Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  There was something in the shape that held Michael transfixed – apart they had simply been two unusual triangles, but joined together they had become something quite beautiful. The iron-wrought Woodland Star now seemed more real than the rest of the gates – more permanent and substantial, living even. Surely this is how it had been intended to be. Its prior parting now seemed a violence against nature itself. He couldn’t imagine it ever coming apart again, and for a reason he couldn’t understand he found a great comfort in that. Something this beautiful shouldn’t ever be divided, he thought. He was pleased that the gates had closed so that he could witness this.

  As he turned to again face the gardens – the pull of… something… once more calling him – he noticed that a mist was descending. It reminded him that it was getting colder, the water that was soaked through his clothes now starting to chill him. The pebbled path beneath him was wide enough for perhaps three people walking side-by-side, and as he again began to walk the sound of the small stones under his feet seemed loud against the stillness of the air around him, almost echoing off the thickening mist. The trees that lined the path were just beginning to be obscured by the haze of the descending fog; the rich colours of the autumnal leaves that filled their branches dulled by filmy wisps in the air. The beds of flowers and shrubs that Michael had briefly noticed when he first entered the gardens were now completely hidden.

  As he walked, Michael could feel the rub of his trainers against his wet socks start to blister his heels, but he continued without slowing. He needed to get there. This was important.

  The path was perfectly straight and the fog continued to grow, and after a few minutes, he could only see perhaps twenty feet ahead. As he looked to his sides, he noticed that the trees along this part of the path had lost more than half of their leaves, as if his journey had been through time itself, each step bringing nature’s slumber closer. The air had grown colder still, and Michael was now lightly shivering as he walked.

  He knew it wasn’t far now. Although he had never before seen these gardens or been on this path, an urgency was filling his chest, a tense expectation extending through his body. He was nearly there, he knew. As he looked to the sides of the path again, he saw the trees were nearly lost in the fog – only the ends of their now desolate branches visible, pointing like skeletal fingers directly towards him. It was as if they were accusing him of their barrenness. If he hadn’t come here, they silently shouted, they would still be in spring’s bloom. The fog would not have come and they would be basking in glory.

  Michael’s shivering intensified, and the blisters on his heels now caused a sharp pain with every step. He tore his eyes from the trees and back to the path ahead, the urgency in his chest pulling him forward.

  As soon as he looked ahead, he saw it, and it compelled him to a sudden stop. He knew instantly that this was what was calling him, but it wasn’t what he had expected. A dozen paces in front of him rose a sword. Its golden hilt was glistening through the mist, and the steel of the long blade was shining as if in perfect sunlight. Michael had visited museums and had seen real swords before, but they were old, dulled by time; many with pockets of rust. The one before him now was gleaming as it if had only just been forged and polished, issued to a king or general who would raise it in the air; its shiny surface visible to soldiers far and wide, calling them to battle.

  Michael took tentative steps toward the sword, edging closer until it was within grasp. The top of the hilt was level with his stomach, and Michael wondered how far the blade was buried, and how long the sword was when fully drawn. It still called to him, but he felt no compulsion to try to draw it from the ground, or even to touch it. He needed to understand it, not hold it.

  As he studied the hilt, he saw that the pommel was in the shape of two faces, one facing each arm of the guard. From where he stood, on the left was the face of a young woman, and on the right that of a much older woman, her wrinkled face moulded into the golden surface. As he slowly walked around the sword he could see that on the other side of the pommel the faces changed from female to male, although the contrast of young and old remained. He didn’t study the faces, though; his eyes drawn downwards. Below the pommel there were shoulders and then arms that wound around the grip, as if embracing the sword’s handle. Elbows turned at right angles to form the guard, the lower arms ending in open upturned palms.

  Michael knelt in front of the sword to examine the blade. He was so engrossed in his inspection that he didn’t notice the silence broken by the deep rumblings from the clouds overhead. Oblivious to the growing anger above, he gazed at his reflection in the blade. It was only now that he saw his own image that he realised how cold his body was, as he saw his lips had turned blue, his long face – usually considered attractive – now looking gaunt with the signs of his chill.

  The grumbling from the clouds above grew stronger. An electrical force started to build within the sword’s sphere and Michael’s skin again responded with goose-bumps. A vague awareness of his danger started to rise, when he saw it at the very top of the blade… the Woodland Star engraved into the bright steel. Confusion, excitement, and fear all coalesced in Michael’s chest and stomach, as the energy in the air surrounding him grew stronger. He was trying to understand why this symbol would be on both the entrance gates to the garden and on this sword – why it excited him – when something was again trying to pull the skin from his bones, the stretching sensation now turning to pain.

  A jolt of awareness returned to him, suddenly remembering the clock, and the lightning bolt. A sudden rush of fear filled him with adrenaline. Closing his eyes, he turned and sprung just in time.

  CRACK!

  Michael felt himself flung through the air, his hard landing knocking the wind from him. The noise was beyond anything he could have imagined. There was no ringing in his ears this time, but the silence in the gardens was amplified. As he squirmed on the ground catching his breath, he realised he could not hear the movement of the pebbles underneath him. The sound of the lightning strike had this time deafened him. If he hadn’t closed his eyes and turned away in time, he would have been blinded, too.

  When he was able to sit up, he looked back at the sword. It had gleamed before, somehow gathering and reflecting what little light there was through the fog, but now it glowed. Since heaven’s touch its light came from within – a soft white light warming the air around it.

  Michael crawled closer and waited in its warmth until his breath had fully returned, but he couldn’t stay here. Whatever power had drawn him here, now released him; the purpose of his coming to the sword complete. But while up until now he had known exactly where to go, he had no such pull this time. As he looked around, he saw two pathways leading in opposite directions – both at right angles from the one on which he had come here. With no obvious way of choosing between them, but sensing that he needed to choose quickly, he picked the left path, and again began walking.

  The warmth of the sword had removed much of the chill from his bones, but his heels were truly hurting with the growing blisters. After walking with the pain for a few minutes he decided he would stop and remove his shoes. My feet can’t get any colder, he thought. As he bent to untie his laces he realised that he was standing on soft grass, all signs of the path having vanished. The realisation hit him that the loss of his hearing had removed the sound of the crunching pebbles beneath his feet, silencing the one thing that had kept him from becoming lost in this vast expanse of white vapour. He tried to retrace his steps, but the fog was now so thick that he could barely see beyond his outstretched arm. After about twenty paces he gave up. In this mist, he would never find his way back to the path.

  Not knowing what else to do, he decided to remove his shoes as planned, and then stood for a moment. Which way? he thought, glancing in each direction; searching for any clue that might help his decision.

  As his eyes scoured the surrounding expanse of white, he caught the faintest hint of movement out of the co
rner of his right eye. He immediately turned to face it, but saw nothing but fog.

  What was that?

  This time the movement flashed by on his left. Something dark he was sure, but when he turned to face it, there was nothing there. His stomach started to churn, fear beginning to ferment within him.

  Again!

  Once more on his right. He started to turn around in circles – chasing his imagination – but he could discern nothing but fog. He called out. Did he? His ears were still muting all sound, and couldn’t tell whether his voice penetrated the heavy mist. Around and around he turned, eyes darting to and fro, dizziness threatening to overcome him.

  He stopped and closed his eyes, silently praying for the mists to leave. But when he opened his eyes again, his fear turned to panic as a hand slowly extended through the fog towards him. Reeling in terror he scrambled backwards, almost toppling over; the hand again disappearing into the fog as he retreated.

  He stopped after a few paces, daring to catch his breath. After a few seconds his panic eased and he wondered whether the hand had been offering salvation from the mists. Forcing his feet into movement, he dared to step forward again. As he regained his ground, he saw that the hand was still there: a right hand, palm turned slightly upwards, an invitation to take it. Though its owner couldn’t be seen through the heavy mist, it was clearly a woman’s hand. With soft, gentle skin, and fingernails painted deep red, Michael thought that the woman must be young.

  He could feel the call – an invitation of safety and companionship – and he reached out, placing his fingers over those of the unknown woman’s.

  A part of him instantly wished he hadn’t. There was a coldness to the touch that went beyond temperature, a clamminess that intuitively suggested deceit. But her hold was quickly strong, and Michael felt himself pulled after her.

  No, not that way. The words came directly to his mind. He instantly planted his feet in the ground to prevent further travel.

  Release yourself from her. You must not go that way. The urgent voice in his mind was also that of a woman, but Michael felt love in it – a love he had longed for his whole life.

  Mother? he silently called back.

  He thought he could almost feel a gentle smile from the voice’s owner. You must try to release yourself. Please.

  The hand holding his strengthened its grip, its pull unrelenting; but the emotion that had entered him from the voice in his head grew powerful. After a brief relaxation of his arm’s muscles he pulled suddenly and with all his strength. With a jolt, his hand was freed, and he fell backwards to the ground with his momentum.

  Michael expected the hand to chase him, but nothing appeared through the fog. As quickly as he could, he stood and ran, stopping after a couple of minutes, when he realised that it would be pointless when he couldn’t see where he was going. The fear filled his body. An instinctive sense that there were invisible hands seeking him through the fog made him want to crawl into a tight ball on the ground, as if the act of making himself smaller would hide him from the menace.

  The voice in his head had not returned, but perhaps it would respond to him. I released myself, he silently called to the woman. Where should I go?

  He worried that he wouldn’t get a reply, but the voice soon enquired, Where do you want to go?

  Michael felt a degree of calm return to his body at the silent reply, but his response was desperately instant. I want to find you. Are you my mother? More than anything he wanted the voice to answer ‘Yes’; his years of feeling abandoned – unwanted – to be over.

  Follow your heart, came the reply, and you will find me when you need to.

  Are you my mother? he cried again.

  He waited, but there was no response this time. Are you my mother?! There was still nothing. Tears began to fall from his eyes, Please tell me. Are you my mother? I want to find my mother? Please… Please.

  Michael fell again to the earth, curling himself into the foetal position, sobbing. He was sure that the voice had been his mother’s, but it had left. Abandoned. Again.

  Always abandoned.

  Forever abandoned.

  He no longer cared if a bodiless hand took him. Let them destroy me if they want to, he thought, wishing extinction to the hopelessness now filling his soul.

  He didn’t know how long he stayed like that; the fog stayed thick around him making passage of time impossible to determine. When he eventually opened his eyes, he could see a row of hands reaching through the fog. He should have been frightened, but strangely wasn’t. Somehow he knew the fingers that now reached for him were unrelated to those which had tried to ensnare him. The previous hand had been… alluring; enticing him forward. In contrast, these sought no response from him. They appeared before him as if offering a gift.

  Slowly standing up, he realised that the hands surrounded him in a ring. Some were clearly human hands belonging to men and women, but others he couldn’t identify: small, thin and bony, snow white – or charcoal black – with sharp pointy talons for nails. All of the hands had their palms facing upwards. Just like the guard on the sword, Michael realised.

  His deafness meant that he couldn’t hear the growing rumbling of the thunder above him, but he could feel his skin grow goose bumps. Looking upwards, he saw that the fog directly above him had disbursed. In its place, separating him from the expanse of space, he saw swirling dark clouds. His skin began to pull taut, and stretch, as he saw the clouds appear to dance with each other.

  They’re not just swirling, Michael realised, they’re forming a pattern.

  He watched with fascination as the clouds stretched into lines, while others formed around the edges, and the pain on the skin of Michael’s body increased. He fell to his knees with the pain, far greater than he had felt previously, not noticing the tiny specks of blood that began to seep through his skin, his life force being sucked through his body’s pores.

  But the image in the sky was calling his soul. The pain, though great, was incidental.

  What is happening to the clouds? he thought, as the pattern continued to form.

  He was becoming dizzy from the pain, and knew he would soon pass out, but fought to maintain his focus; the excitement in his chest providing him with the energy he needed. Michael was transfixed as the clouds finally organised themselves into their design, and astonished beyond measure as he finally saw in the skies the image of the Woodland Star. Myriad questions entered his thoughts, as a spark began to grow from the centre of the clouds, and Michael knew what was going to happen next.

  He forced himself back to his feet, but realised that other than that he wouldn’t be able to move. This time it would strike him directly and he would die, but strangely the thought didn’t cause him alarm. He somehow knew that this was why he had left his flat. The clock in the shopping precinct and the sword were only precursors – foreshadows. This moment was why he was here, and that thought gave him peace.

  He closed his eyes while his face remained skyward, awaiting his destiny, when the woman’s voice again entered his thoughts.

  Trust yourself, Ami.

  He was overwhelmed with a sense of love, and tears again touched his cheeks. He spread his arms wide, his palms facing his celestial executioner.

  CRACK!

  CHAPTER TWO:

  Seeking

  Shadows are curious things. If you ask a man of them, he will say that they are vague and lack definition. He will say that they are less than the thing from which they derive their existence. But is such a man correct in his thoughts? Though the sun be hidden, yet from its shadow the observant eye may still determine its place in the heavens. It is not from men that times and seasons are discovered, but from shadows. While it is true that a man may seek to use his shadow to deceive, often it is the shadow that reveals his sleight of hand. Even more, this dark reflection of his being imprints itself upon that which it touches, leaving traces for those who know how to see. Men may lie, but their shadows do not. We therefore must
ask, which bears the greater truth: the man or his shadow? If we wish to know him, we must take care to gain knowledge of both. Then we may come to know him better than he knows himself, for a man rarely seeks to understand the truths found in his own shadow.

  From the Wisdom of Ashael

  ***

  Michael opened his eyes with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. The bell on his alarm clock was ringing. It took him a few seconds to realise that he was lying in his bed, and that it had all been a dream. The clock. The sword. The fog. The lightning… It had all been a dream. His pillow was wet with the tears he had shed, and his nightclothes damp with sweat. It had all been a dream.

  It had been so vivid, so real. Even now he could remember the feel of the woman’s hand grasping him; the fear that had come with the intuitive knowledge that the alluring invitation had been a trap. The repeating picture of the Woodland Star was still clear in his mind. And the feeling of love that had emanated from the woman’s voice… the emotions that it had brought were still felt in his chest. But they were mixed with anguish knowing that it was untrue, that he had never known a mother’s love and that he never would.

  In truth, Michael didn’t know why the absence of a mother was still so important to him. Sure, he had been abandoned. But that was years ago. He wasn’t the only child to have grown up without parents, and he was sure that other orphans didn’t dwell on it so much, especially not at his age. He hadn’t ever known any other orphans to discuss it with, so he knew that this was an assumption, but he was sure it was true. Only he, Michael, pitied himself over not having known his mother, and he considered himself pathetic for doing so.