Font Formatting:
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>You still get nightmares…
>Even up until the Church picked you up
>You’d wake up, body trembling like its being electrocuted
>A puddle of sweat beneath you
>But when you feel Echo’s tongue, wet against your face like a coarse rag
>And when your eyes split open with a panicked start
>BAM
>The feeling of lucidity crashing over you is like being swallowed by a river’s waters
>Well, that, and the sharp gusts of wind that pull at your shock of short, brown hair
>You sit up on your palms and gasp
>Anxiety resonates through your circuitry
>You take in the world around you, trying parse what you see into things that make sense to the human mind
>Echo traces an anxious circle around your body, disappearing in thickets of juniper bush, wild rose, and chokecherry, then reappearing next to your face
>He lets out a frightened, high-pitched whine, a primitive scream to say, ‘get up!’
“That’s very helpful, Echo,” you groan, his shriek bouncing around you skull
>Your ears hurt – and not just from Echo
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>A pervasive sense of impending doom smothers you like a wet blanket
>Even Echo’s barked orders don’t last long
>Your hazy mind drowns in the things you can and can’t control
>Stacks them atop one another in no particular order
>Your heart pounds like a hunting drum in your skull, obliterating your internal scream as the tower of thoughts collapses…
>…on top of you
>If you forget to breath manually, you risk suffocation
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>It feels like there’s not enough air to go around
>What elevation are you at right now? Where in God’s name are you?
>Massive old-growth pine forest springs up around you, a veritable wall of foliage in all directions, split only by the occasional granite boulder, rising from the gently sloping landscape
>Upon inspection, you’re in a mountain meadow
>Iron slabs of granite jut into the skyline – at least, that which isn’t dominated the spruce, pine, conifer, and aspens
>The trees seem to close in around you, as you watch, bowing to the wind that rakes over the peaks, as if sentient
>As if they sense someone who should not be here
>Echo whines again and bites at your ankles, drawing you out of your observation
“Give me a second here, bud,,” you say as you draw yourself up to a stand, head spinning from a lack of oxygen. “I’m trying to get a bearing on where we are right now.”
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>But Echo knows better than you do right now
>He stands at your feet, and pants with nervous, impatient energy.
>The fox shrieks three times, trying to draw you to something – someone?
“What the fuck are you getting so impatient about? It takes more than some running to get off a damn mounta-”
>Echo interrupts again with a shrill yip. He starts trotting do the mountain’s slope, but pauses only a few feet away from you
>The fox turns his head over his shoulder, ghostly-blue eyes fixed on you
“Follow?” you say, taking a stab at what your fox is trying to tell you. “Why? I’m not following. We need to get back home…”
>But as those words leave your mouth, a flicker of memory returns to you, as brief as lightning strokes fading against dark skies
>Like dust motes gathering on a razor’s edge
>On a first trip into someone’s subconscious, the opiate-like haze of the dream takes over, and you’re no better off than the unaware dreamer whose mind you’ve infiltrated
>But there’s a way around that
>Something you learned from mom
>You try to drown out the pulsation of your wild heart, apparently trapped between your ears
>And if you concentrate…
>…you can hear you mother’s voice, sweet like honeysuckle, still alive in the vaults of your memory
>“Every dream walker” mom would say to you as sleep carried you like a basket floating down-river, “needs a system to help them remember that they’re dreaming. A ritual; like morning or nightly prayers.”
>“Why’s that?” you’d say, eyes clenched shut “It’s just a dream, right?”
>She hums in thought for a second, perhaps trying to piece together an answer to a rather esoteric question, fit for a child
>“Have you ever noticed that when you’re in a dream, most of the time, you don’t even know it’s a dream?”
>You grunted in affirmation, your consciousness slipping away with every dark second passing
>“Dreams make us believe in them from the minute they start. They force us to forget what came before, and ignore what’s going to happen. It’s all a dizzying haze, where we usually have no control. And…”
>She leans in close, her breath on your pale cheeks
>“If you’re in the wrong person’s mind – or in a nightmare – you could trapped there until they wake up. That’s why it’s so important to have a ritual that reminds you of where – and who – you are.”
>“What about waking the person dreaming?” you replied in a soft, sleepy voice
>You might just delay sleep tonight – this sounds important
>“As dream walkers, we have an important job – to protect ourselves from becoming lost in the dream. Memories are stripped away like layers of paint off the side of a house, until you become part of the scenery; a turning blade in the windmills of someone else’s mind.”
>The ghost of her memory echoes in your skull
>‘The windmills of someone else’s mind’
>God, you miss her
>Dad, too
>“Automatic. Like a prayer,” you say to yourself, ears filling with the screech of the wind
>Let’s begin
>Thankfully your ritual is quite simple, actually. True to your mother’s word, your ritual is like a prayer passed down from your mother’s mother to her, and then whispered to you at bedtime in a hushed, careful voice in your ears
>Soft and gentle
>You tense your gloved hands, feeling the suede leather against the skin of your fingers
>If you can’t remember how you got to where you are now, that’s usually a good sign you’re in a dream
>“I got here… by dream walking,” you remind yourself, grasping for past memories like sand filtering between your fingers
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>“And what were you doing before all this?” you can almost hear mom quizzing you
>Echo grabs hold of the leg of your trousers with his mouth and attempts to drag you forward, into the treeline
>“I was… I was…” you jaw for the next words, your past dealings a foreign language you’ve yet to decipher
>Echo’s attempt to move you only serves to break your concentration
>And you’re about to start again, when you hear a sound break the monotony of the wind and the thrum of your heartbeat
>“CAW! CAW! CAW!”
>You look up right as a murder of wild crows wing down from the steel-gray skies above, cawing and chirping over the rush of wind through slipping between the trees
>Echo drops your pant leg and peers up at them, daring one to land within his reach
>Ah
>Now you remember
“I’m here on behalf of the Church. I’m supposed to wake up a crow named ‘Rhilla.’ And all of this?”
>With another quick scan of the mountain forest, you take in as much detail as you can
“This is just a dream of Rhilla’s.”
>You also remember you have a second mission: observe the power of the Traumatin on the huma- errr…. crow… mind?
>To your eyes, the effects are pronounced
>BAM
>BAM
>See, dreams lack detail
>They dazzle the dreamer with bizarre glimpses into the unconscious mind, but the finer details are often left to waste
>Letters on a street sign, the texture of a plant – all of these things become blurry or incomprehensible on inspection
>But as you take in the surrounding area, you can see what Anna meant when she said Traumatin was a dream accelerant
>Lush, verdant forest springs up all around you, impenetrable wall of raw branches and jagged brambles
>The ripening leaves of aspen trees float by over your shoulder like golden snowflakes the size of your palm
>Those golden stamps of arbor drift on a current of bustling air, all bound for the same place – downhill
>You start downhill on nothing more than a whim to follow where the leaves go
>And as you stumble downhill, the density of the undergrowth swells and blossoms beneath you, a natural carpet of grasses and wildflowers; purple, blue, gold, and red sprouts, awash in pale stormlight
>Above the treeline, cold mountains of iron and granite rise, their crags and peaks capped with snow
>This dream does rank among the most vivid you’ve had
>Everything is so… authentic
>You pluck a small, wild columbine flower from the the meadow, and throw it into the wind
>The ripping breeze picks up the flower and carries it downhill, along with any other loose debris
>It’s almost remarkable how intense and detailed this all feels — no shifting scenes, no trees flickering in and out of reality, and nothing nonsensical…. so far…
>The logic
>The coherence
>Maybe that’s what’s got your heart in a twitch?
>Because something is making you anxious again
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>You shake your head hard, as if to cast off the dream’s ropes around your mind
>You SWEAR you felt this way once before – only once – in a dream
>Or was it a nightmare?
>You can’t remember
>Fuck
>You can’t remember much of anything agai-
>SHIT
>You’re staring to lose yourself in the dream again, Anon
>“Don’t get lost in the scenery,” you say, words an echo of mom’s
>No, fuck it, you can’t allow yourself to take in the spectacle of what you see
>Just keep moving
>Just stay focused
>You steady yourself, or, at least that’s what you try to do as you continue downhill
>But when you try to gain some footing in your consciousness — turn inwards and remind yourself of your purpose here — a noise on the wind obliterates your concentration
>Because…
>…it sounds like…
>….drums
>The unmistakable rhythm of bare hands beating on an old skin drum,
>A metronome ticking to the beat of your own heart
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>Or… it’s your heart beating in your temples, blood filling capillaries, a pressure beneath your skin that makes you feel like you’re about to pop
>You clap your sweaty palms over your ears
>Your heart feels like it’s trying to smash through your ribs
>BAM
>BAM
>What the FUCK is wrong with you?!
>Overhead, dark skies loom, the color of wet concrete, a gathering storm
>It sinks of ozone and impending rain
>What’s got you on edge?
>You try to keep an eye on Echo as you walk
>He bounds from thicket of grass to thicket of grass, disappearing into the brush for ten seconds or more
“What in God’s name are you looking at?!”
>You have to yell to be heard above the ripping wind
“We have a MISSION, Echo, entrusted to us the Church!”
>You pace over wo Echo
“Don’t you care that if I fail, you, me, Greg, Nat, and-”
>You pause
“Holy shit…”
>Echo is sitting before a PILE of dead crows…
>Not the kind you’re here to find, either
>These are wild crow
>…and he’s got one between his teeth, but he’s not chewing like he would outside the dream
>He paces up to you, whining
>Something’s wrong
>You snatch the crow from your fox, sending loose feathers scattering like seeds into the wind
>You look the corpse over for all of three seconds, finding nothi-
>Entrails dangling from a huge gash in its side
>Bite marks the size of your hand, nothing Echo could produce
>Your service fox peers up at you, panting
>He must be as anxious as you are
“Time to find the Rhilla. Yep. Time to get the FUCK out of this bird’s head.”
>Echo agrees with a shrill yip
>You stomp through the mountain meadow, calling out the crow’s name against the wind
>As you approach the treeline, panic grips you by the heart and tries to rend it from its bone cage
>You might have a heart attack
>And driving that anxiety?
>There’s… little corpses dotting the meadow, almost as numerous as wildflowers
>Not human corpses
>Animals
>Dead birds
>Mountains of them
>But not like the heretic you’re here to find; no
>These are wild birds
>These are ravens; magpie; crows
>The corpse of a red deer – split apart at the stomach and legs, as if whoever got ahole of this animal peeled it like a husk
>While… still alive
>You only realize you’re gawking at the viscera when Echo nips at your heels in a bid to keep you on track
>This…
>This isn’t a dream, is it?
>You can see your fucking reflection – pale, shivering, an orange scarf to keep you warm ontop of your collared shirt and trousers
>The reflection is unwavering, and you can see your lips park, curl down in the formations of a panicked scream
>You’re NEVER supposed to look at mirrors while you dream
>It’s a risky way to test your lucidity…
>…or transform an otherwise pedestrian dream into a skull-fucking nightmare
>And the crimson mirror you see of yourself in the puddle of deer blood?
>It’s just you
>Looking back
“Okay,” you say as you tear yourself away from the reflection. “We need to check on something before the nerves get me.”
>The escape hatch
>The panic button
>The key
>You reach into your pants pocket with trembling, sweaty fingers, and trace the outline of something solid and metal
>You withdraw a familiar, brass house key
>Mom called it a dream token – something, she said, every dream walker has (or needs) when they’re waist deep in another person’s unconscious
>It’s an object from ‘outside the dream’ that can be of use, or reminds the dream walker that they are dreaming
>Each dream walker’s token is unique to them
>Yours is your house key for your family’s home in Kiba
>…strangely enough, it seems to function as a skeleton key of sorts; It can open any door (at least of the ones you’ve tried)
>Key in-pocket, you draw yourself up with a deep breath
>BAM
>BAM
>You start into the forest, bending aside branches, ears keyed into the distant sound of large hands beating on an old drum
>BAM
>BAM
>You cup your hands around your lips
>Well, might as well start the vocal part of your search
“RHILLA! Where are you?!”
>You pause to listen for a report
>Everywhere wind
>But no jagged Corvish returns to you from the trees
>You cup your hands around your mouth
“I’m here to help!” you cry
>You wait
>No response
“C’mon Echo,” you look down at your fox, grumbling. “Let’s see if we can flush out this bird from his nest”
>Echo bounds ahead of you by a good ten feet, his training as a service fox taking over, his knife-ears sleek and flat against his skull, his gray tail flickering as he surveys one copse of trees before darting to the next
>The fox scrambles under and through bushes, up boulders, and even into some low-set tree branches, where he observers from an advantage
>Nothing
>You follow your service fox for what feels like hours
>Time dilates as you stumble through the brush, body washed in the scent of pine waxcurrent sap
>Then without warning, Echo, turning himself into a gray comet, sprints ahead of you towards a thick copse of aspen trees
>You watch as Echo draws his body low to the forest floor in a predatory stance, his unfettered attention fixed on the encirclement of golden trees
>You’ve seen him hit that pose when he’s stalking something – usually a mouse, or a stray cat
>Echo’s ears go up like jagged, gray razors; his tail flicks with tension
>He looks back at you for a second
>A glance
>An almost a human-like expression
>One that says, ‘I found something.’
>The little fox stalks forward a foot or two more towards the copse of aspen
>A throaty growl simmers in his stomach as he approaches
>White slivers of sharp teeth poke down from his upper and lower jaw
“Echo?” you say as you start after the fox. “Remember how we wait for my signal to pounce?”
>It’s then that the wind blusters around you with such force that you’re almost hobbled
>Almost
>Even Echo feels it as grits his teeth and fights to stay on four feet
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>About five feet from the trees, your fox bends his legs…
“Echo, wait!” you say, rushing to grab him
>…and springs into the brush with a pulse of his haunches
>Like a gray flash, he’s gone in to the copse of trees
>The branches shutter as he moves
“Fucking damnit!” is all you can shriek as you dive into the brambles in pursuit. “Why don’t you listen!?”
>You can hear Echo – unseen in the copse of aspens – growling and snarling as if in response
>A snap of the teeth
>A shearing of fabric
>And then
>A panicked, terrified squawk rings out
>At that, you throw yourself through the foliage, pulling aside branches and brush until you reach a small clearing
>The heartbeat in your ears hasn’t gone away; in fact it’s even louder than it ever was
>It’s almost all you can think about
>Well, that…
>…and having to train Echo better
>However
>The rest of your thought processes are taken up by what you see, lying on the forest floor in the encirclement
>A heretic
>A crow
“Rhilla?”
>Echo wrestles with the poor bird’s leg, as if attempting to separate it from the squawking bird
>The crow’s lustrous, sapphire-blue eyes fix on you, ignoring Echo
>Your eyes meet
>And it’s not quite how you expected to ‘meet’ your first ever heretic
>You were taught ‘Black feathers, small size, put one right between their eyes’ in Academy
>But you have no weapons
>Just a key
>And a mission
>“Vulcada!” Rhilla barks, as if the word was a curse in his tongue. “I knew! I knew! Demons pursued me here, alongside the Haasin. I am wise to these things, Vulcada! Cannot fool me!”
>He tries to scuttle backwards, but Echo keeps him rooted in place
>And the guy looks fucking wretched, to say the least
>Loose feathers everywhere
>Clothes hanging on by their literal threads, a patchwork of rips and slashes on a white undershirt
>And what isn’t shredded is dirty, a thick slurry of mud, sweat, and sap
>The heretic doesn’t dare move any further
>He might not even have the energy to
“God above, slow down,” you say, palms out in a supplicating gesture. “I’m not after you at all — well, not in the way you’re probably thinking.”
>You cut a sharp, powerful whistle to draw Echo’s attention
>The crow winces at the sound, his eyes squeezing shut
>Sensitive ears and all
>Lucky for you, your fox unclenches his jaw from around the leg, leaving a sizable tear in the bird’s brown trousers
>Echo returns to your side, his little body vibrating with adrenaline
>Or anxiety
>Now free, Rhilla skitters backwards until he collides with the trunk of a Douglas fir
>“You lie!” he hisses. “Your kind speak only falsities, empty words of comfort; a trap for Rhilla!”
>You stifle a gasp
“Wait, you’re Rhilla? Not some other crow?”
>“Some other crow?!” Rhilla echoes your voice
>The effect is uncanny, and for a second you’re thrown off
>Terrifying as it is to hear your own voice boom out of a five-foot-nothing heretic’s beak, you get the sense that he’s mocking you, not getting ready to maim you
>“Some other crow?” he snarls, “I have fled pursuit for uncountable days, and I have met no company save the Ancestors!”
>You break into a huge, relieved smile
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
“Thank God I found you so fast!” you say, panting
>You must really be at elevation – it feels like you’re running out of air
“C’mon, let’s get out of here.” You extend an arm out to him to help him back on his feet
>The bird eyes the gesture and then shakes his head
>“My name, my flock, my duties… they mean nothing now that you and those… Haasin… have caught up to me. If you’re here to do away with me, be quick with it!” he demands. “I will not be taunted by this Vulcada, but a hatchling!”
>You sigh an exhausted, impatient sigh
>Your arm falls limp against your side
>Guess he doesn’t want your help up
“Didn’t I already say I’m not here to kill you? I’m here to help you!”
>There’s a slight pause as your words marinate in the fried brain of the dreaming crow
>He looks you over with caution, as if testing your words against his filters
>“T-This one not armed…” Rhilla observes. “And he is but a hatchling – not the strength to carry out my execution.”
>You almost tell him you still probably could make a go at killing him barehanded, but stop short, and allow lucidity to guide your next words
“That’s right. No chemical rifle, no knife, no grenades – all I’m packing is this key.” You produce the brass key and hold it in view of the crow
>The bird’s eyes fixate on the shiny object
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’m actually here to help you,” you say, extending your hand to pull him to his feet again.
“The name’s Anonymous, by the way. Most people call me Anon.”
>But instead of accepting your hand, he makes a rending swipe at your hands with chipped talons
>Your arm returns to its side when you see him wind up for a tired swing
>Echo sends out a less-than-helpful growl, which startles the bird
>You get your service animal a small nudge with your heel
>“H-how is it that we can speak to one another? Rhilla does not understand!” he stammers, eyes fixed on you. “Is true, I speak some demon tongue, yes, but you- you’re a fledgling! You not supposed speak Corvish with confidence like Seminary scholar!”
“It’s because you’re in a dream, Rhilla.” you sigh “I’m a dream walker – I’m here to get you out and wake you up, and we’re wasting time.”
>Oops
>You dropped the ‘mutant’ card on him
>Oh well
>Mybe the Corvid are a little more accepting and kind to people of your disposition?
>“Dream walking?” Rhilla parrots at you, confused at first
>And then his face contort – eyes split wide, jaw unscrews in terror
>Guess not
>“Doraith…” is all he can say. “How is possible?”
>Fuck this isn’t going to be easy
“I have no idea what that word means. Now c’mon, get up and let’s go!”
>Rhilla does not move
>He stares at you, perplexed
>“You are Vulcada, yet you are also doraith… this not possible… unless you are…”
“-Here on authority of God’s Church of Humanity to wake you up!”
>Something clicks within the bird, like the pin to a grenade
>Maybe leave the ‘I’m with the Church’ out next time
>”So you are with THEM,” he snaps
>The nimble crow rises to his feet, sharp talons bared in a defensive stance
>”I know now that if this is a dream, it is a nightmare. Rhilla should have known; should have given it some thought, yes. Vulcada are nothing but a dark omen.”
>His chest heaves, as though he’s only had a few moments of hiding in his copse of trees to catch his breath
>Maybe the anxiety is ratcheting up inside him again, like it is within you
>”I cannot afford to stop moving… can’t… not with Haasin pursuing me.”
>He throws a nervous glance over your shoulder, as if looking past you for something in the trees
“The fuck is ‘Haasin’ and why do you keep- hey, wait-”
>Rhilla steps away from you, un-gluing from the tree at his back
>Uh oh
>You’ll deal with whatever the fuck Haasin means later
>You have more pressing matters:
>This guy’s about to run
>Rhilla’s chest heaves with air, as if he’s compressing it into his lungs for an explosive jolt of energy.
> “I- I must go now, Vulcada. I feel lightning in the air again.”
“Because this is a DREAM, Rhilla! Your dream! You probably have no idea how long you’ve been asleep for, or how long you’ve been on the run.”
>“Uncountable days nights. Uncountable.”
“Ten days, bird. According to Anna you’ve been asleep for almost ten days.”
>You have to yell to stand in a chance against the wind
“So don’t fucking run off when I’m trying to help put this nightmare to rest.”
>“Ten days!?” Rhilla screams as the wind ratchets up in intensity, drowning most of his words. “I cannot recall when I was not being hunted like a wild animal — surely it has not been ten days!?”
“Maybe longer. I can’t be sure. I only know what I’m told, and I’m telling you: my mission is to help you get out of… whatever this-” you gesture at the trees and mountains around you, “-is supposed to be.”
>“It’s a feathering nightmare, is what it is!” Rhilla shrieks
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>You swear you hear a drum approaching, those resonate organic tones on the wind
“EXACTLY! That’s why you can’t remember how you GOT HERE! You’re in a nightmare, pal!” You yell back “But if you run on me I can’t help you. Do you unders-”
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>The crow bolts, like a rabbit flushed from his den
>His powerful haunches propel him out of the copse of aspen trees, and further down the slope of the mountain you two are on
>You pause
>Echo does not, and takes off after the bird — instead, he looks up at you, as if waiting for permission
>Fuck it, your life — and maybe the lives of your family — depends on waking this bird up
>You start running too
“Rhilla you dumb bastard! Let me help you!” you scream as you bolt after him
>Strangely enough, Rhilla calls back to you as you run after him
>“Vulcada!” He shouts, voice echoing in the trees. “If you wish to help me then follow!”
“If you want my help slow down a bit!”
>But the crows only response is no answer
>Not one you can parse right now
>BAM
>BAM
>“Do not answer to the wind!”
>BAM
>BAM
>Rhilla covers impressive amounts of ground even with the uncertain terrain of a forest crawling up a mountain side
>Thick junipers bushes, swollen with berries force you to zigzag; the odd collapsed conifer and wayward boulders force you to climb or jump
>All of which these Rhilla traverses like a frightened animal
>Most of the time you land on your feet when navigating the terrain, but you frequently stumble, trip, and bounce off tree-trunks like guard rails
>Progress is slow
>The wind is so intense that it feels as though you’re practically sprinting waist deep in a river anyway
>The ground slopes further downward as you and Echo pursue
>And those drums…
>…palms that bounce of tightened skin in definite rhythm…
>…drums, closer now, almost upon you, signaling a primitive hunt of sort
>No
>No
>NO
>That’s… your heartbeat, right? The pounding in your temple?
>It has to be an effect of the traumatin and being in a dream space as is
>Plus, you’re running it’s natural to be exhausted
>It only occurs to your addled mind after few seconds of downhill sprinting
>You’ve paid so much attention to everything around you, and to the internal vocabulary of anxiety, that you’ve nearly forgotten
>You’re still in a dream
“This Traumatin is nasty stuff,” you think to yourself. “Of course those ‘drums’ are just my heart beating in my skull. Nothing more.”
>And that’s what you tell yourself
>But as the steady metronome of hunting drums follows you down hill, you begin to feel like a terrified animal; one actively being hunted by something older and more nefarious than any cat, fox, dog, or bird
>Because you’re sure of it. Sure of the purpose of that drumming – in a primal way
>Like how centuries of evolution and development imbued your people with innate disdain for heretics, harvesters, spiders, snakes, poisonous plants, and anomalies
>You know these drums like you know not to stand in front of a harvester
>Those are hunting drums
>You’re closing the distance between yourself and your quarry when you hear something on the wind
>A voice
>By God, there’s a third voice, on the wind
>A low, rasping voice
>One that comes fro all sides
>“Who…”
>You narrow your focus n the crow just a couple yards ahead of you
>“Who is…”
>The drums thunder as you run, a primal crescendo of noise
>You keep your legs churning, almost afraid to look behind you now to see exactly whose voice is on the wind
>”Who is… this one?”
>Everywhere wind
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall