Maldor the dreamwalker

On a gray afternoon, Rachel roamed the woods, unsettled because everything felt much too familiar. The moss on the towering trees looked dark beneath the overcast sky. Rain drizzled down, just enough to dampen her. Up ahead a small decorative bridge spanned a little stream. She knew that on the far side her name was carved on a beige post, inside a heart.

Rachel approached the little bridge in bewilderment and traced her fingers over the engraved letters: R-A-C-H-E-L. This bridge was on the property her family owned. This forest was part of her backyard.

Glancing behind, Rachel observed ranks of thriving trees. What had she expected to see? She scowled pensively. Should she be here? How had she gotten here? Had she set out from her house to wander the woods and think? That felt wrong. But where else could she have come from? The memory almost came into focus, then dissipated.

She could not see her house up ahead, but Rachel knew it stood just beyond the top of the rise through the trees, along with three additional buildings that her parents frequently loaned to artists. At first they had made the spaces available to select friends. Then friends of friends. Eventually they had needed to make a reservation list. Painters, writers, sculptors. Occasionally musicians.

Why did the thought of home spark an urgent longing? Rachel wanted to run. Ignoring the silly impulse, she strolled up the hill, basking in the familiar sights and smells. She felt lucky to live in such a beautiful place.

The house had lights on in defiance of the gray day. Was it getting darker? Rain still sprinkled down. Rachel climbed the steps to the wide, rustic deck. She found the rear sliding door locked. She went around to the front door and found it locked as well. Shouldn’t she have a key? She checked her pockets. Nope.

Walking away from the door, Rachel peered through a living room window. There were her parents, comfy in their favorite chairs, each with a book, steaming mugs nearby. The sight of them made her heart swell with relief and joy.

Rachel rapped on the window, but it made hardly any sound. She knocked harder, but it was like banging on a huge slab of stone rather than a fragile windowpane. “Dad!” she shouted. “Mom! I can’t get in!” All they had to do was look up and see her at the window. They didn’t.

Frustrated, Rachel hurried to the front door and knocked heavily. Again there was no sound. She tried the doorbell. Normally, she should have heard it chime even from outside. She heard nothing. What was going on?

She looked down at the fancy welcome mat, a gift from a visiting artist. THE WOODRUFFS, it read in flowery script. Clusters of costume jewels added sparkle in two corners. The artist had insisted that they actually use the mat. Rachel frowned. The mat seemed to taunt her by proclaiming that this was her home. If that was true, why couldn’t she get in?

Rachel circled the house. She slapped random windows after checking to see if they were unlocked. None were. No matter how hard she pummeled the glass, she could produce no noise. She looped back to the window where she could see her parents calmly reading. Dad was sipping from his mug. Mom turned a page.

Rachel pounded the glass with both fists, to no avail. She waved her arms and shouted. She backed up, picked up a stone the size of her fist, and hurled it at the window. The stone bounced off, making no noise until it struck the ground. What had her parents done to the house? Made it soundproof and bulletproof?

Desperate, Rachel picked up another rock.

“Can I help you?” asked a female voice from behind.

Rachel whirled and saw Sharmaine, her favorite artist who had ever resided with them. When had she come back? Sharmaine had short pink hair and dark eyeliner. She wore a denim jacket covered with pins, beads, and ink doodles.

Sharmaine had grown up in Michigan. She painted pieces of wood and then wrote original haikus on them in fancy calligraphy. She had given Rachel a painted wooden segment that read:

When Rachel pole vaults

She soars like a swift pirate

With a huge peg leg

The plank had a doodle of a pirate beside the haiku. It was one of Rachel’s favorite treasures.

“Hi, Sharmaine,” Rachel said. “I was trying to get their attention.”

“Rock through the window would do it,” Sharmaine replied curtly. She wasn’t showing any recognition. If anything, she seemed wary.

Rachel glanced at the rock in her hand. “They couldn’t hear me.”

Sharmaine gave a cautious nod. “Let’s try the front door.”

Rachel almost protested, but decided against it. She followed Sharmaine to the front door. “You remember me, right?” Rachel checked.

“Sure,” Sharmaine said vaguely. She knocked on the door. It made a sound! A normal knocking sound, just how it should.

A moment later her dad answered. “Hi, Sharmaine. Who’s your friend?” He was looking at Rachel with blank courtesy.

She had seen her father show that expression to other people. But never her. He knew her. He loved her.

“It’s me,” Rachel said meekly.

“Have we met?” he asked, still with the neutral politeness appropriate for a new acquaintance.

“I’m your daughter,” Rachel said, insulted that she had to spell it out.

Her dad looked to Sharmaine, who shrugged. “I found her outside your window holding a rock.”

Dad returned his gaze patiently to Rachel. “Our only daughter died years ago,” he explained. “Did you know her?”

Rachel suddenly realized that she had been away in Lyrian for a long time. It all came rushing back. She must look older or different. “It’s me, Dad. I’m just older. I’m back.” Tears welled in her eyes.

Her dad glanced at Sharmaine. The glance communicated that they clearly had a situation on their hands.

“I’m not crazy,” Rachel blurted, wiping at her eyes. “Ask me anything; I can prove it.”

“Where do you live?” he asked gently.

“Here,” Rachel answered in a small voice. “I live here.”

“Why don’t you come inside and sit down?” her dad offered, as he would to a needy stranger.

Rachel turned to Sharmaine. “You remember me, right? You gave me the haiku? About the pole vaulting?”

Sharmaine held out a painted plank. “If you want a haiku, I can spare this one.” Rachel accepted the wooden rectangle. Sharmaine looked at Rachel’s dad. “You okay?”

“I’ve got this,” he replied. “Thanks, Sharmaine.”

Sharmaine turned away, and Rachel followed her dad inside. He escorted Rachel to the living room and offered her a seat on the sofa. Her mom was no longer present.

“Make yourself comfortable,” her dad said. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Rachel took a seat, the painted plank in her hands. Turning it over, she saw little gravestones doodled at either side of a haiku.

Most loving parents

Try to dodge conversations

With their dead children

The words struck Rachel like a physical blow. Fearful chills made her skin prickle. What was going on?

She stood up, surveying the familiar room. The correct pictures hung on the walls. The correct knickknacks rested on the mantel. The scent of herbal tea wafted up from half-empty mugs.

“Rachel?”

Startled, Rachel spun to face her mother, who had just entered the room. “Mom?”

Her mom cocked her head sympathetically. “No, dear, I’m not your mother.”

Exasperated, Rachel pointed to a nearby picture of the three of them. “Look at the picture, Mom. Does the girl in it look familiar?”

“She was our daughter,” her mom sighed serenely. “You’re not her, dear.”

“I am her, Mom. What’s the problem? Do I look that different? Ask me anything.”

Rachel’s mom looked her straight in the eye, her expression becoming stern. “You are not our daughter. Our little girl has vanished forever. It’s time you confront the truth. Merrill and I have moved on. You should as well.”

Rachel suddenly recognized that her mom’s eyes were completely black. Thinking back, she seemed to recall that her dad’s were black too, and Sharmaine’s as well, although she had failed to notice at the time.

“You’re not my mom,” Rachel whispered.

The woman smiled. “That’s right. Now you’re getting it. Somebody here has been looking for you.”

Maldor stepped around the corner into the living room. Rachel had never seen him, but she knew his identity as surely as she knew that she must be dreaming.

“I’ll leave you two to talk things over,” her dream mom said, stepping out of the room.

Rachel faced Maldor, glaring into his black eyes. “This is a dream.”

“We need to talk.”

Rachel stared at him. “It feels real. I feel awake. Is that really you?”

“As close as we can manage at present. Have a seat.”

“I’ll stay standing.”

“No need for hostility. I’m here as a courtesy.”

The statement made Rachel furious. “Get out of my house! Get out of my mind! You weren’t invited! You don’t belong here!”

Maldor held up his hands soothingly. “Don’t lose your temper. I’ll leave soon. First, we must talk. Your friends are going to die, Rachel. All of them. Soon. Unless you save them. I just wanted to give you that chance.”

Concern for her friends warred against her rage at the mental intrusion. After a moment, Rachel bridled her anger enough to respond rationally. “You’re not here to help them. Or me. You’re here to mess with my mind. How do I get rid of you?”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Maldor warned. “This illusion took considerable time and effort to establish. You should hear my proposal.”

Rachel took a deep breath. What if she attacked him? What if she used Edomic to set the sofa on fire and hurl it at him?

“You can’t hurt me here,” Maldor said. “I can make this much less pleasant, if you wish.”

“Don’t read my thoughts,” Rachel snapped.

“They’re hard to miss,” Maldor apologized. “After all, this is your mind.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“I imagine not. You have so little control. I could teach you to lock out incursions such as this.”

Rachel frowned. “That’s a class I might sign up for.”

(Additional text cut)

“Where did Jason go?” Maldor inquired.

Rachel felt panic. She tried not to think about him.

“Windbreak Island? Interesting. That explains much. I don’t see how he’ll survive. What guidance did you receive at Mianamon?”

“Get out of here!” Rachel yelled.

Maldor snapped his fingers. The sofa folded up around her, trapping her in a cushioned embrace. She remained in a seated position, cocooned from her ankles to her mouth. She could only manage muffled protests. She tried to will the sofa to release her, but it refused to budge.

“Hmmm,” Maldor mused. “Fascinating prophecy. I suppose there must be some minuscule chance for his survival. This is very useful information, by the way. Do you think your quests could possibly work? An attack on Felrook would be suicide for all involved. If I permit you to speak, will you be civil? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

(Additional text cut)

Rachel opened her eyes. She was in her room at Trensicourt, on her wide, soft bed. It had not felt like waking up. Not a bit. Her mind felt equally conscious as when she had sniffed the cookie. There had been no transition. Her eyes had been closed. Now they were open.

By the moonlight spilling through the window, Rachel could see a pair of lurkers beside her bed, like human shadows made three-dimensional. Reflecting none of the silvery glow, the figures were easily the darkest shade of black in the room, the kind of darkness found only in the most obscure reaches of space, beyond all starlight.

Chapter 9