by Gavin Bennett (Changeling: The Dreaming | Fiction)
PORTENTS
In a place that pretends to be Hell, in the land of the Dead, the ruler and his courtiers walk, and discuss certain matters. Even here, in the great palace of the Emperor, they can hear the terrible roar of the storm, which sweeps the shores of the land of shadows and ghosts.
The Imperial Palace is very large; an unguided traveller could walk for years in its pristine corridors, lost, and never find his way out. It appears like a nightmarish, monstrous, but no less than magnificent, development of the palace at Zhongnanhai in Beijing. It is built from the forged remains of dead souls. The stone is white, and cool to the touch. However, if one were to listen carefully, they could hear the gentle, susurant moans of the souls that were destroyed to make up the palace.
Some say that the Emperor prefers this.
The Emperor and his courtiers speak of many things; that is to say, the courtiers tell him that which he needs to hear, and he listens, and on occasion, he responds, expressing approval or the lack thereof. They fear his lack of approval. With a wave of the hand, he can have any one of them, without question or appeal, destroyed, without remembrance, or even rumour.
He walks ahead of them down the ebony-black halls. They follow in his wake, at a polite distance. Their voices are quiet. They speak up when they deliver their news, or their counsel.
"Your highness," one of the counsellors says, "the navy of your mortal kingdom has taken delivery of its first aircraft carrier. It is a Kiev class helicopter carrier, but it is being adapted to carry Russian fighter-bombers. Within a decade, you shall have a navy in the mortal world that can rule the waves."
The Emperor nods. He is thinking, perhaps, of the great ships of Zheng He, who imposed China�s hegemony over the Indian Ocean, stopping at ports and landfalls as far away as Africa and Australia. They were a glorious sight: fifty years before Columbus, Chinese ships left on voyages of discovery on ships the size of old aircraft carriers; he remembers.
The next counsellor speaks. He bows his head, in the Emperor�s presence.
"We have retaken the ghost-city of Vladivostock; the Stygian�s defences there were very weak. They had been protected by some other force, which is now gone."
The Emperor smiles, briefly. The Chinese territories of Siberia, in the lands living and dead, had been closed to him for too long. This is good, he thinks, and waits for the next counsellor.
The counsellors speak of other things; how rebellions flare in certain Imperial lands (Japan in the land of the dead, and Tibet in the land of the living); and how certain of his enemies fare.
The Emperor knows what they were not telling him; they do not mention how depleted his forces are since the recent war. They do not tell him of the stirrings of the Kuei-Jin. They do not tell him of the people in the Middle Kingdom who are so like the Wan Xian of ancient times. But he knows of these things, nonetheless.
The counsellors slow their walk, politely. The Emperor is distracted, they know.
The Emperor speaks.
"The Age of Sorrow comes," he says, slowly, deliberately. Perhaps his counsellors catch the indecision in his voice. "The Wheel of Things turns," he continues, "however, that is the way of things. It is something to be prepared for, but not feared." His counsellors nod, pleased with the wisdom in those words.
"It has come to my knowledge that there are those who would force the Wheel of Things to turn faster. It has come to my attention that a Westerner magician seeks to wake something which should remain sleeping for some small time yet. Such an occurrence would interfere with the preparations of the Middle Kingdom for the coming of the Sixth Age, the Age of Sorrow. Therefore, if such a thing can be prevented, it will be in the interests of the Empire."
The counsellors say nothing, but some ponder this news. They wonder how their Emperor could know of such things.
"Forces are gathering to prevent this thing coming to pass. I believe that it would be in our interests to aid them. Who shall be appointed as an Emissary from the Middle Kingdom?"
The eldest of the counsellors speaks.
"The Suijen," he says. "They know our ways, and they know much of the ways of the Westerners."
The youngest counsellor speaks:
"What of the scholars of the Wan Kuei?" he asks.
The Emperor considers this, and then shakes his head.
"I do not want our interests revealed in this. I need others to speak for us, but yet not know that they speak for us, in this matter."
The Eldest counsellor speaks.
"If that is to be your will, why not call upon the Nyan? They are unlike us, they are unreliable, and none would suspect that we should use them for our purposes."
The Emperor nods, giving his assent.
The counsellors leave. Alone, in his Palace, in Hell, the ghost ponders the future. The Sixth Age must not come yet; he has plans for the Age of Sorrow, and they are not ready yet. He considers also his counsellors. Some will wonder, he thinks, why their Emperor knows of the work of demons and magicians. It would be well if they were not to speak to any about such matters.
He issues a decree for their confinement and torture, in Hell, for eternity, once their days work is done, and thinks of it no longer.
There is no sound in the palace, save the distant roar of the storm.
*
He had a friend, once. His friend�s name was Bernard, and he has not seen him for about 2 years. He thinks of this, only because it is Bernard�s birthday today, the 20th of June 2000. He raises a coffee mug in Bernard�s honour, an unnoticed act, amongst the patrons of this odd coffee shop in Norway.
It�s been a long day. He is deathly tired. But, it has to be done. He could sleep for half an eternity, right now. He puts the coffee mug down and slumps his arms down on the table, closes his eyes.
The bustle and noise of the coffee shop gets so much louder, all of a sudden, and he realises, he is drifting off, succumbing to sleep. He shakes his head. He takes out his notebook computer and idly watches it boot. Then his watch alarm beeps. It�s time to place a call. He fumbles in his jacket pocket for the cellphone.
He dials, looking around, vaguely, not at anything, merely trying to confirm that, yes; I am alive, or here.
"It�s me," he says.
"I would hope so," the sarcastic bastard at the other end says. "Well?" he asks.
"It�s true," he says, and it hurts to say it. "One of the sleepers is wakening up."
No sound, nothing. The voice on the other end is silent. The young man in the coffee shop is silent, and his mouth tastes vile for just saying the words.
"One of the sleepers is waking up," he repeats.
"How long?" the other asks, finally.
"A year," he says, "maybe less."
"Which one?"
"I don�t know. I don�t know."
"Things are in motion here," the other says, sulkily. "I had better hurry them up."
The young man closes the connection, thinking: That call just cost me a lot of money.
The man looks around the caf�, seeing if anyone paid any attention. No one seems to have. He does not know why he came here, so far away off the beaten track; down the dankest looking alley you are ever likely to see. The crowd are university students, mostly, rowdy and pretentious. He doesn�t speak their language. He feels very much the stranger, and very alone.
It�s been such a long journey. He stares at the computer screen. Idly, he presses buttons on the keyboard, watching the cursor move and the menus pop up. He does not know what to do now. Thinking of Bernard has put an even deeper taint on the day. He had spoken to a mutual friend about him, maybe 18 months ago. He was dead, she told him, dead and gone, and she would speak no more about it. He wonders what happened to him. It�s not something he likes to think about, but right now, staring exhaustion and defeat in the face, he indulges in horrors.
The screen on the laptop goes dark; all sound falls away.
"Welcome," a woman says. She is pale and thin and tall, with black hair, the colour of night. Her eyes are deep with a life of pain. She smiles at him. A flicker of recognition passes between them. "What brings you to the Latte Glass, on a day like today?"
He tells her.
*
In a bar in Dublin, which pretends to be a caf�, a David Grey song plays on the stereo. The bright young things wander around, talking loudly about drugs and raves and favoured amphetamine dealers. The staff all look like out of work models.
"Why here," a man says, his face twisted into a sneer.
"Neutral ground, I am thinking," the other says.
The other makes a sound that could be a growl.
"Hi guys," a third man says. He sits down, without invitation, and smiles at them. His smile is brittle and fake, and his dress is fashionable, and expensive. His accent is rich and flavoured by tastes of foreign tongues. Every word, every syllable is perfectly enunciated.
"Lycidas," the first man says.
"Yes."
"So, do you have what we are looking for?"
"Of course."
"Good, then let us do business."
The three men sit in silence at the table. Finally, the first man, the eldest, speaks. His accent is that of South Kerry, but it is tempered by long years abroad, and years of pain and war. His face is scarred, three clawed valleys on his cheek. He is a big man, a muscular man. His presence is threatening, commanding.
"I am not one to trust sorcerers," he says, at last.
"That is good advice," the third man says. "May I have the honour to know to whom it is I am speaking?"
The older man blinks, a faint look of surprise on his face. The sorcerer is speaking Gaelic, old Gaelic, rich and evocative. It sounds like wind upon the trees.
"I have not heard that spoken, in this age of the world," the older man begins, "only in dreams, and in the dreams of spirits. Where did you learn such a thing?"
"I think you know, honoured one," the sorcerer says.
"You are one of them, aren�t you?"
"Yes, by blood. My mother was one of the people," the sorcerer says.
"I have heard rumours; and some speak of your people close to the Brugh, but I do not believe such things."
"We are well hidden," the sorcerer says. "In truth, we have to be. Our time of the world has passed."
The second man interrupts.
"Pardon me," he says.
"Forgive my rudeness," the sorcerer says.
"My name is Rory O�Callaghan," the eldest says. "I am the war-chief of the Sept of the Brugh."
"My name is Mark Boillot," the sorcerer says, "but I am named Lycidas of House Merinita of the Order of Hermes."
"I�m Charlie Parker," the second man says, "of the Sept of the Temple Bar."
"You must be taking the piss," the sorcerer says.
They laugh.
"OK," Lycidas begins, "show me yours, and I�ll show you mine."
"The brugh has been under assault by magicians of some description," the old man begins. "They use things from movies, laser beams, and the like, but this technology has the smell of magic to it."
Lycidas nods.
"Times are hard," the old man continues. "But our seers are troubled. They say that the Red Lord awakens. They say that his children, the Foamhr walk the earth once more. They say that they slept under the city of Sarajevo, and were awoken by war."
"It is true," Lycidas says. "I have seen the Foamhr myself."
"In Montreal, in Canada, last month," the second man says, "I have heard that the Silver Fangs have made an alliance with someone. I have heard it said that it was with the Faerie folk. I give no credence to such talk. But it is said that this alliance, - with whomever � is one of necessity."
"The fae are here," Lycidas said. "They have been back for some time. But this storm comes for them, and comes for the Changing Breed. I too have heard about the Red Lord."
"The Red Lord is a Duke of Malfeas," Parker says, tiredly. "We think. We have seen his name, in tracts of texts so forbidden, that to read of them is to invite insanity. Sort of like the Fianna Fail election manifesto." He grins, at the private joke. "But it is also said that he sleeps somewhere in Russia, or under the Arctic Ocean. There was a war, in Russia, before the last ice age; his guys and us. We won. Just."
"The Northern Lights have been extremely active," Lycidas says, "and things can be seen in their dances. I think his dreams are igniting the aurora. I think he�s waking up."
"No," the old man says, "someone is waking him up. Stop him, and the Red Lord will sleep for some time yet. If not�. I do not know. Perhaps the Apocalypse comes."
"Perhaps," Parker agrees, and then there is silence around the table, while the young people drink and dance and ignore the world.
"God this place is a dump," Lycidas says, "what do they do, recruit from modelling agencies?" He pantomimed holding a cellphone and posing. "Does my bum look big in this?"
*
Chretienne wakes from dreams, crying. It�s happening again, she thinks. When will it stop? Her dreams are a curse; they break her heart and eat at her soul, endlessly. She knows when the dreams will stop; when they come true. Not long now, she tells herself.
Last night�s lover sleeps on, beside her, at peace. She looks at him. I could love you, she thinks, I really could. You have a good heart, and you are so beautiful. But that�s my curse too. I always destroy the things I love. Please don�t love me back. Please.
A sob racks her body. Awkwardly, she gets out of bed, and wraps a robe around herself. She sits down in front of her computers, knees to her chin, wiping the tears away. The computer powers up; she stares at it idly, echoes of her dream flickering across the screen.
NO!
She closes her eyes.
Not yet.
She is staying in a friend�s place in Los Angeles, for the time being; Montreal was home to too much pain for her. She imagined, perhaps, that her problems would stay there. But the dreams followed her, and the vicious memories of all her dead friends. She thinks of the blonde man, and the tears start again.
She opens Pegasus mail, and scans the emails waiting for her. Junk mail, as usual, a few from whatsername in Stockholm, and then one from London. She looks at the email address, and her eyes close. She does not need to read the message. She knows that she has got to go back.
*
She�s been quiet all day; her father is beginning to worry. He considers calling a psychologist, but he also fears that. Would she resent it? Would she be afraid? Of course she�s afraid, he thinks, what happened last month would scare anyone. It had scared him. Even he, Harold Maine, whose word on certain issues, can sway the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and carries weight in the committess rooms of the Commonwealth, the European Union and the World Trade Organisation, was scared. Scared for his children, scared for himself.
"Brenda," he whispers, "are you alright."
"I am just thinking of the ghosts," she says.
She had mentioned that before; trauma induced hallucinations, perhaps?
"Daddy," she says, "I want you to find those people who saved me, I have something to tell them."
"I don�t know who they were, pet," he says, sadly. "The police won�t tell me."
"They weren�t police daddy. They were just people."
Hours pass; Maine has called a great many people. Favours have been called in; he has even secured a state tender for a small Liverpool businessman. It yields a name and address. He hands it to his daughter. He doesn�t know why. He should have had these people checked out days, weeks ago.
His daughter looks at the name and address, then says: "yes Daddy, this is one of them."
He frowns. How did she know?
His daughter reaches for the phone, hesitates, and then dials the number.
"Hello," she says.
Maine cannot hear the voice on the other end.
"It�s me, Brenda Maine, I wanted to call and thank you." On the phone, he thinks, she sounds so much more grown up. His eyes tear. He has such beautiful children. God has been good to him.
"Yes, I am fine. I feel much better, and I am not as scared anymore."
He wonders what the other person is saying.
"I had a dream about you last night," she says, then, and he recognises the hesitancy in his daughter, that comes out when she has to say something important. "The ghosts were waiting for something, and they were waiting for you."
Again, the person on the other side hesitated, and then spoke, but Maine could not hear. He felt very guilty for listening.
"Something is asleep, and the ghosts want to wake it up so that the walls will fall down."
Then he sees it. As if it was there all along. There are shadows in this room. They are reaching out for his daughter, even now.
PROTECT HER, a voice says, and he does not need to be asked. He does - something � then, and the shadow burns away. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, his daughter is holding him. He takes the phone.
"My name is Harold Maine," he says, "And I owe you everything. We have to talk."
"I know who sent the shadow," his daughter says.
"Who?"
"His name is the Strawman."
YES, the voice says, AND HE MUST BE STOPPED.
*
"So, it is done," the man says.
The woman nods.
"I do not trust these bindings to hold," he says. The woman does not smile.
"They won�t, they are faerie magics, after all, but they are, as they say, better than nothing."
Both are members of House Eiluned of the Seelie Court. They are scholars and magicians and lorekeepers, and seekers after secrets. Times have been hard and dangerous for them, these past few months. Something is reaching down out of the North, and destroying the grottoes and freeholds of their people. Toronto is safe, for now, but both know that that safety cannot last long. Worse, the great North American kingdom of the fae is falling asunder. No help will be forthcoming from the lords of the south.
"I have reports, a very great many of them, taken from various sources," the woman begins, "from the Internet, from magics, from dreams, that many "sensitive" people are noticing what is happening."
"Isn�t that good?"
"No, it merely means that what is coming is big. This is the gale whipping inland in front of a hurricane at sea. We have to face that hurricane; worse we have to sail, as it were, out into the teeth of the storm itself."
"Why us?"
"Because no one else can, or will. Do you think that the Foamhr can be stopped by any others?"
The man says nothing, for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is cool, and cruel.
"Do you think that the Foamhr can be stopped by us?"
"No, I do not," she says, "but we have to try."
It is raining outside, down over the city; a thick, heavy, misty rain, turning the streets to small floods, and leaching colour from the world. They sit in an expensive restaurant, on North Queen Street. The food is rather fine, but not as fine as the foods of the land of summer�s twilight, and even now, after long years of forgetfulness, they remember. The knowledge gnaws at them, perhaps.
The Foamhr. The worst of the so-called "Dark Kin." What could have brought them back to wakefulness?
*
Not too far away, in a small apartment in Chinatown, a young woman wakes from a restless afternoon nap. The day seems draining to her; she does not like the rain. She looks around her apartment, at the university texts strewn haphazardly on her shelf, at the computer she forgot to turn off. She had completed her degree some months ago, but now she felt like she was waiting.
Waiting for what?
"Why wait any longer for the world to begin,"- where did that line come from? Bob Dylan, yes, that was it.
Waiting. Not for the world to begin. Is she waiting for something to change in herself, perhaps? Was there some hormonal change that turned you from a student to an administrative assistant or something; some vile mini-menopause that the teachers and your mother would never tell you about? She shook her head, foolish thoughts, and sat down on her unmade bed.
She fingers her necklace, the gift from her great-grandmother, given to her as a child. She grips it, holds it tight, and wishes.
She is unsurprised that the spirit appears. She has been waiting for that spirit all her life; but perhaps she did not know it.
"Hello," she says, to the spirit.
"Greetings, child of the Wan Xian," the spirit replies. "We have been waiting for your call."
She accepts this with equanimity. She is perfectly calm, although there is no reason for her to be.
She stands up, dignified even in her underwear and her tatty old t-shirt.
"Your time is coming soon," the spirit says. "The children of the moon are waiting."
"Thank you," she says.
"The Nyan are coming to you, the lord of the Yellow Springs has sent them as his proxies. He will try and use you, and them, to further his own considerations. Do not allow yourself to be used so."
Then it is gone. She sits down again, draws her knees up to her chin, and then, only then, she starts to shake.
This is crazy, she tries to say, but eventually, she relents. It is all real, it is all true, and her very blood, her very bones, knows this.
*
Outside the restaurant on North Queen Street, the sorcerers of House Eiluned stop, for a moment, silenced.
"Something just happened," one says. The other nods, slowly.
"We must go," he says, "and consult the oracles. This is only beginning."
*
On the vile, empty wasteland of Novaya Zemyla, where the Russian Navy of decades past dumped their dead ships, and rotting weapons, the Djinn stands. It is dark, close to midnight, even as evening falls over America.
He is dressed in heavy furs and thick, military boots. He shivers, despite himself. Even in summer, it is cold, this far north. His kind are hardy creatures, the thieves and demons of the desert night, and they do not fear cold. Perhaps then, he shivers for other reasons.
He is well hidden, he thinks, but knows that he cannot hide from the sky. And the sky is looking for him, he is certain.
There is no magic left here, he realises. The thin places between this world and the next have been sent asleep.
He shakes his head. Only someone with knowledge and power could have done that. A great deal of knowledge, and a very great deal of power. Destroying such places is one thing, but making them sleep, capturing their energies away from the world? That is impressive, he thinks.
"It is," a voice answers.
"Ah," the Djinn says. "You found me then."
"I never lost you," the voice says, faintly mocking.
"A pity," the Djinn says.
"Do not think that I have not been aware of what you are doing. But Arcadia is going to be set alight whether you think you know of my plans or not. You do not understand the stakes here. You could not."
"Try me."
"I won�t, I am sorry. You know, I really do not like your type. Much too tricky. Much too like your forefathers."
"Ah, you speak of the sons of fire," the Djinn says. "I cannot say I like them much either."
"You are all the same, I fear, deep down. Only the language is different, only the illusions divide you. I much prefer the others, the other fallen ones, the magicians and the skinchangers. You know where you stand with those."
"I am sorry that we disappointed you. I trust you desire me to fight you," the Djinn says.
"I would rather you killed yourself, but I must kill you; it would not do for you to be blabbing all these things out. Timing and all that."
"Of course," the Djinn says, and bows politely. The Djinn notes how the mists that cloud the island are getting thicker. In the middle distance, some unknown way away, a man stands. He bows to him.
The Djinn are old and powerful, and feared. Gods and Demons and Angels have fled from them. They are tricksters and thieves, and poets and scholars, and they have the power of fire and lightning and wind and death in them.
The battle lasts less than a minute. There is a flash, like a falling star, in the night on Novaya Zemyla.
The Djinn is dead. The other walks away.
The Northern Lights flicker above.
If you listen closely, you can hear them scream.
