He tried to push the idea away, but fear - cloying, stifling, all-encompassing fear - demanded that he dwell upon it.
What if it’s dying and wants revenge on me?
He heard a noise from Maddie’s room; it was the sound of a door closing, overlaid by a muffled voice that might have been his mother’s. He looked up and saw that the light was still on, though no-one had yet come to the window. At the periphery of his gaze, he noticed movement. The clown, hissing harshly, began to inch towards him.
Benjamin bolted, making sure to use his good leg as he left his mark. If he could count on one thing now, it was that the monster wasn’t intent upon anyone but himself. He made for the back gate, half running, half stumbling, the pain in his knee rising to a sickening spike every time his left foot hit the ground. He didn’t quite know what he hoped to achieve when he reached the gate; it was tall, and its bolts were too stiff to offer him a chance of exit before the monster was upon him. He could climb it, of course - but only if his left leg was up to the task. At the moment, it didn’t seem capable of scaling even a single stair.
Behind him, the clown bellowed; he felt a rush of air at his back and heard a terrible whomp as something thudded against the soft grass just beyond his heels. The monster had struck out at him and missed by mere millimetres. If he needed any extra impetus to make good on his escape, then that was it; the gate, fast approaching, would have to be climbed, and the pain, ever more acute, would just have to be ignored. There was absolutely no choice in the matter.
Once it was within striding distance, Benjamin leapt at the gate, again making sure to spring from his good leg. As soon as his fingers caught the top edge, he hoisted himself upwards, his bare feet scrabbling against the rough wood, his bad knee protesting with numb agony as his legs sought purchase. Nevertheless, the ascent proved to be easier than he had feared, and he had succeed in hauling his right leg over the top before a terrific thump nearby interrupted his efforts.
Glancing over to the left, he saw that the clown had jumped and landed on the roof of the shed that abutted the back fence. He didn’t even consider his next move when he saw the clown lift one of those huge, pale hands; he simply rolled off the top of the gate and let himself drop into the alleyway that lay on the other side, uncaring of how painful the fall might prove to be. As he descended he saw - so very briefly - his former perch explode into splinters. The clown had struck at him again, and missed again; and then the boy was on the ground, landing on his side as the creature above issued a tremendous, siren-like howl of rage.
It was angrier now - much angrier; the boy’s nimble dodge had not impressed it.
Getting to his feet as fast as he could - which was no easy task, considering that the drop had left him with an aching shoulder to go along with the bad knee - Benjamin scrambled away, in the direction of the amber-lit street that lay at the eastward end of the alleyway. There, he knew, he would find people, roused by the commotion and watching out; if he was lucky, there was every possibility that the clown might be shy enough of those spying eyes to call off the chase. It was a small hope, but it was all he had. Either that, or he was acting as only the truly doomed can act, and grasping for the light even though he knew that, deep down, it was hopeless.
Whatever; he simply ran - or ran as much as his injuries would allow. And just as he was beginning to believe that he really could reach that tear-hazed light, he chanced a look up, only to see that nasty, twisted form spiralling overhead, the arc of its descent carrying it to the one place where he did not want it to go.
The clown had leapt - another of those huge, incredible lunges that he’d seen it perform at their previous engagement - and was coming in to land ahead of him, blocking off the route to the lights. Benjamin turned, not finding time enough to despair, and ran - limped - towards the other end of the alleyway, the one which led to Wandringham wood. He thought, briefly, of the grassy area that lay just before the trees, but could not bring himself to hope that Lilac might be there, waiting for him. Life simply did not have that much promise.
But what else could he do? Where else could he go? Home? And endanger not just himself but his family too? No, not a chance. True, he could batten upon the gate of a neighbour who might, just might, come to his aid - but the monster would not give him a moment to spare. If he stopped, he was dead, and he knew it. So no, he would have to just keep on running as best as he could, and pray and pray and pray that tonight was not his night to die.
It was hard, though; so terribly hard. There seemed to be hurt everywhere - in his knee, in his side, in his cold, splinter-scratched feet. Every breath seemed to pack his lungs with cold ice; every heartbeat arrived as a hammer-stroke of dread against his breast. He could not decide if he wanted to look back and see how much the clown had caught up with him - but he looked anyway, his eyes somehow making the decision for him. The clown, as it turned out, was further away than he had thought; it must have landed badly - due to its injury, no doubt - and found it difficult to rejoin the pursuit. It was lingering beside a fence, and for one tiny second Benjamin actually believed that the monster had given up on him. No such luck, however; an eyeblink later, and he saw that the clown was tearing at the fence, ripping the slats away from the posts as if they were as slight as balsa. And why it was doing this was soon apparent: grasping a large strip of broken slats, the creature savagely threw the bundle at the boy, performing a kind of ghastly, flailing pirouette as it did so. Benjamin ducked, the projectile bursting into a rain of broken wood as it hit the garage beside him. A few whirling slats caught him on the back, but he was left unharmed. Hauling himself upright, he immediately made off again, taking a quick glance backwards to ensure that another missile was not already on its way.
There was still a decent amount of space between himself and the clown, but he could not count on it lasting; the monster, despite its wound, was too strong, too quick. The moment he dithered, the instant he stopped - then it would be over. He had to keep on running, keep on existing - and not let himself die.
He recalled a television programme he had once seen, involving a fox chased by hounds. Is this how it feels? he thought, as he reached the smaller alleyway that led off from the main. Does the fox feel like I do now? He remembered the capture of the fox, the hounds squabbling furiously over the body. No, came the voice of his mind, nearly incoherent with fear. No it won’t, I won’t; must live, must not die. Something else now: the image of a rabbit, twitching, as a stoat tore viciously at the soft fur of its neck. The eyes of the rabbit bulged; its sides pulsed rapidly as it stole its final, desperate breaths. It knows, came that voice again. It knows it is going to die. A fresh wave of tears flooded his eyes, blinding him as he rushed down the side path. Behind him, the clown crashed against something metallic, something which resounded with a hollow boom. A garage door, maybe. He heard the monster snarl, heard it scrabble at the ground; it had jumped again, and landed awkwardly again. He didn’t need to look back to know that it had gained on him. He didn’t want to look, either.
If it comes, he thought, daring - at last - to confront the fact of his own death. If it comes, let it be quick. Don't let me see it. Let me be unaware. Let my life go suddenly. Let it be like the end of a dream.
His limping footsteps found grass; his gaze, clear now, was suddenly filled with a benighted field and a horizon silhouetted with trees. Soft blades brushed against his soles and toes. The air, cool and moist, was redolent with alighting dew.
He had reached the field, then; the place where he had first met with his pursuer. Back then, he’d had the fortune of being with someone who knew how to deal with this monstrosity; now, however, he was alone. Hurt and sad and alone.
Mum, he said to himself, closing his eyes. I’m sorry. But what did he have to be sorry about? Nothing, really. A few tantrums from his early childhood; an explosion of rage when his mother refused to buy him some trinket from a toyshop. I wish I had been better, he thought, knowing that, in truth, he hadn’t been so
bad. I hope I made you happy. I hope you won’t be too sad when I -
And then, crying, he fell to his knees, his hands covering his face. There was nowhere else to go.
I’m sorry mum. I have to stop.
Something smashed into his back, though he hardly felt it. The next thing he knew, he was skidding along the grass, gasping for breath, a dry, hard ache in his shoulders. The clown had hit him, propelled him forwards, and left him winded but not dead. Opening his eyes, he saw that the attack had caused him to spin round, and he had a chance to see his assailant prowling stealthily towards him, its hiss interrupted by a series of pauses that made it sound like the chuckle of a mute, before he closed them again. Laying there, without the strength or the will to get back up, his hand went to the pocket where he had stashed his gourd. He couldn’t quite remember if he had taken it with him. He thought it would be nice if he could see his first great dream again. If he died amid that dream, maybe it would last forever.
And yet, though the dream did indeed return, the gourd did not. Instead, his hand found only shards. Pulling some free, he brought the handful as close to his face as he could, so that when he opened his eyes he would not have to see the clown when he looked at them. The shards were sharp and unyielding. Like broken glass. And when he saw them - dim in the dark, but not invisible - his fears were confirmed: his gourd was broken. Smashed to pieces in his pocket, probably as a result of his fall from the window or his drop from the gate. Shattered. Useless.
His head fell against his arm, and his grip tightened around his ruined treasure. It hurt, but so what? Everything hurt now. Even the sight of his first great dream, still intact despite the damage done to the thing that conferred it upon him, brought more sorrow than grace. It reminded him too much of an age when he did not fear, when the world was a simple place, and life seemed eternal. It caused him to regret, which made it worse because he knew, deep down, that there was nothing he needed to regret.
Why should I? he thought, a pinprick of anger piercing his grief. Why should I be sorry? Why should I just sit here and die?
He forced himself to glare at the clown. Why shouldn’t I live, freak? The clown glared back, no longer approaching directly, but taking a sideways course; it was beginning to circle him, though for what reason he couldn’t tell. Maybe it wanted to eke out the torture a little; maybe it wanted to savour the sight of its quarry in distress. Who knew? If it was happy to delay the killing stroke, then so be it. Benjamin didn’t care. Right then, all he cared about was his death, and the fact that it was not about to go unchallenged. “So why shouldn’t I live?” he yelled, his voice cracking at the end. He hauled himself up to his knees, defiantly brushing the tears from his eyes. He held the shards, bunched in his fist, out to the monster. And then he asked the question that he had asked of Vespinner; the appeal, the last pining call of the desperate. “What do you want?” he cried ... and in so doing, he finally saw how he might live.
29
My lord wishes to offer you a place at his left, had said Vespinner. To learn his greatest secret. To make and unmake. To live, to rule; to be at his side when he conquers the blasphemous island; to share in his supreme triumph when he takes all the world.
The words were stark in his mind, like a brand. And when he reviewed them, silently, he found that four of these words seemed to persist in his thoughts, as if there was something significant about them - something important, but subtle. Or maybe not so subtle - maybe it was something so overwhelmingly obvious that he couldn’t quite allow himself to believe it.
To make and unmake.
He took his gaze away from the clown - which had paused, glaring with dumb stupefaction at this sudden show of recalcitrance in the boy - and brought it to the shards in his hand. He asked himself why he was thinking about this now, with his span about to be cut so brutally short. Was it because he had surpassed all terror now, and become mad? Or was it because there was a genuine clue in those words - a clue which should be immediately apparent, but somehow remained obscure.
To make and unmake.
He whispered what he had whispered to himself when he had awoken on the morning after his return and found the gourd on his bedside table: I’m a dreamshader, he had said. I mustn’t forget it. And then his thoughts turned to Lilac, and the strange analogy she had made at their first meeting: an artist is still an artist even if he never picks up a brush.
He didn’t understand it then. He understood it now, however. And he couldn’t say that it proceeded to all click into place, because it had always been in place. He just hadn’t seen it - or rather, hadn’t needed to see it.
I’m a dreamshader, he pronounced, but not aloud. I’ve always been a dreamshader, and always known it. I make and unmake. I shape and unshape. From the dream comes the silf, and from the silf I create. But what I create can be uncreated; what I shape can be unshaped. Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. Dream to silf, silf to dream. I make and unmake; I shape and reshape.
He took one last, hard look at the clown. It was shuddering, though not with fear. Its wound, wherever it was, was finally getting the better of it. It’s now, then, he thought. I die or I live. What is it to be?
He closed his eyes and, keeping a tight hold of the shards, immersed himself completely in his first great dream. He knew that the clown would not let itself perish until its murderous mission was accomplished. He would have to be fast.
Ignore the pain, he said to himself, letting the dream flood his mind. Ignore the hurt. Ignore the fear. I die or I do not. Let’s see what it shall be...
And it was easy; so, so easy. He may only have achieved one transfiguration, but it seemed to have imbued him with a lifetime’s worth of practice. Admittedly, he was having to work the craft in reverse, but it was no difficult matter. An artist is still an artist even if he never picks up a brush. The shape of the dream was indescribable, but it was clear, and all he had to do was let it become vague. After that, there were perhaps a hundred other shapes waiting to be invoked; it was just a question of finding the one most suited to his purpose.
He felt heat in his outstretched hand; and a tingling, like pins and needles. It’s becoming a silf again, he thought. The clown issued a guttural bark. Was it surprised? Possibly. If it was, Benjamin couldn’t count on it being surprised for long; to a beast such as that, an event such as this presupposed only danger, and it would be quick in snuffing it out.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t rush; he had to take as much time as was necessary. And neither could he panic. If he did, he would find nothing amid the potentials currently unfurling before him. He had to keep his mind composed, and his thoughts centred solely upon the task ahead. And if the clown should charge at him in the meantime, then ... then he could simply not think about it. Only hope - and hope and hope and hope that he had time enough to find something amongst all those potentials that might help him fight back.
But there were so many - and of those he had discovered already, not one offered even the slightest hint of aiding his cause. There was, for example, a filament that, when lit, shed light on places far not near. And a textile whose radiant colour would always match the ambition of its wearer. He fathomed a glinting glass that could capture starlight, keeping it even after the stars were gone (had it been the chief constituent of his gourd, perhaps?); he saw motes that danced to song. Beautiful things, fascinating things - but nothing that could save him.
And frustratingly, against all this, there was the conceit of the dream, the message it had conveyed to him all those years ago: your life is short; your aim is long. Against this backdrop of pyrotechnic wonder, limitless skies and magical mastery, the same incessant, defeatist idea. Your life is short; your aim is long. It was not what he wanted to hear. Not now, not when his only wish was for his life to be long and his aim -
And then, instantly, he understood. For the device that he needed to draw out was right there, at the forefront of his dream. Not subtle, not obscure; right there, right in front of his v
ision-rapt eyes.
It’s the fireworks. I can use the fireworks.
He realised then that the lesson as taught by his first great dream was not just a lesson for life. It was a lesson for every moment, with revelations waiting to be called upon whenever he required them.
This is the first great dream of a dreamshader. As such, it is special. It has already taught me what I need to know. It exists, like the fireworks within it, for me to command. My life is short; my aim is long. But my aim is life, and I want my life to be long.
His eyes snapped open. The warpclown was lumbering towards him, its maw wide, its cry terrifying. He smiled. It had not taken as much time as it seemed. In his hand, where there had once been broken detritus, there was now a silf, writhing angrily in his grasp. It was silver, and so very slight; yet it coiled, shedding sparks, with a vitality that utterly belied its appearance. Clearly, the thing was on the verge of its transformation. Just a second more, perhaps, and it would be primed.
Benjamin drew his arm back, his shoulder protesting with pain. And without taking his eyes away from the looming face of the nightmare, he flung the turbulent silf towards his assailant.
There was no time to wish or pray or hope that the silf would be transfigured before the clown reached him. It would happen or it would not. One more breath, if he was lucky - and after that, either life or death.
The silf could not be thrown far. It was too flimsy, and the air had a greater hold over it than momentum. As soon as it left his palm, it was already fluttering to the ground. Even so, it was enough - but Benjamin didn’t pause to gape when he saw the clown make the fatal mistake of attempting to brush the distraction aside. He caught a glimpse of the silf becoming snared in that sweeping, contemptuous hand, and then he was feverishly scrambling backwards, half-falling, half-rolling, desperate to get away lest he get caught in the -
A flash. Blinding. And a thundercrack boom. He shielded his eyes with a forearm as a series of further reports - bangs and whizzes and a screech that might have come from the clown - filled his ears. A wave of heat passed over him; something hot flashed by the right side of his face. He stole a glance; he had to see it, had to know that the monster had been hit, but the lights were so bright that he did not know what he was looking at until he closed his eyes again and saw the afterimage that the conflagration had left upon his retinas.