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“And I swear, I will break every finger on the hand that dealt this to you.”
>You are Anonymous
>Human
>A single red flower, as if watered in blood, sprouts in the fertile soil of your mind’s eye
>From seeds to roots, you observe sprouts becoming juvenile stalks clawing through dissolving layer of snow
>You first see crimson, velveteen petals breach the jagged crust, their meager foliage contrasted like blood against a sheet of ice crimson ice
>Sunlight beat down from above, rays piercing the frosted Earth from a window in the cloudy sky
>You watch in real time as snow sloughs away to the drum-like rhythm of your heart skipping off your ribs
>Melt water returns to the the ground
>A brown slurry of mud and nutrients hardens then crumbles
>All the while, thick curls of steam like pale fingers, rise from the hills and dissipating snowbanks
>A mist ensconces your immobile form, and then drifts away like smoke from worried fires
>You watch all of this, rooted in place by the red flower ripening in the rich soil…
>…until all of its fine petals burst outward in a a muzzle flash of clean light
>You’re unable to close your eyes in time as a flash brighter than sunlight swells in your eyes for what feels like a near-lifetime
>And when the light and heat begin to fade, your eyes adjust to the sketches and outlines of the world, contrasted against the sterile blast of the flower’s radiance
>Like an artist, sketching the outline of his world
>Before you:
>foreign fields; wet hills rolling across an empty plain
>green young shoots of buffalo grass, wild chokecherry, and the crowns of willow saplings dare to claw their way through topsoil, their growth faster than God’s lightning
>lumps of snow cling to life in the cloud shadows, like the first of the last glaciers of an ice age that ended ten years ago
>And above, an expanse of western sky rolls for miles, terminating in a thin watery line behind the western mountains
>The red flower – the only contrasting color against God’s tapestry of muddy soil and burgeoning plant life, sweats crimson dew
>The air is still, and save for the thrum of your beating heart – like a kick drum in your ribcage – silence is the only sound
>You catch your chest rising and falling, the simple action of breathing like a lifeline back to lucidity
>The air is wet and rich with oxygen, but a sudden need to locate Echo overtakes the tranquility of even breathing
“Echo!” You call, throwing your head left and right, eyes scouring the burgeoning forest for a gray fox
>There’s no sound in this place – certainly not the light pads of a fox skipping across the gathering underbrush
>A whistle to call for your fox
>…
>…
>…
>The branches of young aspen and Douglas fir that surround you tremble in a wayward breeze
>And the only sound in all of this, besides your own heartbeat, is the sound of that western breeze weaving through the brambles
>The red flower catches you in your peripherals
>Your attention shifts from the sudden wind to the flower, as if God himself were showing you something of importance
>Your jaw slackens like some kind of dim worshiper in the grandeur of what is nothing more than a simple red flower
>The petals on the flower shift with the wind
>You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until you’re forced to suck down a huge gasp of air when someone…
>…whispers something to you
>“Help…” Your uncle Greg says to you in a labored breath
>Startled, you spin to your right to see the man who raised you in your parent’s absence about four yards to your right
>And it really, really is him
>He’s in his work uniform – a thick, cotton button down, padded fabric trousers
>Harnesses and carabineers dangle from his belt next to a bag of climbing chalk
>You can even see the print of his flask in his breast pocket
>He’s fixated on the red flower, just as you once were
“Greg?” You say in a nervous breath
>You take a cautious step towards your uncle
>Greg’s neck snaps to attention with a sudden, bone-breaking twist, arresting you in place
>“Dream… walker…” your uncle says, syllables rolling out of him in the voice of your uncle, just one octave too low
>Startled, your clunky footing almost lands you on your ass as you toe-pick on an exposed root of a nearby aspen
>You only manage to keep your footing out of sheer luck
>“This one… follows… this one… help…”
>A burst of anxious laughter escapes you; something to help off-gas the anxiety swelling in your skull like a balloon
“H-Help you? Is that what you want? My help?” You stammer back in disbelief. “Or do you want to help me?”
>You throw a gale of thick, awkward laughter at your uncle, in a sad attempt to disarm your own fear
“How am I supposed to help you in here, Greg? Look around at the trees, the undergrowth; nothing grows this fast in real life.”
>Your uncle does not respond
>You summon a deep breath from the small well of your courage
“Y-You’re not even my real uncle!” You shout, voice cracking with fear
>Greg is still as stone, his blank eyes staring at you – through you, even – as if unfamiliar with the concept of eye contact or civility
>So you continue on
“Uncle Greg, I don’t think I can help you because… you’re not real. At least, not outside my dream.”
>You try to smirk, but your body unconsciously screams at you to get away
“All you are is part of my dream, a leftover ember from the crow’s nightmare that’s burnt out of control. You- you imprinted on me, so I brought you back here to deal with you. T-That’s why you’re here, and why I’m here.”
>Greg stares at you – or, rather through you, as if you’re some kind of heathen animal disgracing his sight
>You shout and wave your fist in what might as well be a foreign language
>All the while, red petals caught in the wind thread the span of tense, empty space between you and your uncle
>Without warning, your uncle takes a mechanical step forward, so sudden you hardly see him move his feet
“S-Stop…” you start as you pace backwards
>Greg takes another plodding step towards you
“S-S-Stay back!” You shout, an involuntary explosion of fear driving your heart to ricochet around in your chest
>“It… learnssss…” he says, drawing out that last syllable sharp enough to slit your throat. “You… dream walkers…”
>Another step forward for Greg, who stares you as if…
>…he’s sketching your face in his mind
>All of your mannerisms
>Your fears and anxieties
>The joys and triumphs you hold close
>The shape of your voice in your air
>And, perhaps, the resonate pulse of your heartbeat; of capillaries and veins dilating as you, Anonymous, begin to enter fight or flight mode while trying not to stumble over roots and rocks
>Studying you…
>…to become you?
>It was instinct that drove your hand into your right trouser pocket, bereft of any sort of glove, your shaking fingers desperately searching for you the folding knife you carry on your person
>You cast out a silent prayer…
>Instead, your fingers grace upon something else
>Something cold and brass
>…and God answered
>You know the cold, machined touch of this thing
>Its slender, elongated body – right now – is better than any arms you could conjure in this dream space
>At last you reach the ornate twists of metal terminating at the crown
>A pair of teeth set to open any lock in any person’s mind:
>A weighty brass key
>Your dream token
>There’s a surge of confidence that flushes your body with heat, as a steady drip-feed of adrenaline becomes a dam bursting, waters flooding the least courageous parts of your heart
>You reason that if you can demonstrate you KNOW you’re dreaming, that you KNOW you’re the dreamer…
>…you might have a chance
>With a fortifying breath, you drag the key from your pocket and hold it in your fist
“When I show you what’s in my hand,” you say, exhaling a knot of anxiety, “I want you to disappear. I don’t care how you go, I just want you to go away.”
>As you unfold your clenched fist to the entity, you feel like you’re presenting it with a live grenade
>Pin already pulled
>Greg’s eyes flick in their sockets onto the brass key
>He’s still standing a few feet away
>All you can do is breath hard and heavy and try to not show how terrified you are; try to stay the tremors in your hand
>Greg hums in thought, the boom of his chest matched only by the rhythmic thrum of the steadily mounting wind
>“Anonymous… dream walker… it learn… it know… what is… where…” it says. “We… help…”
>Your quivering jaw mounts a poor attempt at a smug grin
>It’s not hard to see your open palm wearing a fine sheen of nervous sweat
>You have to end this dream as soon as you can
>You’re not on Traumatin like Rhilla was
>This… thing shouldn’t be this potent in your own mind
>If you let fear and emotion take control in here… well… time dilates in dreams… so…
>…you may never get out
“Alright, I’m g-going to keep this brief for you, since you’re just a sick projection of some unearthed memory or trauma. You and I both know there’s nothing up there in you,” you tap twice on your skull, “But, since you’re technically a part of me…”
>You grip your dream token by its base and you stomp forward towards Greg, pelted by a whirlwind of red petals;
“GO! Get out! Get out of head!” You shout, your dream token carving through the bracing wind. “You. Are. Not. My. Kin.”
>You shove the key into the face of the entity wearing Greg’s skin; an act you liken to splashing a heretic with anointed oils and sanctified ashes of retired service foxes
>This key is better than a blackened jaw bone from a red fox
>While the former (allegedly) wards of evil and heresy
>The latter – your dream token – is an anchor to the world outside this place
>This… is your weapon
“Then you know what this is, right? You should know what this means?”
>You half expect Greg to throw up his hands and cover his eyes, shriek in pain
>The brass key is PROOF that you’re dreaming – no other way around it. From Rhilla’s to others, to your own dreams, a lifetime of practice remembering it each night has given you a powerful tool to navigate a person’s subconscious
“This means I’m still in bed in the Inquisitory. And there are p-people who love me… and they’re counting on me!”
>Greg’s eyes narrow on the outstretched key in your palm, your show of force no more than a glittering coin to a wayward crow, perhaps.
>“To…ken…” he says, unflinchingly fixed on your brass key
“T-That’s right you fuck, I k-knew you knew what it was. And now, y-you’re going back to the deepest parts of my heart that I keep locked up, do you hear me?”
>The unwavering stare does little to quell your nervous stammer
“F-Fine – if you want me to hurt you… I will. Not like I haven’t wanted to belt my real uncle once or twice.”
>You’re about to cross your dear old uncle across the jaw with your free hand, when the entity does something you don’t expect
>Something that makes your key feel less like a shield and more like…
>…a crutch
>Greg raises his right hand
>He folds his thumb into his palm
>Four fingers showing
>“We…” he parrots in a slow, rolling growl building steam, “We…”
>No motion between the two of you, save for the steady rise and fall of your chest
>“Four…” he says in a low hum
>The sound of wind – or what you believe is wind – swells in your skull like a swarm of locusts
>You tighten your grip on your key and try again, thrusting the token just inches from the bridge of his nose, as pale and dry as a cadaver
“Y-You’re scared of this, aren’t?” You say with a gale of forced laughter, voice cracking with fright
>If the entity is listening, he doesn’t show it
>He stares at the key in an opiate-haze, his salt and pepper hair static against the ripcurls of wind, each gust carrying with is a scattering of red petals like rubies thrown to feed a storm
>You HAVE to be brave
>For Natalie
>For the REAL Greg
“Y-You’re just part of my mind; some bitter seed taken root that I’ve imparted with ‘meaning.’ But here’s the thing, ‘uncle’ – I’m refusing the lesson! God’s grace, I jumped in here from a heretic’s nightmare. Do you know how hard that is to take? Being inside the mind of a filthy, Godless HERETIC, a mind as alien as any animals?!” You shout, if only to swallow the hummingbird in your throat
>The want to sucker punch your uncle is so vivid that your left hand – compressed into a fist – whitens from blood loss
>And yet, you can’t summon the courage to do it
>Something is wrong with this dream
>Still fixed on your dream token, Greg’s hands gently fall harmlessly to his sides
>Now’s your chance! Banish this fucking thing! RIGHT IN THE JAW!
“Dreams FORCE you to believe in them. And the more you forget who – and where – you come from, the longer and more vivid the dream. But y-you?”
>Anxiety – that primal cocktail of adrenaline and fear – presses little tremors into your quivering jaw
“I-I don’t believe in you,” you say, feigning a rolling growl as you speak. “You’re not real. No dream is. You’re just me…”
>Cocky laughter helps you ease your anxiety a bit
“…you’re just part of me wearing that mask of a man whose hurt me.”
>You tell yourself that you’re nearly at the finish line – that soon, anxiety%apos;s poetry – meter etched on your heart – will fade like pen fades into skin.
>You will know dawn once more
>That’s what you say to yourself while your false uncle stares placidly at you, face bereft of expression
“You- you’re not my uncle… You’re not even that THING from the heretic’s mind, I’d bet. You’re – you’re just some damaged part of me I locked up,” you reason, fighting the black shades of fear coloring your voice, “you’re an outline of a sketch of a person…”
>Greg cuts you off with a booming voice
>“Not… Anonymous… is… human…”
>You try to ride your wave of confidence to shore, brushing past the entity’s piecemeal response
“You’re a part of me – which means I can ask you these questions. You ought to know them: how did you get to where you are now?”
>Surprisingly, your uncle hums deep from a cavernous chest
>“Red… flow…er… storm…”
>Your turn to cut in, chin motioning to the rapidly expanding canopy of trees all around you
“Dunno a-about you, but I’ve never seen things grow like this. I’d say it’s almost… like I’m… dreaming…”
>Uncle Greg’s eyes follow only the dream token, his primitive mind perhaps unable to comprehend the contrast in worldscapes and dreamscapes
>The wind pushes your scared voice back into your chest, so you yell
“How about this: what were you doing before you arrived here? Can you remember ANYTHING before I conjured you up from some dark corner of my mind?”
>If Greg heard you, he gives no indication
>Where you move the key, his head follows
“Th-thought so…” you try with a (hopefully) demoralizing scoff
>Greg’s right hand slips into one of his trouser pockets, the limb deftly slipping through the dangling climbing gear and metal flashings that Greg often said made him ‘jingle like a fucking dog’
>Half of you expects the realization that you’re dreaming to take hold, and to wake up peering into the glowing face of doctor Mueller, who will smile upon you for a job well done, and set your family free from here
>Assuredly, you’ll wake, still gripping one of the heretic’s talons
>The cold wind throws your Foxer’s scarf against your thin body like a fist knocking against the door of your ribs
>The swirl of red petals stripped from the single flower now ebbs, its last remaining foliage clinging desperately to the flower’s stalk
>But you don’t notice the flecks of red swirling in the wind around the two of you like embers in a firestorm
>Your eyes travel downwards from your uncle’s cold, vacant face…
>…crossing the length of his arm…
>…to his open palm, pale and unwavering in the blistering wind
>It’s like staring into a shop mannequin
>All the foundations of a human being are there, but the small touches – pockmarks and imperfections; proof of a divinely imparted soul – are lacking
>But it’s not his inhuman stillness that shatters your confidence like an alchemical round through stained glass
>It’s what Greg is holding in his palm:
>A brass key, much like yours
>The entity presents you with brass key that’s a near one-to-one match of your own
>Save for the teeth of his key – sharpened like wild bear’s fangs – it’s… nearly the same size as your own
>All you can jaw out is an empty thought, a confused hiss of words dying in your lungs that offered you courage but now only decay into fear more potent than staring down a pack of harvesters
>The wind now rips through the trees, knocking handfuls of bristling pine needles and tender green aspen leaves into the gale
>The loose knot of you Foxer’s scarf finally gives, but you don’t try to catch it when the burgeoning storm lifts the strip of orange-and-white cloth into the air, hurling t against the branches of a nearby spruce
>Your attention squares on Greg’s key
“W-What is that?,” You say, grasping for sense like you’re trying to hold smoke, “That’s… that’s not a dream token… that’s not my key…”
>You know you only speak a half-truth
>It’s not your key
>But you get the sense it is what you think it is
>“Dream…” the entity begins
>Lightning shrieks across the sky overhead, a strobe of light that – in the space between heartbeats – reveals something else standing in Greg’s place
>In the slowed time in between thunder strokes, Greg vanishes
>The gathering forest is captured, frozen even, in the white muzzle flash of God’s revolver going off upstairs
>There’s a rail thin shadow in Greg’s place – one you recognize from Rhilla’s dream
>The thing that shot you in the back…
>…The thing that…
>…pretended to be your sister…
>“…walker…” it concludes
>The entity’s abnormally smooth features fixate on your closed fist
>Eyes like puddles of crude oil, dotted with white-hot pinholes of light, seem interested in your dream token
>“Ours…” the entity says in a heated breath
>Its fist closes around the brass key as it retracts the token
>And just like that, the lightning’s decay snuffs out the entity’s form, bringing back an approximation of a man you called ‘Greg’ back to the dream space
>And then comes the roll of thunder, like a salvo from the Church’s artillery
>You clap your hands over your ears as you try to retreat backwards
>To your left, the red flower has but one petal remaining
>Above you, the heavy skies seem to rot, as if an injection of black ink were speeding through the veins of the clouds
“W-What’s going on?!” You shout into the face of your uncle
>The sky corrupts as the sound of what you think are locust hum in from the west
>It’s the wind, however, that convinces you otherwise
>A storm of black feathers weaves through the trees like snowflakes flowing horizontally in a storm
>Above, dark clouds of crows start to wing down onto the nearby branches,
>They lend their noisy chorus to the wind, squawks demanding your blood
>Who’s dream is this?
>You start backwards and catch your heel on a knotted root
>You come to rest on your ass, staring up into the face of the thing pretending to be your uncle
>Greg starts forward with simmering growl, his inhuman voice easily cutting through the chaotic chirps and ripcurls of wind
>“Others… we…” he says, studying you, like felled quarry trying to flee. “…four… it learns…”
>The entity’s attention falls back on your closed fist holding onto your dream token for dear life
>“This one… dream walker… it takes… ours…” he says, the syllables rolling out of him like cavalry charge
>He curls his fingers into tight fists of hate
>And then…
>…his mouth twitches ever-so-slightly…
>…as the horizontal, paled bar of his lips…
>…curls into a snarl; a sudden flash of dog-like teeth; a mouth smashed with a cinder block, flat surfaces chipped into knives
>“OURS!”
>To your left, the red flower’s last petal gives into the wind, quickly vanishing like a small ruby hurled into the forest
>All that remains now is the flower’s empty stem
>Crows swarm onto the underbrush surrounding the red flower…
>…and dig at the roots
>Your uncle’s neck snaps in towards the fluttering petal, following it with his eyes as it passes into the blackening forest
>But it’s not the petal he’s following
>There’s a woman’s voice carrying on the raging wind
>A woman who you know
>“God’s grace, Sam. We hold onto God’s grace right now. We’ve not lost them because we haven’t tried everything yet – even that which trials our hearts.”
>Then a man’s voice – Samuel’s, doctor Mueller’s assistant
>“But we tried the same things we attempted with the heretics three days ago. Nothing – truly nothing – works, doctor. We have to face reality here. If we wait any longer, it won’t be exile for us. We need to inform the the Bishop!”
>You can hear Anna hiss at Sam through clenched teeth
>“You know that Edward is sworn to divine testimony, Sam! You know what will happen! That Foxer cannot end up a vegetable like the rest of these… freaks! You know the Bishop as well as I, Neelan will seal his own fate just to look good walking out the doors of Enclave, us right behind him on a DAMNED LEASH!”
>“I do not fear banishment or exile, for I have God. What I fear is my name is written out of His Promise for the murder of an innocent Foxer,” Sam says in a firm voice
>Without warning, Greg throws a wild fist towards your skull – so fast that were it not for an immense amount of good fortune, you might have ended up a paralytic, trapped in your own mind for all eternity
“Woah, woah woah woah!” You shout, hurling yourself into a snap-second roll to your right, tumbling several feet
>You come to rest next to the red flower’s dead stem and torn roots, your body dispersing all but one lingering crow
>A blue-eyed bird cocks its head at you, as if observing something it was once familiar with, but had forgotten
>It does not take its chance to fly away, but instead, snaps its attention to your uncle
>You follow in-kind
>The sound of the entity’s fist colliding with the grass beneath where your head once was has all the concussive force of heavy artillery landing about five feet to your left
>The crow is knocked back by the blast wave
>Your uncle rips his fist out of the shattered earth, dragging with him a comet’s tail of undergrowth, grass, and huge chunks of dirt
>The forest around you swells with Anna’s voice
>She’s everywhere in the trees as the approaching storm reaches a crescendo
>She’s even more resonate than the bursts of thunder that almost have the power to flatten you and the little crow
“Our work here tonight is of no small interest. The Oracle has spoken, and the Cardinals have listened. We do the work of our Lord, Sam, don’t we?”
>“We…” Sam’s voice rings unsteady, and unsure as he starts, “…surely THIS cannot be the work of my lord God, can it?”
>“Sam…” Anna’s words are raw with anger, her venomous tongue trapped behind clenched teeth, “…do you often consider the orders of your superiors to be… ‘suggestions’?”
>In a snap you’re upright, bouncing on the balls of your feet an with uncoordinated gait
>Greg’s neck twists in the wrong direction, his skull and spine doing a counterclockwise three-sixty-degree spin
>No bones snap
>His eyes settle upon you
“Other…” he drawls, motioning towards the little crow struggling to remain upright in the wind
>The bird attempts to take cover behind your legs in a disturbingly intelligent expression of fear
>Your uncle stalks calmly over white-knuckling a vicious right hook as his unflinching hands compress once more into fists
>You feel your key in your trousers like a lifeline to reality as you try again to step back in-time with his pacing
>The bird senses your plan and follows suit
>“Dream walkers…” Greg croaks, “dreams… ours… Anonymous… to…ken…”
>You CANNOT get in that guys range, not with his strength
>That little blue-eyed crow hops backward a step further, and makes a valiant attempt to wing off
>It gains some lift – maybe at your waistline – but a ripping gust of wind sends the bird sailing backwards end-over-end
>With a squaw, it bounces painfully off the underbrush
>Part of you wishes you could scoop up the bird and hold it to keep it safe
>But you dare not stop moving
“I know you’re not my uncle,” you say, as calmly as you can, voice lost in the swell. “And if you won’t tell me WHO you are… tell me WHAT you are…”
>The crow – now at your side – leaps once more into the wind, sensing an ebb in the current
>With a relieved chirp, its wings catch on some of the more milder winds
>The birds wings beat like mad as it forces its way forward, and up
>You’re so relieved some forgettable dream animal might return to safety that the voices in the trees rip you back into fight or flight
>“I understand, doctor. I… I would not abandon my sacred duty here for these… heretics. Never. Not even if the guns of the enemy were trained on me.”
>“That’s the right choice. I know it’s not an easy one, but the alternatives are much worse.”
>A brief silence
>“Still, we have very little time until the kid’s heart gives out. The last vitals the nurses reported to me… I’m at a loss for how to wake them up. It was the human’s responsibility, but it seems he failed in that.”
>Anna’s maniacal laugh carries through the woods, cleaving a path through the wind
>“Quite the contrary, actually. I’ve hooked the Foxer up to a low-dose drip of Traumatin – something to help potentiate the dream space for him to work in. And that bag of fluids… should be easy enough for us to spike.”
>“Spike, doctor? You don’t mean-”
>You can almost hear Anna’s disembodied voice grin as she speaks
>“The plan is exactly what you think it is. We spike the Foxer. I’ve seen it work for the Zealots on lesser doses of Traumatin than what we’ve given the heretics here; it may work for the dose Anonymous is on.”
>“I- I don’t know,” the assistant stutters, “an experimental dose is extremely high, a medical dose is very low…”
>“And the right dose that still lets us revive patients is somewhere in the middle,” Anna replies. “We have a window, Sam. I don’t know how big it is, or if it’s even open. But I do know that but one-hundred twenty milligrams of Monk Root extract and a small syrette of ‘liquid courage’ in the Foxer’s IV is going to send him crashing through that window, open or not.”
>“You’re not being serious, are you?”
>“Deadly serious. We have no other choice
>Sam’s voice shakes as he speaks, heavy with moral panic
>“With his heart rate where it is, doctor, don’t you think that’s reckless?! Giving a teenager a month’s worth of Monk Root extract in one dose? Why don’t we test it on the crow first and see before we give it to Anonymous?”
>Anna scoffs
>“You think a heretic… weighing in at less than one-hundred pounds…. can handle that high a dose of stimulant? No. The Foxer is our last chance to wake them ALL up. Get them all holding hands nice and snug, wake the Foxer, and the rest ride the kick back to us, and that dosage is the only amount we haven’t tried yet!”
>“Some things are certain, aren’t they?! You know as well as I if we administer that dose we WILL kill him. His heart can’t take much more stress on it as is! And if Neelan finds out we lost one of our ow-
>The sound of metal instruments clattering off trays and onto the cold, tiled floor rings through the forest
>Papers catching air, slipping through a sterile environment
>An unseen nurse gasps
>There’s the sound of nearby struggle
>And the shriek of Anna’s assistant:
>“Doctor! STOP!”
>Anna’s snarling voice turns yourself, the crow, and even the entity’s attention towards the treeline
>“I want you to remember something, Sam. Do you see those heretics struggling with nightmares? Do you see them in OUR beds, eating OUR food, taking OUR coin for their care?!”
>“I- I…” Sam stutters, “I do.”
>“So you see then, the three ravens, the crow and the Foxer? Now do you see the heretics?”
>“Doctor, Anonymous is a human… h-he is no heretic,” Samuel’s voice shudders with fear
>Anna is silent for a moment, and you get the sense that she’s flashing a revealing glare at her assistant
>“There are no human beings in those beds, Sam. Not anymore. Anonymous included. So even if the Foxer looks like one of us… I assure you, he’s not. Even if he speaks our tongue…. even if he worships OUR God, eats our food; if he says he’s on our side; if he spreads roots with some girl, and builds a family? His lineage is tainted with genetic stain. Those possessing mutations are not human so far as the Church is concerned.”
>“Doctor… he’s… not… but he’s helping us, isn’t he?”
>“He is. Two truths can exist at the same time – the truth of Anonymous’ eagerness to work with us, and the word I received an hour ago from Vigil, can also be true.”
>“Vigil? The capital sent word?”
>Anna hums, which is like an earthquake to all three of you
>“This isn’t some Church bureaucracy, Sam. This writ is signed by Cardinal Baalgruf himself.”
>“So it is true then, isn’t it?” Sam’s voice is small and defeated, “If it comes from him…”
>“What you heard is true. Anonymous, his sister Natalie, and their uncle – even his missing parents retroactively – are to be branded as heretics until they prove useful to God and His holy Church, as so decreed by Cardinal Baalgruf of Vigil.”
>“This one…” Greg says, pausing a good five or six yards away from you, “…it is…”
>His knees buckle, as if submitting prostrate to the empty sky
>“…nimble…” Greg rumbles, as if dissatisfied he missed his first strike
>His spine curves into an unnatural ‘C’ as begins throwing huge chunks of undergrowth behind him
>His harnesses, carabineers, and ropes fixed to his ‘costume’ remain static and unmoving against gravity
>Greg quickly passes into the top soil
“This one… we seek clay… earth…”
>Sensing that now is its chance, the little crow streaks towards the entity riding the direction of the wind
>Each stroke of its black wings takes it just a little higher into the air
“Wait…” you choke out, reaching for the bird as if you could stop her
>…her?
>Your uncle stands up and straightens his back like an iron-rod, work kneepads wearing a crust of mud and leaves
>In your uncle’s right hand he easily weighs a muddy stone; a natural projectile carved out of the western mountains by time and water
“Up!” you shout at the bird, who just barely manages to curve its black body upward into a draft…
>For the first time since this all began, you can feel yourself smiling, even if it’s an unconscious thing
>She’s going to make it, you think, as she soars just above Greg’s hea-
>Greg’s free hand flinches
“GO LEFT!” Is all you have time to shout
>Greg’s arm shoots upwards like a piston
>Your uncle’s free palm closes around the bird’s midsection, practically crushing a terrified gasp out of it
>There’s a pained squawk, and a spray of black feathers, like a grapefruit’s insides being forced out of its tender shell
>The terrified, mortal caw of a crow crapped in the vise-grip of this… thing… wearing your uncle’s shell forces your legs to move
>You’re not even conscious of the fact
>The only feeling right now is the blustering wind in your face
>And the tension compressed in your fists like a landmine
>Your uncle brings the struggling crow to its teeth
“DROP HER.”
>The crow writhes in the entity’s grasp, its blue eyes turning to meet you, beak squawking with pain
>Greg levels his gaze at you, the stone balanced in his other hand
>“If we do this, we run the risk of killing the Foxer – and inadvertently, ourselves,” Sam sighs
>“Look at it as an act of mercy then. A swift return to God’s Promise has to be more pleasant than whatever going on in there. If we let his heart and body go through whatever it is he’s going through for much longer, he’s going to end up a cadaver.”
>“And so will we,” Sam replies glumly. “Or at the very least, exiles.”
>“I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty comfortable living among my kind in relative opulence. Now, go get the syringe ready and get the spike into his arm before his heart pops like a grape.”
>“Yes, doctor. One moment.”
>Your legs churn faster until your in a dead sprint
>Something’s going to happen outside this dream, you can feel it
>The crow’s legs kick and struggle, its body attempting to writhe its way out of the entity’s iron claws
“Let HER GO!” You roar, blurring past the dead flower, its roots strewn about the dying grass like entrails of a felled deer
>For the first time in what feels like days since you woke up here…
>…your uncle’s lips curl up into his first ever smile – a smile that might even come from a place of understanding of the emotions behind such a thing
>“Dream walkers… four… take… token…” he moans, “Punish.”
>Greg unhinges his jaw to an unnatural degree
“GREG!”
>He brings the struggling crow up between his shattered teeth
>Your heart jumps in your chest
>You’re not going to make it in time
>Horrified squeals – squeals not unlike that of a terrified human – boom out of the crow, who throws her all into breaking free
“Greg, wait, wait!” You shout, as you burst into a sprint with what’s left of the adrenaline in your veins. “You can have the fucking key!”
>You’re not fast enough
>“Syrette is ready, doctor.”
>“Alright, tap into the bag,” Anna’s distant voice says
>“On it.”
>In an anguished screech of animalistic fear, Greg’s shattered teeth clamp down on the crow’s midsection, pausing to rip a mouthful of feathers, skin, and hollow bones out of the still fighting animal
>Hardly chewing, your uncle spews out a mouthful of black feathers and half-chewed muscle
>Rich blood threads the gaps between his fingers, stains his cracked teeth
>Dribbles down his chin
>The crow seizes, wracked by agony, as Greg eats it alive
>“We’re tapped in.”
>“Administer the full dose, Samuel.”
>“Depressing plunger.”
>You get about three yards out when you see Greg remove the half-eaten crow from his mouth
>You can only watch as the crow’s eyes – once a rich sapphire – heave closed
>Two gates of a city you’d very much like to visit
>Your uncle – that thing – is getting smarter
>You anticipated the stone throw
>But not what’s left of the crow
>In a snap of its arm, Greg rockets the dead crow’s body right at your center mass
>And though you narrowly dodge that, you’re happy, as odd as that is
>She’s finally flying
>When you crash onto the underbrush, you skitter-stop on your side
>Pain rings in your body like the striking of a dull bell
>You hear boots crunching through a carpet of dead leaves and branches
>You turn to see your uncle approaching, stone in-hand
“I swear on my name in God’s Promise,” you groan, pain clipping your words. “I will shatter the bones… in every finger… of the hand… that takes her from me AGAIN!”
>You stand, wavering, but determined
>You raise your fists in a fighting stance
>Greg halts before you…
>“Any change?”
>“His heart rate is climbing as expected. Involuntary muscle contractions consistent with high doses of monk root and liquid courage…”
>…and you gasp, as all of the air in your lungs is forced out of your body in one, sudden punch of stone against your ribs
>The shot crumples you almost instantly
>You didn’t even see the thing’s arm move
>Curled up into yourself, you try to suck wind into your body against jagged, broken ribs
>Your lungs are hardly inflating, like two balloons that hold no air
>So you rasp
“I… I let people I love get hurt again…” you moan to yourself, somehow thinking of the crow whose body lay strewn in pieces
>You roll onto your back, fighting for air
>Your uncle mechanically steps over you, to retrieve the stone, each thump of his heavy work boots against the forest floor like a hunting drum struck somewhere in the sky above
>A hunting drum – like in Rhilla’s nightmare – marches to the skyrocketing pace of your heart
>You must be dying
>It’s like a dream
>A blissful dream
>And you can only watch as the entity’s muddy boots pause in front of you
>Your eyes follow Greg’s legs up
>But when natural instinct drive you to make eye contact…
>…Greg’s not Greg any more
>What was once sun-baked skin and soft, watery eyes, is now bereft of the fine lines and contours that make a man
>Spindly arms and legs of shadow; a dear headdress like some primitive shaman from beyond time
>His eyes are gone, and in their place: two cold stars slipping beneath the surface of gravity’s tension
>The entity – whatever this thing is – crouches low, nearly eye-level with you
>A black, broken hand snakes into your right-front pocket, cloying for your dream token
>With what’s left of your adrenaline, your heart thundering against your ribs, you grip onto the thing’s wrist
“W-What… are you?” You mutter, pouring everything you have left into fighting off this… thing
>“Sam! Sam! Look at this!
>The assistant gasps like a concussive blast in the trees “My… God… he’s grabbing his own wrist! Look at that tension in his fingers!”
>“Tell the nurses the smoke break is over. Get the heretic’s service animal in here too. Bring the Foxer back up – I’m going to get some downers ready for when he flies out of bed.”
>The entity rips its arm free, perhaps confused that you can still challenge it
>It stands above you, starlight eyes winking in the cold void of its soul, the heavy stone dangling from his right hand
>For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other – you fighting to keep your heart from exploding…
>…the entity… studying you with interest, as if not expecting you to have strength
>“Dream walkers… four… now… three…”
>Your heart feels like it’s about to explode out of your chest
>The entity’s lanky body hovers over you as you sputter blood from your lungs
“W-Who are you?” is all you can say
>A shadow falls over your sight as the entity – using both hands – brings its stone up high over its own head
>The entity at last replies to your question
>“I… am.”
>With that, it brings the stone down against your skull in a bone crumpling swing
>Everything goes black in an instant
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