“A dragon was chosen to serve as guardian in the Cave of Dreams, ensuring that nobody passed in or out of the Forever. And then the doors were made and put in place, and the giants shut them, that the dragons within would remain within, and the dragons without would remain without. And a key was made and a spell was cast upon it, that only she who could restore the balance would be able to open the Gates.”
“And the dreamspheres?” Zee asked.
“Nobody knows why the Cave of Dreams exists, any more than they can tell how the Dreamworld or the Wakeworld came into being in the first place. Made by the gods, it is said, but where are these gods now? They are not talking. Every dream has its dreamsphere, and except for those given to the Dreamshifters as a gesture of goodwill, all rest in the cave. Thus it has always been.”
Zee set aside his tankard in frustration. “You have told me fairy tales. How does any of this answer my question?”
The sound of a heavy motor filled the air and a red tractor drove around the corner and pulled up in front of the trailer. The man behind the wheel nodded his head at the hermit. “You ready?”
“In a minute.” To Zee he said, “You think I am a foolish old man, and you may be right. But I ask you to consider this—how long have you hated the dragons? And how deep does it run?” He hitched the rope belt to ride more comfortably over his belly and brushed the crumbs from his beard. “Well, there’s my mover. Take care of yourself. I shall leave you some supplies.”
“Wait—you’re moving right now?”
“She’ll be coming for you soon, now. I don’t wish to be here. You might want to be moving on yourself.”
“But I have more questions . . .”
“Everybody has questions. Learn to live with them.” The hermit clucked and shook his head, ran a hand over the top of his bald pate, and disappeared inside the trailer.
The farmer hitched up the trailer to the tractor without so much as looking in Zee’s direction, then headed off in the direction he’d come from, hauling the trailer along behind. As it began to move, hands tossed items out of the windows.
Zee watched the tractor and trailer out of sight, waiting until the dust settled and all was quiet. In the center of the green lawn was now a rectangle of dirt and a few tough weeds. Scattered all around it were the items the hermit had thrown out the window.
Zee collected them, taking stock of his inventory. A pair of socks and sturdy leather hiking shoes. A sheath for the sword that ran over his shoulder instead of around his waist. A flannel shirt, and a T-shirt with a picture of a can of beer and a slogan proclaiming, It’s five o’clock somewhere. A woolen blanket. An army canteen, full of water. A backpack, stocked with protein bars and a first-aid kit. And a battered copy of Through the Looking Glass, which explained absolutely everything and nothing.
He could feel the black dragon’s presence. Not too close, not yet, but not far enough away. Much as he would have loved to slay her, he knew he wasn’t ready. And so he put on the T-shirt and the shoes and socks, slung the sword over his shoulder, packed everything else into the backpack, and set out down the only road there was to follow.
Fifteen
Vivian tucked her chin into the neck of the sweatshirt she’d borrowed from Zee’s closet and curled her hands up inside the too-long sleeves, seeking protection from the sharpness of a wind that smelled of snow. The streets of Krebston were still dark and mostly empty. In another hour there would be a trickle of traffic increasing to a steady flow as people headed out to school or work, but only an intrepid few were out at this hour. Her source of information, unless something had gone wrong, would be among them.
Tugging open the door to Sacred Grounds she found herself instantly enveloped in a steamy warmth, redolent with the rich smell of coffee and cinnamon.
“Hey, Doc! What are you doing here? Thought you’d gotten too uppity for the likes of us.”
“Decided to come slumming.” Vivian turned toward the speaker, the knots of tension loosening a little with relief as she saw Cal was there with him. Thank God for gossipy old men and unshakable routines. She’d hoped they would be here, sitting in the corner by the window and working through the crossword, but she’d feared that maybe even this reality had been altered. At least twice a week over the last year she had stopped here on her way home from a long night of work for a cup of coffee and participation in the communal crossword puzzle.
“Where’ve you been?” Cal asked.
“Took a little leave of absence. Personal stuff.”
“Need a five-letter word for bring upon oneself,” Rich said, not looking up. “You gonna help us or what?”
Cal just grinned. He’d left his teeth at home again, his collapsed mouth giving him a deceptively foolish look. He wasn’t. At eighty-five he might be slipping a little, but he’d started with a towering intellect that left him still smarter than the average Krebstonite.
“Let the girl get her coffee,” Marta said, rolling her eyes at Vivian. “Before she falls asleep on my counter. What can I fix you, hon?”
“Just coffee, in the biggest mug you can find. And one of those cinnamon rolls. They look amazing.”
“Calorie content to last all day, and worth every crumb,” Marta said, patting her comfortably rounded belly. “Room for cream, right?”
“Always.”
Almost light-headed with the mingled aromas, mouth watering with anticipation, Vivian carried plate and mug over to the table where the old-timers had already shifted to make room for her.
The two were constant companions—where you saw one, you saw the other. Weekday mornings at Sacred Grounds, lunch at Café Michelle, afternoons at the library in winter, outside in the park on sunny summer days. Rich was shrunken down to nothing but bones, an old scarecrow with a few strands of white fluff on his bald head, blurred brown eyes behind thick glasses. Cal, on the other hand, was fat. He still had a full head of black hair, his brown eyes bright but almost buried, like raisins stuffed too deep into a gingerbread boy.
“Are you sure that’s edible?” Rich asked, eyeing her cinnamon roll. “Looks like more frosting than bread.” His voice was surprising coming from his thin body, a rich baritone made for giving speeches.
“That’s what makes it edible,” Vivian said, taking a bite. “You should have one. You’re only young once.”
“Abstinence,” Cal said. “Fourteen down.” His right hand, the joints red and swollen with arthritis, gripped the pencil and slowly added in the letters.
“I did. Yesterday I had two. What have you gone and done to your eyes?”
Vivian shrugged, and said lightly, “Wandered into an alternate reality and got poisoned by a dragon. They look like dragon eyes, don’t you think?”
Cal’s raisin eyes sharpened in a quick assessing look and then returned to the crossword puzzle. Rich frowned a little, his forehead puckered. “You’re a little edgy, Doc.”
Cradling the hot mug between her palms and breathing in the fragrant steam, Vivian thought about how to broach her topic. “Not sleeping so well,” she said at last. “That business down at Finger Beach bothers me.”
“No good thing has ever happened around that stone. They’re keeping it real hush-hush this time. But I heard there were all kinds of suits down there the other night.” Rich grabbed a fork and took a bite of her neglected cinnamon roll. “Damn, that’s good. You should eat.”