The clown, in terrible negative, frozen amid inky splashes of blackness. But the blackness, he knew, was really white. And the clown was not dancing, even though it appeared otherwise.
He quickly shut his eyes again. The cracks continued, ear-splitting, over a rising wail which was certainly not the noise of a rushing rocket or screamer, as the boy had heard it before, when Lilac had shot at the beast. It was the sound of the clown in pain, the siren cry of its distress. And as horrific as it was to his ears, the boy could not deny the joy it brought to him, because it meant that he had hit it, had successfully struck back. But he was still too afraid to be complacent, and could not yet assure himself that he had actually defeated it. Even when the cry was abruptly cut off by another tremendous report, he kept himself huddled to the ground with an arm covering his head, and he did not dare to look up until the air was ringing with silence, the final firework spent.
And when he looked, and saw that the clown was gone, he got shakily to his feet. He smelled sulphur, and something else; something like melted rubber, but not quite. He found that it got stronger as he approached the place where he had last seen the creature. All about the ground there were small fires, many of which were being kindled by strange, papery remains. Like the smell, the remains were concentrated at the spot where the clown must surely have died, but he still couldn’t bring himself to really believe it. Not until he discovered the flame-licked fingers - long and greyish pale in the places where the skin was not already burnt - did he understand that he had won. But he did not cheer, even though the urge was strong. He just waited, standing there, and watched as the flames ate the remains far faster than any earthly fire, until they themselves died out, flickering away to darkness.
There was nothing left. Nothing at all. Not even, perhaps, a single singed blade of grass. Nothing.
His hand went to his pocket and came out empty. His tears returned; the first great dream did not.
***
It did not feel like a victory. It felt like a tragedy. Trudging back towards his house, he remembered that a teacher had once told him that there was a word for this sort of thing: a thirrick victory, or something like that. It meant that you won, but at a terrible cost. Of course, to remain alive was anything but a terrible cost: it was good, it was wonderful, it was the joy of joys. But there was no glory about it, no sense of triumph. If anything, he could only concede that he had survived, and that mere relief was the best emotion he could expect of it. No imaginary fanfares, no self congratulation; only a gladness to be alive, tempered by the pity of having had to kill in order to achieve it.
Yes, the clown had to die. It would have slain him if it had not. There was no mercy in the thing. No reason. It had to die. And yet ... well, he didn’t know what to think. His head told him that his deed had been right, his heart said differently. Neither held sway over the other; he would probably just have to live with it.
Well at least I can live, he said to himself, drawing a smile out of the sadness. And, seeing no shame in his survival, he smiled on, allowing - as best as he could - the pity of it all to settle, and become comfortable, in his heart.
***
He reached the small alleyway that led to the rows and terraces surrounding Chapterhouse Street, and paused, surprised by what he could hear: the night was alive with chatter. And not just chatter, either; many of the houses from which these hushed voices emerged were lit, their windows blazing against the blackness like domino spots.
Surprised as he was, it was easy to guess why so many people should be up at this time. The noise of his struggle, the baying of the clown, the crashes, the cries; they were not easy things to sleep through. He tried listening out for something definite amid the babble, something that might lend him a clue as to what his neighbours must have made of it all, but drew a blank. It was just subdued murmur, so quiet as to be almost inaudible. Yet he continued to listen anyway, simply because there were no other sounds to distract him.
And then, finally, he did hear some other voices. They were loud, and clear in the night air. They were not unknown to him, either. In fact, they may well have been as familiar as his own shadow.
Benjamin?
Benjamin, where are you?
Benjamin?
It was his mother. And he was sure that he could hear Pete talking, too. And another voice, calling his name: Maddie.
He caught sight of them at the opposite end of the small alleyway. At first they were indistinct, like ghosts, but it did not take much time for him to recognise his mother’s dressing gown, as well as the diminutive shape of his sister, walking hand in hand with her father.
“Benjamin?” said his mother. She stooped down a little a she asked his name, as if she felt that she could only see him clearer if she were lower to the ground.
“Hello mum,” he said, a little dreamily. His exhaustion had lent a calmness entirely at odds with the situation; he was almost blasé.
“Benjamin?” his mother repeated, approaching now. “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
She hurried towards him - but, contrary to his expectations, she did not bestow a hug once she was within arm’s reach. “What happened?” she asked, clutching gently at his shoulders instead. There was no urgency in her tone. If anything, she seemed as dazed as her son.
“It was the clown,” piped Maddie. She pointed at her brother. “Ben’min threw him out of my window.”
Pete hushed her with a “shhh!” and picked her up. “Come on, girl,” he said, holding her at his side. “Enough of that.”
“She’s right, though,” said Benjamin, so tired that he couldn’t even summon up the effort for pretence. “It was a clown. I killed it.”
“He saved me,” said Maddie.
“What are you talking about?” his mother asked.
“Didn’t you see it?” said Benjamin.
She shook her head slowly, as if she could not quite deny what she wished to deny. “I saw ... something. I don't know -”
“There was nothing there,” said Pete. His voice was even, but firm.
“There was!” barked Maddie, clearly affronted by her father’s remark. “It was the clown under my bed. I told you about him. Don't you ‘member?”
“Yes, sweets, I remember,” said Pete. “But I didn’t see any clown. You must have imagined it.”
Maddie protested further, but her words were drowned out by her mother. “What happened to the gate, Benjamin?” she asked, with a deliberation that suggested she was straining very hard to remain calm.
“The gate?”
“Yes. The back gate.”
“Oh,” he said. “That was the clown. I climbed over it, but he smashed it up. I’m sorry.”
Benjamin’s mother didn’t reply, though he got an idea that she was biting her lip in the dark.
“Come on,” said Pete, patting Maddie on the back. “Let’s go home. It’s too cold to talk out here.”
“Yes,” said Benjamin’s mother. She took hold of her son’s hand, but instead of guiding him away, she drew herself down, so that she could look at him face to face for a moment. “Are you alright?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Is this anything to do with what happened when - you know, when you disappeared that time.”
“Yes,” he said.
He saw the outline of his mother’s head nod. “Is it over now?”
“I think so.” But he sensed some dismay in his mother’s silhouette at this, so he had no choice but to follow it with “Yeah, it’s over. It’s gone. It’s over.”
He thought his mother might wait, and offer the kind of tight-lipped silence that demanded he elaborate. But she did not. Instead, she hugged him, stood back up, and, with her hand still closed upon his, began to lead him back home.
30
That night, after Benjamin had killed the clown, an old man in Italy awoke to the darkness and discovered that he was no longer afraid. He had never known what,
exactly, he had been afraid of; all he knew was that he had once been frightened of something, and now it was gone.
Afterwards, in the morning, he called his son’s beloved bambinos, and offered to take them to the circus that weekend. There would be trapeze artists, he said; there would be lions and elephants, and - much to the joy of the children - there would be clowns, too. Sadly, his wife, Gianna, had to remind him that there was no circus in town that weekend. You’re an old fool, she said, laughing, and told him that if it were not for her, he would forget where the ground lay. He shooed her away with a wave of his hand, and apologised to his grandchildren. But he left them with this promise: that the next time the circus arrived, he would certainly take them there, and together they would eat spun sugar, watch the trapeze artists, see the animals, and laugh, like never before, at the clowns.
***
It was a similar story with Evangeline, an African woman who, no more than a week ago, had also found herself free of some terrible, nameless dread. In the days that followed she let the hatred she held for her uncles go, and impressed her aged mother with how fearlessly she tackled the wasps’ nest that blighted the westward eaves of the farmhouse. From then on, she met the days in good cheer, and saw the evenings in with eyes not lifeless, but serene. She appeared older than her years, but was already beginning to look younger. Her mother asked her if it was due to man or magic, but she rebutted her, giggling, by saying that it was neither. She giggles much, now. Her mother still suspects it is the work of man or magic.
***
But just as Evangeline had suddenly found the means to laugh again, someone else - a young man, living in New York, but who had grown up amid the wheatstalks of rural America - found cause to laugh a little less. He didn’t know why; his companion pressed him on the matter, yet all he could impart was that he felt as if he had lost a friend. He became troubled by the memories that remained of his childhood, of Iowa, of the cornfield. They felt incomplete, as if there was something important about them that he was missing. It was odd, because he had never thought much about those days. Once, and not so long ago, he was caught in a rain shower, and he felt as if he was going to cry.
He went to see a doctor, who gave him the name and number of a professional he could talk to.
He has yet to call him, however.
***
And in a town close to London - so close, in fact, that one can never be sure if it is part of London or not - a boy, once ordinary, talked with his mother and told her truth of his nature. He was a dreamshader, he said; he was different. He had travelled very far, and discovered things about himself that marked him as unique. He was a dreamshader, he repeated, and he explained to her that he had destroyed a nightmare by calling upon the first great dream that he could remember.
His mother’s reaction was peculiar. She said that she sort of believed it, but at the same time, she did not. “You’re tired,” she said. “I’m tired. We’ll talk about it another day.”
It was a pity, because there was so much more he wanted to say to her. Yet he let it go, because he could at least be satisfied that he had managed to broach the subject without the luxury of lies. From now onwards, he might be able to tell her everything: about the lady who travelled in a cage held high by birds; about the monster that his mother hadn’t quite seen; about wondrous atulphi and dark phragodols; about his father, perhaps, and what he believed had become of him.
For the time being, however, he would simply have to wait, and let his answers go unsaid and his questions stay unanswered. Nevertheless, he hoped that he would not have to be patient for long; his defeat of the clown had lent a slew of terrible new puzzles to ponder upon, and he feared that if he didn’t solve them soon, then the danger might multiply a thousandfold. Leopold, after all, had been aware of where he lived. How the monster had discovered this, he didn’t know - it was just another of those terrible conundrums - but he was sure that if one phragodol had found out, then others would as well. And if another of these creatures came, what then? His only weapon was spent. Neither could he presume that the attack, when it arrived, would be centred solely upon himself. Leopold had waited under his sister’s bed, not his. Again, he didn’t know why. But it was fair to say that he was no longer the only one who had caught the attention of the spurned Gogmagog. His sister, his mother, his stepfather: all were in jeopardy now.
Yet these fears, pervasive as they were, did not get the better of Benjamin Crosskeys. He had already defeated two adversaries, and that counted for much in his mind. He had seen a city built of dreams, and sailed a sea exempt from any earthly map. Even so, he had to ask: was it really worth seeing such sights and travelling so far if it meant being so imperilled? Would it really have been so bad just to have remained ordinary, neither seeing any sights nor going so far, if it also allowed him to be safe? If it had involved only himself, then he would have said yes. Now that he knew otherwise, he would have given a definite no. But then, one night, he caught something in his reflection while he was brushing his teeth. It was only a little something, but it was enough to make him pause; and at that very moment he understood why the question did not really matter.
I’m a dreamshader, he said, staring at his face. And it is inevitable that I will find glories and terrors wherever I go.
In his eyes he saw a sheen, very slight, that was familiar to him. A subtle amber-tinted silveriness, which he had only seen before upon the surface of the emberquick. It was the glimmer, he realised, that never failed to catch the notice of strangers, though he was sure that to some - the strangest of these strangers, perhaps - it must appear as more of a shade.
THE END
of
Dreamshade, Book I:
Niamago
###
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