Sleipnir never really slept, but then it would have been true to say that he was never completely awake. A creature with one foot permanently balanced in each of eight Worlds, a part of him was always in Dream, and he moved along the path of Worlds with the ease of a ray of sunlight. Death, Dream, the Worlds Above – all were the same to the Horse of Fire, and he led the travellers speedily along the shores of the river, where black birds flew and the thing they sought – which happened also to be his quarry – shone out among the skerries of Dream, a lone blue light in the wilderness.
Adam was not asleep, of course. Instead he stood guard in the stables, watching in astonishment as Maggie clambered onto the Horse, then vanished with Sleipnir into mid-air, leaving nothing but the empty stall and the sunny scent of hay in their wake. Once more the Whisperer’s absence left him feeling strangely light, and for a moment he harboured a dangerous thought – What if they never come back at all? – and felt a little stab of hope. Then he dismissed the thought as absurd, and settled down in the hay to wait.
* * *
Meanwhile Maggie was riding across a vast, deserted, level plain, the terrain obscured by ground-mist, the sky a tarnished steel lid. On the horizon, a river ran – or perhaps a part of the One Sea. Certainly Maggie had never seen any river as broad as this, not even in her stolen books.
Otherwise she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. This was a far cry from the excitement of Red Horse Hill. Even Sleipnir looked normal here – a placid old strawberry roan plodding through the wilderness.
‘What is this place?’ she said aloud.
We’re very close to the source of Dream. The Voice in her mind sounded almost smug. Can you see the river? The islands? That means we’re getting close.
Maggie looked across the plain. The river in the distance was only faintly discernible; a movement against that layer of mist. Occasional marsh-lights flared at their feet, but otherwise there was nothing to be seen, and no sound at all but the muted baffle of Sleipnir’s hooves against the ground, and the sound of her own heart, like the beat of a moth’s wing in an empty cathedral.
‘Close? But we’ve been here hours,’ she said.
Time works differently in Dream. Believe Me, we are getting close.
Well, Maggie thought, the river at least looked no nearer than it had when they had entered this world. And she couldn’t see any islands – just a formless clutter of clouds against the far horizon. Except that if she narrowed her eyes, she could see strange shapes in that jumble of clouds; shapes that sometimes resolved themselves into faces of people she’d once known. Her father. Her mother. Her brothers. Her childhood friend, Molly Carr, who had died when she was only eight. At that, Maggie gave a start of surprise – she hadn’t thought of Molly for years – and made as if to dismount.
No! exclaimed the Voice in her mind. You don’t set foot on the ground here. Not even for a moment!
‘Why?’ said Maggie. ‘The Horse doesn’t seem to be having any trouble.’
Must you question everything? The Voice sounded almost plaintive. Can’t you just do as you’re told for once? Find Me the Old Man and leave?
‘Well, I don’t see how you can find anything in this mist,’ Maggie said. ‘I thought that if I walked a bit – I mean, how do you know the Old Man’s here? It might be right at our feet, for all you know.’
I don’t have to know, snapped the Voice. And you don’t have to think, thank gods. All we have to do is ride. Can you do that, Maggie?
Maggie gave a sullen sniff. ‘All right. There’s no need to be rude,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to—’
Yes, I know, said the Voice in her mind. You just wanted to walk a while. Shall I show you what happens then? Will that make you happy?
She shrugged.
There’s a knife in your pocket. Take it out.
‘How did you—?’
I just know, said the Voice. Now take it out of your pocket, girl. Hold it out at arm’s length. Then drop it at the Horse’s feet. Well, what are you waiting for?
‘Will I be able to find it again?’ Maggie said, still holding out the pocket-knife.
I very much doubt it, said the Voice dryly. But perhaps then your interminable curiosity will be satisfied.
Maggie let the knife fall. For a moment she thought it had vanished in mid-air; and then she was struck by a realization so huge that she almost fell off Sleipnir’s back. She gave a cry, looked upwards, and tightened her hands on Sleipnir’s mane until the knuckles showed bone-white. Above her, the sliver of metal that had been her pocket-knife streaked up into the iron-grey sky …
Except that it wasn’t the sky at all, as Maggie now suddenly understood. They were travelling upside-down. The mist at their feet was cloud, she saw; the marsh-lights were far-off lightning; while the grey lid above them was the ground, some great, incomprehensible distance away.
I told you things were different here, said the Voice with a trace of smugness. And especially here, in the heart of Dream, travel is rarely straightforward.
‘Is that why we needed the Horse?’ said Maggie, trying not to be sick. How far above their heads was the ground? Half a mile? Ten miles? ‘And how come he doesn’t fall?’
Sleipnir isn’t just a horse. He’s a creature of ephemera, given the outward shape of a horse. In Dream, he could look like anything. Like this …
And, just for a moment, Maggie found herself at the helm of a long, tall ship with bright red sails, all fluttering with pennants and flags along the rigging.
Or this …
Now Sleipnir became an oliphant, his bridle studded with rubies, bearing a tower on his back and daubed all over with red clay.
Or maybe this …
The Horse’s final transformation was something Maggie had never seen. It felt like some kind of a carriage, upholstered in red velvet, which moved so much faster than any vehicle she had ever encountered; blurring through worlds at the speed of Dream and making a sound like thunder—
Maggie clenched her fists. ‘Stop that!’
Instantly the Horse was back, as placid and plodding as ever.
‘How do you do that?’ Maggie said.
I don’t, said the Voice. I simply redirected your glam – which, by the way, is impressive. As I’m sure you’re aware, Maggie, I don’t have a physical presence yet. But that will soon change. As soon as we have the Old Man.
‘So,’ said Maggie. ‘This Old Man – where exactly is it meant to be?’
In Dream, of course, replied the Voice.
‘Yes, but—’
Dream is a place in perpetual flux, made up of countless islands. Some are very small, while others may contain whole worlds. Some last for only fragments of time, others may last longer. I have reason to believe that the object we seek has attached itself to one of these dreamlets.
‘So – you don’t actually know which one.’
If I knew that, why would I need you, or the Horse? The smugness had gone, to be replaced once again by the Voice’s habitual petulance. A thing can only be pulled out of Dream as a physical entity. Even a chunk of rock might do, if— It stopped abruptly. What was that?
It looked like a streak of bright light shooting between the Horse’s hooves. For the first time in their strange journey, Sleipnir showed signs of excitement. He pricked up his ears and shook his mane, and blew sparks out of his nostrils. The sparks were red and orange, and circled around them like fireflies.
‘Is that it?’ Maggie said.
No, it’s not. The Voice was curt. But we may not be the only ones looking for the Old Man.
Maggie squinted into the cloud, trying not to think of the infinite space beneath it. She found that it was far more comfortable to recall the illusion of a mist-covered plain, beneath which occasional marsh-lights flared. The light she had seen was nothing like these: for a start, it was much brighter; and secondly it seemed to move below them with a definite intent. It was also getting closer. Maggie saw it shining out, brighter than the
heart of a forge.
‘Is it – one of the Firefolk? Is it my sister?’ Maggie said.
I hope not, said the Voice dryly. After what happened on Red Horse Hill, I’m not exactly confident.
‘That’s not fair!’ Maggie said. ‘I didn’t know she was one of them.’
The Whisperer gave a mental shrug. The fact is, you’re unreliable. Your loyalties are divided. I can see it in your mind. You think you can win her over.
Maggie looked defiant. ‘Well, maybe I can win her over,’ she said. ‘If only I could talk to her—’
Listen, Maggie, said the Voice, sounding very cold now. I know you don’t trust Me. I understand. I hope the time may come when you do. But you care about Adam, don’t you?
‘Yes.’
Then for Adam’s sake, do as I say. I will tell you what to do. And when we have the Old Man, I will let the boy go.
Maggie nodded. ‘All right.’
Beneath them, the light was dazzling now; a shield of brilliance under the mist. It was hard to see details in the cloud, but for a moment Maggie thought she could see the shape of something behind the brilliance. She narrowed her eyes, then, remembering that this was Dream and that here her inner vision was strongest, made a circle between her left forefinger and thumb and squinted through that at the moving light.
The result was dramatic. She suddenly saw, in the burning heart of that radiance, the image of an old woman – eighty, ninety, a hundred years old – her white hair flying out behind her, her legs tucked under her body, her hands clenched tightly onto the side of …
Was that really a washing basket?
For a moment Maggie could only stare. It certainly looked like a washing basket; its spectral form danced in the air, and beneath it, bearing it along, was something almost like a horse …
Of course, it bore no resemblance to horses Maggie had already seen. It did remind her of Sleipnir, though – Sleipnir in the Aspect he had assumed on Red Horse Hill. But whereas Sleipnir was fiery in Aspect, this creature – if it was alive at all – was very clearly a spirit of the air. It seemed to be made up of filaments of light, strung like luminous spiderweb across the darkness. Its tail stretched out interminably; its mane was a burning nebula. And, astride it, the old woman in her washing basket grinned and cackled and waved at her.
Gods! She sees me, Maggie thought.
But the Whisperer was showing signs of agitation.
Lose them! ordered the Voice in her mind. Don’t let them follow us any further.
‘Is she one of the Firefolk?’
No, it’s worse than that, said the Voice. Wake the Red Horse of Tribulation, and soon the others will wake up too. If you’d done your job on Red Horse Hill— Maggie heard it snap off the thought like someone cutting the head off a rose. Never mind that now, it said. But we need to outrun it. It means to follow Sleipnir.
As if he had heard his name spoken aloud, Sleipnir gave a nervous whinny. Maggie noticed that he was beginning to revert to his fiery Aspect – sparks shot from his mane and tail; his legs began to lengthen; the net of glam that bridled him began to shine a brilliant blue – and Maggie knew that in a few moments the strawberry roan would once more become the creature she’d birthed from the Horse’s Eye.
Hang on! warned the Whisperer. We may have to travel on rough terrain—
But before it had even finished the sentence, the fabric of Dream was already changing around them. Gone were the illusions of earth and sky; gone was the distant river, the clouds at the horizon. Now there was no horizon at all, but a cluster of lights in the distance towards which Sleipnir began to accelerate at some incomprehensible speed.
Keep firm hold of the reins!
But Maggie had no intention of letting go. Her only previous ride through Dream had been tame in comparison with this, and she did not have Maddy’s experience of travelling through Netherworld. This was altogether different, and if it had not been for Adam, still waiting for her in the Universal City, she would have banished the Whisperer from her mind and escaped the horrors through which she now fled …
Islands, the Voice had called them.
To Maggie, they were nothing like any island she had ever heard of. But they did float; like Fair Day balloons they drifted around the travellers, moving in every direction, some circling, some rising, some clothed in glam, some almost dark. Some seemed to be travelling upside-down – whole cities floating in mid-air with their spires scraping the river bed; though for all Maggie knew, she was the one who had lost her sense of perspective.
There were places that looked almost like home, with its narrow streets and its harbour. There were valleys and peaks, forests and glades. There were stolen moments; lost loves; secret kisses; guilty thoughts. There were diamonds buried a million miles deep, and hidden fears and long-lost friends. There was standing in the marketplace, clothed in nothing but your skin, while a crowd of village Elders watched in disapproval. There were creatures shaped like musical instruments; hens with heads like trumpets and tuba-bodied pot-bellied pigs. There was swimming in the One Sea by night, watching the shooting stars overhead. There was running barefoot down an endless corridor, with terrible creatures in pursuit. There was the memory of birth and the certainty of death. There was nothing; there was everything – and through it all rode Maggie Rede and the Horse of Fire, while Crazy Nan and the Horse of Air followed in their turbulent wake.
And then, just as suddenly, they stopped, and Maggie found herself floating in a small red rowing boat down a swift-moving river. There were no oars on the rowing boat, and yet it moved freely enough, rocking violently to and fro. Maggie, mindful of Sleipnir’s earlier transformations, kept a firm hand on the rudder and tried to avoid the debris that seemed to rise and fall in the murky water. She soon became aware that the Horse of Air had joined her – once more becoming the washbasket in which Crazy Nan had begun her journey – but, urged to greater speed by the Voice inside her mind, she concentrated all her efforts on following the current towards a third vessel, seemingly adrift, just visible through the thick mist coming off the water. The third vessel was unoccupied, but there was something there all the same; something that Maggie could almost make out in the runeshape made by finger and thumb …
‘Is that the Old Man?’ she said.
Whatever it was, she thought, it was bright. Its brightness baffled her truesight. It was like looking at something against the sun; and she found that even through Bjarkán she could not determine the size of the thing, or whether it was alive.
Don’t waste time! said the Whisperer. Just reach for it as you go past!
‘Reach for it? With what?’ Maggie said. ‘I don’t even have a piece of rope.’
But already the time for discussion was past. The river Dream, here at its source, flows with incredible swiftness, and Maggie’s little rowing boat was being carried along at such a speed that within the four or five seconds of their conversation they had almost reached their target. Crazy Nan was not far behind – perhaps a couple of boat lengths – and Maggie could hear her laughing and singing to herself above the roar of the river.
‘Let it go!’ cackled Crazy Nan. ‘You can’t outrun Epona!’
From which Maggie quite wrongly concluded that Epona was this mad old demon-woman’s name, and wasted unnecessary seconds trying to remember if she’d heard it before, or indeed why the bizarre spectacle of an old woman riding in a washing basket should awaken in her memory the sound of her dead mother singing, and a sudden craving for roast beef—
Stop her! the Whisperer almost moaned. Let her get in front of you, and all My work will be in vain …
Maggie kept her hand on the boat while trying to see over her shoulder. The crazy old woman was six feet away. For a moment Maggie’s granite-gold eyes met Nan’s faded blue ones, and she raised her hand, where the rune Ác flared, ready to strike—
‘Maddy Smith!’ cackled Nan. ‘Fancy seeing you here! We’re going to the land, girlie!’ she cried, shaking her head in
glee. ‘The Land of Roast Beef, where the Faëries play, and no one ever goes hungry!’
Perhaps it was hearing that name, Maggie thought, when she later recalled what had happened. Or perhaps it was the sudden idea that the old woman had pulled a thought from her mind. Either way, it spoiled her aim, and Ác flew harmlessly past Nan’s head and vanished into the slipstream.
At the same time, a wave propelled Nan’s washing basket a fraction ahead of Maggie. Nan’s skinny arm shot out and grabbed something out of the third boat, and then the Horse of Air was off, careening through the waters of Dream and right up into the rapturous air, with Nan’s voice shrieking with glee in its wake and the Whisperer’s rage, immense and all-consuming, crushing Maggie like a vice and roaring in her head:
NO! NO! IT WAS IN OUR HANDS!
And then the impossible happened. Crazy Nan dropped her prize. Perhaps it was the excitement, or the fatigue of that ride to the gates of Hel, or the fact that her old arms were not as strong as they used to be. In any case, she dropped it, and for a moment the object that both of them sought fell like a star across the face of Dream.
Maggie, who had gone cold at the thought of what her failure might mean for Adam, found herself acting on instinct she never even knew she had. With uncanny speed she flung out Sleipnir’s reins like a fishing line and dragged at the falling object. For a second she thought it hadn’t caught … and then it was somehow in her hands – a thing that might have been a rock, but which gleamed a curious kingfisher-blue.
And then, in a moment, she was back. Dream closed like a curtain behind her. She almost fell as the Red Horse gave an eager lurch towards the hay net above his stall. The ride must have given him quite an appetite, thought Maggie, clinging to the object she had brought out of Dream; then she slid off the Horse’s back and into Adam’s waiting arms.
‘Adam, I got it! The Old Man!’
Let me see it, the Whisperer said, resuming its place in Adam’s mind. The boy was not an ideal host – it would have been far better to possess the girl, with her marvellous, untrained, unbroken glam, but it already knew from experience that Maggie was too strong to break. Unless she gave herself willingly, beggars could not be choosers.