with such sadness and understanding and
awareness. It was…shocking to say the least. But she did. And then like that,”
she clicked her finger, “it was gone.”