Excerpt: The Face of Darkness

The Descendant

*
The Face of Darkness
*

By Charles Reid

Chapter One: Arrivals

One night of sultry sensations, a wind began to blow from nowhere to somewhere, and it happened to pass by a certain bit of forest in a certain land of dark inclinations through which it was almost unheard of to travel, yet in which, this night, a traveler did happen to be. The wind swept with wistful sighs through leafy bows of fairy-tale green, twirled and cavorted in mindless mazes as clouds dark and swelled with rain ponderously approached the whispering vale, intent upon giving up their inconvenient torrent, whence the flood would then be thankfully drunk, turned in a moment from bane to blessing.
The wind knew then of the intruder, but continued whistling nonetheless. As shadows sharp and poignant collected beneath the emerald canopy and cast their sword-like edges every which way, the wind, ever the considerate caretaker, came and made them soft again, and afterwards there only remained half-life to the darkness; but in this half-life the darkness was made the more real and threatening, for in its hazy uncertainty the light was made similarly uncertain, and as the branches overhead began slowly to bend back and forth in the now-quickening, tempestuous wind, the shadows knew not what to do, and they contented themselves with shifting so hazardously that no one who could have seen the forest before the arrival of the storm would have recognized it afterwards.
There arrived, as the wind abandoned cool reason for careless passion, a shadow of an altogether different kind than those which knew only how to blend with hazy indifference. As the first drops of rain fell on the dry leaves of last autumn, a slight figure began to move unsteadily through the forest, making her way puzzledly in the direction which she only knew to be the direction of the forest's end in a faint corner of her mind. The girl, clad in a tattered dress of sordid grey, stared about her with dazed, unseeing eyes, one moment afraid of the slightest of sounds, the next only intent on finding her way out of the forest. Her white-blonde hair whipped about and collected leaves as the storm intensified. On the air arose a strong smell of old, stale, everlasting age, as the storm drew closer and the leaves formed figures tall as the girl which danced about her and occasionally, or at least she thought they did, they would laugh and sing, but they weren't very nice laughs, and they certainly did not sing good songs. The girl stood still suddenly and looked about her. She raised her hands and gestured wildly as the wind clutched at her pale, wet skin, and tried to tear her apart. Then, all at once, she broke into a run, and at that moment not even a stag could have kept pace with her; for her flight was born out of sheer panic and desperation. Artless though storms may be, and however uncouth as some may choose to see them, there can be no denying their power. The girl could but run as fast as her legs would allow, and hope that she might be out of the forest before the storm truly arrived...for though she knew not even her own name, she knew at least that the beauty of this forest was a thin mask, and she feared with all her heart what she would find underneath it.
The colors began to change as the storm drew closer. Vividity was lost in all things save the green of the forest, which was conversely heightened to a lushness so overwhelming as to make the girl feel like she was drowning. The blues became greys, and the reds became maroons, as the storm drew closer. Dust flew about and created whirlwinds and then danced with leaves brown and dead; rain fell too softly on the forest floor and created an illusion of safety while wind tore bark off trees and flung it in the girl's face; grass higher than her knees tangled themselves about the girl's legs and caused her almost to fall and be swallowed in a sea of green promising all things soft and good…and all the while the storm drew closer. The greys turned hazy and the forest began to look like a child's water-color picture badly mired and the rain at last began to whip about in torrential sheets and to cover the girl in its garments, wide and thick as feather-bed comforters. The girl turned to the trees for shelter, but found grim black claws waiting to tear her clothes and her hair and clutch at her face. She turned to bushes and banks to hide beneath, but found thorns thick as stone walls and equally impenetrable. The girl scrambled and dashed in a losing battle to find shelter, and soon she saw a break in the trees. Her heart lifted and she found courage anew to drive her onward, against the pelting rain, hard as thousands of tiny pebbles and as constant in their berration as an everlasting sandstorm on rough stone which soon finds itself shorn clean and smooth by the dauntless erosion. As she pushed herself onward, hands shielding her face, blood from the thorns flowing in labyrinthine patterns down her legs and arms and soiling her dress further, she found herself all at once out of the forest...and fully presented to the triumphant face of the storm.
For one moment the girl stood firm, and stared calmly and unflinchingly into the giant's eye as he cast his thousand nets over her...and then he won. Her last dregs of courage and strength vanished, the girl fell to the ground and began to crawl. She clutched at the wild strands of grass and they clutched back and seemed to impute an unknown mettle into her all-but-spent body, and the girl found herself crawling over the ground into the storm. Really it felt more as though she were being pulled...pulled by a hundred friendly arms, all of which seemed to say to her "'tis but a little farther, darling...only this much farther, see? You'll make it, don't let go, darling...just hang on." However the matter lay, the girl found sufficient comfort in this thought to galvanize herself onward. The rain battered and the leaves pelted and the wind whispered seductive summer songs, begging her to let go and just let herself fly away into the wind, just fly away...But she would heed nothing, and only crawled forward; slowly, yes, but crawling nevertheless...until the storm suddenly changed his direction and she was almost forced upright and was allowed to run. She ran for perhaps ten feet before she hit something very hard, and very black. Her head felt suddenly quite warm as she sank to the ground and stared up at something which looked like chopped off branches narrowed to a four-faced point. Almost directly above her was a large dark shadow with markings on it which she began to try to make out, but which gradually began to fade away. As a matter of fact, everything began not to matter so much, and she began to almost enjoy the rain, and the sweet whisperings of the wind as her world grew dark, and finally faded altogether. In reality, what she'd been seeing just before her mind mercifully allowed sleep was a small portion of a great iron gate, against which the girl was now slumped. The dark shadow almost directly above her was really a sign, bolted to the gate, and written over with a single word:
'Vaughn.'

*

Rarely can it be said that a heavily forested stretch of land is in fact a desert. Yet that was just how it looked the morning after the storm, in the pale moments just before dawn. The trees and the land were dead, though thoroughly drenched, for they had almost completely lost their color with the coming of the night, as few colors survive the advent of pale, sylphine Selena. The wind had retired, and nothing stirred; not one leaf spoke to his neighbor...not a single sylfine syllable was heard in the air. Dead as a desert, and as stale and colorless, the forest and the land had become kindred to the dry ocean of Sahara.
The last vestiges of the night clung still to the oncoming day, reluctant to relinquish its power over the life of the forest and land. Yet it knew that it must in time allow the newborn morn to show her calm, brilliant face above the horizon, and as the first pale, willowy filaments of dawn began to stretch across the land, the last strength of the night looked about for any object upon which to fix its remaining power, and finally settled upon the black coach making its rattling way down the tortuous road which cut across the land just the same as if it were an age-old river. Thus, as the dawn began to grow and wax powerful, dismal gloom remained incarnate in and around the sullen coach.
There were two figures inside the coach. One was a lady, dressed impeccably in lavender, all laced and bordered with black, and beside her rested a white cane with a silver head crafted in the likeness of a swan. Her face and its expression as a rule gave off the air of either a quarrelsome hawk or a cynical shrew, depending upon by whom she was observed. The curvature of her mouth implied a bitingly satirical humor, and the arch - or rather the complete lack thereof - of her neck indicated purebred nobility of the kind so commonly given to the most degrading prejudices. Her hands, folded neatly in her lap, were so particularly fine and unblemished that it would seem that their owner would naturally hold the handling of articles other than delicate crockery and china entirely beneath her. By the stateliness of her posture and the condescension of her finely drawn brow, one might induce the presence of a pride so innate that one would doubt whether she could deign to stoop to casting even a glance at man, woman, or child beholden of a position of caste lower than hers.
The other figure was a small boy, dressed in puritanically dark clothes, with a face pale as moonlit sands. His eyes were opened widely and constantly flitted about in fretful spasms; his breath came in ragged bursts indicative of fright rather than exhaustion. His hands trembled ceaselessly at his sides, and whenever his agitated eyes chanced to fall on the window, causing him to behold the darkness beyond as well, all fitful activity would cease and he would stare dazzedly out the window. Then, after a few moments, he would inhale sharply, turn away, and once more begin to fidget. His light blonde hair hung limply where it protruded from underneath a broad-rimmed hat, equally as conservative as the rest of his costume. His face looked a bit too drawn for comfort, and seemed to speak of many nights of unsatiated hunger. The blue of his eyes, from their perfect and untainted clarity, might double as a window overlooking a vast, heavenly sea.
After a long time, the long, delicate fingers of timid dawn at last touched upon the coach, and with many resentful protests, dim and dreary night withdrew her twilight tentacles and light touched down upon the travelers' shoulders. Yet although the darkness of night was waning, a different darkness had begun to grow. As lethargic delusions fled the road, there arrived in their place a sinister sleepiness which colored the newborn light and made it wrong. The air began to smell of dust and age, and the land began to reveal its desert likeness to the travelers within the rattling black coach making its tentative way down the wriggling road. The lady sniffed rather loudly and turned to the boy.
"Stop your fidgeting, boy. We'll soon be arrived, and when we are I should be very surprised if the headmaster didn't take you up for slouching or for your infernal trembling. Hear me, boy?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And what's more, you keep your hat on proper...no cocking or you'll be seeing my cane before you see the headmaster."
"Yes, ma'am."
She looked scantways at him, and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You'll keep your eyes below his when you meet him."
"Yes, ma'am."
She turned away and was silent for a very long time before saying at last, in a very low voice, "If ever I hear of you again after this morning, there's not a lawyer in Europe who'll be able to keep you from the Factories."
The boy turned away, much paler than before, as he contemplated the horrors of the infamous Factories. No child who went to work in the Factories was ever heard of again, and he rather thought it was because the people who ran the Factories all when they couldn't work anymore, and probably they ate them too. He thought, as he weighed the options, that he'd much rather be going to Vaughn Academy than the Factories.
Perhaps it might be fair to say that the night made one last assault on the coach before slinking away into nothingness. The attack came at the precise moment when the carriage passed through the massive iron gates across which was bolted the sign labeled 'Vaughn.' Or perhaps it was yet only a sudden case of nerves on the part of the lady which caused her to partake of the same sensation as the boy at the exact same moment. The fact remains, however, that at that moment, both passengers felt a very sudden and quite extreme chill overtake them and rack both their frames for the five or so seconds it took to completely pass through those gates. To the lady the event was nothing noteworthy, and she at once attributed it to a bodily response to her overwhelming eagerness to be rid of the boy, and thereafter dismissed it completely. To the boy, however, the moment occasioned thoughts of darker apprehensions, and as the great gate swung shut and with a loud clang caused the lady in lavender to jump slightly, the boy looked up at the towering colossus of imposing stone and thought that perhaps he might yet prefer the Factories.

*

Minutes blew past the windows of Vaughn and were chased closely by the pale, rose-tinted branches of dawn. Like a tree planted in heaven the dawn grew brilliant as the sun with a rapidity observed constantly and continuously by a solitary pair of eyes staring from a high-vaulted window, far above the dew-drenched earth in the South-East tower of Vaughn. Aged leaves from under the sill of the window caught the dust-ridden currents of late summer wind and began to dance about the eaves of the tower roof with wistful unconcern, causing currently drowsy sparrows to loudly complain and flit angrily about as the leaves continued their waltzing.
The daylight, still quite young, fell in gorgeous golden wreaths on the cool, demanding black stone of Vaughn. The sun in all his blazing glory had as yet cast but a thin sliver of himself above the horizon, keeping the rest, as it were, a bit longer yet in order to fully savor the entirety of his power over the frail, uncertain domain of the world, the sovereignty of which was, at this hour, his alone. The sunlight splintered as it hit the many-faceted panes of the window, and once it at last found itself within the walls of mighty Vaughn, all its former gaiety was forgotten, and it fell, sad and sullen, into a nearby armchair and propped its pretty head on a worm-eaten book, the contents of which it seemed mattered to no one, and, moreover, never would.
The young and painfully drawn face of Richy Roethke stared out at the encroaching dawn as expressionless as the true face of the light which now carressed the boy’s brow. Just as the sun was but the pretended father of life on the world, the light it cast had but the figment, the mere impression, of light-hearted frolick and innocence. Richy knew that it mattered not where the light penetrated, for the places in which it was most needed were the places it would never reach, and as Richy stared at the doleful brightness of the early morning, all the painful stature of his heart lost in his face became quite evident in his dark eyes. His eyes turned slowly away from the horizon and crawled to the scene unfolding beneath him, at the foot of Vaughn. It had started many minutes ago, and, to Richy, meant nothing more than that a new student, a boy some years younger than himself, was just now being admitted into Vaughn. The news occasioned nothing extraordinary to him, and though Richy had just been admitted in the past two days himself, he found that his ability to empathize with those whose lot it was inevitably to endure unbelievable suffering had dwindled almost to naught, and in its stead he found a steadily growing lack of concern for any pursuit other than escape. To escape from Vaughn, Richy imagined at first he would only have to discover a time where teachers and headmaster were distracted; but this notion had fled the previous night, the night which the sun seemed to be earnestly attempting to dispel, but which Richy knew would remain the whole day long locked hopelessly within his heart. Richy’s eyes turned back to the horizon, and Richy began to contemplate why there must be beauty if the ultimate response of most observers was a cynical chuckle. Why must some be made to admire and some made to scoff? Could not there be a purity, a synthesis of all good which would delight the impressionable and impress those who found it necessary to doubt? Why need there be suffering, and why must it always be the innocent who suffer the most? All these questions filled the mind and heart of Richy, but there was yet one which was all-consuming: would there come a time, or would there appear a place, when or where all grief vanished and in its place came boundless joy? Though Richy beheld a scene more beauteous than many he’d before witnessed, he doubted whether all this could be real, or, if it was real, whether there was another reality, another choice...

Chapter Two: Delusions and Daydreams

Shadows crouched watchful in craftily concealed corners of the great central hall. Like some decrepit crypt or ritual chamber of devilish necromancy, the great hall sat immobile and digestive of life. Like a wizened patriarch, it beheld the prevalence of spiders’ webs and broken candles, wasted table-cloth and moth-eaten linen, faded draperies and tables ragged with splinters, broken china and cracked tea-kettles within which would most often be present a stiff, soupy black crust reminiscent of swamp-bracken; it saw all this and was pleased.
Amid the decaying decadence of twilight grandeur, another life was witness to the dawn’s assumption of the world. A mouse scampered here and there between fallen articles of worthless wealth and scanned the Stables of Augeas in search for any salvageable items. It’s eyes black as those of Longfellow’s beloved Evangeline, caught the very first ray of morning light to penetrate the dust-covered window and illuminate the murky depths of the great hall. The mouse halted, frozen in puzzled contemplation until one after another more rays ascended to join the first, then all at once the mouse gave a great squeak of terror and fled away from the presumptive light into a hole somewhere by the perilously tilting vase, there to run away to some country more friendly to dwellers of the dark.
The light arrived and the great hall began to change. It was slow at first, marginal with the penetration of the sunlight through the windows, but as the sleepiness of the dawn wore off the light began to wax fearful and the great hall began to change more swiftly. All that was cracked when in shadow was whole in the light. All things fallen were righted, all things scattered were gathered; everything which before added or partook in the gloom of the night was changed beyond all measure the moment the sunlight touched it, and once the sun was at last fully up and rising in the sky, the great hall had assumed a vision of grandeur both alike and unlike that which it had been beneath the darkness. It was alike in that it was a picture of the exact same things which had been there before, but it was unlike in that everything wrong was now right. Yet any observer of the transformation would not have rejoiced over the renewal of the hall, but would have shuddered at the realization that the vision now before him was not the truth, but only a falsity made real by an alteration of the light, and that when night again fell, the great hall would once more assume its true aspect, and be as ruinous as it now appeared glorious.

*

Somewhere in the castle a bell began to ring. It tinkled so softly that it would not wake even a sparrow. But on the third knell a second bell picked up, and then on its third knell a third bell picked up as well, and on its third bell a fourth picked up, and then all over the castle bells soft as the first began to ring in perfect unison; and it was thus that a single knell was raised throughout the Vaughn, and always it was that the sound of the bells followed the ever-quickening path of the dawn, until at last in every corner, in every hall, at the door of every room there resonated the clear, deafening sound of a bell, too soft to wake even a sparrow.
Across Vaughn there came knocks on three-hundred-thirteen doors, and before the sun capped the top of the farthest tower every door was opened, and each time before the awaiting teacher there appeared the impeccably dressed and cleansed figure of a child, who would then step smartly to the back of the growing line, and then would be still until the line was required to move again for yet another student.
The hands on the giant clock in the great hall read quarter to six when all bells throughout Vaughn ceased their ringing, and the great, monotonous sound of three-hundred-thirteen pairs of feet plus some began to march in perfect unity in the direction of the great hall. There was to be no talking in the halls, that was clearly understood even by the most recently arrived. There was to be no noise during the morning meal. That was also understood with absolute certainty. Between classes, while one marched neatly to one’s next class with the rest of the students, not a peep nor sigh was to be heard. This and also the rule concerning absolute perfect posture or else were both understood and observed without error. But there was yet the greatest rule of all: if any student was found to be participating in frolick, play, merriment, jest or entertainment of any kind, he or she was to be most severely punished, and his or her punishment should then remind the rest of the school to always observe every rule, lest they join in the sufferings of the currently observed.
The students poured silently into the hall and filled up all seats at six tables and the thirteen remaining filled the thirteen seats at a thirteenth-table, and it was assumed by the small boy who was the six-hundred-thirteenth student, that the rest of the table must appear as more students came. The students at all of the other tables were seated in order of arrival, but at the new table this order had been abandoned for some inexplicable reason, and the thir umed that once the table was complete, then they should be placed in the proper order. To the left of the small boy sat a very frail-looking girl with white-blonde hair, and beside her sat dark-eyed Richy Roethke, intent on looking the most abysmal the rules would allow.
There were seven chairs other than the students’ in the hall, and these were placed with unerring symmetry at each corner and the center of three walls, the fourth wall of the great hall being occupied by a great flight of stairs leading down to the entrance of Vaughn. The chair on the wall directly opposite the stairs belonged to the headmaster, whose grim and gnarled countenance now surveyed with stoic impassivity the masses of gathered students. The four other chairs were occupied by the head teachers, and at the head of each table, including the partial seventh, sat an assistant-teacher. For a few minutes after all had been seated, the headmaster, who had already been present when the teachers arrived with the students, allowed total silence, before at last rising and declaring in a loud, sonorous voice:
“May the light now depart, and with it may all impious inclinations towards unclean activities depart as well. I bid thee be shadow once more.”
And he raised his hand and gestured to first the window on the left of the stairs, and then to the one on the right, and the brilliant dawn began to wither and wane, and finally it vanished, and the great hall was cast into darkness. Then came the voice of the headmaster once more.
“May warm and righteous candlelight be our only illumination, as also is the purity of true knowledge and wisdom.”
Then in one moment there appeared candlelight in the great hall, glowing from perhaps a dozen per table, and two chandeliers overhead. The faces of all students turned to the headmaster, as was expected, and after a moment longer, he addressed them all.
“For the advent of another day we give thanks to the will of fate. Let there now be respect and thanksgiving in your hearts concerning the preservation of your undeserving lives. May there be found in you no transgression nor trace, however small, of iniquitous desire or perpetration, that there might be no reason for discipline.” He paused and seemed to look each student in the eye before continuing. “The day shall proceed in the manner of perfect propriety. Immediately following breakfast, all students are to partake in lessons, the purposes of which shall be to expel impurities of behavior, thought, and habit, and to impress upon the student a sense of that conformity to true and decent tradition which is infinitely desirable and sadly unheeded in the depraved societies of the modern world. Following lessons of the morning there shall come luncheon, and then afternoon lessons, following which shall occur guided meditation during which it is the duty of the students to meditate on his or her wrongs; and then shall come bed, after which no disturbances of any kind shall be tolerated. Now...” and here he raised his arms once more, and solemnly said, “let the meal begin.”
The food was instantly summoned and was set upon in the most hasty manner allowed beneath the oppressive gazes of the teachers. The crystal glasses and silver plates reflected the pale candlelight into the darkness and caused patterns to shimmer and shift along dreamy paths. On the walls danced colors multitudinous, cast from vast varieties of somber wine on the tables and the sparse yet fine jewelry of the chandeliers; and upon every student’s face there flitted shadows obscure, and every expression, every trace of attitude inimical to the ‘conformity to true and decent tradition’ was rendered unobservable to the teachers and to each other, and so each student was left either to weep and wonder at the ingravescent tendency of the present routine, or to cast aside all inclinations previously declared hostile to his or her continued survival, and merely eat.
Richy sat as though in a dark sea; all faces surrounding him meant nothing and, he was certain, never would, and this made up the greater part of the sea than did the physical darkness. To the actual darkness present about him Richy felt a peculiar kindred, as though he and it had been both raised in the same manner, felt the same pain, and assumed at last the same visage. His pain-filled thoughts crept constantly back to his capture, how at the time it had seemed such a grand idea to swim in the stream...
All at once the bells began to ring once more, signifying the end of breakfast, and the commencement of the morning lessons. The students rose as one body, and the students at each table proceeded down a corresponding dim corridor, until none but the six senior teachers and the headmaster remained. The latter now surveyed the empty hall, turned to his chair, and sat, and each of the teachers in turn then came forward and presented the headmaster with a particular parchment, and afterwards awaited some direction, which was given, after thoroughly examining what was before him, with frank concision. Thereafter the teachers withdrew, now apparently satisfied, and all present hurried away silently, surely to carry out or remedy or see to or perpetrate or discover, or to do whatsoever it was that the headmaster had designated. And the headmaster was from that moment alone, and for the remainder of the day, until night when he would inevitably appear to perform the guided meditation, not a soul came in contact with him in any way, and he was thereafter but a ghost - not even such, but a mere , goul of mostrous implications - in the minds of the children who were his pupils.

*

Richy followed his group into the unsure netherworld of Vaughn and allowed the oppresive silence to envelope his body and devour his soul, until he thought perhaps he might never think quite clearly again. The corridor was long and broad, he could neither feel nor see a wall to either side of him, and but for the incessant clapping of his stiff shoes upon the cold stone floor and the dim but constant light of the teacher’s candle, Richy might as well be dead or dreaming, although he was still not entirely convinced concerning the improbability of the latter. The passage apparently wound fearfully, for many times he lost the sight of the candle when it of a sudden deviated far to the left or to the right, and he then Richy found it necessary to clasp hands with the girl ahead of him, whom he thought he remembered seeing beside him at the table...or perhaps it had been a different girl. It was of no consequence. He loathed the touch of anyone’s hand, but more particularly, he loathed the touch of a girl’s hands, for they reminded him, they reminded him quite painfully...
They had arrived. Out of the blackness loomed a giant door, made of stone as the rest of the castle was, with a great knocker fashioned into the shape of the head of some loathsome creature seemingly a cross between a bat and a snake. The teacher stepped forward and placed his candle close to the knocker, and he bent down his face towards it also, and he whispered in a soft voice which immediately conjoured up in Richy’s head all manner of evil, nasty things each time he heard it.
“Open.”
And the door opened. A whisp of air, light and subtle as fine strands of silk yet powerful and impressive as the breath of the sea, blew towards Richy and caught him and surrounded him. It was the scent of age, of stale and useless knowledge, of cramped and self-sufficient, superfluous mediocrity, and it was most of all the distinct aroma of hopelessness; for to dwell forever amid useless studies which are their own end, to repeat in one’s own pursuit an endless cycle of formulaic cynicisms of all that’s opposed to the slip-shod perfection one has blindly devoted oneself to, this, thought Richy, would be the final death.
The students were made to file into the room beyond the door, and upon entering Richy found that it was a classroom, once more lit only by candlelight, in the pale rays of which there could be seen floating dust-wreaths which then further obscured that light which as yet had been unaffected by the oppressive darkness, until at last the points at which shadow ended and reality began were blurred beyond hope. The students as one body filed into the unerringly arranged desks until all were filled, and each student looked towards the front of the room with expressions of expectation which, if false, yet at least conveyed the measure of uneasiness and apprehension held by all. The teacher, in turn, solemnly approached a massive blackboard covered with filmy cobwebs, rapped twice upon it, and then turned to address his class.
“I am Marythemonias Griety, your teacher. There will be no questions concerning my lessons, for if anything is unclear it is due only to your own lack of piety towards proper knowledge. If you learn to open your minds to a sufficient degree, you will find that you shall obtain wisdom, and with that wisdom shall come clarity. Discrussion of the subjects taught is strictly forbidden, as is all other discussion. There shall be no slouching, dozing, whispering, mumbling, or muttering, exchanging of glances of amorous intent, passing of notes, winking, fidgeting, smiling or grimacing or weeping, and there is, above all, to be absolutely no laughter whatsoever. And now,” and he returned to the black board, “let us begin.”
The students then began, under the direction of Mr. Griety, a series of boorish and apparently pointless tasks, most of which consisted of copying down phrases dictated by Mr. Griety, the content of which was completely incomprehensible to the students, but which they pretended to be familiar with. For instance, Mr. Griety asked one of the students in Richy’s row if there had ever been found a correlation between the laws of natural physics and the superstitions of magic, and when the student gave an answer Mr. Griety seemed to find satisfactory, the student was then asked to give a legitimate citation concerning his conclusion, and when the student could not comply, Mr. Griety merely said, in a low, solemn voice, “That’s too bad.” Not one student in the room, least of all he to whom it was to be ministered, doubted that sufficient discipline would visit the unlucky boy in due time.
Richy found, after a half-hour, that his mental faculties were rendered completely useless by the nonsensical content of their lessons, and so he contented himself to discreetly daydream; yet to his discomfort he found that his gaze continuously found its way to that corner of the room in which sat the girl who’d been in front of him in the line. Richy was puzzled and disconcerted by his unwilling notice of her, and he found himself growing furious with the girl for no other reason than that she had usurped his comfortable world of dismal rebellion and turned his thoughts to regions infinitely undesireable. He saw her white-blonde hair and his automatic admiration sparked so incredible a flame of guilt and resentment that it was all he could do to keep himself from running out of the room and trying to escape right then.
There was no way of telling time, for in addition to the absence of windows, there were also no clocks in the room, and so once the class ended the only way Richy could tell the time was by the fact that they were now breaking for lunch, thus it must be midday. Lunch was held in the great hall, and though silence reigned supreme there still was present an overbearing tension which sounded in the students’ ears loud as a thousand screams. The lessons had done nothing to increase any of their knowledge, but they seemed on the contrary to have in fact dulled their senses, even to the point of instilling partial dizziness. Again the mulit-colored lights danced on the walls and in each student’s eyes, and all began, however slowly it may have been, to forget. And from that point onward, through the rest of the lessons which always were alike in their patent absurdity, to that time of meditation when all students were forced to invent various wrongs with which to please the teachers, and even to the advent of nighttime and the hazy unsurety of sleep, the students all found their ability to remember things diminishing; and as the last rays of light faded from the earth, and the great hall once more found itself returned to its ancient, dusty self, Richy lay on his bed and tried in vain to recall why he felt so sad.

Chapter Three: The Dark Which Bites

When once finds himself for the first time lost in the land of dreams, the initial reaction is one of bewilderment. The second time one enters this land, the puzzlement diminishes significantly, and by the third time the dreamer’s senses are so accustomed to betrayal that he ceases to be astounded, and he merely sits back and enjoys the show.
It was regrettable that Richy Roethke could not that night partake of the bliss of desensitization; for when one only has nightmares, it is uncommon to find solace at night, and Richy thus was deprived of the chance to enjoy the illogical rationality of dreams, and when, upon opening his eyes, he found waking reason to have fled and in its stead a ghostly light before him, he left his heart unguarded, and followed the pale beacon.
Untamed night is said to be the agent of endless mischief, yet for a wanderer of those dark halls in which Richy found himself, the night was not only prone to mischief, but indeed all manner of irrational things surrounded him and plagued him ceaselessly. Twice Richy passed a floating clock face which croaked most uncommonly like a bullfrog, and it was only after a second glance that Richy found he must have been mistaken to have thought it a clock face; indeed, he wondered how he could have imagined such a bright blue balloon to resemble a clock face in the first place. And then there was one point at which he could have sworn that he'd beheld two enormous sea-horses, armed with tripod-spears, guarding a sea-green chair shaped like a book. But then he really could not be sure whether it had been a book or a square diamond, yet he still rather favored the former. Then an entire denizen of jaguars passed him, dancing gleefully to a woeful waltz, all bedecked in jarringly contrasting colors; and all at once, just ahead, a jolly-looking company of whales approached, all seated merrily about a tea table, and sipping what Richy first thought was wine, then realized was blood. Richy followed the light over four oceans and twelve mountains, all of which seemed to both take many years and two seconds to traverse, before he at last seemed to grow close to the light.
And then, out of the darkness, Richy found he'd stepped of a sudden into moonlight. Before him lay a pool of calm water, a deep blue in a very secretive way. Richy saw his reflection in the pool and wondered at how unlike a child he seemed.
Into the pool plummeted a waterfall, and upon its smooth surface Richy again saw his reflection, and he admired his silver clothes. But then Richy looked behind the surface and saw a door beyond, far back in dismal shadow, and he saw that the door was partially open, and that through the space which was little more than a slight crack, there were woods, and a little stream and a palace, all lit by bright daylight.
Richy found himself gazing into Roslind. And the hope of finding comfort at last drove Richy into the pool and through the waterfall and to the door, which he flung open wide at once. All of a sudden Richy found himself standing in a graveyard lit by dim red light, as that of the sun at its setting when the sorrows of the day cut his face and bleed him dry, whereupon he sinks dead into a dark sea, there to be reborn for the coming morrow. So brilliantly red was the light, Richy thought at first he beheld a ghastly charnel field, before his eyes betrayed the source of the scene's bloody pallor.
Among the graves he wandered, and he found that each headstone bore his name, and that beneath his name on each there was listed a sin. And as he passed by each grave, it seemed to him that they opened and in voices dead as brown, crinkly leaves in a dry-cracked water fountain, declare his every fault. Then on a chill breeze across the field of graves came the voice of a maiden crying "Richy! Richy!" and Richy followed Mary's summons seemingly for mile upon mile before he found her: a name upon a tombstone, a declaration of his greatest fault; and her voice cried out to him from within the grave. He leaned far over the grave hoping to catch a glimpse of...what? He knew not. Yet it mattered not, for all at once he lost his footing and stumbled onto the grave. When then he tried to recover his lost position, his feet he found were now being drawn into the grave; not clenched by anything, only drawn by some irresistable force. Richy tried to cry out, but before he could, he dimly wondered who might hear him, and so his effort was choked even before it had begun, and he was pulled into the grave.
Then he awoke. Yet he wakened not to a comforting room, and it might be said that the reality far outdid the fantasy in horror, for he discovered that he was drowning in a pool of fetid water. About him shadows which might have been trees or just very tall people congregated in callous disregard about him. Richy scrambled for anything which he might use to pull himself to safety, yet he could find nothing. Just as he was ready to sink beneath the waves, his reason broke, and he did the least rational thing he could think of...he began to calmly walk out of the water. When he'd reached the shore he sat down and began to contemplate his less than amiable encounter with death's visage. When he'd rested he rose to his feet and began to walk away from the pool.
Richy followed a wind across desolate moorland, and on the horizon, a quickly widening ray of light of a sudden penetrated the darkness. Richy broke into a run and found that he could not only feel the wind, but he could also smell it, and such an aroma it was! Mere words could never describe it, but perhaps it could be likened to the just barely blooming honeysuckle blossoms when they are at their most pungent...or perhaps they were more like that indefinable smell when winter is all but dead, and the scent of spring is in the air, so sweet one could almost drink the air. Such a smell Richy found himself inhaling at every breath, but then he at once began to hear something on the wind. Music? No. Chimes? Almost, but no. A voice? Yes...very like hers, in fact. And so it was: it was Mary's song, calling across the moor to him. When once Richy discovered this, he found the moor disappeared, and it its stead a cliff overlooking a limitless sea. A great sense of loneliness seized him, and he wondered if he might be allowed to cast himself down, if he could here and now end the despair and the doubt. It was a hard battle to fight, but in the end Richy knew his desires and his duty must remain separate, despite so much pain. He turned away and slowly turned down a path which had not been there before, and at the end of it he opened a door which had not stood there before, and entered his bedroom. If Richy had, instead of immediately casting himself upon his bed, turned to look and see from whence he'd come, he would have beheld a picture on the wall...a picture which had not hung there before.

*

Again the dawn approached and alighted on Richy's room. He was out of bed, but as of yet had not once ceased staring out the window. One might even have mistaken him for a statue, had not the occasional heart-wrenching sigh spoiled the illusion. The lovely rays of the morning light made Richy's room appear quite merry and bright and cheerful, and thus was irony made present in a physical form that morning. Richy looked down and beheld his fingers dressed in glowing, golden gloves, and his body enrobed in richness the greatest kings would covet. He looked once more into the window, and saw his own face, about which a halo hung suspended, in Richy's mind a cruel gesture of divine sarcasm. His eyes were made darker by their contrast with his gilded finery, and it would take but one glance at them to tell how deeply their owner suffered. So dark, and so wise for one so young, they haunted the other students, disconcerted the teachers, and tormented Richy. They bore in their unfathomable depths Richy's deep and abiding love for Mary, and as such he would not allow them to ever be left unguarded, and thus the farthest any other mortal every penetrated them was sufficient only to impress upon the observer how terribly sorrowful was the boy.
Throughout Vaughn the bells began to ring shortly, the students were herded down to the hall, the morning's admonition given by the headmaster, the morning meal partaken of, and all students were dispersed to their respective classes, and the further dulling of their wits was thence undertaken with much vigor and enthusiasm by their tutors.
The students in Richy's class were dull as centuries-old skeletons, and thus Richy contented himself with alternating between one of two things. The first was attempting to describe in his own words the atmosphere of the present, and therefore cultivate that which those in authority attempted to remove from him; namely, his wits. The second activity in which Richy found himself, rather grudgingly, engaged, was the stealing of glances towards the girl with the white-blond hair. He attempted to keep himself from doing this latter, yet could not long resist his adolescent impulses; yet whenever he would give in, his guilt concerning his supposed unfaithfulness threatened to drive him to screams of rage or tears of shame. Thankfully, however, Richy possessed sufficient self-control that he was able to conquer these inclinations, and he contented himself with self-effacing monologues in his own mind, and afterwards he felt better and more at peace with himself. That is, until he once more was forced to gaze at the girl with the white-blond hair.
Thus passed the day, for all students who attended one class attended all their classes together, and so it was that socialization was further discouraged by this inability to expand one's acquaintances beyond one's own academic crowd. The lessons Richy and the rest were forced to partake in consisted of The Mathematics of Reason, The Science of Society, The Physics of Fatality, The Philosophy of Unlearning, and The Study of the Relative Nature of Things. Richy found that in each of these classes, the chances of retaining any sanity were greatly increased when one paid no attention at all, and that if your interest was at any point piqued, it was a sign that the stagnant waters of stupidity were to fast turn to cataracts of danger, and that you should at once make every effort to disconnect your brain's rational processes, the alternative being assured intellectual death.

*

The day passed quickly, and before the students had time to recollect even from whence they had come, the bells were sounding bed. All throughout Vaughn students passed like wraiths down the halls and into their rooms. The light, which the girl had sworn had been present just moments before, disappeared almost before the girl with the white-blond hair had opened her door. Within, there was naught but stale blackness, for the girl had no window in her room, and she had learned to content herself with a candle.
Every step she took made her seem to swim through pitch, until at last she found the candle and matches which she always placed beside one another, and soon the room was brightened. Yet still there were unsettling shadows in all parts of the room, and as the girl laid herself uncertainly down upon her bed, she doubted whether she would sleep at all that night.

*

Before her eyes a bridge stretched on for eternity, and above and about her dark thunderclouds swarmed angrily. Beneath the bridge a turbulent sea tossed wildly, the troughs and peaks of the waves resembling in height and magnitude valleys and mountains on land. How far or for how long she had been walking was more than she could ask herself. She tried to stop walking, but found some indescribable force inevitably compelled her onward and would not let her rest. Not that any bodily fatigue warranted rest, rather it was a certain uneasiness about the scene which plagued her ceaselessly and tired out her mind.
A long time passed without any change to the scene, but then the girl heard a flutter of wings above her, and all of a sudden there landed before her the figure of a lady dressed in black with drawn veil. She stepped back constantly to make way for the girl's advances.
"May you never find peace in your dreams." The lady in black spoke at her in a whisper very much like the hiss of some hideous serpent. The girl tried to speak, but in the end she could manage but one word.
"Why?"
"You are a cursed child, and are not fit to breath the good clean air of this earth."
"We are not on earth, though."
"All things are earth."
"What do you mean?"
But the lady had disappeared as suddenly as it had come, and after a moment another figure took its place. This was a tall man robed in majestic folds of purple and gold and bearing a magnificent crown, which somehow the girl knew was so tall that it reached the heavens, although it seemed quite small up close. The man looked down at the girl and his face bespoke pure disgust.
"Whose daughter are you?"
"Who is my father?"
"What mother could bear such wickedness?"
"Why do you persecute me?"
"I persecute only the wicked, to which you belong."
"Why?"
But the man had disappeared just as the lady had before him. It was a long time before another came, but in time it did, and this time it was a small boy dressed in black and white with long, flowing blond hair which fell below his shoulders and danced about in the wind. His keen blue eyes stared at her and somehow she knew that they could see into her soul.
"Whose sister are you?"
"Do I have a brother?"
"Why do you walk the never-ending bridge?"
"Why should I not?"
"All things to be done may be done right or wrong."
"What do you mean?"
But the boy also had disappeared, and the girl was left with the her lonely thoughts and the storm.
And then it seemed that she began to approach the end of the bridge, or perhaps it was but its beginning, and she had but returned to her start. As she approached ever more rapidly, the dark shape on the horizon grew clearer, until she could tell that it was a cave, into which the bridge was leading. She did not particularly care for the speed at which she was approaching the cave, and though she tried to halt her steps, she could not.
The cave loomed foreboding before her, and suddenly she was afraid and found that she could stop her steps, and she turned and began to run. Yet when she turned to see how far she had run from the cave, she found to her horror that she had not moved. The bridge seemed not to allow for backwards steps. As she gazed at the cave, she suddenly saw that it had now changed to the form of a human mouth, leering in a wicked smile, and inhaling constantly as though into its bowels blew a massive twister.
The girl flung herself down with a cry of dismay and clutched at the smooth mortar of the bridge, but it seemed to no avail, and she felt herself being pulled into the odious mouth despite her best efforts. She screamed in agony, and as the winds pulled at her torn body, her mind reverted back to that storm at the beginning of her memory, the one just before she'd been taken into the school, the one before which there was naught in her mind but the foul darkness of not knowing. She cried out with her last strength, "Father...why do you not save me?"
And she awoke. But in no better circumstances did she find herself. The brief relief she felt at once more knowing herself to be alive vanished once she realized what it was in which her feet were entangled: she was caught and being dragged backward by a monstrous book, which was flung open, exposing yellowing pages and two wicked eyes in the form of antiquated black letter. Its ribbon was that part of it which had attached itself to the girl. She kicked with all her might, yet still found herself being dragged along, and she had all but given up hope when suddenly her flailing hands were caught, and the book loosened its grip on her. She was then pulled backwards, and she felt as though she were coming up out of a very deep, very dark pool as both she and her rescuer fell into a hall. Once she had time to catch her breath and stop her racing heart, she saw that the hall was the one outside her own room. She turned to look at her rescuer, and saw that it was a boy, perhaps a year older than her, with black hair and strangely haunting brown eyes. He was not breathing hard, and he did not look at her, but instead stared into the darkness of the hall beyond her. They sat thus for a long time, and just when the girl feared her rescuer may sit there the whole of the night, he spoke.
"Do you think darkness is alive?"
The girl was startled by this question, and did not have a ready answer. "Well," she said after a long time, "I suppose that it can't be."
"Why not?"
"Why would one think it anything other than just darkness in the first place?" She looked quizzically at the boy.
He didn't answer. After a few seconds he stood up and turned away from her and looked down the hall. "It would be best to go...the teachers do not seem to sleep."
"Wait..." The girl stood and looked anxiously towards the boy. "Can I come with you? Just for a little while, that is."
"I suppose you may," and he lead her down the hall to his room.
The entered and the boy went to retrieve a candle while the girl sat uncertainly on the edge of the bed. The boy returned shortly with the candle, and after he'd lit it, they sat together on the edge of the bed in silence.
The girl was the first to speak. "My name's Mirrel."
The boy was silent. The girl coughed meaningfully, and then spoke again.
"Are you not going to tell me your name?"
"Richy Roethke."
"Where do you come from?"
He looked distrustfully at her. "Why do you need to know?"
Mirrel shrank bank a little. "I don't know, I mean...you saved me, and I thought, well...maybe we could be friends."
She said this so meekly that Richy softened. "I'm sorry. It's just that I don't really know where I really come from. You see, I'm an orphan."
"You are?" Mirrel seemed to breathe easier. "I really think I must be too."
"Wouldn't you know if you are or not?"
Mirrel turned away and covered her face with her hands. "I don't know because I...I don't...I don't know who I...who I am!" And she began to cry.
Richy looked on helplessly, afraid to comfort her. "Did you hit your head, or something?"
"No, I..." she struggled to regain her composure, "the first thing I remember is trees all around, and the sky beginning to rain."
"That doesn't make much sense. What could have happened?"
"That is what I am always asking; only, I never can find an answer."
"How do you know your name if you can't remember who you are?"
"Because it's the only thing I do remember. It's been horrible, you know." Then she stopped crying and smiled at Richy. "But I suppose that you'll be my friend now, right?"
Richy's face took on a hardened look. "I will have no friends."
Mirrel's smile disappeared and she looked down at her feet. After a while she said "That's alright. I really shouldn't expect...that is, I..." she looked back up at Richy and whispered very softly "thank you for saving me."
Richy said nothing, but rose and opened the door and turned back to Mirrel. "The dawn shall not come for a while yet, and as such you are welcome to remain here. I shall be in the hall." And he left

*

The boy could see the light clearly from where he stood, although some part of him knew that they were yet very far away. He was walking along a dusty road flanked by meadows stretching as far as he could see, and whose appearance he might have recognized as reminiscent of Rembrandt, had he known of the painter or his work. There was a moon above, but it didn’t seem quite right…it seemed a bit too blue to be a true moon; and moreover its shape seemed more to resemble a wobbly hourglass than a circle. The trees which occasionally drew up beside him he thought looked like bedraggled skeletons, withered and grizzled, whose branches seemed to perpetually reach out towards him with grim claws, beckoning him to a supremely uncomfortable embrace.
In time the boy reached a gate bedecked in kaleidoscopic colors and gaudy banners and garish flags, all bearing the words, in great bold lettering,

“The Wonderfully Wild Celebration of Chimerical Enjoyment!”

The boy passed through the open gate and thereafter beheld a land starkly contrasting to that from which he’d just come. As far as the eye could see there were rolling purple hills and bright yellow cornfields, and in the crag-like valleys in between there could be seen scarecrows dancing gleefully, and right behind them frolicked animals which the boy might have seen had he been to a zoo before, and a few which yet still would have surprised him. Directly ahead the road, which had turned bright and sparkling as glass in the much-enhanced moonlight, yet somehow still retained an ominous dustiness, led to a large collection of tents, amongst which towered colossal rides only available in one place on earth: the circus.
The boy walked toward the circus in eager curiosity. He wondered if that tantalizing smell, which he might have known as funnel cake had he ever been to a circus before, was coming from that shining city ahead, and if perhaps he might be allowed to ride one of the rides. Half way there, a tiger donning a polished top hat and wielding a magnificent hardwood cane and sporting a sparkling silver watch approached the boy and asked him the time; and when the boy said he didn’t know, the tiger laughed.
“No one knows the time, boy. But perhaps you’ll find the time somewhere along the road.”
And the tiger pointed to the circus and walked off into the purple hills. The boy then headed toward the circus.
Suddenly he found himself right in the midst of the tents, with no recollection of his journey. About him cavorted various entertainers, and everywhere he turned there was a vender offering some sort of delicious food. The boy looked every which way for other boys like him, but he only saw the entertainers and other of the circus workers; there seemed to be no visitors aside from he, and this worried him a bit.
Then he saw it. It stood off to one side, but seemed to beckon the boy with some power it seemed would be foolish to resist. It was a mirror maze, and the boy thought perhaps one might be able to lose himself quite easily in that shiny silver sea…But he didn’t think that would be very enjoyable; for he didn’t quite like the look of all that silver. Regardless, he walked toward it, and to his horror, he realized that he intended to enter the maze.
Upon immersing himself in the silver sea, the boy found himself staring at a thousand of him, all of whom were staring back. Then, one by one, each reflection began to dance; but they did not dance in very nice ways. In fact, the boy rather not they weren’t quite dancing; they looked more like they were acting, as if on a stage. Then he suddenly realized what they were doing: the reflections in the mirrors were all parts of his life, but they were only the bad parts, the parts he most wanted to forget, the parts that most reminded him of nightmare ghouls and ghosts.
All at once the reflections began to speak. One at a time they came to him and proclaimed things terrible in their very familiarity. The voices became a deafening cacophony and the boy fled; down halls of brilliant light, over bridges spanning rivers of molten mirror…always he found himself pursued at every turn by the voices and the reflections. Then suddenly he found himself facing a wall, high as the sky and broad as the earth, and as the boy curled up and waited for death, he felt a hand grip his shoulder firmly, and the next thing he knew was darkness.

*

The hall felt firm, and it smelled just like the halls at Vaughn, and so the boy assumed that he was no longer among the mirrors. Slowly he opened his eyes and peered furtively into the darkness, expecting any moment to be plunged back into the carnival. Yet to his immense relief minute upon minute passed and he still remained in the hall. He cast about for his rescuer, and saw that he stood about twenty feet away, staring down the hall towards a distant window.
The boy approached him, and spoke in an unsure voice.
“Um, sir? Thank you, sir.”
And Richy responded only with a very quiet “Your welcome.”
“My name is Zachary. Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
“Well…”
Richy turned around. “Well what?”
“Well…” and Zachary was suddenly frightened again. “Is it a good name?”
Richy was silent for a moment. Then said “It is a yellow name.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I said: someone once told me my name was a yellow name.”
“Do you like it? That it’s yellow, I mean.”
“I think having a yellow name is rather nice, yes.”
“What kind of name is mine?”
“I don’t know…”
“Well, what is your name, anyway?”
“Richy.”
“Oh. Yes, I think I see: it does sound rather yellow.”
Richy walked off down the hall. “You’re welcome to come back to my room.”
“Thank you. Wait…”
“Yes?”
Zachary hesitated. “Are you my friend?”
Richy waited a long time before answering. “I have no friends.”
“Oh.” And Zachary followed Richy back to his room and he and Mirrel were introduced, and Richy left once more to wander the dark halls of Vaughn, and throw himself into the hands of fate.

*

Was this the house? She thought it very well might be, but there was still something indefinably strange about it. An uneasy wind tossed her long black hair across her face as she peered at the house with vivid green eyes…yes, this seemed to be the house, at least, the house as she remembered it.
She walked cautiously up to the front door between two low, aged brick walls awash in spindly ivy, and after a moment’s hesitation, she put her foot upon the lowest step. Everything looked alright: there was the feather by the small, tarnished silver bell in the upper right corner of the door, and there were the shoes she always kept neatly beside the mat and never used, always preferring to go barefoot. Yes, it was alright.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Suddenly everything didn’t seem so good. Then the door slammed shut and things began to seem even worse: the air smelled too dank, but not a dead sort of dank…it was more of the smell of the rotting flesh of something which should be dead but isn’t; an alive smell of death. The light was too dusty and much too grey, and the furniture in the house - which although all in their right places, looked all wrong - had taken on distorted forms of their original shapes. Nothing was right, and the girl was about to walk away, when something screamed…
“Blood!”
The girl turned sharply in the direction of the voice, but saw no one. She turned back to the door, but just then…
“Give me your blood, girly!”
She began to shake all over. This seemed so real, so very perfect; she’d come back to her father’s house…or, at least, a thing that looked like her father’s house. But what was it?
“Here! Give it here…your blood!”
“Blood!”
“Your blood!”
“Come here, girl…”
She ran. She’d taken five steps before her ankle hit the chair, causing her to fall; and it was about ten seconds before she realized she was still falling. Down, down…through dark space full of terrifying impressions of inexpressibly dreadful entities, until suddenly…
A floor. Contrary to her expectations, which were to suddenly hit something very hard and then have all the bones in her body shattered on impact, instead she found that one instant she was falling, and the next instant she was standing, with no recollection of the transition whatsoever. Very reluctantly she opened her eyes and looked about her. She opened her mouth, but the scream wouldn’t come: she was staring into the eyes of dozens of toys; but those eyes were unlike the regular and sane eyes of toys, which are painted by a calm and reasonable craftsman, no…those eyes bespoke an intelligence which should not have been there, and the girl immediately detected in those myriad eyes a strong and overwhelming malignance.
They began to advance. The girl, too stunned to run or cry out, just stood, alone in a black, limitless sea, while thousands of murderous toys advanced slowly towards her. Just when they were upon her and she’d closed her eyes against the inevitable, she felt a hand enclose hers and pull her away from the danger. And as she was being pulled, the only sensation she had was that of being pulled out of a deep, sleepy pool full of the promising waters of Dream.

*

The boy thought perhaps he’d been wandering through the meadows for his whole life. Then again, he thought he might only have come there a moment ago. The only thing that he could determine upon was the storm. It had been there when he’d arrived, he knew; and it was still there now, dark and threatening, but as of yet not arrived. It was only a matter of time, he thought, as the rising winds blew his pale golden hair out behind him, before the storm arrived, and then what would he do?
Just then he heard it. The bell. So enticingly sweet that the boy doubted whether any would have been able to resist it. He followed its sound over the meadow towards the horizon. Just as he seemed to have reached the sun, he found himself in a high-ceilinged hall which gently sloped upwards towards a distant, dim light. He followed both the bell and the light up the hall, and somehow he knew he’d just missed the storm.
He arrived soon at the end of the hall, which opened into a great ballroom. Though he looked about for the bell, he saw to his dismay there was none in the room; only a statue of a woman about thirty feet from where he stood, which seemed to be made of gold. He walked towards it, drawn by a sudden overpowering curiosity. The bell’s ringing had not diminished, and he found as he drew closer to the statue that the ringing increased. Suddenly he realized that what he had thought was a bell’s ringing was actually the voice of the statue. He came very close to the woman and looked into her eyes, and found himself all at once ensnared. The woman drew him slowly into her golden embrace, and he began to drown. And then, when he thought he must surely die, he fell through the statue, and down into darkness.
The floor didn’t hurt, like he thought it would. In fact, he didn’t even remember hitting the floor. It was as if one moment he was falling, falling…falling forever, and then he was standing on the floor. ‘Curiouser, and curiouser!’ Was that not in a book he’d read?
And then came the gold. Thousands of coins; buckets, barrels…a sea of gold from somewhere above him in the omnipresent darkness came all at once crashing down on him, burying him, threatening to drown him. With a final effort, he thrust his hand above the gold…and felt another hand grab it and pull him forcefully out of the sea and into the darkness.

*

“This is frustrating.”
What he ever did to deserve this was beyond him, but a lot of people would be annoyed at being imprisoned in a giant wine glass. His naturally fiery hair began to glow dangerously as claustrophobia combined with his short temper, but his face began suddenly to pale as he looked towards the horizon. The whole world began to freeze, and soon, it appeared, would he. He tried to melt the glass, but as had happened with his other attempts, the glass resisted however much heat he aimed at it. He looked fearfully at the encroaching cold, and backed against the far side of the glass. As the cold consumed the wine glass, the boy crouched down, ready to fight…but just then he felt his feet begin to sink into the glass, and before he could pull himself out, he was caught waist deep. He continued to sink, and just before his head submerged fully, he looked down into the glass, and saw only darkness. He tried to cry out, but suddenly he felt his body suddenly released, and darkness consume him.
And he fell…yet only to plunge once more into an icy coldness. But this coldness was not that of air; but rather he had been plunged into a pool, wide as it was deep. No matter how far he swam, he never could find a shore. This added to the fact that there was no light, increased his already pronounced panic, and he began to flounder about. Yet just when he was about to sink beneath the waves…he felt his hand clasped tightly, and he was pulled to safety.

Chapter Four: The Rescuer and the Rescued

“What’s your name, then?”
“Richy.”
“That’s a nice name.”
Richy didn’t answer. He continued to stare out the window into the darkness.
The boy with the long yellow hair shifted uncomfortably. “My name’s Michael Moore, by the way.”
Richy still did not answer, and Michael turned to the others for help. For there had occurred, once the five had all sat down together in Richy’s room, a sort of bonding which none of them could explain. The only one who did not share this was Richy himself, and the others were confused by his aloof air.
The girl sitting beside Mirrel, with the black hair, addressed Richy, a certain note of condescension in her voice. “Well, you rescued us, you know…and, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it a bit rude of a rescuer to ignore those he just rescued?”
Richy turned to her, a softer, sadder look on his face. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s better,” said the girl. “My name’s Lin Carre, and I suggest we go around in a circle and introduce ourselves.” She looked up at Richy with an expression just short of mischievous amusement on her face.
Mirrel stood timidly. “I’m Mirrel.”
“And when did you come here, Mirrel?”
“Yesterday, I think.”
“You’re not sure?”
Mirrel hesitated. “I don’t remember much…anything, really, besides my name.”
Lin’s amused expression died and she looked away.
Michael stood next. “My name’s Michael Moore, as I just said, and I arrived yesterday also.”
The boy with the fiery hair rose and looked about in a threatening manner before speaking. “My name is Jvarre M’latos, and I came here yesterday as well.”
Then the small boy rose, approached Richy, and looked up at him with large eyes. “I’m Zachary Treloahn, and I thanks for saving me.”
Richy looked back at Zachary for a moment before he turned away abruptly.
“I think,” said Lin, “the question everyone is asking is, why did you rescue us, Richy?”
He looked at them all, and after a moment, he said “Sometimes I wonder the halls at night. I suppose I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“No,” said Michael, “that isn’t it. Everything happens for a reason.”
“Really?” Richy’s face darkened. “So, do you happen to know, O Wise one, the reason I’m here, or you’re here, or why this place is even here?”
“I didn’t say…”
But Richy wouldn’t listen. “Or do you happen to know why I had to be an orphan? Or why I was allowed to see a paradise, just to lose it forever? Or what about why I met Mary, just to…to see her…to have her die in my arms after a man who I thought was my friend had betrayed me and killed her just so he could get to me? Do you happen to know any of those reasons?”
Richy’s voice had lowered until it was almost a whisper, a whisper which blazed dangerous as an untamed fire. Michael’s head was bowed against the onslaught, and now he just managed to raise his eyes fearfully to Richy’s.
“No.”
“You listen, all of you. I don’t know why I rescued any of you, but I certainly wasn’t trying to be the hero. Something made me, something I can’t explain. But one thing I do know, and it’s this: I don’t want any friends, and I don’t need them. I’ve let you stay here because I felt pressured…I didn’t do it to be kind. So what I want all of you to do, is leave. Right now.”
The five stood almost of one accord, and began to file out in silence. But Mirrel paused before leaving and turned to look Richy in the eyes.
“I don’t believe you. You might have been in the right place at the right time, but that was because you were supposed to be there…and Michael’s right. Whatever the reason we were meant to meet, it’ll change something…and that’ll be something your stubborn pride won’t be able to stop.”
And without a backwards glance, she stepped through the door and closed it before Richy could think of responding.
He turned fiercely from the door and ran to the window and slammed an angry fist against the frosted panes.
“They don’t understand!”
But somehow he thought the wind outside didn’t agree with him. Neither, he thought, did the pale flames of the fire, whose light he seemed in some forgotten part of his soul to be able to read as if it were words plain as English. And then again, somewhere, very deep down in his heart, he felt that maybe, just maybe, Mirrel was right.

Chapter Five: Flight Plan

Much of that night was Richy engaged in planning. Or, rather, attempting to plan; for much to his chagrin, he found that his thoughts strayed constantly away from his plan, and often they alighted on the thing at that moment the least desirable: the others. He worried if they had been right, if something had been irrevocably changed by their meeting, and if he really had been fated to rescue them. But in time his thoughts graduated more and more into comfortable regions, and before dawn he had decided on a plan…a flight plan.
To put his plan into action, however, he needed something which he knew was virtually impossible: a moment of negligence on the part of the teachers. So far not one idea had occurred to him. That is, until that morning during classes, when something Mr. Griety had said struck him as rather odd. It was during an extraordinarily dull - even compared to the normal lecture - bit of commentary on the Commonality of Connection Which Does Pervade All Natural Law, when he began to speak about authority.
“And so we see from the example, which posited a modern altering in the traditional view that power ‘corrupts,’ that a man gifted with authority is not necessarily prone to any alterations in habit, nor will his actions necessarily deviate from those which previously stemmed from those convictions he calls his values. Rather, we see that it is in the transfer from layman to tyrant that he discovers the true source of his convictions, and from that point he is free to label them, correctly, as having come solely from those individuals with which he had come in contact during his upbringing. Therefore, we are able to conclude that a man’s environment in the end determines what he believes, and is, in return, solely responsible for his actions. This conclusion then allows us to pursue the idea that all traditional values are solely a product of the environmental stimulus of generations of a group of nations who happened to be placed in an historically strategic location, and were, therefore…”
Richy was almost completely tuned out, when the very next thing Mr. Griety said caught his attention.
“Yet, the lesson we can learn from this admittedly small, yet none the less significant, discovery, is how teachers like me can function, as, after all, most of the teachers at Vaughn come from different backgrounds, and thus hold different sets of values, all of which can be held as valid on the same ethical level. For instance, although those of the Old School of Thought might conclude from the perpetual strain of work and lack of light and exercise that we, the teachers, might develop chronic, and in time, interminable, insomnia, that is far from the case. Each teacher retires to bed strictly at midnight, and although this is mandatory, it is also carried out, and has been ever since the founding of the school, without complaint. No matter however long a teacher resides at Vaughn, he or she is always capable and eager to retire exactly at midnight, and most will achieve almost an hour of sleep, which is, admittedly, a considerable amount, when all factors are accounted for. But, I deviate from the discussion at hand. We shall now attempt to prove the invalidity of…”
But Richy did not care about the invalidity of anything; for finally he’d found what he needed. The knowledge that there was a time during which Vaughn was practically unguarded would, he was sure, enable him to put his plan into action.
That night Richy began the long wait for the hour when the teachers would all be asleep. He thought that the wait would be easy, since he imagined himself a patient person, yet he had not counted on the constant interruption within his mind of thoughts of the others…especially Mirrel. By the time the clock struck twelve, Richy thought he might go insane from trying to shield his eyes from her face and stop his ears to her words. Yet the hour arrived at last, and Richy left the room without a backward look, and headed down the hall towards the entrance of Vaughn, which was to be his exit.

*

At the great double doors he paused, and glanced behind him. Surely he’d heard something, just in the shadows there…No, there was nothing. But soon, perhaps, there might be many awake should his efforts fail, and so now was the time. Richy placed himself between the giant pillars which supported the arch above the doorway, and he whispered.
“Stretch…form a wall impenetrable.”
No sooner had he spoken than the pillars began to stretch themselves, and there was soon a wall of stone sealing off the doorway from the rest of Vaughn. Quite pleased, Richy turned to the doorway, and spoke with confidence.
“Open.”
And the doors complied obediently. With a smile of triumph, Richy walked through the doors, and began to walk towards the gate.
Yes, everything was going according to plan, and he should be at the gate at any minute. The grass was such an extraordinary green, and the sky such an extraordinary purple, that he…wait. A purple sky? Well, no matter; some irregular weather, certainly, but soon he’d be at the gate. Yes, the morning surely felt good, what with a spry wind, and a warm sun…wait. The sun was shining. Now that was something that just could not be. Perhaps a dream…no, it couldn’t be; if he’d been inside Vaughn perhaps, but not here, not outside the castle.
You’re not outside yet.
The gate. He should have reached it by now, he was sure…and passed it, for he couldn’t see it anywhere. Perhaps he should go back and retrace his steps and find where he went wrong. Yes, that was a good idea, except…

Richy turned and found himself still at the doorstep of Vaughn: he had gone nowhere. He turned and ran. For an hour, it seemed, he ran…and then he stopped and turned around. He began to shake uncontrollably, for once more he found himself at the doorstep of Vaughn, and when he looked around, he found that the trees, the grass, and the comforting darkness of night had all disappeared, and in its stead a desert sprawled in all directions for eternity, and a harsh and cruel sun beat down mercilessly. Richy took five steps away from Vaughn, turned, and found himself back where he’d begun. And then he snapped, and the would-be escapee sat down and began to cry.
Just then he felt a hand on his shoulder, soft and small, just like someone else’s…
“Mary!”
He jumped up, but he found himself looking not at Mary, but into the amused eyes of Marythemonias Griety.
“Welcome back.”

*
Back in darkness, thoughts and sensations swirling in chaotic clouds, emotions fighting one another for domination of his heart, Richy despaired. In another moment the pain could begin again, but no matter how harsh, how excruciating a torture his tormentor chose, he knew it could not hope to match the pain within himself, as the shame of defeat slowly consumed his soul. For he had perpetrated the ultimate sin: he had failed to escape, and so he had failed in his journey onward, to find and destroy the destroyer of his life, Dymmerius, the magician who had killed the one closest to him, the innocent Mary, who with her last breath had whispered the key phrase, ‘You are the Descendant.’ A poor price, thought Richy, for all they had been through, for though he knew he was a figure of some destiny, he had no idea what to do with that knowledge; but at least he’d had an idea where to start, for the king of Roslind, a good man named Silenus, had told him to seek a man by the name of Lucretius Blackburn, and when he’d been captured by that cursed stream, he’d been doing just that. The water had looked so tantalizing that day, and he thought perhaps a rest for a minute couldn’t hurt, so maybe just a few minutes…and then the minutes turned his head to thoughts of a nap, for he had certainly deserved one, as anyone who’d traveled at his pace before would testify…and then came the waking moment when he realized where he wasn’t, and beheld the eyes full of dangerous amusement staring down at him, and heard those words…
“Welcome Home.”

Richy hung from chains in a very dark place. His unseeing eyes stared unblinking at a far-away light high above him, hardly more than a crack in the ceiling of the dungeon…but it was enough to bring him out of the potentially fatal stupor, and he blinked. Slowly his eyes lost their filmy whiteness, his pupils undilated, and he stared about his cell. As he took in his surroundings, the rationality slowly began to return to his mind, and with difficulty, he finally managed to pull himself out of the dark and murky waters of insanity, and he began to think objectively.
He was in a cell made of large stone blocks, yet other than that all he knew was he was hanging by a pair of chains, and below him as far as he could see was darkness, and the same was true, he saw, of the area before him: there might be a wall five feet in front of his face or ten miles away, it was impossible to tell. He thought of commanding the chains to break, but considering his present position, he thought that would not be the best option. Yet as he looked about, he realized it might be his only option; for there simply was no way out of the dungeon…he was a lone body hanging from a wall which stretched in all directions for who-knew-how-far into impenetrable darkness. This was an inescapable dungeon.
Richy took a deep breath, and then shouted into the darkness.
“Break!”
Down, down…plunging into darkness, eyes closed against the frightful wind, hoping that at that final moment his mind might not snap, that he might somehow be shown why…
But he only fell ten feet. And as soon as his feet hit the ground, followed soon by the rest of his surprised body, his shoulders were seized in strong hands and he was forced to stand straight. Once more he found himself staring into the eyes of Marythemonias Griety.
“Running away is not such a serious crime, Mr. Roethke. But using magic is.”
Richy kept his face almost insultingly neutral. Marythemonias, who had been hoping for some betrayal of guilt, clearly showed his disappointment when he sent Richy sprawling on the ground.
“That is how you escaped the chains, I am sure. The only thing I am not sure of is how you managed it. Regardless, I am not permitted to hold a student guilty of a misdemeanor for longer than a single night, granted he survives, on both accounts of which you are extremely lucky.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean, it is fortunate for you that it was prior to midnight that you attempted to escape, just as it is equally fortunate that you managed to throw off the effects of the nightshade.”
Richy’s mind reeled. He had specifically waited until midnight to attempt escape, and so Mr. Griety’s assertion that it really had still been before twelve formed many questions to bounce about Richy’s brain. The fact that he’d survived nightshade poisoning seemed less important to him, although it was equally puzzling.
Marythemonias seemed not to notice the depth of Richy’s concentration, for he went on unbidden. “As such, I am forced to release you. But rest assured,” and here he drew Richy’s face quite close. “If you try it again, I might just disobey the rules.”
Again he smiled the dangerously amused smile, and with one hand beckoned towards a doorway which hadn’t been there before, and Richy walked towards it, wearing clothes he hadn’t had before, bearing a weight he hadn’t felt before.

Chapter Six: Forgiveness

Although the room felt colder than before, and the oppressive darkness darker, the flames nevertheless seemed brighter, and the rain outside seemed lighter. When first he stepped into the room, and saw curled on the floor the sleeping form of Zachary Treloahn, and sitting cross-legged before the fire the silent silhouettes of Lin Carre and Michael Moore, and standing a little ways away in the shadows Jvarre M’latos’s confident figure, and sitting on his own bed, staring at him with a hesitant smile, Mirrel…the newly received burden rolled away just as suddenly as it had come, and a feeling of such relief as he’d never before known permeated the entirety of his being, and he looked now upon those who of their own volition had gathered in his room to comfort him, and he knew them to be his friends. Such security he had hardly known since Mary died, and now he felt confident that whatever happened in this darkest of places, they would not desert him.
He walked humbly into the room, and all eyes turned to him. Then, after closing the door, he spoke in a voice quite soft but loud enough still to be heard.
“I am sorry for the way I’ve treated you all, and I’d like…” he swallowed. “I’d like to be friends.”
He looked into each of their faces and slowly he realized they were all smiling at him, and slowly he began to feel very embarrassed, and he looked in Mirrel’s direction.
She was smiling as well, but not the hesitant smile of before, no…the smile she now wore was warmer than anything Richy had seen in a long time.
“That’ll be just fine, Richy.”
Despite himself, Richy began to smile as well, and after a few moments, his face remembered, and a full grin spread across his characteristically gloomy face.
“Thanks.”
Then Michael suddenly jumped up. “Well this is all well and good, but if there’s going to be any cheer it’d best be done soon, considering those teachers don’t seem to get much sleep.”
“Michael, you just broke up a perfectly romantic moment.” Lin looked amusedly up at him from her position on the floor.
“Perhaps.” Said Michael, not the least bit apologetic. “And then perhaps you should consider what I said: the teachers…”
“Confound the teachers!” Lin rose to her feet and stood defiantly before Michael. “Why should I care about them? To any of our knowledge they only have power at night.”
“No.”
Jvarre approached the group, a serious look on his face. “Anyway, it’s not the teachers who have power. It’s the castle itself.”
“Even if it is,” said Lin, “the fact remains…”
“Oh, will you all shut up.”
Everyone stopped arguing and looked at Mirrel. She shook her head. “The first night together, and you three can’t stop arguing.”
“Who are you to…” began Lin.
“She’s right.” Richy walked up to the group and positioned himself between Lin and Mirrel. “We’ll figure it out later. As for now, I don’t foresee any immediate peril, and since conventional escape is useless, as I just discovered, we should probably just rest and spend some time together.”
The other four, and the newly awakened Zachary, looked at Richy with something he was ultimately startled to see: respect. It seemed to be a universal acknowledgement that Richy was the leader, and as such they respected his advice as something which, although maybe not always right, was nevertheless unquestionable. Richy was overwhelmed that he might have already garnered this much of their trust, and he wasn’t truly ready to accept it. But just then Lin, Jvarre and Michael stopped arguing and resumed their original positions, and a low hum of conversation began to thread its way through the room, beginning with Lin and Michael, and then working its way to Jvarre and Zachary. Mirrel and Richy were the only ones who still remained totally silent. Almost bashfully, Richy approached and sat on the bed, next to Mirrel.
She looked up when he sat down, and the light of forgiveness shone in the deep blue of her eyes.
So unlike Mary’s. He thought. And then he was sad again. Mirrel seemed to notice, for the next thing she did surprised Richy very much, but perhaps it surprised her more: she threw her arms about him and laid her head on his shoulders, and closed her eyes, willing him not to push her away.
A sea of emotions welled up inside Richy, some wanting him to hug her to him and make it all right, some wanting him to throw her across the room, yet in the end all he did was sigh and put a reluctant arm about her shoulders. And Mirrel herself sighed and thought that if that was the best he could do, she’d take it.

*

Towards the Land of Secret Rain
Away from wealth and worldly gain,
Do walk the weary, though in vain,
For dread is the way between the twain.
Words floating around and around in his mind. Confused sensations meeting confused memories. Emotions swirled about in unpredictable currents, and Richy felt as if he were being drawn through dangerously soothing waters towards a far distant surface.

Oh, hearken to the cares of Loth,
With endless war that land is fraught
No end in sight does seem the fight
And dread's the way, so on again!
“What’s the matter Richy”
“Nothing, just a dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
“Not bad.”
“Good?”
“No, not that either.”
“What was it then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then don’t worry about it.”
“Okay.”

‘Tis not advisable to linger
Where you might hear Death's bell-ringer,
To sleep life through will he promise you
Thus dread's the way...and on again!
Thousands…there were thousands of sodden fish and they turned to floppy corpses which all attacked him and there didn’t seem to be any sky there were so many bodies…
“Who?”
“A girl.”
“What was her name?”
If come you do upon that tower
That odious orifice - the Devil's bower
Falter not - but brave His power,
'Tis a dreaded way, but on again!

“Mary.”
“Oh.”

To cross the stagnant river Lethe
One must trust the ferryman's way,
Beware the dreamy wave and pray
Though dread's the way you'll on again!

“Why did you call her name?”
Why did you love her?
“Where is she?”
Why couldn’t you save her?
“Richy?”
“Sorry…what?”
“Who was Mary?”
What is an angel?
“A girl.”
“Where is she now?”
Dead, dead,
Falling down beneath cold waters,
Sleeping all the years away,
Braiding dirt forever in a crypt…
“I lost her.”
“How?”
Once we walked a tired walk
Then came a-traipsing a worm
And that worm said to me…
And that worm took from me…
All that I wished could ever be.
“She died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”

In time you'll find that though you try
To fight and find your weary way
The path eludes your every step
That dreading the way, you must on again!
Richy looked down at Mirrel and smiled a bitter smile.
“It’s alright.”
And she looked back up at him, eyes full of something good and bright.
“Did you love her?”
A dreaded way, such a dreaded way…
“Yes.”
“Oh.”

Chapter Seven: Anomaly

She looked up at him, and said, “I think I’ll sleep for a bit.”
And he looked back at her, a grave expression on his face.
“Be careful.”
“Alright.”

*

Once upon a time there was a giant white light which exploded as soon as the Dreamer closed her eyes…
Then she opened her eyes, and Mirrel found herself lying on stone, everything about her cool and good. She saw she was in the middle of a stone courtyard, surrounded by gardens and statues and iron fencing, and she began to expect every moment the change in scenery which she’d come to expect from dreams.
Any moment now…
The iron was very black and looked as though there were a good many spots of rust here and there.
Should come soon…
The plants were purple and one had very long stems with conical flowers and another had very rigid but short stems with bell-shaped blooms.
It should be here…
But the change never came. Instead, Mirrel found that everything about her began to seem every moment more real, and she found herself fearing a new problem: what if she didn’t wake up? What if she stayed here, and they had to search for her but they never found her and she might die then…
But just when she began to panic the scene began to fade, and then it vanished altogether. Soon out of the blackness she saw Richy’s room rapidly appearing, and then, just before she awoke, Richy’s arm still around her, she realized that that dream had been unlike any other she’d experienced, for it had been filled with something so sweet, so wonderful she almost dared not to think of it…
Hope.

*

Awake, the first feeling of consciousness being the warm security of being held closely, Mirrel didn’t want to move; but then she remembered her dream, and it’s possible implications, and she forced herself to sit up.
Shaken out of his characteristically thoughtful stupor, Richy looked curiously at her.
“What is it?”
“Oh, Richy!”
“What?”
She stood up and began playing nervously with the hem of her nightgown.
“I just had a dream.”
Richy seemed suddenly more alert. “What happened?”
“Nothing, and that’s the strange thing. Nothing bad happened.”
The room grew quiet, and all eyes turned to Mirrel.
Jvarre spoke first. “What do you mean, ‘nothing bad happened?’ We all know that the only thing constant about dreams is the fact that they torment the dreamer.”
“Well, not this time. I…I felt calm, and good.”
“Wait.” Michael stepped forward. “I might be able to see a neutral dream, but a dream that made you feel ‘good?’ That’s not only not possible, it’s ludicrous.”
“Well, maybe…maybe it wasn’t really a dream.”
Lin gave an exasperated sigh. “Make up your mind, please! First a dream that wasn’t bad, then a ‘good’ dream, and now a dream that’s not a dream. Goodness, people…”
“Quiet.”
The room again grew quiet, only this time much quicker, and the oppressive, distrustful atmosphere present before was now missing.
Richy cast each person in the room a look that was, while not condemning, was at the least extremely stern.
“We don’t need to fall apart now. If any of you have complaints about Mirrel’s vision, or complaints at all, address me.”
“Oh, so it’s a vision now?” Jvarre muttered.
“Any better idea?”
“Hmph. I guess not.”
“Good. Then we can focus: why did Mirrel have this vision, or beneficial dream, or whatever you want to call it?”
“Too much heat,” said Michael.
“Smoke fumes,” quipped Lin.
“Adrenaline.”
“What?” Richy stared at Jvarre, a quizzical expression on his face.
Jvarre just smiled. “From snuggling too long.”
Mirrel colored; but Richy stepped over to Jvarre, who quickly stepped back, the snide confidence all gone.
“Like I said,” whispered Richy, “if you have a problem with her, you talk to me. Understand.”
“Yes.”
Richy turned to the group as a whole. “It was none of the above, I’m sure.”
“Richy…”
He turned to Mirrel. “What is it?”
She looked shyly about her. “I don’t think it was that important, Richy.”
He stepped close to her. “Yes, it was! Don’t you know what it means? It means that some part of Vaughn doesn’t work. It means that there’s a safe place somewhere…it means that Vaughn has a weakness.”
This attracted everyone’s attention. Lin let out a long whistle, Jvarre’s brow furrowed in a puzzled way, and Michael merely stood there with his mouth ajar.
And just then, Richy felt a tug at his sleeve. He looked down at there stood little Zachary, his innocent face full of curiosity.
“What do you mean, Mr. Richy? No more bad dreams?”
Richy looked at the boy for a long time, and then smiled. “Yes…no more bad dreams. But only if we can find the place.”
“What place?” Asked Lin. “Mirrel didn’t mention a place.”
“Well, I assumed she went somewhere…after all that’s what happens: you go somewhere, somewhere bad. I assumed that this time it was somewhere good.”
“Well…is that what happened, Mirrel?” And Lin turned to look at her.
Mirrel hesitated, but when she looked at Richy, she saw that he believed in her. Perhaps it wasn’t so much what he’d said, but more the peculiar light she saw in his eyes…those dark, deep brown eyes which spoke of so much more than she thought it was possible to know. She’d been somewhere safe, and she’d returned unscathed. All this was reason enough to believe…but should she? A thousand things could go wrong if she let herself believe, allowed herself to trust. But just one look at the determination on his face, and the light in his eyes told her yes, she could trust.
“Yes. That’s what happened.”
From that moment onward, all five were of one mind as to what was to be done. No one needed question farther, the goal was, for the moment at least, quite plain: they must find the safe place, and once they found it, who knows what might be accomplished?

Chapter Eight: Limbo Lands

Dreamscapes flying, pictures dying, babes a-crying…
Onward to the land of Dreams…and Richy turned over in his bed of thorns to face the land of sun, and thought the meadows climbing through his brain resembled more than nonsense…
But that was certainly an illusion, for all was nonsense, and all was subjective. To keep a cool head, to march through glades of gleaming grass determining never once to ever think the March Hare triumphs…while all the Hatters dance the night through, day after day after day…

Skies of simple blue shone across the expanse with deceptive calm. The boy with sooty hair…the child with the yellow name…the man with the thoughtful eyes…Richy Roethke sat in the middle of a large and bountiful meadow surrounded by six-foot-tall sunflowers. In his right hand he held a lit match, and in the other he held an oversized magnifying glass, through which he was observing the flame in his other hand.
Scrutinize the flame, and so shall you become like a flame yourself…
Stupidity is the formula of the learned, he thought would have been more appropriate. In a class somewhere to the east, there were men with strange beards and long robes who touted lies in the form of wisdom Richy thought perhaps the entire time he’d spent there had been wasted, but then at the end of the lecture one of them had mentioned a place named Vaughn and Richy had wondered what that was…
Then his world was shattered and he felt the ground beneath the meadow dissolve and plunge him into darkness and he dimly saw far ahead some form of light…
Oh. The floor was hard, but didn’t feel like floor; rather, it felt like moss, and after a bit Richy determined that was what it was. He turned and ran into the darkness, keen on escaping from this somewhere into another somewhere…
But he ran into a wall, and after searching forever to the right and forever to the left and finally returned to where he’d begun, he found a door. But the door was locked, and so he thought perhaps he might be able to find a key, so he began to search in the moss. But the moss didn’t like him, so he constantly found his hands entangled in green fingers, and thus he didn’t find a key. And so he sat down and cried for a little bit, and once he was alright he rose and thought very hard on what he should do.
“But…oh. I’m so stupid.” All at once he remembered that rules in dreams only worked if you let them, and so he thought he knew what to do now.
He walked calmly over to the door and turned the doorknob and walked into a hall…a hall of thorns.
These be curious matters…
A strangely rational voice echoed in his mind.
What if this should be something true?
I doubt it.
Still the hall is colored with the red of the rose, and the rose is true.
No, roses lie.
They lie only to those who do not know truth.
Stupidity is the formula of the learned…
Truth can be found amidst falsehood.
Ah…
Perhaps this was what he needed. Still, he thought that something dreadful might happen should he step into the hall. The hall looked quite normal, aside from being made of thorns.
And that’s what you should be afraid of.
But there was nothing for it; he simply had to know…
He stepped. And then there was nothing.

*

A starry sky covered a merry scene, and the whites of the girls’ dresses were beautiful and the men laughed while sipping sparkling glory…
Yet there was one who was less merry than the rest, and she seemed just to float about, never at ease, always nervous lest she do something wrong…
And just then the wrong thing happened. A man walked up to the girl, a man with slick hair and a leering grin, and he forced her to dance, and all the night long he talked to her, gazed longingly at her, and kept her to the drink, not noticing how much she poured away. Then he took her away from the ball and the moonlight and the pure white dresses and they went to a very strange place with music that the girl did not like and where people did not dress nicely, and where everyone danced in ways that made her feel uncomfortable. And the man tried to get the girl to dance that way with him and put on the strange clothes but she wouldn’t, and he grabbed her.

But just as the man with the leering grin grabbed her, the girl stepped away from the place and into an empty place.
The door lay before her, and to all places there stretched an expanse like to eternal paths, and above her head the clouds were replaced by stairways of infinite number, appearing as clouds did to come to rest at the ends of the horizon. The girl thought there might be thousands of ways and places and people to go and see and meet…but her gaze and her attention were drawn only to the door before her, for it was in her mind and her soul that there was a something behind that closed door that must be found; and she was not about to deny fate.
Inside she found a hall of thorns, and light both pale and bright shone, while darkness seemed present as well. The warmth of the rosy light permeated the hall, yet seemed tinted with a heaviness that while discreetly veiled was to the Mirrel’s perceptive eyes the real face of the hall. Yet she could no more step away than she could declare reality false, and so she stepped.

*

A flame danced for eternity around an ivory palace, but one within the walls seemed quite apart from the warmth about him. Alone the figure strode to and fro, down every hall, through every archway, past every door, across every courtyard, until he was at the gates and staring into the face of the flame. It all seemed drab and meaningless. Everything about this world was red, and red was loneliness. Neither death nor life, neither sun nor moon, nothing at all was meant by anything in this world. There were shadows everywhere and whenever the clock struck its notes sounded across the barren land with the dullness of sullen summer rain. All was dead in the palace with a death that lived in a state of passive denial of existence, and so the boy with the red hair was as the flame…dead.
That was, until he saw, amidst the flames, the door. At that moment the world came alive, and the boy strode up to the door, but hesitated. A newness seemed both at once exciting and frightening, and he was in great doubt as to what might happen should he open the door. He knew that he would not fear for what would happen to himself should he choose to step through the door, yet, he was reluctant to leave his land, for despite the loneliness the land of fire was yet his land, and to remove from it seemed both inviting and heretical. In the end, however, he grasped the knob of the door and flung it wide open and with but a brief glance, during which he caught a passing impression of thorns, he stepped through the door.

*

The forest, bleak as heart-broken dusk, watched as the strangers passed beneath their bows. Intruders they were not, yet they seemed to be bent toward an unnamable yet disturbing destination. Tonight, the raven-girl and the flaxen-haired boy were to fight the Word in the forest, and with them they thus carried weapons necessary to defeat such a formidable enemy…stones to weight and bones to break. They found themselves soon passing slowly out of the forest and they climbed stairs down which poured light which seemed to emanate from an unreachable radiance. They reached a platform which stretched across the sky and was both the world and heaven and hell. Things bright and things dark lived there in accordance to the laws under which they lived, and the children trekked across that place forever and had and eternity of adventures in a single moment, and at the end of life they came to another set of stairs which reached higher, where the light was stronger. The climbed the stairs and broke their bones on death and weighted their lives with stones and cast all aside. Once they had done so, they came upon a door behind which there was light and darkness and hope and fear. They opened it and a song blew a weary tune, and the children stepped beyond the threshold and there was nothing.

*

When Zachary had fallen asleep, he had cried a little bit at finding himself all alone. He had liked Richy and Mirrel and the others, and he’d felt safe with them. He didn’t want to go to the factories, but he didn’t want to stay at the bad school. Yet maybe he did want to stay, because his friends were here, and he’d never had any friends before. So when Zachary saw that he was back at home, he didn’t want to get up and go anywhere; he wanted to stay where he was until he woke up. But then Mother came in and said breakfast was ready and he didn’t dare disobey her, so he came to eat. But at the table there was a strange person who looked like a skeleton wearing a bowler hat and scarf. Zachary was afraid of him, but Mother said not to worry, that it was just Mr. Death who had come to eat with them and then had offered to take Zachary down to the cemetery to play and wasn’t that nice of Mr. Death? Yes it was, wasn’t it? It certainly was, but Zachary was very afraid of the grinning skull and eyeless sockets but Mother said not to be rude because it wasn’t nice to talk about such things and that it was very nice of Mr. Death to want Zachary to come with him and he shouldn’t expect people to do such nice things all the time especially not for bad little boys like him and Zachary began to cry when they were in the car and Mother slapped him and said to be quiet because people would talk. But the car smelled like death and the skeleton smelled like death, and so Zachary knew he was going to die, and he hoped he would wake up soon. Then they were at the cemetery and in front of a gravestone which was as big as a door, and even had a big handle on it made of a bone. And Zachary turned to look at Mr. Death, and the skeleton had grasped the handle and grinned at Zachary as he opened the grave.
But inside the door there was no death. Instead, the most wonderful light, warm like in a garden, washed over him and bathed him in its brilliance. Zachary felt happy, and it was the first time he could remember feeling it so completely. There was light and darkness here, and the darkness was uncertain, but Zachary felt the darkness more of an adventure, of something not to fear but to defeat, than of something to run from. Here was life manifested, and at the end of this Hall of Thorns Zachary imagined there must be something better, something so good that its goodness would be enough to erase his badness. And so Zachary stepped beyond the door to traverse the Hall of Thorns…
…And he awoke.

Chapter Nine: To Do Battle Against Dreams

Everyone found himself and herself back in the same room, unscathed and excited. Richy looked around the room and saw that all were talking animatedly about what they had just dreamed, and he noticed that none were frightened. After a few minutes he determined that they had all experienced something similar, but no one knew what it was. And so he addressed them.
“Please…everyone, listen.”
And all were silent.
“We need to figure out what’s going on here. Let’s begin by talking in turns, and addressing everyone, okay?”
He gestured for Mirrel to begin, and she stepped shyly forward.
“Well, I suppose it all began when…”
And everyone listened while Mirrel related her dream, and when the others came up and took their turns, it began to occur to them just what exactly had happened. They had all had different dreams, but they had all ended in similar ways. No one dared say it, and so Richy sighed and spoke again.
“I guess this Hall of Thorns seems to be the problem. Maybe we should try to find it.”
“’Find it’?” repeated Lin with an intensely incredulous look. “None of these places are real…Everyone knows that. Dreams are just illusions.”
“Yeah?” Michael stepped forward and confronted Lin. “Then where do they come from? After all, you’re the one with all the answers, right?”
Lin turned very red and glared at Michael.
“Look…stop it, both of you. We need to at least decide what to do, right?”
“Mr. Richy?”
Everyone stopped arguing at looked Zachary.
“Yes, Zachary?”
“I think dreams are real. If everyone dreams the same, that makes the dream important…right?”
Richy smiled. “Yes, Zachary…it certainly does.”
Lin rolled her eyes, but Mirrel smiled, and so did Jvarre, although in a more fiery, passionate way. Michael didn’t really look too happy, but he shrugged in Richy’s direction, which meant as much to say, ‘I suppose.’ Richy’s heart rose, for he realized that he was uniting the group at last. And so it was decided between all of them that somehow they would find the Hall of Thorns.
But later that night, something occurred to him.

“How?”
“What?” Mirrel looked at him uncomprehendingly. The others had left almost an hour before.
“How will we find the Hall?”
“Oh…well, I don’t really know, Richy. I suppose I assumed you’d tell us, you know…that you had a plan.”
“Everyone thinks I have a plan,” Richy said, more to himself than to Mirrel. He turned and looked out the window at the night.
“Mirrel.”
She rose and came over to him. “What?”
“Look. Do you see how dark it is?”
“Yes.” And she shivered and automatically drew closer to him.
“What does it look like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does it look angry? Or sad? Or does it not look like anything? Or is it anything at all?”
Mirrel thought for a long time. At last she said “It looks like a face.”
Richy looked down at her. “A face?”
“Yes…” her eyes glossed over as she spoke,
“It is the Face of Darkness which rules in the night,
The husband of evil, the love of the lost
The children’s monster in his nightshade cap
Slithering quickly, once there to set traps.
Lilies are bright when the sun still is shining
Then they turn ashen when all things are dying.
Night is so bright when Daddy is gone,
It is the Face of Darkness which shines err the dawn.”
And as Mirrel’s eyes closed fast and Richy laid her on the bed, he words continued to ring through the room, and the crack and the pop of the wood in the fireplace seemed ever to provide a steady, doleful cadence to which it seemed Richy’s heart was doomed ever to march, the song of the innocents rang in his ears wherever he went, and it seemed that the evil most keen in the world could not be blacker than the guilt within his own heart.

*

“Are we all ready?”
“Yes, Richy. We are all ready.”
“Then let us begin…and wait.”
They sat in chairs and on the floor, wide-eyed in their determination not to sleep. For they reasoned that it was indeed impossible to endure the entire night sleepless, yet by attempting to do just that they might find the threshold of sleep and enter into slumber together.
Richy looked at Mirrel, who was staring sleepily into the fire, and he realized the difficulty of their task.
“So…I think perhaps we should talk about something so that we don’t fall asleep.”
“How about how stupid this is?” said Lin, a sarcastic sneer on her lips.
To everyone’s surprise, Richy smiled. “Okay. That’s a good topic, I guess. So what is stupid about it?”
“For one,” she began, “we have no idea that what we’re doing is going to work.”
“That’s right.”
“Secondly, you seem to be reaching all these ideas simply through guesses about what ‘might happen’ and what ‘seems to be.’”
“That is also right.”
“No one has ever gone into another person’s dream.”
“Which is exactly why we need to try…if only to see what may happen.”
“Why do we need to see…”
“Because,” Richy interrupted, “Vaughn has a weakness. We all see that now.”
“How?”
“Have none of you figured it out yet?” Richy looked around him and saw all the blank stares, and sighed. “The purpose of this school is not to teach, but to erase. They do that by sapping the knowledge out of you, and somehow, some way, they make you have nightmares every time you fall asleep, and this is the only thing that can actually make their plan succeed. If they only relied on boring and dangerous teachings, they could very well breed seeds of rebellion unknowingly. The nightmares work, but they can only work when the students are alone. That’s why there is the rule against talking with others: if students had friends, they could have comfort, and then the nightmares wouldn’t work. So, the fact that I found all of you and the school allowed it, and the fact that Mirrel had a dream that wasn’t a nightmare, all this means that something somewhere, deep inside of Vaughn isn’t working. And this means that if we could find that something, then there just might be a chance that we could escape.”
The room was silent. Richy suddenly realized that it had only been he who’d realized all the connections, and that it really had taken a lot of faith on the part of the others for them to have followed them this far. He prayed silently he might never make such a mistake again.
Lin spoke up. “I’m sorry, Richy. I guess it really does make sense now.” She cast an apologetic look at Mirrel too, and the latter smiled, and Lin smiled too. Richy saw, and was pleased. Then everyone realized that all was right for the first time since they’d been together. The future might be uncertain, and whatever road lay ahead might lead to death, but one thing they all knew now: no matter what happened, they were together.

*

If in any certain terms mist could be defined in a way which could be readily grasped, perhaps it would be a dancer. Cavorting around and around, in and about and every which way seeming always to hug the world, the mist of the forest at this moment seemed very much alive. About the world the veil of God had been laid, and to march through that intimidating beauty seemed a clear blasphemy. Yet there was something indefinable which could be felt by the six companions that drew them forward. In time a magnificent edifice suddenly loomed out of the mist, blocking their path.
Richy stepped forward, a frustrated look on his face. “I suppose we must enter here, then.”
“Certainly,” piped up Lin. “Then we can all see what happens when one is killed by ghosts.”
“Cynicism never got anyone anywhere, you know.” And Richy raised his eyebrows in a challenging question. Lin sighed and stepped forward toward the house along with the others.
Young Zachary quickly ran to Richy and looked up in his face. “Mr. Richy…please?”
“What is it?”
“The house is angry,” whispered Zachary with a terrified furtive look at one of the windows.
Richy looked in the direction of Zachary’s stare, and saw a pale, ghostly face wearing a leering smile disappear into the darkness. Richy turned to the others and was just in time to see Lin turn the knob and he barely had time to shout an unheeded warning before the door was flung open and all those upon the doorstep sucked into the darkness of the house.
Inside the house the darkness was colder than any of them had expected. They looked about for any direction but only could see a staircase and a hallway. They seemed all to want to stay on the ground floor, and so they walked toward the hall and began to walk down it, a dim light flickering on and off at the end. As they progressed along that hall, one by